Hanging Curve

by Troy Soos

  “That should be enough to teach him a lesson.” The Klansman walked up to me and growled in my ear, “Tonight we’re letting you off with a warning. If we got to talk to you again, you won’t survive it.”

  He headed back to the others, and one of them asked, “Should we cut him loose?”

  “Nah. Come sunup, somebody’ll find him. Let them do it.”

  There were some laughs, then car doors slammed, and they roared off into the night.

  I let my muscles gradually relax, and took slow, deep breaths. The panic and fear began to subside. With the immediate threat over, I took a sensory inventory of my body, trying to assess the damage. The worst, I knew, was to my back: My skin burned from the lashing, and electric spasms jolted my legs and spine whenever I moved the wrong way. I could also feel warm blood trickling down my back; the waistband of my trousers was soaked with it. The only other injuries were minor, as far as I could tell, including a bruised face that stung where salty tears had flowed into the scrapes.

  Okay, now to get out of here. I was not going to wait until sunup. Oddly, it was the idea of someone finding me this way that bothered me most. To be tied up and whipped was humiliating, like I’d been punished for doing something wrong.

  I began to pull at the ropes, trying to break them. I kept yanking harder and harder, but all I accomplished was to strain my shoulders and cut off the circulation to my hands.

  As I struggled, I was subjected to new torment: Flies and mosquitoes lit upon me and began to feast on my bloodied back.

  Pulling hadn’t worked, so I next tried going the opposite way. I pressed my chest into the biting bark of the tree in an attempt to put some slack in the rope. That worked; I was able to get my hands close enough together to pluck at the knots.

  The picking became more urgent as insects buzzed around my head, crawled over my skin, and dug into every open wound. When the rope finally slipped free, I didn’t think I’d ever felt a greater sense of relief.

  I collected my tattered clothes from the ground, not wanting to leave any evidence of what had happened to me. Holding what was left of my jacket around me, I began the long, agonizing walk home.

  When I got to the apartment, my suitcase was still on the steps. I left it there and went inside to call Margie.

  I told her briefly what had happened, and after a few questions to determine how badly I was hurt, she promised to be right over.

  After hanging up, I lay belly-down on the sofa. Then I pulled one of the pillows to my mouth and screamed into it. I kept screaming, again and again, sometimes from pain, more often from rage.

  Margie didn’t arrive alone. Despite the hour, she had persuaded the hotel doctor from the Jefferson to come with her.

  The brisk young doctor examined me closely, and determined there was little he could do. “A few of these cuts need stitches,” he said, “but there’s not enough good skin left around them to sew into. Best just to keep it all clean and hope it heals okay on its own.”

  The two of them then began to clean the wounds, Margie gently working on my face, and the doctor cleaning the more serious cuts on my back. As they worked, the doctor asked me what had happened.

  “Some guys whipped me,” I said.

  “I didn’t think it was a dog bite. Did you call the police?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not much to tell them.” I hadn’t recognized any of the men’s voices, and would be unable to give any more identification than “six Klansmen in two dark sedans.”

  The doctor said, “I’ll give you some bandages and a poultice for your back. It needs to be changed several times a day.”

  “I’ll do that,” Margie volunteered. “Show me what to do.”

  He instructed her on how to prepare the poultice and apply the bandages, then made the first application himself to demonstrate. Then he gave me several days’ worth of sleeping powders so that the pain wouldn’t keep me up nights.

  After the doctor left, Margie removed my clothes and gently gave me a thorough sponge bath on the areas that weren’t bandaged. When she finished, she sat at the end of the sofa by my feet, and I could sense that she was staring at my back.

  Suddenly Margie said in a choked voice, “I’ll be right back.”

  I heard her run to the bathroom, then I heard her start to cry. The sound of her sobbing pained me far more than the lashing had.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Don’t tell me you’re planning on going somewhere,” Margie said.

  “Got a game today.” I continued to rummage through the dresser drawer. “I have to go.”

