In Open Spaces

by Russell Rowland

  Soon after we crossed the border into Nebraska, the complexion of the land changed, as if state law demanded it. Pens filled with pigs crowded the grounds around tiny homesteads, and the fields were covered with either the stubble of freshly harvested cornstalks or the brown stalks themselves, wilting from too little water or too much sun. The rolling hills were gone. The land was completely flat, with such a lack of contour that the horizon seemed to be the only thing out there.

  I ate in the diner car, eyes fixed on the panorama of scenery outside. The plates, silverware, and linen looked so delicate and fine that I was afraid of breaking them. So I ate carefully, feeling a bit sophisticated. I even ordered a glass of wine at dinner the first evening. But I didn’t finish it, because I didn’t want to fall asleep. I didn’t want to miss a thing.

  The stop in Chadron took nearly two hours. The calves stumbled down ramps, blinking in the daylight. But they were too tired to protest much, and the sight of water and hay shut up the few feeble complaints. They ate and drank at their leisure while I milled among them, checking for any sign of ill health while trying not to mess up my travel clothes. One calf had died, which made me angry, as I’d tried to talk Dad into leaving her behind. I hoped that whatever ailment had killed her wouldn’t spread.

  Halfway across Nebraska, I saw a house that made my eyes bulge. It was a big white clapboard house with neatly painted green trim around each door and window. A white fence made of broad planks surrounded the yard, and it had the first red barn I’d ever seen. In our country, no one had the resources to paint their barn, even if the idea occurred to them. I turned to the man next to me, who’d gotten on at Chadron and hadn’t yet spoken to me. I pointed.

  “Look at that house.”

  He glanced out the window with a look of utter boredom, his sagging, wet eyes hardly registering any sign of life. He shrugged. “I wonder how much corn whiskey that fella sold to pay for a place like that,” he muttered.

  I didn’t realize he was joking, and I turned and studied the house. He couldn’t be right, I thought. The house was not only big, but it showed the signs of care and grooming of someone who had great devotion to the good life. I thought about the only bootlegger I knew—Bert Walters, Art’s brother, who lived in a ramshackle lean-to as far from the road as he could possibly get. And I secretly decided that this guy wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.

  “Are you from Nebraska?” I asked him.

  “Hell no. I wouldn’t live in this godforsaken country for all the steers in Texas.” He laughed at his own joke, or wheezed, from deep in his soft chest. “I’m from St. Louis.” He looked at me, only vaguely, and raised his forehead. “That’s in Missouri.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

  But despite being annoyed, the man’s smug expression made me suddenly aware of my appearance. I realized that I probably looked and acted like exactly what I was—some young guy fresh off the farm, out in the world for the first time. I tugged self-consciously at my sleeves, at the same time resenting his superior attitude, and the fact that he made no effort to hide it. He wore a bowler and a well-tailored suit, complete with gold pocket-watch chain. His skin was as pale as milk.

  “You a Dakota boy?” he asked.

  I cringed at the word “boy,” bit my tongue, and shook my head. “Nearly. Eastern Montana. Right in the southeast corner.”

  He nodded knowingly, his lower lip extended. “Nice country. Kind of dry, though.”

  “Yeah, more than ever the last few years.”

  “You know anyone in Broadus?”

  “Sure. Quite a few people.”

  Well, despite the fact that he never dropped his little smirk, and despite my preoccupation with the scenery outside, my neighbor and I ended up having a pleasant conversation. We had a few mutual acquaintances, and he shared my passion for baseball.

  He was a farm machinery salesman, which explained why he’d been to my part of the country. His name was David Westford, and although I was a naïve farm kid, I had enough business savvy to sift through everything he said, to avoid falling into a line of questioning that might lead to promises I couldn’t keep. But he didn’t push me that hard anyway. Instead, we visited about our families, the Cardinals, and the upcoming elections.

