by Bob Mitchell
Papa Sol looks with amiable vacancy at his new acquaintance.
“But my favorites were the old Negro League ballplayers. Guys like Cool Papa Bell, Satch, Gibson, the two Bucks, Judy Johnson, Ray Dandridge. Seen many of ’em play, I did. Also saw, or else heard about, a lot of the old teams. Homestead Grays, Pittsburgh Crawfords, K.C. Monarchs, Baltimore Elite Giants, not to mention the likes of the Atlanta Black Crackers, the Chattanooga Black Lookouts, the Denver White Elephants, the Ethiopian Clowns, the St. Paul Colored Gophers, the Zulu Cannibal Giants, and, last but not least, the Waggoner Greasing Palaces Baseball Club.”
Wally chuckles a deep bass chuckle that fills the entire apartment.
“Yup, I sure do love this ol’ game,” Wally continues. “For most of my professional life, I ran a small baseball business, yes indeedy. Cards, uniforms, balls, memorabilia, that kind of thing. Did pretty well for myself, if I must say. Retired when Louise passed, but I couldn’t stay away from the game. No way. So I got this gig at the Stadium a few years back. It wasn’t for money, it was for love. A second life, you might say. I adore the job. Gets me out, and back to the park that’s meant so much to me. Eighty-one days a year, don’t you know. The fans are great, and so’s the management. Even met Steinbrenner once. Nice guy.”
Papa Sol remains speechless.
“So, what’d you think of the game tonight? You a Yankees fan?”
“Um, I think the game was good. Don’t really recall all the details, but I had a nice time. Am I a Yankees fan? Well, yeah, I guess so.”
Something is wrong, Seth is thinking. Terribly wrong.
“You haven’t told me what your name was,” Wally says.
“Um…er…it’s…it’s…”
Seth Stein can’t bear to watch and closes his eyes.
Seth Stein opens his eyes. He is slouching in his La-Z-Boy in his Cambridge town house, arms at his sides. On the arm of the chair, in its ashtray, his Cohiba Esplendidos reclines, still lit, a thin wisp of smoke snaking its way toward the ceiling.
Holy moley.
Seth’s brain is teeming with questions. What actually happened to Papa Sol? Was it amnesia? Was he in any pain? Will he be all right? Is he…still alive? Did he ever snap out of it? Did he end up staying these past two years with Wally? And yet: Did all this really happen? Part of Seth wants to rush out this instant and jump in Jezebel and drive down to the Bronx and rescue his Papa Sol. The other part wants to scream what are you, a crazy lunatic?
Seth is emotionally spent and doesn’t have a drop of gas left in the tank. Amid all the worrying and concern, he is solaced by a single image: the sight of Papa Sol and Wally Retlaw together in the modest Bronx apartment. How touching was Wally’s concern for Sol’s well-being. What sweetness and compassion he showed. And, like Papa Sol, he was a baseball fanatic, so even if Sol didn’t regain his memory, they could still share this passion. That is, if all this really happened…
There’s one thing that’s still bugging Seth, though, and he picks up the phone.
“Gordon? Yeah, I know it’s late, but I’ve got a really important question for you. Shouldn’t take long. Basically, the writing’s going well, but I’ve hit a snag. One of the historical figures I’m exploring in the opening chapter had an accident in the latter part of his life. Fell down and bumped his head. Seems like after that, he didn’t remember things, important things, like his name, what happened in the past. It sounds to me like amnesia, but I know virtually nothing about it, so can you give me a quick diagnosis?”
“Listen, Seth,” Gordon Stewart answers, “this is pretty hard to do over the phone. But if you need a quick fix, I need to know a few things.”
“Shoot.”
“Well, how old was this guy? And what kind of bump are we talking about?”
“He was, I dunno, maybe in his sixties, seventies. Unfortunately, there’s not much biographical information available. According to the few medical records I found, it wasn’t a huge bump, but it did break the skin and was a little swollen and bloody.”
