John Grisham - Calico Joe

Sara has no business going. Besides, I don’t want to blow another $500 on a plane ticket. When the discussion is over, she grudgingly concedes.

A lot of people die in Florida, and many are retirees without deep roots in their communities. Because of this, the burial business is efficient and streamlined. The services tend to be small, quick, even impersonal.

Warren wanted to be cremated, and his wishes are carried out. His memorial is held in the windowless chapel of a mausoleum not far from his home. With perfect timing, I arrive, alone, fifteen minutes before the service and find Agnes sitting in the family’s private waiting room. Some family. It’s Agnes and her daughter, Lydia, a person I’ve never met, and me. You would think that a man who married five women would generate a bit more interest.

We sit and talk, and the clock absolutely stops. Agnes again asks me if I want to give a eulogy or say a few words. Again, I politely decline, and use the excuse that I might not be able to control my emotions and do not want to embarrass myself. Emotions aside, any warm and touching thoughts or stories I could add at this point would be outright fabrications.

Lydia, who eyes me suspiciously, finally gets down to business. “You know, Paul, we’ve already read his last will and testament.”

I throw up both hands and say, “I don’t care what’s in it. I want nothing. I will accept nothing. If my name is mentioned, I will refuse to take anything.”

“He left you and Jill $10,000 each,” Agnes says.

Dividing the spoils before the burial seems in bad taste, but I let it pass. “I can’t speak for Jill,” I say, “but I don’t want it. He never gave me a dime when I was in high school or college or when I needed a little extra, and I’m not taking his money now.”

“I guess that’s between you and the lawyers,” Lydia says, and I get the impression she has had some experience with lawyers.

“I guess so.”

“And he left $25,000 to a baseball field in Calico Rock, Arkansas,” Agnes says.

This actually makes me smile, and I say, “That’s nice.” Good for Warren.

I am not going to ask about the size of the estate—the timing is bad, and I don’t really care, and I’ll find out later during probate.

We move next door to the chapel. There are about twenty seniors standing around the front pew, whispering, waiting, all in fine spirits it seems. The attire is Florida geezer casual—a lot of sandals and not a single jacket or tie. I avoid introducing myself to these people. I will never see them again, and I’m not about to swap a story or two about how great my old man was. I assume they are neighbors, golfing buddies, or Agnes’s friends. I also assume that none of the men played professional baseball and shared a locker room with Warren Tracey. I know for a fact that there are no members of the 1973 Mets.

The chapel has dark stone walls and feels like a dungeon. An appropriate, mournful hymn is being piped in. A man in a suit asks us to please be seated. Thankfully, there is no reserved pew for the family. I ease away, toward the rear. Agnes has yet to shed a tear, and I suspect she will not be the only one to make it through with dry eyes. The friends and family sit and wait and absorb the mood music.

I don’t know why I am here. Warren is gone, and if he could watch, he would not give a damn if I showed up or not. The notion of properly paying one’s respects is ludicrous. The dead person could not care less. He is lying up there in a casket or, in Warren’s case, a small blue urn next to the podium.

What did Yogi Berra say? “Always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t go to yours.”

A guy in a black robe appears, probably of the generic dial-a-priest variety because Warren Tracey never went near a church. Maybe Agnes belongs to one. The priest chats with her, soothes her, then steps up to the small podium, spreads his arms like Charlton Heston at the Red Sea, and says, “Welcome.”

The rear door opens quietly and catches my attention. Three men enter the chapel—Red Castle, then Joe with his cane and jerky gait, then Charlie. They ease into the rear pew without making a sound. All three are wearing navy blazers and white shirts, by far the best dressed of anyone here.

I am shocked, and then I am not. What a brilliant, classy thing to do.

Instinctively, I get up and walk back to where they are sitting. I ease into the pew in front of them and whisper to Red, “Thanks for coming.” All three nod. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

Charlie points to Joe and says, “Joe wanted to take a road trip.”

“Welcome,” the priest says louder, in our direction. I look at him, and he seems ready to rap our knuckles for talking during his sermon. I stay where I am, with the Castle boys, and we endure a meaningless ritual that is painfully stretched into thirty minutes. The highlight is a eulogy by Marv somebody from, of course, the golf club. Marv tells a real knee-slapper about playing golf with Warren one day. Warren was driving the golf cart. His ball was in the water. He got too close to the edge of the pond, flipped the cart, Marv almost drowned, and Warren avoided getting splashed with a single drop of water.

We laugh because we are expected to. Marv’s not much of a speaker, and I get the impression he drew the short straw. I can just see these old goats sitting around the men’s grill, playing gin rummy, arguing about who will speak at whose funeral. “Okay, Marv, you do Warren, and I’ll do yours, and Fred’ll do mine.”

The priest does a credible job of filling in the gaps. He reads some scripture, relying heavily on the book of Psalms. He hits the high points of God’s love, goodness, forgiveness, salvation, and it becomes obvious that whatever Agnes is, she is not Catholic, Jewish, or Muslim. He never mentions the fact that Warren played professional baseball. Winding down, he informs us that Warren will be interred down the hall, on Wall D of the Third Pavilion, but that this will be done privately, family only.

I decide to skip this. I have no desire to see the hole in the wall where Warren’s ashes will spend eternity. Agnes can handle it. She’s the only one who might stop by once a month for the next three months, touch his name in stone, and try to conjure up some emotion. I know I’ll never be back.

Besides, I want to talk to Joe.

The Meditation Room is empty, and we claim it for the next few minutes. It’s even more of a dungeon than the chapel and gives the appearance of never being used. We move four chairs into a circle and have a seat.

“I’m very touched that you guys would drive this far,” I begin.

Red says, “Joe hasn’t been to Florida since spring training of 1973. He wanted to get out of town, and so here we are.” I remind myself that all three played minor-league ball, and like most prospects they arrived in camp each spring just like the veterans. Moving up and down the ranks of the minors and riding the buses, they have seen more of the country than I have.

“Thank you for coming,” I say.

Charlie says, “And thank you for bringing your dad to Calico Rock. It meant more to Joe than you’ll ever know.” Joe is smiling, nodding, content to allow his brothers to do most of the talking.

Red adds, “It really meant a lot.”

Joe says, “Sorry … about … your … dad.”

“Thank you, Joe.” He’s still wearing the sunglasses to hide his bad eye, but just above them a slight indentation is visible at the corner of his forehead. They said he stopped breathing three times on the way to the hospital.