  David was from a huge mining family in Pennsylvania. He wasn’t close to them, complaining that they all tried to take advantage of his success. He said he preferred St. Louis to his home state anyway. Before I knew it, we found ourselves in the outskirts of Omaha. Dusk had just settled, a very faint orange mist, and I could barely make out the silhouettes of buildings that were taller than any I’d ever seen. We climbed stiffly from the train, and David handed me his card with the name of his hotel scrawled on the back.

  “This is your first trip to Omaha, am I right?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I know some real nice girls, if you’re interested.” He raised his brow.

  I blushed and thanked him, shaking his sweaty hand. And although I saw little chance that I would take him up on the offer, I tucked his card in my jacket.

  That night I soaked in a city that was bigger than the combined size of every town I’d ever visited. It was a clear night, five or ten degrees warmer than it would be at home, and although I was exhausted, I wanted to absorb as much as I could before I collapsed.

  I walked through downtown Omaha, and was struck by the shops—shops that sold only hats or only candy. I couldn’t imagine how they stayed in business selling just one product. And the clothes on display in the windows! I wondered where people wore such clothes. But as evening fell, people wearing those very clothes filled the streets, strolling at a leisurely pace. I had to remind myself not to stare, especially at the women, who were glorious in their sleek dresses and stylish hats. I wanted to turn and follow them. Their faces were as smooth and clear as windows, as though they’d never seen an hour of sunlight. And their lips, painted red, looked like cherries in snow. I thought about David’s offer, and the more of these beautiful women I saw, the more I considered calling him. But time passed, and my nerve faltered, and eventually I talked myself out of it.

  On the streets, handbills were posted everywhere, and I stopped and read them all. Posters of Calvin Coolidge and John William Davis were pasted to walls and fences everywhere, as were pictures of the Nebraska gubernatorial candidates. And there were several other distinguished-looking candidates for lesser offices, looking stern and serious, with slogans circling their heads. There were bills for performances—music, theater, and dance, as well as ads for all kinds of household items, which reminded me of Jack. But one poster stopped me dead in my tracks. It was for a Negro League baseball game, a game between the Kanses City Monarchs and the Mobile Tigers, scheduled for eleven o’clock the next morning. I had a pencil and a notepad in my jacket, and I wrote down the details. I had called Mr. Murphy when I checked into my hotel, and we’d made arrangements to meet later in the afternoon. So I would easily be able to make it to the game.

  Back at the hotel, I ate in the dining room—shrimp, breaded with crisp batter, and whipped potatoes, and buttery string beans. I’d never tasted shrimp, and although the slippery texture was strange at first, I immediately fell in love with the combination of intense fish flavor and butter-soaked flakes of breading. After a dish of chocolate ice cream, one of my favorite things, I retreated to my room bloated and content.

  I took a bath in a real ceramic tub, and slid between sheets thick as cowhide. If I had wanted to make a phone call, all I had to do was go down into the lobby. In my room were electric lights, a toilet, and a sink with running water, none of which we had at home. And the next day, I would be handling the biggest business transaction of my life. But none of those things mattered that night. There were only two things on my mind as I lay on the verge of a deep sleep—my first professional baseball game, and my tryout.

  At breakfast, the scrambled eggs looked as if the grease had been scrubbed off—they were as yellow as a new
gold piece. I said a silent thank-you to Mr. Murphy for the dollar he had sent me to help pay for a little nicer hotel. The eggs tasted as good as they looked, with a hint of cheese. I held a copy of the Omaha World-Herald and reveled in learning yesterday’s news rather than last week’s.

  I caught a carriage to the stockyards, where I met our buyer Mr. Tanner, a tall man with a friendly manner. He buried his fingers in the calves’ coats, and lifted their upper lips, checking teeth. He kneaded their flanks and ran his hand along their ribs. I felt proud surveying the corral filled with plump calves pressed together into a massive brown hide. We had done well with this stock, thanks to a slight increase in moisture and some hard work. Mr. Tanner smiled broadly and nodded.

