Calico Joe

20

I check in with Clarence Rook once a week, but these conversations get shorter and shorter. There is not much news in Calico Rock, and I am not sure how he fills up a newspaper every Wednesday. I call Warren occasionally, not really out of a deep concern over his health, but more to remind him that I am still around and I want something. We never discuss Joe Castle.

In the second week of October, I am in the middle of a meeting with my boss and colleagues when my cell phone vibrates. At my company, it is not a crime for a cell phone call to disrupt something important. I step into the hall and say hello to Agnes. Warren is in the hospital, internal bleeding, low blood pressure, fainting spells. The doctors just completed another scan, and the cancer has spread rapidly, tumors are everywhere—liver, kidneys, stomach, and, worst of all, the brain. He has lost forty pounds. She believes Warren is finally accepting the fact that cancer will kill him.

What am I supposed to say? I don’t know this woman, and I hardly know her husband. I offer a few half-baked sympathies and promise to call tomorrow. I do, but go straight to voice mail. Three days later, I am driving home from work when Warren calls my cell. He says he is back home, feels much better, has changed doctors because the old ones were idiots, and has a fighting chance of beating his cancer. At the beginning of the brief conversation, he sounds alert, chipper, full of energy, but he cannot maintain the ruse. By the end, his voice is fading, and his diction is not as sharp. I go through my short list of things to say, and I am ready to finish the call when he says, “Say, Paul, I’ve been thinking about that trip to Arkansas.”

“Oh really,” I say, avoiding any trace of excitement.

“Yes. I like the idea. Not sure my doctors will approve of me traveling, but let’s give it a try.”

“Sure, Warren. I’ll make some calls.”

The worst part will be the long drive, just me and Warren in the car, with so much history to cover and no desire to go there.

Our flights take us to Little Rock, and I arrive two hours before him. I eat lunch, kill time, work on my laptop, and find a spot to observe the arriving passengers. It’s a small airport with lots of open spaces, natural light, and not too much traffic.

According to our last phone call, his doctors said no to the trip, and this only heightened his determination. He finally admitted the cancer is now in control of things, and he has stopped chemo. “I doubt if I’ll make it to Christmas, Paul,” he said, as if the holidays meant something to him.

Christmas. When I was eight, he was playing winter ball in Venezuela and was a no-show at Christmas. Jill and I opened gifts near the tree, and my mother could not stop crying. I wonder if Warren remembers all the things I remember.

He appears in a crowd with other passengers from Atlanta. He’s wearing a cap because he has no hair, and he walks with a slow but determined step. He has shriveled into a small man with a girlish waistline and sunken chest. He’s rolling a small carry-on behind him, and he’s looking around for me.

I almost rented a hybrid for environmental reasons but realized we would be shoulder to shoulder for hours. Instead, we’re in a large SUV with as much room as possible between the two front seats. Not much is said until Little Rock is behind us.

He has aged ten years in two months, and I understand why his doctors said no to the trip. He nods off repeatedly and for a long time says nothing, then really opens the door with “God, it’s nice being away from Agnes.”

I laugh and think of all the wild directions this conversation could now go. “What number is she—five or six?” I ask.

A pause as he calculates, then, “Agnes is number five. Karen was four. Florence was three. Daisy was two. Your mother was the first.”

“Impressive that you can still remember the lineup.”

“Oh, some things you never forget.”

“Got a favorite?”

He thought about this for a while. We were on a two-lane road with farmland on both sides. “I never loved anyone like I loved your mother, at first anyway. But we were too young to get married. For love, it’s your mother. For money, that would be Florence. For sex, Daisy gets the gold star.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“She was a stripper, Daisy. What a body.”

“You left us for a stripper?”

“You wouldn’t blame me if you saw her onstage.”

“How long did it last?”

“Not long. I really can’t remember. And I did not leave you for a stripper. The marriage was over when I happened to meet Daisy.”

“In a strip club?”

“Of course. Where else does one meet a stripper?”

“Don’t know. I have no experience in that area.”

“Good for you.”

“Were you ever faithful to Mom?”

Without hesitation, he says, “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” he says in frustration. “Why do men do anything? Why do they gamble away fortunes, or kill themselves with booze, or marry crazy women? I don’t know. You drag me out here in the middle of Podunk, Arkansas, to ask why I chased women?”

“No, I did not. I don’t really care now.”

“How is your mother?”

“She’s doing fine. I see her several times a year. She’s beautiful, as always.” I almost add that she’s far better looking than Agnes but let it pass.

“Does she know I’m sick?”

“Yes, I told her back in August, as soon as I heard about it.”

“I doubt if she cares.”

“Should she care, Warren?”

He takes a deep breath, then begins to nod off. I silently urge him to fall asleep, to take a long, two-hour nap. His cancer is extremely painful, and when he is awake, he seems uncomfortable. He keeps painkillers in his shirt pocket.

We’ve touched briefly on his marriages, one subject I had planned to avoid. After he takes a nap, I hit pay dirt with a simple question: “Did you ever play baseball in Arkansas?”

“Oh yes, in the Texas League we played the Arkansas Travelers several times a year. A wonderful old stadium in downtown Little Rock. Nice crowds.”

The door swings wide open, and Warren springs to life. Forgotten games, old teammates, strange happenings, locker room humor, curfew violations, life in the bus leagues—we stay on the subject of minor-league baseball for a lot of miles. But he tires easily, and his long narratives stop suddenly when he needs water or a few moments with his eyes closed. He nods off again, things are quiet, then he’s awake and remembering another story.

During his long, difficult career, he was stationed in dozens of small towns, some of which he has not thought about in years. They come back to him now, in a flood of memories. I am surprised to learn that Warren is a fine raconteur with a flair for the punch line. The more stories he tells, the more he remembers.

Why have I never heard these?

We do not talk about Joe Castle and the reason for this trip. I have no idea what Warren will say, but I have a hunch he does.

He coughs, grimaces, takes a pill, then nods off again. We are in the hills now, and it’s getting dark.

On the edge of Mountain View, about an hour south of Calico Rock, I spot a nice, clean motel and pull in. I pay cash for two single rooms. Warren says he’s not hungry and needs to lie down. I get a burger from a fast-food place and take it back to my room.