Caine adored his uncle Jack, though he never called him by that name. They were twelve years apart in age and yet they acted as brothers, or more aptly a young father and son. Jack had taught Caine how to care for Mama’s glove, how to choose the best oil and rub it in softly with the proper technique. Caine had another glove he used for playing catch, but he always kept Mama’s glove oiled and well protected. And after losing an entire childhood together, Jack and Star had been allowed to be a real brother and sister and became close friends.
The next year was the end of the decade and the Cardinals’ season went down with it. By July they were essentially out of contention. In the fall, there were two events that occurred a month apart and both would affect and impact America and the world for the rest of the century. One of them affected things instantly, the other was not as obvious and took a while. In October, the Stock Market crashed on what was called Black Tuesday, and in November, Ray, Caine, and I went to the movies. We saw Mickey Mouse for the first time in Steamboat Willie.
Mitch Coates never did come back from Paris. The freedom and complete lack of discrimination he felt was much stronger than his love for baseball. However, it is my guess his love for Mercy Whitney was the true reason. He kept in touch with postcards and occasional long letters, mostly about nightlife in Paris and the continuing troubles and adventures of Josephine Baker. He said he and Mercy had become as close as family with Antoine, Emme, and my goddaughter, Antoinette. In a letter dated January 1, 1930, Mitch gave Owen Bramley instructions to liquidate all his business interests in St. Louis, including his stake in the St. Louis Stars, keeping only his home, which he asked Carolina to look after until he returned.
News from Sailor and Zeru-Meq was nonexistent, but Mowsel sent word that he and Geaxi were on their way to pay an extended visit to Malta, Geaxi’s jaioterri, or place of birth. The Cardinals won it all that year and again the next, beating the Athletics both times in the World Series. During this period, Ray, Nova, Opari, and I never left St. Louis or stayed anywhere but Carolina’s home. The city changed and grew around us, yet our lives were insulated—insulated but not invisible. Staying unnoticed, unknown, and most important unremembered has always been essential to our survival. We were becoming careless. I was made aware of it twice in October. On the seventh, after Wild Bill Hallahan pitched the Cardinals to victory in Philadelphia, Opari, Caine, and I went for a long walk in Forest Park. Caine was growing up quickly. He was already several inches taller than Opari and me. As we walked our usual path, we passed an older couple we had seen for years along the same 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.