was rarely home to protect us.
At the age of eleven, I wanted to change my name.
13
The mosquitoes find us, and we retreat from the porch. Fay serves strawberries and cream, with some strange herbal tea, in the cluttered library. From ceiling to floor, the walls are covered with rows of books, and there are neat stacks around an old desk. Indeed, there are books all over the house, most covered with dust and packed on sagging shelves, much like an old secondhand bookshop. The Rooks are well-read and thoroughly engaging as conversationalists. I have talked enough and want to listen for a while.
“We were listening to the game on the porch, weren’t we, Fay?” Clarence asks.
“Yes, around front. I’ll never forget it.” As the evening progresses, I realize Fay knows almost as much about the game as Clarence. “Very sad.”
“Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau seemed to know immediately that Joe was not getting up. Lou flat out called it a beanball, a payback since Joe had homered the first time up. As we waited and waited, they filled in the gap with some research. Warren Tracey had led the National League in hit batsmen in 1972 and was tied for the lead in 1973. Lou called him a headhunter, among other things. Both agreed that Joe seemed to freeze when the pitch was released. You could tell from their tone that the situation was pretty grim.”
“Has Joe ever talked about it around here?” I ask. “Not on the record, but maybe to his friends or even his brothers?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Clarence replies. “A few years later, a reporter from Little Rock—was it the
“I think it was the
“But this guy showed up and managed to get an audience with Charlie and Red. He quizzed them about how Joe was doing these days, and so on. He also asked about the beaning, and they said that Joe simply doesn’t remember it. That’s the only time I can recall the family talking about it. Must’ve been twenty years ago.”
“Is there brain damage?” I ask.
Clarence and Fay look at each other, and it is obvious there are things not to be discussed in my presence. “I don’t think so,” he says, finally, “but he’s not a hundred percent.”
Fay says, “Clarence is one of the few townsfolk Joe will speak to. Not talk to, as in a conversation, but he has always liked Clarence and will at least acknowledge his presence.”
“I’m not sure anyone other than his mother really knows what goes on inside his head,” Clarence says.
“And he lives with her?”
“Yes, three blocks away.”
It is almost 10:00 p.m., and Fay is ready for bed. She gathers the dishes, gives me instructions on where to sleep, and says good night. As soon as she is gone, Clarence says, “I need a little digestif, you?”
As far as I can tell, Clarence is cold sober. He did not finish his last lemon gin over dinner and shows no sign of being tipsy. Same for me—my last sip of alcohol (and the last sip of lemon gin in my lifetime) was two hours earlier. My clock is running on mountain time, one hour behind Arkansas, so I am not quite ready for bed. And I want to listen to Clarence. “Such as?” I ask.
He is already on his feet, lumbering out of the room. “Ozark peach brandy,” he says and disappears.
It is a clear liquid with a slight amber tint. He pours it from an ominous-looking jug into two small shot-like glasses. When he sits down, we touch glasses and he says, “Cheers. Now, be careful. You need to sip it very slowly at first.”
I do. A blowtorch could not be hotter on my lips and tongue. I keep a game face and manage to choke it down, with flames scorching my esophagus until the last drop hits my unsuspecting stomach. He watches me carefully, waiting for some comical reaction, and when I keep my composure, he says, “Not bad, huh?”
“What is it—gasoline?”
“It’s a local product made by one of our better distillers.”
“And untaxed, I presume?”
“Highly untaxed and illegal as hell.” He takes another sip.
“I thought moonshine causes blindness and liver damage.”
“It can, but you gotta know your source. This is good stuff, some of the best—light, tasty, virtually harmless.”
Harmless? My toes are burning. As the child of a violent alcoholic, I have never been attracted to the drinking life, and after an evening of lemon gin and moonshine whiskey I realize how wise I have been.
“The second sip is easier, and the third is the best,” he says. I take an even smaller sip, and it burns less, probably because of the scar tissue left behind by the first.
“Tell me, Paul, how did you know your father was going to bean Joe?” he asks, reaching for his pipe and tobacco pouch.
“That’s a long story,” I say, trying to find my tongue.
He smiles and spreads his arms. “We have all night. I usually read until midnight and sleep till eight.”
I take a third sip and actually get a slight taste of peach flavoring. “He was of the old school. If a batter hits a
