Calico Joe

I will not bicker. I could blow holes in his twisted logic for the next hour and gain nothing. We take a break and listen to the chatter around us. Alone, the two of us, for the first time in decades. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I was alone with my father. I’ve seen him half a dozen times since he abandoned us, and only a couple of those little meetings were his idea. There is so much I would like to say, none of it pleasant, and I battle the urge to unload a lifetime’s worth of debris. But I promised myself I would not beat him up. Given his attitude at the moment, I doubt if Warren Tracey would sit still during a round of verbal abuse. He’s still a fighter.

The waitress delivers the waffle, a thick dessert-like creation smothered in whipping cream. I take a bite of link sausage, something Sara would never consider buying, and dive back into our little session. “So, finally, after thirty years, you’re admitting you deliberately hit Joe?”

“I’m really hesitant to say anything to you because you might add it to your little short story here. Since you’re divulging family matters anyway, I don’t trust you.”

“Fair enough. You have my word that anything you say here today will not be included.”

“Still don’t trust you.”

“I’m not going to argue such things as trust and responsibility, Warren. Why did you throw at Joe Castle?”

“He was a cocky kid, and I didn’t like what he did to Dutch Patton. Dutch and I played together in Cleveland.”

“He was not a cocky kid, no more so than any other major leaguer. And you did not play with Dutch Patton in Cleveland. Dutch never played for the Indians.” I take a small bite of a large waffle, without taking my eyes off him. His mouth drops open and his eyes glow, as if he might throw a punch. Suddenly he grimaces and exhales as a jolt of pain shoots through his midsection. I forgot what he’s going through.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’ll be all right. I’m thinking about playing golf tomorrow.”

I appreciate the change in subjects. We talk about golf for a few minutes, and the mood lightens considerably. Then it darkens again when I realize he has played golf since he was six years old; he won the Maryland Open when he was seventeen; and he has never played a single round with me. I understand the DNA thing, but the man across the table is nothing but my biological father. Nothing more.

I make quick work of the waffle and sausage and slide the platter away. “You were trying to explain why you beaned Joe. I don’t think we finished that part of the conversation.”

“You’re so damned smart, why don’t you explain it?” he snaps angrily.

“Oh, I know, Warren. I’ve known for a long time. There were several reasons you wanted to hit Joe, all twisted and pretty sick, but as you say, that was your game. You resented his success and the attention he was getting. In your warped mind, he showed you up after he hit his home run in the first inning. You wanted to be the first tough guy to hit him in the head. You loved hitting people and starting trouble. And you were envious because I, along with countless other little boys in the summer of 1973, worshipped Joe Castle. You had slapped me around. You were trying to make amends, trying to be my hero, and you couldn’t stand the thought of me dreaming of becoming some other player. All of the above and probably more, but that’s enough. I don’t have access to your thoughts, thank God.”

“So it was all about you?”

“I didn’t say that, Warren. Only you know why you did it. The sick part is that you can’t admit it. You’ve lied for thirty years and never had the spine to admit what you did.” This sounds much harsher than I want it to be.

His shoulders sag a little, and there are tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. He pinches his nose and almost under his breath says, “I’m sorry I slapped you around, Paul.”

I roll my eyes in frustration and want to curse. “You’ve apologized a hundred times for that, Warren. I’m not here because of the slapping. I’m not here to dredge up your deficiencies as a father. I buried those a long time ago.”

With a paper napkin, he wipes the sweat from his face. His skin has lost what little color it had. He takes a sip of coffee and stares at me. In a voice that is suddenly weak and raspy, he says, “I threw at Joe, but I swear I didn’t mean to hurt him.”