  “After what happened last night, you’re going to the ballpark? You can’t play baseball.”

  She was right about that. If I even tried to swing a bat or throw a ball, my back would split wide open. But I had to show up and let the team trainer make his evaluation. I explained that to Margie as I slipped a gauze undershirt over the fresh bandages she’d put on. She then helped me into a loose-fitting silk shirt.

  I continued to dress with her assistance. Although my skin was still on fire, the shooting pains up my spine had ceased, and I was able to walk without much difficulty. Once I was fully clothed, the only visible reminders of the previous night were an ugly bump on my forehead, a split lip, and a scraped cheek.

  I asked Margie, “Why don’t you stay here, and maybe take a nap? It was a hard night for you, too.” The lack of sleep was apparent in her eyes.

  “I want to do some shopping first. The doctor gave me a list of some things we’ll need. And I thought I’d pick up a few groceries.” She kissed me on my good cheek. “Not all of us can live on coffee and cookies.”

  Although the trolley was less than half-occupied, I remained standing during the ride to avoid pressing my back against a seat. Except for a few times when other passengers brushed against me, the trip was relatively pain-free.

  I was the first to arrive at the Browns’ clubhouse, as I’d intended. I wanted a chance to suit up alone, before the other players could see my mutilated body.

  First I went to the trainer’s room, where old Doc Quinn was stretched out on the rubbing table, snoring loudly.

  I shook him awake. “Doc?”

  “Yeah, what?” He rubbed his unshaven jowls.

  “Can’t play today.”

  He slowly swung his legs around, and slid off the table to examine me. Like most baseball “Doc”s, he had no actual medical training, and prescribed liniment for almost any ailment. He took a look at my face, then I showed him my bandaged back.

  Fortunately, he didn’t suggest liniment; he simply deemed me unfit to play, then climbed back on the table to resume his nap.

  I went to my locker and began to remove my street clothes. Although excused from playing, I would still have to watch the game from the bench. By the time Lee Fohl and my teammates arrived, I was in uniform. As I tied the laces of my spikes, I saw Fohl stop in the trainer’s room.

  Doc Quinn must have failed to convince the Browns’ manager that I didn’t belong in the lineup, because Fohl soon stormed out of Quinn’s office and came up to me. “What’s the problem?” he demanded. “I’m tryin’ to win a pennant here, and I can’t have somebody sittin’ out a game unless he can’t move.” Fohl eyed my bruised face, and shook his head. “That’s not enough to give you the day off.”

  “My back’s bad, too.”

  He appeared unconvinced. “If you can bend it, you can play.”

  I removed my jersey, and lifted my undershirt to reveal the bandages.

  “Goddamn! What the hell happened?”

  “Some guys jumped me.”

  Other players gathered around. I was embarrassed at being the center of attention—especially for something like this.

  Fohl asked, “Can I see?”

  “Go ‘head.”

  He pulled away a corner of the bandage. Judging by the stunned gasps of my teammates, it was probably a good thing that I couldn’t see for myself what was
underneath.

  Urban Shocker asked, “What did they jump you with?”

  I turned around and saw my teammates all staring at me. They looked sympathetic, but I still didn’t want to admit what had happened. Partly I was embarrassed at losing a fight, even if it hadn’t been a fair fight. But my reluctance to speak was mostly because there was something so emasculating about having been whipped. I drew up my courage and said as matter-of-factly as I could, “A week ago, I went over to East St. Louis to help rebuild Cubs Park—that’s the colored ballpark the Klan burned down. Last night, after we got back in town, a bunch of Klansmen grabbed me outside my house. They took me to Forest Park, tied me to a tree, and tried to take the skin off my back with a bullwhip.”

  There was shocked silence for half a minute, then my teammates let loose, cursing the Klan with some spectacular combinations of profanity.

