Anyway, when Mister JayMac learned of the name change, he told Miss Tulipa in a letter he thanked God for the CVL’s decision to pack it in. “A blue jay isn’t a ballplayer,” he wrote. “It’s a defecating, marauding, squawking pest in a fowl’s deceitful glad rags, and I wouldn’t want a player of mine to have to bear that epithet, not to mention the tatty costume they’re like to design for it.” Phillies, though, he could live with, even if it meant something squishy like, well, humanitarian.
When I got home, Tenkiller seemed downright boring. I passed most of one day studying a pair of prewar Texaco road maps and underlining names-Muskogee, Eufaula, Cherokee-with sound-alikes back among the counties and towns of the CVL. Trail of Tears connections. Well, I had some links to it of my own. Mostly, that fall, I laid or limped about, taking in “Life Can Be Beautiful,” “Stella Dallas,” and other suchlike day-time crap on the radio.
Eventually, I tossed my crutches, but when I walked, I hitched around like a man with a fresh load in his drawers. No one hired me to bale hay, dehorn cattle, or set up wildcat rigs over in Stillwell. To Mama Laurel’s disgust, and even my own, I loafed. Tenkillerites knew I was loafing too; the town was too small for anybody local to suppose I was a poor wounded GI wrestling with the afterclaps of combat. I didn’t pretend to that condition either. Some of my Red Stix pals had entered the services, and I respected their sacrifice too much to try to siphon off any of their glory, potential or real.
By December, a family friend had helped me get on as a clerk at Funderburke’s Penny & Nickel Emporium, a notions and stationery shop where I could move at my own pace and had no heavy lifting to do. Deck Glider, Inc., ran full tilt, of course, but every job there had someone in it and a whole queue of applicants standing by. My salary at Funderburke’s fell ten or twelve bucks a week shy of the minimum janitorial salary at Deck Glider, but at least I had a job and folks stopped looking at me with pity or contempt.
I got a couple of letters from Phoebe that fall and a homemade Christmas card at Christmas. (She’d made the card out of construction paper and carefully scissored magazine photos-Santa Claus standing outside the Bethlehem stable with Oveta Gulp Hobby of the WACs, Alan Ladd, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and the starting lineup of the ’43 Yankees.) The second of her two letters read this way:
Dear Ichabody Beautiful (alias Daniel Boles),
How are things in Oklahoma. OK, I hope. I’d tell you to keep an eye out for injuns but you ARE one, sort of-an injun not a eye, but we’re all eyes to ourselves, aren’t we? (Eye = I, if you can’t shred my wheat without a scorecard.) Sorry. School’s started here, and I hate it. I’m blinkng away sand ten seconds after Mrs Camson opens her mouth. My I’s turn to ZZZZZ’s.
Mama keeps on improvng. It helps the Hellbender players have almost all gone home. It also helps Daddy writes more often-I suggested he shd. Letters seem to arrive every week now, even if some cutup in the S.O.S. or whatever has censored parts of them all with scissors.
A senior boy here named Hal Frank Kimball thinks he likes me. He has one eyebrow and hormone hickeys. My girlfriend Sunny Ruth Grimes says he’s AWOL-A Wolf On the Loose. When he comes paddng around, I ice up or shove in my clutch. Now don’t get yr ego or yr dander up, Daniel, but I am waitng for YOU.
No jump the gun panic, please. I’m NOT in a family surcumstance. No rabbit died. On the other hand, I never want to do the aweful thing we illeegly did until we do it again together-licensed and sanctified. That wld have to be better, wldn’t it? God, I hope so. In the meantime, keep the tool cool, OK?
Uncle Jay has been in a 2 maybe a 3 month mope. You shd drop him a line. You shd drop ME a letter. I promise to catch it.
Yr patient little BB, Phoebe
P.S. If you buy every word in my billydoo, yr a real smack. Read between the lines and hit the ones that count.
P.P.S. Homer says hello.
Phoebe and I married in the early summer of 1947, the year the CVL started back up. (Her daddy, long home from the war, gave her away.) The Blakely Turpentiners replaced the Marble Springs Seminoles in Georgia, and the Roanoke Rebs took over for the Cottonton Boll Weevils in Alabama.
But I jump ahead of myself.
In the spring of ’44, I’d hobble out of Funderburke’s every afternoon and watch the Red Stix play or practice. I watched the players who came into town as closely as I did my ex-high school teammates. I noticed things-sneaky foot speed, an unhittable specialty pitch, hidden room for improvement-that other baseball folks, not exempting Coach Brandon and Miss Tulipa, couldn’t see, and I wrote letters to Mister JayMac recommending a half dozen players-a couple of locals and four unscouted visitors-as guys to watch. Mister JayMac followed up, and after the war three of my first six picks wound up playing full- or part-time in the National League, two with the Phillies and one with Brooklyn.
Early in May, Coach Brandon got word a barnstorming team of Negro all-stars called the American-Afrique Something-or-Others had an official invitation to play an infantry team at Camp Gruber, a training post eighteen miles southeast of Muskogee. Coach Brandon had a drill instructor friend who could get us a pass onto the post to see the game, if we wanted it. A memory clip of the Splendid Dominican Touristers ran in my head-old Turtlemouth Clark pitching, Tommy Christmas chasing down long flies in center, our own Charlie Snow falling over the fence and fatally hemorrhaging, with Oscar Wall’s game-winning drive in his glove-and I told Coach Brandon, Yep, I’d go, especially since it was a Sunday contest and I didn’t have to work.
The game itself was the damndest exhibition I ever saw. The American-Afrique Zanies-that was their nickname-came out onto the field in clown costumes, all tricked out with pompons, face paint, big shoes, and fright wigs. They warmed up in these outfits, they even played the Army squad in them. They pranced and tomfooled around like circus performers. But despite their shenanigans, they still managed to rap the Army boys something like sixteen to zip. A walkover. The only thing making it bearable for us fans was the GIs’ realization that the Freakies (as a few guys started calling them) could’ve beaten them in suits of armor. These decent dogfaces saved the game. They acknowledged the Zanies’ talents without giving up on themselves or letting the coloreds push their lead up into the twenties or thirties.
I also got a kick out of the PFC announcing the game: “Now pitching for the Zanies, Whim-Wham? Dinkum-Do to center? And taking over at shortstop, Gumbo Giddyup?”
Three innings into the game, I figured out the Zany playing right field and going by the name Cuffy was none other than Darius Satterfield. His clown suit couldn’t hide his muscular lankiness. The greasy white makeup melting on his cheek bones and the green and purple wig raying out from his head like a crown of vat-dyed yarn-well, that crap kept me from making a positive ID for an inning or three, but it couldn’t blind me forever to the smoothness of Cuffy’s play or the whiplash grace of his hitting.
I wanted to wade down the bleacher tier and pull Darius aside for a chat, but I never got within a hundred feet of him till the same ended and he sat under an awning of the barracks building provided as the Zanies’ locker room. While Coach Brandon talked to his DI buddy, I limped into Darius’s line of sight. When he saw me, his eyeballs gave me a bounce and his hand snapped up like it meant to hold me at bay.
“Danl Boles. Sweet gentle Jesus.”
“What happened to the Splendid Dominicans, Darius?”
He studied me real good. “You look kinda puny, hoss. What happened to you?”
I gave him the short version and pressed my own question.
“Us Dominicans ran out of gas. Coupons. Working capital. Also goodwill. Mister Cozy got us all back to KayCee with him, but we had creditors galore and jes dropped apart. So I’m here today and mebbe tomorry as”-spreading the balloon sleeves of his arms-“a damn ol American-Afrique Zany.”