Calico Joe

“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 home run, then the batter wins the duel. His reward is obvious; he gets nothing more. It’s a sin to insult the pitcher by showing off in any way. Standing at the plate and admiring the drive; flipping the bat; loafing around the bases to soak up the attention; and heaven forbid any show of self-gratification or emotion. No sir. The batter wins, and he circles the bases quickly and gets to the dugout. Otherwise, he pays for it. If a batter does anything to show off, then the pitcher has the right to knock him down. That was straight from the old code, and my father swore by it.”

“That might not work in today’s game,” Clarence says, blowing a cloud of smoke.

“I wouldn’t know, Clarence. I haven’t watched a game in thirty years.”

“So, did Joe do something to show up Warren Tracey? You were there. Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau said repeatedly that Joe did nothing wrong.”

“Well, according to Warren’s official party line, the answer is no. No, because he soon began claiming that it was an accident, he did not throw at Joe, that it was simply a pitch up that got away from him. I suspect that once it became obvious Joe was seriously injured, Warren changed his tune and started lying.”

“You seem awfully certain about this.”