by John Grisham
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.
Red says, “Joe has something for you.”
With his good hand, Joe reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulls out an envelope. Though I have not seen it in thirty years, I recognize it immediately. It is the letter I left on the Joe Castle Wall at Mount Sinai Hospital, in September 1973. Joe hands it to me with a wide smile and says, “Here … I … want … you … to … have … it.”
I slowly open it and remove my letter. I absorb the carefully printed heartache of an eleven-year-old boy: “Dear Joe: I am Paul Tracey, Warren’s son. I am so sorry for what my father did.” As I read on, I am overcome with the emotions that ran so deep that summer and fall. For six weeks, Joe Castle was my world. I thought about him constantly. I read everything I could find about him. I followed every one of his games, knew all his statistics. I even dreamed of playing on the same team with Joe—he was only ten years older. If I broke in at twenty, he would still be in his prime. We could be teammates.
Then he was hurt. Then he was gone. Then he was history.
When I finish the letter, my eyes are moist, but I am determined to collect myself. “Thanks, Joe.”
Red says, “The Cubs did a nice job of collecting all of Joe’s stuff, including several boxes of letters and gifts left at the hospital. A few months after Joe came home, they shipped it all down, and it’s been in Mom’s attic ever since.”
Charlie takes over. “Six thousand letters from the hospital alone, over thirty thousand total. A couple of years later, Joe was going through the letters and came across yours. He put it in a special place.”
Joe says, “It’s … very … special.”
“Thank you, Joe.” I feel myself getting choked up again.
After a long silence, Red changes subjects. “Mr. Rook down at the newspaper said something about a story you were writing, a story about your dad and Joe. Is this true?”
“Sort of. I’ve written one story, but don’t worry. I’m not going to publish it.”
Charlie says, “Why not? Why don’t you write a story about bringing your dad to Calico Rock, meeting Joe, telling the truth about what happened? You could even use one of the photos of Joe and Warren with their team caps on.”
Joe is smiling and says, “I … would … like … that.”
Charlie continues, “We might want to look at it first, you know, just to be safe, but we’ve kicked it around, and we think there are a lot of baseball fans out there who would enjoy the story. You know, Joe still gets letters.”
I’m not sure how to respond. Warren wanted me to finish the story and get it published. Now Joe does too. “Give me some time to think about it,” I say.
“Would it be a book?” Red asks.
“I don’t think so. Probably a long magazine piece.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, we like the idea.”
“Good. I’ll give it some thought.”
“Mr. Rook likes the idea too,” Charlie says.
Clarence and I have discussed the idea on two occasions. I think he secretly wants to write the story himself, but he cannot bring himself to say so.
We chat for a few minutes. They are curious about me and my family, my mother and sister, and what happened to us after Warren was gone. When I mention that I am a graduate of the University of Oklahoma, this is instantly met with disapproval. They are die-hard Razorback fans, and of course their team is superior. We banter back and forth with the football chatter that sustains so many conversations in November.
The Meditation Room is suddenly in demand. Some mourners arrive and we leave. There is no sign of Agnes, Marv, the priest, or anyone else who said good-bye to Warren, and we make our way out of the mausoleum. The brothers are headed to Key West, for two days of deep-sea fishing, something Joe has wanted to do for years.
We shake hands and say good-bye in the parking lot. I watch them load into a late-model pickup truck with a club cab and a Razorback bumper sticker. I wave as they drive away.
Two hours later, I’m on the plane headed home. I read my letter and again feel the pain of a broken little boy. I put it away, open my laptop, and begin writing the story of Calico Joe.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The mixing of real people, places, and events into a novel is tricky business. This is a story about the Cubs and Mets and the 1973 season, but, please, all you die-hard fans, don’t read this with any expectation of accuracy. I have completely rearranged schedules, rosters, rotations, records, batting orders, and I’ve even thrown in some fictional players to mix it up with the real ones. This is a novel, so any mistake should be promptly classified as part of the fiction.
Allow me to thank a few folks. Don Kessinger is an old buddy from the Oxford days. He read the first draft of Calico Joe and found a few areas in need of more work. He was the Cubs shortstop from 1964 to 1975 and can hold his own with any big-league raconteur. Don later managed the White Sox, and he was replaced in 1979 by Tony LaRussa, who made his final appearance as a player for the Cubs in 1973 (before the arrival of Joe Castle) and who wore (briefly) Number 42 (Joe’s first number). One of Tony’s favorite dinner topics is baseball’s “code,” and, more specifically, the ins and outs of protecting one’s teammates, and retaliation, and the complications of “throwing inside.”
Thanks also to David Gernert, Alan Swanson, Talmage Boston, Michael Harvey, Bill MacIlwaine, Gail Robinson, and Erik Allen.
John Grisham
December 1, 2011
