Time Dancers

did without hesitation. The Yankees were considered the most feared team in baseball, with a lineup called “Murderers’ Row,” consisting of Babe Ruth, Bob Meusel, Lou Gehrig, and Tony Lazzeri. They had hitting, pitching, and depth, but it made no difference. The Cardinals were led by a perfect mix of talented young players like Sunny Jim Bottomley, as well as experienced veterans, such as Rogers Hornsby and the grizzled Grover Cleveland Alexander. He was broken down and alcoholic and near the end of his career, but at one time he had been considered one of the greatest pitchers in baseball. Mitch asked Sunny Jim about him in June, the day the Cardinals purchased Alexander from the Cubs. He said, “Now I’m not saying I’m a bettin’ man, Sunny Jim, but let’s pretend I was. What I’m askin’ is…uh…well, how bad is he?” Sunny Jim scratched his head, then laughed. “Mitch, I’ll just say one thing about it. You can smell him long before you ever see him.”

On the afternoon of October 10 with the series tied 3–3, we gathered around the big radio in Carolina’s living room and turned up the volume. In the bottom of the seventh inning, the Cardinals were trying to hold a 3–2 lead. There were two men out and the bases were loaded with Tony Lazzeri batting. Hornsby stopped the action and called for Grover Cleveland Alexander in the bullpen. Drunk and still half-asleep, Alexander walked to the pitching mound. He got Lazzeri to strike out, but not before Lazzeri hit a long fly ball, barely foul in the left field stands. The Cardinals were out of the inning with their lead intact. In the ninth Babe Ruth was thrown out at second base to end the game and the Cardinals won the World Series of 1926. Much later, Grover Cleveland Alexander described it this way: “Less than a foot made the difference between a hero and a bum.”

On a cold, gray day in December, the Cardinals’ owner, Sam Breadon, surprised everyone by trading the manager and second baseman, Rogers Hornsby. “The Rajah” had asked for a three-year contract since the Cardinals won the World Series and they traded him instead. Sunny Jim said, “It’s going to be hard filling his shoes, no matter who takes his place.” There was no irony in his voice. I could tell he meant what he said, regardless of how he felt about Hornsby the man. Then he added, “That’s baseball.”

I had hoped to hear news from Opari and Ray by the New Year, but none came. Geaxi, Nova, all remained silent. Most of my time during the winter of 1927 was spent in the kitchen, talking with Ciela about Cuban cooking and discussing the subtleties of the shortstop position with Biscuit. On March 2, I was working on a crossword puzzle when Jack burst into the kitchen and threw a newspaper down on the table, then walked over to the stove to see what Ciela was cooking. I picked up the newspaper and began to browse through the pages. On the third page, I recognized a name in a column about a young airmail pilot, currently living in St. Louis. The name was Charles Lindbergh and I remembered the tall, skinny barnstormer whose timely actions had saved Geaxi’s life. He had just begun construction in San Diego on a single-engine, custom-built airplane he planned on flying nonstop from New York to Paris, alone. At stake was the Orteig Prize of $25,000, originally offered in 1919 to the first one who could accomplish the transatlantic feat. In the years since, several good pilots and their aircraft had exploded or disappeared in failed attempts. Lindbergh would be the first to try it solo. He said his plane would be ready in sixty days and would be called the Spirit of St. Louis. Investors in the project were all local St. Louis businessmen, including E. Lansing Ray of the Globe-Democrat. The publisher of the rival Post-Dispatch had declined to invest, saying, “I want no part of a one-man, quixotic enterprise.” The column ended with the writer praising Lindbergh’s courage and wishing him luck, referring to him as “the lone eagle.” The writer’s name was Jack Flowers. In the sports section, I found another short piece about Babe Ruth signing a new three-year contract with the Yankees that paid him an estimated $70,000 per season, a tremendous amount of money for a ballplayer. The piece was informative, incisive, and well written. The writer’s name at the bottom: Jack Flowers. I looked up and he was standing by the stove. He was a carbon copy of his father, Nicholas (Nick) Flowers, without the mustache.

“What happened to ‘Solomon Jack’?” I asked.

He glanced back, knowing I’d found and read the articles. “He still works for the Sporting News,” Jack said, then smiled. “But not for long.”