  Baby Doll Jacobson said, “You find out who did this, you let us know. We’ll take care of them for you.” Marty McManus seconded his offer, as did several others.

  I nodded my thanks, too choked up to speak.

  Lee Fohl said, “You go on home and take care of yourself. Just give me a call when you’re ready to come back.”

  I gladly accepted Fohl’s suggestion and began changing back into street clothes, taking comfort in the knowledge that at least I wasn’t going to have to take care of myself alone. Margie had told me that morning that she was moving back in.

  After wishing my teammates well in the game, I left the ballpark. On the way home, I made only one stop—to pick up a dozen yellow roses for Margie.

  The doctor had suggested that I sleep on the sofa for a while, instead of on a bed, because there was less likelihood that I would roll over onto my back. I was following his advice, dozing on the sofa, when the telephone rang.

  I heard Margie run to pick it up before a second ring could wake me, but it was too late.

  “I don’t know if he can come to the phone,” she whispered to the caller.

  “I’m awake,” I said. “Who is it?”

  “Tater Greene.”

  I went over to the phone stand and took the receiver from her. As she handed it to me, Margie told me softly, “He sounds drunk.”

  “Mickey!” Greene said, enunciating my name as if it was a hiccup. “I had to call.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you call me sooner—in time to warn me?”

  “I didn’t know what they was gonna do. Honest, I didn’t.”

  “You knew everything else they’ve been doing.”

  “Not this,” he insisted. “They proly knew I wouldn’t go along with it, on account of you and me bein’ friends.”

  I was tempted to correct him by pointing out that we had never been friends. “All right,” I said, “then tell me what they have planned next.”

  I could hear Greene take a sip of something that probably wasn’t going to make his slurred speech any clearer. “They don’t let me in on nothin’ no more. I don’t think they trust me—they know I don’t like what’s been going on lately.”

  I pressed him anyway. “There is something that I have to know: Who whipped me?”

  “Dunno,” he moaned. “Like I said, they didn’t tell me.”

  “Then how do you know it happened? You didn’t hear it from me, so you must have heard it from one of them.”

  “Some guys at Enoch’s were talkin’ about it.”

  “Who was talking about it?”

  Greene hesitated. “Brian Padgett. But he didn’t say nothin’ about being there. He was just tellin’ it like it was a funny story he heard someplace.”

  Funny? Only to a Knight of the Invisible Empire, I thought. “Okay, Tater, do me a favor: If you hear who was there, let me know, will you?”

  “Yeah, okay.” He coughed. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know I had nothing to do with it. You hurt bad?”

  In case he should pass my answer on to anyone, I said, “Nah. I’ve gotten worse raspberries from sliding into base.”

  “I’m glad of that, at least.” Before hanging up, Greene added, “I am sorry, Mick. About everything.”

  After we got off the phone, I thought that Greene certainly sounded like he was feeling no pain—a condition I wished I was in. So I prescribed myself a couple of shots of “medicinal” brandy that Margie had picked up, before lying down again.

  By the second day of my confinement to the sofa, doing little but listening to scabs form on my back, I was getting as itchy inside as my skin was underneath the bandages.

  I tried to pass the time by reading—newspapers, the latest movie magazines, and Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi—but I didn’t get more than a couple of pages into any of them. Margie made numerous attempts to cheer me, but she couldn’t hold my attention either. I kept thinking about what had happened to me in Forest Park. Every painful twinge in my back was like another lash of the whip, keeping the memory of that night vivid in my mind. I was determined to get back at whoever was responsible—if I could only determine how to do so.

  Sunday night, Margie tried again. “I was thinking,” she said. “Why don’t we have Karl to dinner? And Franklin Aubury, too.”

  I was torn; I didn’t want them to see me like this, but I did like the idea of Margie and me having dinner guests—it would be nice to show that we were together again. “Sure,” I said. “But I don’t know when we’d ever get them here on the same night. They’re both always working on some cause or other.”

  “Let me call and see,” she said.