“Hmmm. Listen, Seth, don’t hold me to this, but my best guess is that yes, it does sound a lot like amnesia to me. Actually, it’s called retrograde amnesia. In older people, this can certainly result from an episode of what we call a TIA, or transient ischemic attack, a common event, a ministroke really, which might be brought on by a heightened emotional state. Before the fall, do you know if the guy was really happy or really despondent about anything?”
“It happened after an important, historic…political victory, so yes, he must’ve been really happy—”
“That makes sense. So he might’ve had this TIA, and it might’ve produced an overload of epinephrine in his body. This might then have caused him to fall over, and the bump on his head might’ve resulted in the retrograde amnesia, which means that you forget virtually everything in your life that preceded the bump. Technically speaking, the head trauma affects the hippocampus, which is responsible for long-term memory, and/or the inferior aspects of the temporal lobe, which play a role in the memory of both visual and auditory events.”
“Whoa! That’s plenty, Gordon! My left brain is on overload! But thanks so much for your knowledge and expertise. It all makes sense to me.”
“No problemo, my friend. Now don’t quote me on any of this, but as far as I can tell, this guy almost certainly had retrograde amnesia.”
“One last question, Gordon. It’s not clear what happened to him after the accident, but out of curiosity, do people generally snap out of it?”
“That’s impossible to say. Sometimes they do, and sometimes they don’t. All depends on the severity of the trauma, and on how much brain matter was affected by the blow. I’m afraid I’m not smart enough to help you there.”
“Thanks again, Gordon. I’ll let you go now. See you for coffee in the morning.”
Seth can hardly keep his eyes open, but a final thought filters through his brain: Let History record that Papa Sol’s life may have been filled with bumps and frustrations and major disappointments and burst dream bubbles and self-doubt, but in the end, it was a good life, and who knows?, maybe it’s still a life that’s being lived and enjoyed at some level. So maybe he never got to savor the fact that his beloved Bosox finally won the Series. But even if he never got back his memory, maybe he enjoyed the rest of his time on this earth. And whether he did or not, I’ll always have the memories of him and his love inside me.
Seth draws on his Cohiba, tightens his lips in the shape of a lowercase o, and snaps both jaws toward each other, but only halfway together. Out of his mouth springs the most elegant smoke ring he has ever fabricated. It is round and paper-thin. It has no jagged edges or wobbles. It retains the precise form with which it was born as it wafts its way heavenward. It seems like it will keep on floating upward forever.
It is perfection.
Seth admires his creation a while, closes the top of the wooden box holding the baseball, then a cartoon lightbulb appears above his head in a thought balloon. There is something pressing he has to do first thing in the morning, something that can wait no longer.
Doddering, dependable Jezebel sputters up the crack-filled, grass-sprouted driveway and parks her big butt there, sweating the usual droplets of oil on the pavement.
Seth bounds out of her, gives her the requisite, affectionate pat on the roof, unlocks the door of the grizzled, grey-shingled house of Elsie Adler Stein, ascends the thirteen creaking stairs.
“Honey, I’m home!”
Seated at her dressing table, a beaming, spry Grandma Elfie greets her grandson with a warm embrace. Today, she is no longer the bedraggled Eve from the Masaccio fresco, but one of the smiling, vivacious ladies in the foreground of Renoir’s Le Moulin de la Galette.
“Gram,” Seth says, his voice trembling with excitement, “I’ve got something really important to tell you that you’re not gonna believe. Are you ready?”
6
SETHAROO
ELSIE NODS.
; “Well,” Seth says, “for starters—”
“I love you, Setharoo!”
Seth’s eyes cloud up, because the nickname is one that only Papa Sol had ever used. He is happy to hear the words come out of his grandmother’s mouth now. And such words.
“Gram, I’m going to tell you a story…”
Elsie smiles her radiant smile. She loves it when Seth tells her stories, just like his Papa Sol used to tell stories to him.
“…and the name of the story is ‘The Secrets of Solomon Stein.’”
Elsie smiles again, even more broadly. Seth pauses, wipes his eyes, begins his tale.
He tells her of the beautiful hand-carved Solomon Stein wooden box and the scuffed baseball and the spinning room and the Fantastical Historical Slide Show.
