Heart of a Tiger: Growing Up With My Grandfather, Ty Cobb

by Herschel Cobb

  With my father’s large bulk filling the space, I remembered how small the cabin was. The cabin and boathouse were really one building, with the cabin erected on the bank of the river and the boathouse built out over it. The light from the lanterns reflected off the yellow linoleum countertops and the yellow linoleum floor. Except for a small throw rug, the floors were bare. The small kitchen adjoined a small eating area, which was right next to the built-in bunk beds. The bottom bed was larger, and sometimes we used it to sit on while we ate at the table. The toilet was outside and around the corner, outhouse style. The living and eating areas were close and crowded and not very comfortable, but that wasn’t the purpose of the boathouse. It was supposed to protect Daddy’s new speedboat, moored in the water, always ready to go. The doorway down to the boat was right behind me, guarded with a padlock.

  Granddaddy walked in, carrying three guns over each shoulder, and nearly shouted, “Well, where is this beauty?” He was talking about Daddy’s new Chris-Craft inboard. The speedboat had arrived in June, and Daddy had showed it off to all his friends during the summer. “I want to see where all that money you’re making is going.”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by this, but the tone of his voice was more of a demand than a question. Daddy had bought an airplane a couple of years before, and I overheard him when he called Granddaddy to tell him about it. The phone call turned into a shouting match. I could tell Granddaddy wanted to know why he had bought an expensive airplane because Daddy kept yelling louder and louder that he needed it for something or other.

  “Be right there,” my father said. He was looking over his shoulder, fiddling with one of the kerosene lamps as he answered. “Got to get this lamp set so it doesn’t fall over. The key to the padlock is in the drawer, right behind Hersch. Taped to the left side in the rear.”

  I knew what he meant and immediately opened the drawer to look for the key.

  “Hersch, leave that alone,” he ordered me, his voice loud and sharp. I could tell that he was close to yelling at me: his eyes and face were rigid, holding back a torrent of anger. I quickly backed away from the drawer and let my arms hang stiffly at my sides.

  Granddaddy set the guns and cases in the corner and walked over to the drawer. He felt along the left side with his hand. “Hersch, I think I feel it, but my hand’s too big. See what you can do.”

  Glad for the chance to help, I stepped forward, quickly found the key taped to the side, and pulled it off. As I handed the key to Granddaddy, Dad advanced on us, breathing hard. He didn’t like anyone countermanding his orders. His face was flushed, but he didn’t say a word. He grabbed the key to open the back door himself.

  Yet he fumbled with the padlock, unable to fit the key into the slot. One of the kerosene lanterns was shining a flood of light onto Daddy, and I could see his left hand gripping the lock so tight, his knuckles were white. Frustrated, he kept trying to jam the key into the lock. He started cursing under his breath; I knew that something like this was sure to set him off. I slipped around behind my grandfather and quickly edged toward the bottom bunk, wanting to be as far away as possible.

  He muttered under his breath, yanked the padlock futilely, cursing in a low voice, “Goddamn lock. I should have gotten the key myself.”

  I had seen him like this hundreds of times before, when his temper built to a peak and he lashed out in violence. The eruption could happen in an instant. Yet as mad as he was getting, he kept himself in check. Granddaddy was slightly behind him, leaning against the counter, watching. I realized that Granddaddy was the reason he hadn’t exploded. My father didn’t dare fly into a violent rage with Granddaddy around.

  I watched with intense interest. I had rarely seen my father hold back about anything. My eyes darted back and forth between them, waiting to see what would happen. The yellow light of the kerosene lamp glowed eerily over my father and grandfather, and they seemed to stand still like a tableau. Deep inside, I felt an invisible wish to be as powerful and confident as my grandfather. He watched for another few seconds and said, like he didn’t care one way or the other, “Herschel, want me to take a try?”

  “Shit, Dad. Something’s wrong. Goddamn lock,” Daddy replied, while moving aside. He handed the key to Granddaddy, then leaned on the counter, gripping the edge tightly. He glared at his father but didn’t look at me. I barely breathed, not wanting to draw his attention.