  We weighed the calves, and after figuring the total, Mr. Tanner wrote a check. When I looked at the amount, my heart rose to my neck, and I pressed my thumb and forefinger hard together to make sure a sudden gust of wind didn’t tear the slip of paper from my grasp. As soon as we shook hands and talked about what a pleasure it was to do business, I found a restroom, where I tucked the folded check into my boot.

  I arrived at the baseball field nearly an hour early, so I got to watch the Tiger and Monarch players go through their warm-ups—stretching, running, and fielding grounders and fly balls. I sat in the rickety old bleachers and would have been a happy man if someone had instructed me to stay there and watch these guys for seven days straight. These professionals made every motion, from a diving catch to whacking the ball three hundred and fifty feet, look as natural as opening a door. For that glorious hour, I lost all desire to do anything athletic again. It felt as if any effort to emulate these men would be an insult to their gifts.

  The Monarchs took the field first, but it was the Tiger pitcher that commanded all attention from the very first strike he threw. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, and I found myself grinning until my cheeks hurt. He pranced, he twisted his body into positions that would rip the muscles of mere mortals, and he threw the ball so hard I caught myself flinching along with the hitters.

  On his windup, he sometimes froze in the middle of his motion, bringing his body to a standstill, as if some unseen camera was aimed at him, demanding that he strike a pose. He seemed to do this without thinking—never in the same position, and never enough to throw off his control. And he smiled. Always he smiled, a subtle curl of his mouth.

  There were no programs, so I finally asked someone who he was. Even his name had a certain magic—Satchel Paige.

  I sat with a sack of peanuts in my hand and forgot they were there, holding them as if I was waiting for their owner to come along and claim them. And I was sitting there like that—as motionless as the players were fluid—when a hand suddenly reached into the bag, plucking several peanuts from inside. I flinched, following the arm to its owner.

  “Hello, Blake.” The fleshy smile of David Westford greeted me. “You know, I thought later that I should have mentioned this game to you. I’m glad you found your way here.” We shook hands.

  “Good to see you, too, David. This Paige guy is something else, huh?”

  “The son of a bitch isn’t even human. He beats our St. Louis team every damn time. Or I should say kills us every time. It’s never even close.”

  “Well, I feel privileged just to see these guys play,” I said. “We don’t see this kind of talent up our way.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. There’s some good players in this league. I like watching these boys play. ’Course, they wouldn’t be able to keep up with the major leagues. They might be just as fast, maybe even faster, but they aren’t as quick, if you know what I mean.” David smiled, pointing to his temple. I emitted a slight “hm,” as unenthusiastically as I could, but I could tell from his expression that he assumed I agreed with him.

  David told me he was going to get himself a beer, and offered to buy me one. I declined, thinking of my tryout.

  Just as David predicted, the game was no contest. Paige had such control that the Monarchs only managed three base runners the whole game. I watched the catcher closely, and it seemed that no matter what kind of hitch Paige put into his windup, or whether or not he was looking at the plate when he threw, the catcher rarely had to move his glove. At one point, Paige turned his torso completely around, toward center field, in the middle of his windup. His head seemed to still be facing the fence when he spun and threw. And just as he reached his release point, his left foot tapped the ground quickly, then continued forward. But the pitch split the plate with the precision of a rifle shot. The batter swung so far ahead of the ball that he fell over. When he stood up, he was laughing. Even he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.

  To my horror, David swore at Paige a few times, loud enough that people stared at us. But Paige didn’t seem to hear him, or if he did, it had no effect. He pitched a two-hitter, walking only one, and striking out fourteen batters. And earned at least one fan for life.

  David sat shaking his head, and drained the last of his fourth beer. “If the Cardinals had Paige, I do believe we could beat the Yankees,” he said.

  I smiled, declining a chance to point out the contradiction to his earlier comment. “I’m going to go talk to him,” I said. “You want to come along?”

  David looked up at me, and the smug little grin crept back into his expression. “You are?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Yeah. Why?”

  David looked around him, and bent closer to me, lowering his voice. “You sure you want to be seen doing that? Maybe you could write him a letter or something.”

