route. Having seen Caine come of age and rise to our height and beyond while we remained unchanged had frightened them. They no longer were glad to see us and turned away as we approached. We were not normal, not at all like other children and they could sense it. They didn’t know what we were, but they knew what we were not. We had been recognized and remembered.
“It may be wise to leave this city, my love,” Opari whispered.
“Maybe,” I said.
Three days later, on the tenth, the lefty Wild Bill Hallahan beat the Athletics again to win the World Series for the Cardinals. Ray and I witnessed the whole game from Carolina’s box seats. Two boxes down from ours, the commissioner of Major League baseball, Kenesaw Mountain Landis, sat with various dignitaries and celebrities, as well as several local St. Louis politicians. His bony face and snow white hair stood out among the others. When he wasn’t talking to someone, he observed the game and the players with piercing concentration. After the game and the celebrations on the field, he and the other men turned to leave. We were still in our seats as he passed by. He glanced at me, then stopped abruptly when he saw Ray and stared down at him like a hawk. His eyes narrowed and his thin lips tightened. Then the commissioner of baseball spoke to Ray. “I never forget a face,” he said. “I have seen you before, son, and either my mind is playing tricks on me, or else I want to know who you are.”
Ray looked him in the eye. “I don’t believe we ever met, Judge.”
“Perhaps not, but I have seen you before, son. Cincinnati it was, I am certain.” He paused and leaned over slightly, so that only Ray could hear him clearly. “That was over thirty years ago, which is impossible.”
Ray waited a heartbeat, then winked at him. “Damn, Judge,” Ray said, “you got a hellava memory.”
The others began urging the commissioner forward. “I want to know who you are, son. Do you hear me?” But he never had a chance to find out. The press and photographers were shouting to him and the other men pulled him on, then Kenesaw Mountain Landis disappeared into the crowd.
Ray turned to me. “It’s about time we got lost, Z.”
The encounters with the older couple and the commissioner were unlikely, rare, and probably harmless, but I agreed with Ray, it was time to get lost for a while.
Ray and Nova left for New Orleans a week later. Ray said he wanted to see his “old stompin’ grounds.” Nova was all for the adventure and they both looked forward to spending more time with each other. Opari and I couldn’t decide where to go. Our decision was made in an instant on the afternoon of Carolina’s annual Thanksgiving Day feast, which she calls only a “fancy lunch.” As the garlic and rosemary mashed potatoes were being passed around the table, a telegram arrived from Ciela in Cuba. In it she said Biscuit Bookbinder had been selected to start as shortstop for the Cuban All-Star game in November. Before we finished the meal, arrangements had been made and within three days, Opari and I were on our way to Havana, accompanied by Owen Bramley and Carolina, who couldn’t wait to teach us how to “snorkel.”
The train ride to Florida allowed Carolina and Owen a chance to speak with Opari and me in a different manner than they would at home. With Caine, Jack, and Star, they maintained a more maternal and paternal attitude, even though it wasn’t necessary. I think it was unconscious and instinctual on their part and they couldn’t help themselves. But alone with Opari and me and away from St. Louis, they both became candid and reflective in their remarks. Their own mortality, or a reference to it, crept in at the edge of many conversations. It was lighthearted and casual, but it was still there.
“I’m falling apart piece by piece, Z,” Carolina said somewhere in Alabama.
“I don’t think so, Carolina,” I said and meant it. “You look as healthy as ever.”
“Illusions, illusions,” she said, laughing.
Carolina truly did look in top health, but Owen Bramley seemed a little less energetic and long-winded than he’d always been. He was a few pounds thinner and his reddish hair had turned light gold and silver. Red and brown blotches were now mixed among the freckles on his skin. He removed his glasses, wiping them clean on his shirtsleeve and talking about the state of the economy with weary eyes. The world was headed for a deep depression and Owen Bramley saw it approaching. He stared out at the passing soybean fields and spoke without his usual optimism.
“We won’t be able to feed them, Z, there will be so many unemployed. The whole damn thing is going to collapse.”
“What about you?” I asked, then followed the thought. “What about Carolina, what about us? Will we be all right?”
“We’re the fortunate ones, Z. Solomon made sure we had enough money and I made sure all our investments were diverse and secure. Everything we own is paid for and we’ve got plenty of cash reserves. We’re set, but that will not stop the collapse, Z. One big collapse—worldwide.” He wiped his glasses one more time and shook his head back and forth slowly. “It’s a damn shame.”
By the time we reached central Florida, the skies had cleared and the temperature had climbed twenty degrees. At the first stop, Opari and I opened our window and breathed in the overpowering smell of countless ripe oranges. Miles of orange groves lined both sides of the train tracks. St. Louis and the coming winter suddenly became a distant memory. All my thoughts turned to Cuba.
I asked Carolina about the home she and Ciela had started. I was told it was not really a home at all, but an old resort and tobacco farm called “Finca Maria.” And it was nowhere near Havana as I assumed, but in the hills north of the small town of Vinales. All of the girls living there came from the streets, brothels, and bars of Havana. Ciela found them and gave them a chance for a new life in a completely different environment. Some rejected it and returned to the life they had always known within weeks, unable to adapt or accept the change. Most welcomed the chance and willingly began to transform themselves under Ciela’s guidance and endless generosity. Carolina said even the girls who left respected Ciela and her work. The pimps and bar owners despised her, which made her work clandestine and dangerous. Carolina remarked that Havana was probably the most corrupt and wide-open city she had ever seen. Owen Bramley agreed, but added that Ciela was not being foolish, only fearless. He admired her a great deal and made certain she had anything she needed. He also hired a few men he could trust to silently watch over Finca Maria as a kind of discreet security force. “You just never know about those characters in Havana,” Owen said.
We boarded a small passenger boat in Miami on a balmy Sunday morning and sailed south for the Straits of Florida and the old Havana harbor.
On the crossing, I told Opari a few true tales from my time as a smuggler with Captain Woodget. On several occasions the captain found quick and safe refuge in the port and harbor of Havana. I also told her about the countless number of slave ships that passed in and out of the same port.
Ciela and Biscuit were waiting for us. Owen slipped us easily through customs. Opari and I held new passports that Owen had procured. They weren’t forgeries, either. They were genuine United States passports and I have no idea how he got them. When I thanked him, he waved it off, saying it was nothing, he only had to know one man—the right one.
Ciela had gained weight and her hair was streaked with silver, but she looked healthy and she was overjoyed to see us. Her skin had turned a dark brown from the Cuban sun and her wide smile was exactly the same. She gave everyone a great hug and a shower of greetings in rapid Spanish. Biscuit waited patiently, then wrapped his arms around Carolina, embracing her without a word. His arms had become the arms of a young man in his early twenties. He stood slightly shorter than Owen and wore a thin mustache on his upper lip.
Carolina looked him over carefully and frowned in mock disapproval. “Biscuit,” she said, “I believe I will have to call you Oliver now instead of Biscuit. You are much too handsome for a name like Biscuit.”
He owed his life to Carolina and he knew it. “You can call me anything you want, Carolina, for any reason.”
“Does that go for me, as well, Oliver?” I asked.
“No chance, Z. You’ll have to call me Biscuit.”
“What was your batting average last year, All Star?”
“.336.”
“Not bad. How many errors?”
“One.”
“What happened?” I asked, knowing full well only one error in a whole season for a shortstop was phenomenal.