  Granddaddy turned the bottom of the padlock upward, peered at it, then retrieved a small pocketknife from his pants pocket. He stuck a blade into the cylinder and jiggled it a few times. When he tried the key again, it slid smoothly into the cylinder chamber and turned. He let the open padlock hang on the hasp and tossed the key onto the countertop. When it landed, it made a dull clink, but the room was so quiet, it sounded as if someone had hit a doorbell.

  They stood side by side, and though they were about the same height, Daddy was much bigger. He often said that he had to “stay away from three hundred.” And I knew he meant how much he weighed.

  Granddaddy stepped aside and said in the same even voice, “Lead the way, son.”

  My father’s knuckles were white from gripping the countertop, and I half expected him to rip it off. Instead, he took a deep breath and grabbed the lantern hanging on a nail, pulling it so hard the nail sprang out of the wall. Even more embarrassed by that, he barged through the doorway and down the stairs to where his new Chris-Craft was moored.

  Granddaddy turned to me and held his palms out, telling me to stay put. He must have sensed the building rage as much as I had.

  As I sat on the edge of the bunk bed, Babe came over to me, nuzzled my leg, and wagged her tail happily.

  “Well, come on. Here she is,” my father said in the distance. His voice was full of disgust and finality, wanting to get the examination of his boat over with as soon as possible.

  Granddaddy went down the steps to where the Chris-Craft inboard was tied up. I could hear the sound of the river splashing against the poles holding up the boathouse and the voices of the two men. The sounds bounced off the water and the sides of the boathouse and echoed up through the door to the kitchen.

  “That’s her,” I heard my father say. I imagined he was pointing to his new inboard.

  “So, this is what I gave you all that money for. And the airplane. Toys. I hope you sell plenty of Cokes,” replied Granddaddy. He sounded like he didn’t care what the Chris-Craft looked like.

  I heard someone climbing the steps, and my grandfather appeared. That night I didn’t understand what he meant about the money, but some years later I learned how Daddy was able to buy a Coca-Cola franchise in Twin Falls, a house, airplane, speedboat, racing boat, plus two new cars. He seemed to prosper selling cold soft drinks in a place that ironically was cold eight months out of the year. My grandfather knew where the money came from; it was provided by him, and he didn’t like what he saw.

  I now knew my father would not explode that night, not while Granddaddy was around. I was very sleepy, and I wanted to crawl into a warm bed and pull the covers over my head. Luckily, Granddaddy unhooked the rollaway bed set against the wall, opened it up, and motioned for me to help him arrange one of the sleeping bags on it. I climbed into the bag with my clothes on.

  Granddaddy whispered to me, “What, no pajamas?”

  “No, Granddaddy,” I replied, “too sleepy, too cold.” I peeked over the end of my sleeping bag, watching him. He unrolled his sleeping bag on the lower bunk, spread it over the mattress, and arranged the pillow he brought. He tossed another bag onto the upper bunk. My father was still down below with his new boat.

  I was in my sleeping bag, with my head covered, squirming around to make it warm inside, when I heard my father’s footsteps come up the stairs. A loud slam on the kitchen counter followed. I sensed he had been on the verge of exploding all day. His temper was short, his voice strained and so tense that conversation of any sort didn’t last more than a sentence or two. Frightened, I pushed deeper ins
ide the sleeping bag, kept my heard buried, and froze every possible part of me.

  “What the hell’s that for?” It was my grandfather’s voice. “Keep it down. Little Hersch is sleepy, and we got an early morning. Let’s just turn in.”

  I put the pillow over my head but could hear more mumbling between them. My grandfather put an end to it by saying, “Not tonight. I’m too tired to talk about money. I’m going to sleep. You get the upper.”

  I eased the pillow off my ear and heard the squeaking of the wood planks of the bunk bed, along with footsteps on the other side of the room. I guessed that my grandfather was climbing into the lower bunk and my father was still fuming. I lay as still as I could, pretending to be asleep, hoping the light would go out and put an end to the evening. My body was tense, and my ears picked up every little sound.

  In a few minutes the shuffling ended, and the lights went out. I heard my father climb into the upper bunk. He bumped his head on the ceiling and cursed, but only the swishes of his working himself into his sleeping bag followed. I relaxed and the tension of impending catastrophe slid away. The warmth of my sleeping bag and quiet in the room were soothing, but even more comforting was the knowledge that while my grandfather was around, I was safe from harm.