Elsie opens her eyes wide.
He speaks of the trip to 1951 and walking around Borough Park and the cars and the smells and the shoes and the songs.
Elsie’s eyes twinkle.
He relates his tour of 1270 and Papa Sol chiseling in the basement and Elsie and Sol watching Uncle Miltie in bed and guffawing like crazy lunatics.
Elsie giggles.
He recounts the story of the Polo Grounds and the Game and the Catch and Papa Sol’s intensity.
Elsie’s mouth opens.
He narrates the scene in the basement with the pistol to the temple and the look in Papa Sol’s eyes.
Elsie’s mouth opens wider.
He reports the discoveries of the ticket stub and the mustard stain.
Elsie nods approval.
He regales her with the trip to 1962 and the scene in Berkeley and Papa Sol and fourteen-year-old Simon playing that game where Simon imitates the different players.
Elsie titters.
He describes the game at Candlestick and the empty stare on Sol’s face as he read the article in the Chronicle the next morning.
Elsie frowns.
He gives an account of the sunburn in the mirror and the trip to 1986 and Sol telling Seth the story of “The Curse of the Bambino” in Cambridge and the look of love in Sol’s eyes.
Elsie sheds a tear.
He chronicles the story of Shea and the Mets and the Bosox and sitting next to Janet and Nathan Detroit and Sol’s fervor and his shouting at Buckner and the ball oozing between BB’s legs and watching Papa Sol cry for the very first time.
Elsie sheds a second tear.
He talks about the trip to 2004 and how happy Papa Sol was when the beloved Red Sox beat the damn Yankees in Game 7 of the ALCS.
Elsie grins.
He conveys to her the story of Papa Sol falling down and bumping his head and then how Wally the sweeper was so kind to him and took him home to his apartment and cleaned up the wound and talked to Papa Sol about his passion for baseball and how even though Papa Sol didn’t remember very much, he seemed to be perfectly happy to be together with Wally.
Elsie frowns, then her face breaks out in a gorgeous smile.
“That was such a lovely story, bubeleh,” Elsie says. “You’ve always had such a vivid imagination!”
Seth is dying to tell her that maybe it’s not make-believe and maybe it all really happened and maybe someday they’ll both see Papa Sol again. But until he’s certain, he will leave it at that, a lovely story that has made his Grandma Elfie happy.
Elsie is suddenly tired, but the fatigue is pleasant and profound. She walks to the bed and puts her beautiful, weary head on the soft pillow.
“By the way, Grandma, who was Janet? And the guy with the scar on his face?”
Elsie is too tired to wonder how Seth knew about Janet and Scarface.
“Her name is Janet Zwerdling, my sweet…your surrogate mother…real mother unable to conceive…Papa Sol kept in touch after your parents died…paid them back…guy with scar is husband, Doug…Papa Sol and I agreed…better if you didn’t know, dahlink…less complicated…and your mother, the wife of your father, loved you so…”
Now it is Seth’s mouth that is wide open.
This explains why he never saw any resemblance between himself and the photo of his mother. This explains the bulging envelope at Shea.
“I love you, Elsie Stein,” he says, holding back tears.
“I love you, Seth Stein,” she answers, scrunching her nose.
Grandma Elsie clasps her hands together on her belly. She is tired but still radiant. Her eyes have stopped twinkling, her mouth has closed, her nods and giggles and frowns and titters and grins have ceased, her tears have dried.
Nothing remains on her face but a regal aura of peace and tranquility and serenity and satisfaction and love, just like in one of those diaphanous and breathlessly gorgeous cinematic scenes featuring Greer Garson or Loretta Young.
Seth looks at her with love and compassion. What she must have gone through these past two years. He turns his head toward the dressing table, stares at the sepia Lake George photo of Papa Sol and Grandma Elsie and the black-and-white photo of his parents and the color photo of Papa Sol and Willie Mays. His eyes find Gram again and she seems so happy now and she has fallen into a totally peaceful sleep for the first time in two years.
