John Grisham - Calico Joe

“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.

Clarence is waiting inside the front door of the Calico Rock Record . The morning is bright, the air light and cool, a far different feel from my last visit in August. Main Street is coming to life. We arrive at 9:00 a.m., as scheduled. Warren slept for ten hours and says he feels good.

“I’m very sorry about your illness, Mr. Tracey,” Clarence says sincerely, after they shake hands.

“Thank you. And it’s Warren, okay?”

“Sure. Would you like some coffee?”

We would, and we gather in Clarence’s wonderfully cluttered office for the morning ritual of coffee. Clarence brings us up to speed on the latest conversations with the Castle clan. They have yet to agree to a meeting, but they haven’t ruled one out either. Clarence thinks things will go well if we simply show up. I knew before I left Santa Fe, and Warren knew before he left Florida, that such a meeting might not take place, but we agreed to try anyway. On the phone, Warren said he would feel better having tried to speak with Joe, if indeed Joe has no desire to meet.

We ride with Clarence across town to the high school. Again, Joe is on his red Toro mower, slowly and meticulously riding back and forth across the outfield, cutting grass that is no longer growing. It is October and the grass is turning brown. Near the third base dugout, we climb the bleachers and take a seat. Two middle-aged men are sitting in the first base dugout. “Red and Charlie,” Clarence says as we settle into our places with nothing to do but watch Joe cut grass. There is no one else around. It’s almost 10:00 a.m., and the high school is busy in the distance.

“And he does this every day?” Warren asks. He’s to my left, Clarence to my right.

“Five days a week if the weather is nice,” Clarence says. “March through November.”

“It’s a beautiful field,” Warren says.

“They give an award each year for the best high school baseball field in the state. We’ve won it so many times I can’t keep up. I guess it helps when you have a full-time grounds-keeper.”

After a few more surgical cuts, Joe lifts his blades and heads for the first base dugout. He kills the engine, gets off the mower, and says something to his brothers. One of them steps out of the dugout with two folding chairs that he carries to a spot just in front of home plate. “That’s Red,” Clarence says quietly.

Red unfolds the chairs, arranges them so that they are facing the pitcher’s mound, and when their placement suits him, he takes a few steps in our direction, stops, and says, “Mr. Tracey.”

“I think that’s you,” I say to Warren, who gets to his feet and slowly makes his way down the bleachers to the field. He is met by Red, who extends a hand and says, “I’m Red Castle. Nice to meet you.”

They shake hands and Warren says, “Thanks for doing this.”

Joe is shuffling toward the chairs, his cane poking the ground in front of him, his feet doing their sad little stutter steps. His left arm and hand hang by his side, and he works the cane with his right hand. When he is close enough, he stops and offers it. Warren takes it with both of his hands, grasps it, and says, “It’s good to see you, Joe.”

When Joe speaks, it is in a high-pitched, halting staccato, as if he knows precisely what the next word will be but getting it out requires some effort. “Thanks … for … coming.” They sit in the chairs at home plate, and Red goes back to the first base dugout.

With their shoulders almost touching, they sit for a moment and stare out beyond the mound, their thoughts known only to themselves.

“You have a beautiful field here, Joe.”

“Thanks.”

From where we sit, we cannot hear them. Red and Charlie are seated on the bench in the dugout, likewise too far away to hear.

“A long way from Shea Stadium,” Clarence says softly.

“A thousand miles and a thousand years. Thanks for doing this.”

“You did it, Paul, not me. I’m happy to be in the middle of it—a reporter’s dream. How many die-hard baseball fans in this country would kill to have our seats right now?”