  I slipped my arm out of my sleeping bag and searched around the floor until I found Babe. I patted her, then covered myself up again, got really warm, and drifted off to sleep.

  I woke up a couple of times during the night to a loud growling noise. It was Granddaddy snoring. I went back to sleep, but the final time I was awakened, the sound was a frantic one—a combination fire truck and circus parade ringing right next to my head. The alarm clock. I pulled my sleeping bag away from my face until the cold air hit me. It was totally dark and I couldn’t see anything.

  My father’s yelling jarred me. “Turn that damn thing off, will you?”

  The alarm kept ringing and my father kept yelling. Granddaddy didn’t stir at all. I lay still and waited, but nothing changed. My dad yelled louder and louder, and the alarm kept ringing. I heard shuffling and creaking, and finally my grandfather’s voice: “What? Oh, yeah. Sorry. Sorry. Hold on. Can’t find it.” He was moving around at the same time, and the words came between his breath heaving. Just as suddenly as the ringing started, it ended.

  “Christ almighty, Dad. Wake the dead. You all right? Hold on while I light this damn thing.” The sound of a match being struck was followed by a flash of yellow light. The kerosene lamp began to glow, slowly lighting the room. The clock said 4:00. I was cold, and it seemed like the middle of the night; my body was moving, but I was not awake.

  My grandfather rubbed me on the outside of my sleeping bag. “Time to hit the deck, Hersch. Sunrise is in an hour or so, and we want to be ready. Come on. You can have Granddaddy’s jacket. I slept with it, so it’s warmed up for you. Come on, boy; let’s move.”

  He smiled down at me and his voice sounded ready for an adventure, sharing his excitement. He tugged my arm, pulled it out of the bag, and, at the same time, slipped it into his jacket sleeve. It was warm, just as he had promised. I began to wriggle out of the bag on my own and put on his hunting jacket, although I was nearly lost inside because it was so big. Granddaddy turned to my father, who was still on the top bunk, and said, “Herschel, it’s cold as ice in here. Can we turn on that stove and get some heat going?”

  My father replied harshly, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hold your horses. I’ve got to get out of this damn thing. The zipper’s stuck.”

  The lantern hissed, casting a spotlight over my father as he tried to free himself. He was facing us with the lower half of his body still inside the bag. He yanked the zipper, then grabbed and pulled the material of his sleeping bag on each side of the zipper, trying to make the zipper open. His arms tugged and pulled furiously. His breathing was getting heavy, his face was red, and he was cursing under his breath. He couldn’t get the zipper to budge. An explosion was coming, I could feel it. Granddaddy was sitting on the edge of the lower bunk, watching but not saying anything. Finally, my father grabbed material from each side of the bag, wrapped it around his hands, and gave a mighty yank. The material ripped apart, the zipper popped, and my father kept pulling savagely until the rip went all the way to the end of the bag, where his feet were. White feathers flew everywhere.

  Granddaddy stuck out his hand, as if he could catch them all, saying, “Jesus, Herschel, that’s a brand-new down bag.”

  “Forget it, Dad, just forget it. I’ll get another one. Damn. What a mess,” he said hotly.

  Dad eyed the feathers floating downward, then looked over at me and ordered, “Hersch, get over here. Help me clean this up!”

  I shivered, not so much from the cold, but because I knew Daddy wanted a target for his anger. I’d seen things go downhill before, when he exploded into a fit of rage, targeting anything he could see to hurt or destroy. I was still half asleep and cold, trying to force my body to climb out of the warm sleeping bag. I pushed and pulled, panicked by the prospect of my father erupting in a fit of rage.

  In the stillness I heard Granddaddy’s voice, “Cut it out, Herschel. You’re the one that made the mess. Just leave it. We’ll get it later. Move the damn light so you don’t start a fire.” His voice stopped both of us short. He didn’t yell, but the intensity of his voice said he expected to be obeyed.

  By this time, I was standing upright on the cold yellow linoleum floor. I didn’t move a muscle. I watched my father’s head slowly rise up from watching the feathers settle on the floor. He stared at Granddaddy for a full second or two. His eyes were glazed, and he was moving like he was in slow motion. He slowly shifted out of the bag, causing more feathers to cascade downward, and turned to reach for the lantern. Dad’s hand closed around the handle of the lantern, but he did not move to get out of the bunk.