  When it occurred to me what he meant, I frowned. I looked around at the crowd. Although there were several white faces among us, they were separate from the rest. A few fans lingered on the field, but none of them were white. I just shook my head, starting toward the field.

  “You go on ahead,” David said. I could see that he was anxious to put some distance between us before I went down on the field. “I want to get cleaned up for a night on the town.” He rubbed his palms against his heavy thighs and stood. “You’re welcome to join me, you know, or should I say ‘us.’” He winked. “Got a couple of real sweethearts lined up. But I think they could handle the both of us.”

  I reddened, nodding, unaccustomed to this kind of brash outspokenness about such matters. But I hadn’t forgotten the women I’d seen the night before. “We’ll see,” I said. “I have to catch an early train tomorrow. And I want to do a little shopping, pick up a few gifts for the family.”

  “All right,” he said. “But you still got my number, right?”

  I nodded, patting my breast pocket. Then I started climbing down the bleachers. But I stopped, and called out, “Hey, David.”

  He turned.

  “Do you know where this place is?” I dug in my jacket for the sheet of paper I had written Mr. Murphy’s directions on.

  David squinted, holding the paper at an arm’s length. “Yeah. I know where that is. Why? You need a ride?”

  “No, no. I just wondered whether it’s close by.”

  “It’s not very close, actually. But it’s not far out of my way. Why don’t I give you a ride? Why are you going there, anyway? It’s just a little park—nothing special.” He winked, with a hint of a smile. “You meeting someone?”

  I shook my head. “Never mind,” I said. “No, I don’t want to put you out.”

  “No, really. It’s no trouble,” David insisted. “I got nothing going on this afternoon, and it’s almost directly on my way to the hotel.”

  I thought, then decided I might as well take him up on the offer. “All right,” I agreed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Wait a second here. You’ve got to tell me what this is all about.” He pointed at me. “That’s the only catch.”

  I sighed. “I have a tryout,” I said.

  “A tryout?” David’s eyes narrowed. “For what? A tryout?”

  I nodded, looking toward the field, where Paige was starting to leave. “Yeah, listen. I’ll tel
l you when I get back. I don’t want to miss him.” I started toward the field.

  “You been holding out on me, Blake. Who’s it with?” David called.

  “The Cardinals,” I shouted over my shoulder.

  David stood. “The Cardinals? You definitely been holding out on me here. We been talking about practically nothing but baseball for the past two days and you haven’t said a word about this.” He was shouting, and I gestured to him to be quiet. “The Cardinals?” he shouted. “I can’t believe it.” And then, as if he suddenly remembered what I was up to: “I’ll meet you in the parking lot,” he shouted.

  I waved.

  Down on the field, my joints felt unhinged. Mr. Paige was not as old as I expected, younger than I was. I found out later that he was a rookie, barely eighteen years old. And so skinny he looked even younger.

  I approached with a tentative posture, from the side. “Mr. Paige, my name is Blake Arbuckle.” I stuck out my hand and he took it, looking at me with an amused expression, as if he either knew exactly what I was going to say, or as if no matter what I said, it would be amusing. I couldn’t help but smile right along with him.

  “Mr. Paige, I’m from Albion, Montana, and I just wanted to tell you what a pleasure it was watching you pitch. What you do out there is unbelievable.”

  He gave a little nod, still smiling. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Buckle. It’s mighty nice of you to come all the way down here from Albion to tell me that.”

  I nodded, chuckling. “Listen. I’ve just got to ask you…” I suddenly felt self-conscious about my hands, tucking them into my pockets. “I do a little pitching myself…and I’m just wondering…do you have some special grip, or a secret for doing what you do? How do you fool these batters? These guys are good hitters.”

  He smiled and shook his head, looking down at his well-worn cleats. Then he lifted his eyes, chuckling, still shaking his head. “They are good hitters,” he said. “But I’m gonna tell you something, Mr. Blake R. Buckle—something I don’t tell nobody.”