And for the first time in his entire adult life, as he looks at his happy and peaceful Grandma Elsie, Seth loses it. He is bawling like a baby and the tears are chubby and strong and keep coming and don’t want to stop and they are flowing out of both eyes and splashing onto his jeans and he doesn’t give a damn and it feels oh so good.
The tears stop at last, and Seth leans over and plants a tender kiss on Grandma Elsie’s forehead.
Seth is reclining in his La-Z-Boy, Balvenie, rocks, twist, half splash in hand.
His eyes wander to Papa Sol’s wooden box, there on the table. He gets up, brings it back to the chair, places it on his lap, opens it, and beholds the old, scuffed Bobby Thomson baseball. This time, he will just look at it.
He is thinking about his extraordinary trips to the past that no other nonfiction human being has ever been privileged to take and how they revealed to him not only Papa Sol’s secrets, but also his flaws, his idealism and his broken dreams, his concerns and his fears, his passion and his empathy. He is thinking about the mysteries in Papa Sol’s life that no one ever knew about and also about Mark Twain’s quote “History never repeats itself; at best it sometimes rhymes,” and how odd it is that history and mystery share their rhyme with no other word in the English language, and did the mischievous Twain mean to suggest that?
He is thinking about these privileged trips and about History and can we ever know it? Is History after all, as Schopenhauer and Churchill and Whitman thought, an imperfect and flawed discipline? About the historian’s dilemma of patching together the quilt of bygone events. About the inevitable evanescence of time. About the passion of former days. About the daunting challenge of finding the real truth concerning what happened then.
He is thinking about how this particular baseball is not only a baseball, but a metaphor for knowledge—just like the game of baseball is a metaphor for something deeper and more visceral—and how it has made him a happier and a fuller person. About what the game of baseball has to teach about the human condition, how it has compelled him to rededicate himself to studying History with a new freshness, a new sense of an open mind, a new wisdom and insight, and how what is important is not the baseball itself—this inanimate object made of horsehide and with the 108 crimson stitches holding it together—but rather the history of his grandfather’s life, which he now harbors inside himself and which this old scuffed ball has allowed him to feel, right here, in his nerves and vitals.
He is thinking about how amazing it is that as a student and scholar of the traditionally vicarious discipline of History, he has now become part of it and were his visits to the past really real or just dreams but what about the stub and the stain and the sunburn and the Mets cap?
Seth closes the wooden box, gets up, stretches, starts removing his clothes. Shower time.
The steaming sprays sp
lash pingily off Seth’s back. He moans with pleasure as the fingers of water massage his skin, soften his tense muscles—deltoid, erector spinae, intertransversarii, latissimus dorsi, levator scapulae, rhomboid major and minor, supraspinatus, teres major and minor, trapezius.
He closes his eyes, allows his weary mind to meander. It is wandering to the brilliant words and music of Gilbert and Sullivan, recalling all the songs Papa Sol used to teach him, the melodies he used to listen to through the years. From Iolanthe, The Mikado, The Yeoman of the Guard, Pirates, Pinafore, Patience, The Gondoliers.
In a contemplative fashion,
And a tranquil frame of mind,
Free from every kind of passion,
Some solution let us find.
Let us grasp the situation,
Solve the complicated plot,
Quiet, calm deliberation
Disentangles every knot.
Disentangles every knot.
Disentangles every knot—
Leapin’ lizards.
Seth’s eyes open wide. He has just had one of his epiphanies. It has come out of nowhere, as frequently happens in the shower. No rhyme, no reason, just the way his quirky brain works, a creative miracle, an irrational fluke, a random stroke of genius.
The lyrics have somehow reminded him of that cryptic note Papa Sol left him, the one he has yet to decode, perhaps the final piece of the puzzle? For some reason, the throwaway line in the note just popped into his head in the shower, bling!, just like that.
That is all you need to know.
Of course!
Seth turns off the water, dries himself, throws on his Harvard T and jeans, sprints to his study. He takes Papa Sol’s note out of the top drawer of his desk, rummages through a few piles of books strewn on the floor. There it is, there, the little leather-bound anthology of Romantic poems Sol and Elfie gave him twenty years ago for his Bar Mitzvah.