  I told her where I had their phone numbers, and she first called Karl. “He’s free anytime,” she reported to me. “How about tomorrow?”

  “Fine by me. How about Aubury?”

  Margie got through to the lawyer at home. After talking briefly, she called to me, “Tomorrow’s okay for him, too. What time should we make it?”

  “Anytime.” I’d certainly be here, lying in the same spot. “Oh! Could you ask him to bring any books or articles he might have on the Klan?”

  She relayed the message.

  “And on the 1917 riot,” I added.

  Margie passed that on, too.

  “And on colored baseball.”

  She spoke briefly to him again, then hung up before the poor fellow ended up agreeing to bring me his entire law library.

  As it was, Aubury had his hands full when he and Karl showed up Monday evening. In addition to the reading materials I’d requested, he’d brought a peach pie that his wife Ethel had baked and a small bouquet of flowers. Karl, bless his heart, brought beer.

  Neither of them asked for details about what had happened to me. Karl’s only comment came when he saw my bruised face. He said, “I suppose that’s one bad thing about being white: The black-and-blue really shows.”

  The four of us sat down to dinner, with me using a stool instead of a chair.

  Margie made sure the conversation was kept light. No mention was made of the Klan or the antilynching bill or even of politics—an impossibility, I’d have thought, with Karl Landfors there.

  That didn’t mean none of us were thinking about those things, though. I certainly was. Looking at Aubury, I remembered when the two of us were talking in Indianapolis. He’d said that there would always be things we wouldn’t understand about each other because of our different races. There was one less difference, between us now, I realized. I’d had a fear put in me Friday night that Aubury had lived with all his life. And I doubted that I would ever entirely lose it.

  After dinner, we retired to the parlor. Margie, Aubury, and I drank beers while Karl ate the last piece of pie, his third.

  The lawyer pointed to the literature he’d brought, which was piled on the coffee table. “Why did you want all of this?”

  I leaned over and picked up Sol White’s History of Colored Baseball. “This is because I’m interested. After our trip, I wanted to learn more about colored baseball.” I then tapped a stack of papers about the Klan. “And this,” I said, “is because I inte
nd to find some way of getting back at the guys who whipped me.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Over the next few days, my back improved to the point where I asked Margie to stop applying the poultices. It was a week earlier than the doctor suggested, but the pain of having bandages peeled off my tender skin was worse than leaving it untreated.

  While I continued to rest at home, I delved into the reading materials that Franklin Aubury had brought me.

  I started with some official Ku Klux Klan publications that Aubury had managed to acquire. One of them was a fifty-four-page booklet called the Kloran, written by Klan founder William J. Simmons. This, the Klan Bible, included dire warnings that its “sacred contents” were never to be revealed to anyone outside of the Invisible Empire. I’d hoped the Kloran would contain information on the Klan’s true nature and goals, but it proved a disappointment. Like the pamphlets I’d already seen, this one also presented the KKK as a benevolent fraternal organization. The only secrets in the Kloran were regarding their strange vocabulary and elaborate rituals, called Klankraft. The booklet also laid out the structure of the Klan’s national organization; the Invisible Empire was divided into eight domains, which were further broken down into realms, provinces, and, finally, local klaverns. Leadership flowed down from the Imperial Wizard to Grand Goblin, Grand Dragon, Great Titan, and Exalted Cyclops. The grandiose organizational scheme and funny names would have been amusing had I not known firsthand that the Ku Klux Klan was no laughing matter.

  I then turned to material on the Klan published by the NAACP and in the St. Louis Argus. These gave a perspective on the Klan much closer to the one I’d encountered in Forest Park, but didn’t provide much new or useful information.

  Next, I read more about the East St. Louis riot of 1917. The hostilities still flaring this year seemed to have gotten their initial spark back then. As Ed Moss had told me in the Bond Avenue station house, “You got to look at all sides of what happened.” I believed that I needed to look at what happened five years ago.