John Grisham - Calico Joe

With the caps in place, we take a step back and Clarence snaps away. The two players are standing, smiling, with Joe leaning on his cane. Clarence has a better idea. He suggests we move to right center and use the scoreboard of Joe Castle Field as a backdrop. This we do, and after a few dozen shots of Joe and Warren, I wedge myself into the frame and stand between my father and my old hero, all smiling.

The eight-by-ten will be the final entry in my Joe Castle scrapbook.

Suddenly there is nothing left to do. The two have met, said what needed to be said, and posed for photos. We say our good-byes and leave the field.

Driving back to Main Street, Clarence says that Fay would like to have an early lunch on the porch, if that’s okay. I glance at Warren in the rear seat, and he is shaking his head no. I do not want to offend Fay, or Clarence, so I say, “That’s nice, but we need to hit the road. Warren has a 4:00 p.m. flight.” I don’t feel bad about this, because I’ve seen enough of Calico Rock. And, being so hospitable, the Rooks would love nothing more than to spend the entire afternoon on the porch swapping stories and taking more photos. Then the lemon gins.

“No problem,” Clarence says. He parks and we meet at his rear bumper. I thank him again, and he offers his best wishes to Warren. I promise to call with updates.

Not far out of Calico Rock, Warren, who has gone silent, asks me to pull over. He gets into the backseat and falls asleep. The trip and the meeting with Joe have exhausted him, and he’s finally hit the wall.

He is still wearing his Mets cap.

According to the radar map, the weather from Santa Fe all the way east through Little Rock and down to Florida is perfectly clear. Yet both of our flights are delayed. Warren is fading fast, and I want him on a plane back to Agnes before there is an emergency I don’t care to deal with. The delays have crowded the Little Rock airport, and we pass a few hours doing the mundane things passengers do while waiting.

Throughout the afternoon, when he was awake and felt like talking, our conversations were light. He never mentioned Joe. Though I have not been around him enough to gauge his moods or thoughts, it is obvious that his wheels are turning. I am sure the subject of death is paramount, as it would be for anyone in his condition. I am sure he has regrets, but neither of us wants to go there. Warren cannot begin to repair our troubled history with a few eleventh-hour apologies, and we both understand this. I am not sure he wants to try, but I am certain I do not want to hear it.

His appetite comes and goes, and when he says, “I’m hungry,” we find a small table in a crowded airport lounge. When the waitress asks if we want something to drink, Warren smiles and says, “Yes, I want a tall mug of draft beer.” I order the same, and when she’s gone, he says, “I’ve been sober for ten years. With two months to go, why not?”

“Why not?”

“Sobriety is overrated, Paul,” he says with a grin. “I was much happier when I was drinking.”

I cannot smile along with this because I remember him hitting my mother when he was drunk. “I wouldn’t know,” I say.

The bar has three large televisions, all tuned in to the World Series, Yankees versus Marlins. The beer arrives, we tap glasses, say cheers, and take sips. He savors his as if he were dying of thirst. He smacks his lips and says, “Oh, how I’ve missed this.”

We order sandwiches and watch the game. It doesn’t take long for him to disapprove. “Look at these guys,” he snarls. “Look at how fat they are, especially the pitchers.” A minute later, “Look at that guy, in the World Series, making millions a year, and he can’t run out a pop fly.”

Once again, I am struck by the absurdity of what I’m doing. Having a beer and watching a baseball game with my father—for the first time in my life! And only because he is now dying.

The food arrives, and we turn our attention away from the game. He has made a few derogatory comments about “these modern ballplayers,” and I gather that Warren is not much of a fan.

“So, are you planning another story, one about this little trip of ours?” he asks as he bites into a turkey club.

“No, I have no plans.”

“I think you should. I think you should take the first story, add the second chapter, and get it printed. And do it now, before I die. I don’t care. You want the world to know the truth, so do I. Publish it.”

“That was not the deal, Warren.”

“Who cares about the deal? I kinda like the idea of people knowing I went to see Joe Castle and after all these years I said I was sorry. I haven’t done that too many times in my life.”

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

“Publish it. I don’t care.”

“I couldn’t do it without the approval of the Castles. You saw how protective they are.”

“Then get their approval. Write it, show it to them, and I’ll bet you can convince them.”

“We’ll talk about it.” The idea is intriguing. We order another round and finish eating. A guy walks by and says, “The Mets suck,” and keeps walking. We realize it’s the cap and laugh.

One delay leads to another, and it’s almost 9:00 p.m. when Warren’s flight is called. His gate is near mine, and we walk slowly along the corridor. They are boarding when we arrive.

He takes a deep breath and looks me in the eyes. “Listen, thanks for doing this. It means a lot to me, and it meant a lot to Joe. A real burden has been lifted.”

“It’s known as the restorative powers of forgiveness.”

“Aren’t you the wiseass?”

“I suppose.”

“It’s true, Paul, you’re a lot wiser than me because you’ll live a life with few regrets. Me, I’ll die with a long list of things I’d like to do differently. This is not a pleasant way to go.”

“You can’t fix it now, Warren.”

He offers a hand, and we shake. “You’re right. But I have a lot of regrets, Paul.”

I have no response to this. I cannot offer a shallow and meaningless “Oh, it’s okay, Warren, all is forgiven.” We shake hands again, and it’s obvious he wants a quick embrace. I do not.

He turns and drifts away and never looks back.

Agnes calls every other day with the latest on his deteriorating condition. He’s stopped eating; his systems are shutting down; he’s in the hospital; he’s back home; he’s been turned over to hospice. Warren is behaving like the Warren of old—unable to place the calls himself, unwilling to talk. Sara asks me repeatedly if I want to go see him.

No. I have already seen him.

Jill and I chat occasionally. It’s the Tracey family at its finest—Warren talks to Agnes, who calls me, and I call my sister. Jill does not want to talk to him, to see him, or to show up at a memorial service after he is gone.

He lingers, and the calls from Agnes become monotonous. I look at the calendar. Thanksgiving is approaching, and I hope Warren does not upset our plans.

He does not. He dies on November 10, at the age of sixty-five, alone in a hospice facility. Agnes tells me that a memorial service is planned for Friday of the following week. Sara and I have a somewhat testy and prolonged disagreement about whether she should attend the service with me. I am adamant that she is not going; she feels some sort of weird obligation to pay her respects to a man she hardly knew, a man who skipped our wedding and offered not a single word of congratulations when our three girls were born. There is no family to sit with and mourn. There will be no post-burial get-together.