  I heard the low rumble of cursing, half-swallowed back into his throat. I edged backward, getting as far out of the way as possible. But then, as if nothing had happened, Granddaddy walked across the room and stopped in front of the propane stove. “So, how do we start this thing?” he nearly shouted. “Let’s get some heat going and make some coffee. I want to get going.”

  He looked funny, a grizzled old man. His thin hair jutted in all directions, and his whiskers darkened the lower part of his face. He’d slept in his pants, and they were baggy and wrinkled. His belt was unbuckled, and his boots were untied and flopped open. I could see he didn’t have any socks on. His undershirt was gray, the two top shirts unbuttoned and open. His belly was round and soft, and his face showed that he had just slept on it.

  My father did not respond. I could sense all his energy welling up. Then he lashed out. My father pulled his right arm across his body, twisting himself up, and unleashed a huge swing. His fist hit the wooden side panel at the end of the upper bunk, causing a thunderous clap. The blast shook the wall and rattled the whole boathouse. The lantern swung back and forth on its hook but didn’t fall. It was as if someone hit a huge, thick gong, sending dull, ugly echoes resounding off the walls and filling all the space in between. My mouth suddenly tasted bitter with acrid fear.

  Granddaddy’s shoulders flinched upward at the sound, and he turned slightly, looking out of the corner of his eye at my father. Daddy didn’t move. He was still twisted around, facing the back of the bunk, suspended on its edge.

  “Hersch, let Babe outside so she can do her business.” Granddaddy’s calm voice startled me. It lanced the dread I was feeling, allowing me to move. I had backed up against the wall farthest from the bunk beds, my hands held up in front of me for protection. I was entirely focused on my father, expecting him to leap down and bash anything in sight, but he kept himself in check.

  Seizing my chance to escape, I opened the door and Babe hustled outside. Cold air rushed over my face as I stood in the open doorway, breathing in as deeply as I could. When I turned around, I saw Daddy had gotten down from the upper bunk and was walking, with fists clenched tight, slowly tow
ard the counter where Granddaddy was standing.

  Daddy had been a Golden Gloves amateur boxing champion in the heavyweight class. I had seen his gloves and equipment and watched him pound his punching bag, hung like a sack from a hook on a round flatboard. I had watched him sweat, beads pouring down his face, neck, back, and shoulders when he worked out on his heavy bag. That bag was as big as I was, only much heavier, and when he hit it hard, stuffing flew from its seams and a loud “ouaf” jumped off the leather. He once told me, “Men box.” I didn’t really understand what he meant, but I knew he hit people and liked it. He’d hit my mother and knocked her down, causing blood to dribble from the corner of her mouth before she ran screaming out of their bedroom. I’d heard him brag about beating men into a bloody mess.

  I was ready to run, but my grandfather held his ground. His head was slightly tilted toward the propane stove, but cocked at a slight angle, watching my father out of the corner of his eye. He shifted his feet so they were slightly apart, bent his knees just a little, and moved his weight forward. His posture transformed him from an old man into a huge cat, poised and ready to pounce.

  As Daddy stomped up next to him, Granddaddy calmly asked, “Herschel, where’s the turn-on for the propane? I can’t find it anywhere.” He didn’t even glance up at my father but kept surveying the top of the stove and around the front and sides, moving the lantern back and forth so the light illuminated one spot and then another.

  Daddy rolled his fingers tighter into his clenched fists. The back of his neck was bright red, wet with sweat. His shoulders were hunched and he was heaving, not breathing. He was kneading his palms with his fingers, the fists getting tighter and tighter, and his forearm muscles working harder and harder.

  I moved away from the door and crouched behind the eating table, wanting to stay out of sight. My fingers gripped the top, and I peered over its edge, expecting a fistfight to erupt in front of me. Nobody moved for what seemed like minutes. Daddy was standing almost right next to Granddaddy, staring at him. Granddaddy kept his alert stance. Throughout his search for the pilot light, I knew he was watching my father too. He was ready for anything.