On March 3, Oliver “Biscuit” Bookbinder’s life was also about to change. Just before noon, Sunny Jim telephoned long distance from Florida with an offer that Biscuit could not refuse. A team the Cardinals played in exhibition games, a traveling all-star team playing out of Cuba, was missing a shortstop. The regular shortstop had disappeared near Sarasota with a burlesque dancer from Miami. If Biscuit could make it down to Florida in three days, Sunny Jim said he would get the job at shortstop, or at least a shot at it. Sunny Jim told him he was good enough to do it.

“Sunny Jim is right,” I said. “You are good enough. Now, go play the game. You will never regret it.”

Biscuit did not hesitate. Mitch drove him down in record time, and since Biscuit was still a teenager, Ciela insisted she go along as chaperone. For luck, I gave him a double eagle gold piece on the day he left and he promised never to spend it. The three of them roared away on a Tuesday and Mitch was back less than two weeks later. In a week, Biscuit was offered the position of shortstop for the Havana Habaneros, which he accepted. He was now a professional baseball player. A week after that, he was asked to move to Cuba and play with the team on a permanent basis. It was another offer he could not refuse. On my birthday, May 4, we stood in Carolina’s kitchen and toasted the missing Oliver “Biscuit” Bookbinder, along with Ciela, who had decided to go with him to Cuba, though she was reluctant to leave St. Louis and especially Carolina. She telephoned us from Miami the night before they departed. “It is the right thing to do,” Ciela said through constant tears and sobs. She had prayed on the matter and asked for guidance. God had spoken to her in a tiny voice. He had whispered, “Vamos, Ciela. Vamos.”

On May 11, I finally received word from Geaxi. It was a telegram delivered along with Jack shouting the news that Charles Lindbergh had just landed at Lambert Field in the Spirit of St. Louis, setting a new nonstop speed record of fifteen hundred miles in fourteen hours, twenty-five minutes. Jack was breathless and laughing and saying, “He’s on his way, Z! He’s going to Paris!”

“What are you talking about, Jack?” It was Carolina.

“Lindbergh. Charles Lindbergh is on his way to New York, then, when he’s ready—nonstop to Paris.” Jack paused and remembered something in his hand. “This is for you, Z,” he said. “It was addressed to my office for some reason.”

“What does it look like?” Carolina asked. She was standing at the far end of the table, peeling potatoes. She tossed one to Jack. “The airplane. What does the Spirit of St. Louis look like?”

“It is beautiful…silver and sleek and fast. He’s going to make it, Mama. I know he will.”

I excused myself and went directly to my bedroom. I opened the telegram and read it carefully. Once again, it was written in a hybrid form of Basque and Meq. Translated, it read:

“NOVA NOW SEEING VISIONS AND HEARING VOICES OUT OF CONTROL. MAY LOSE HER. TAKING HER DIRECTLY TO RUBY. COME NOW. ALSO HAVE OTHER NEWS—GEAXI.”

I left that night on a train for New York, then within a day, on a ship for England, which Owen Bramly booked ahead of me. Mitch asked to accompany me and I welcomed his company. After four days of rough seas, we arrived safely in Southampton on the afternoon of the nineteenth. Willie Croft was there to greet us with open arms and a new limousine, a black and silver Rolls-Royce with huge wheels and reinforced frame. It looked like something made for a duke, which it was. Willie had purchased it from the Duke of Hamilton.

We cleared customs without incident or delay and piled into the Rolls-Royce for the long ride to Cornwall. While Mitch and Willie caught up with each other’s lives, I slept behind them on the rear seat. By the time Willie slowed and made the wide turn down to Caitlin’s Ruby, I was awake, alert, and anxious to see Nova.

As soon as we came to a stop, I leaped out of the limousine and walked over to the low stone wall alongside one of the paths leading west. I climbed on the wall and faced the setting sun, turning orange and gold behind a thin bank of clouds on the horizon. I breathed in deeply. I felt a familiar breeze brush across my face. It was filled with the smell of wild leeks, Italian cypress, thistle, pine, and the faint, fresh taste of the open sea. It was the scent of Caitlin herself.

“Man, that smells good,” I heard Mitch say. I turned and he was referring to the aromas drifting out from the kitchen windows and over the drive.

“Arrosa’s bounty,” Willie told him. “Come inside, Mitch. Arrosa will serve you something straightaway. It’s all Basque, you know, and quite good.” Willie looked my way. “You as well, Z—come inside.”

“In a minute,” I said.