| appears, and he orders coffee. When she’s gone, he says, “What are you trying to prove?” “Nothing. What I’m trying to do is force you to face the consequences, for one of the few times in your life.” “Aren’t you the wise one?” “I’m not trying to be wise, Warren. You have a lot of unfinished business in your life, and this is one loose end you can wrap up before you’re gone.” “I’m not going anywhere. I’m fighting this thing tooth and nail, and my doctors know a hell of a lot more than you do.” I am not going to argue about whether he is dying. If he thinks he is in the lucky 5 percent who will live for five years, I am in no position to say otherwise. His coffee arrives, and the waitress asks about the others who might be joining us. “It’s just the two of us,” I say. “Are you ready to order?” “Sure. I guess I should have a waffle. Blueberry, with sausage.” “Nothing for me,” he says gruffly, waving her away. “Who do you think will print this crap?” he asks. “Do you read Sports Illustrated?” “No.” “There’s a senior writer there named Jerry Kilpatrick. Baseball is his favorite beat. A Chicago guy, my age. I’ve talked to him twice, and he’s interested in the story, and the truth. Joe Castle will never be forgotten in Chicago, and Kilpatrick thinks the story would be great. Especially after you’re gone.” “You don’t |
two scoops of vanilla at an ice cream shop two doors down and listen to some casual town gossip as I watch the languid foot traffic on the sidewalk. After killing an hour, I drive three blocks west and higher up the bluff to a house at 130 South Street where Mr. Rook has lived for the past forty-one years. He is waiting, standing on the front porch, already in his drinking clothes. The house is a rambling old Victorian, with wide, sweeping covered porches, high arching windows, painted gables, all different colors, the most dominant being a soft pastel maize. The small lawn and flower beds are as neat and colorful as the house. “A beautiful place,” I say as I walk through the swinging gate of a white picket fence. “It’s a hand-me-down. My wife’s family. Welcome.” He is wearing a white linen shirt with a tail that falls almost to his knees, a pair of bulky white britches that bunch around his bare ankles, and a pair of well-worn and scuffed espadrilles. He is holding a tall, slender beverage glass with a straw in his right hand, and with his left he waves at the side porch and says, “Follow me. Fay’s back there somewhere.” I follow him over the creaking boards and under the whirling ceiling fans. The porch is crowded with white wicker furniture—rockers, stools, drink tables, a long swing covered with pillows. Fay is Ms. Rook, a spry little woman with white hair |
