Mr. Murphy came out from behind me, circling around halfway between me and first base. He set his fists on his hips, and eyed me with a subtle look of amused confusion. I took a long, slow breath. Johnny established the target, and I positioned my fore and middle fingers right across both seams, just as I would for my fastball, and started my windup. I changed nothing about my delivery, throwing a straight fastball, except that just as I brought my right arm forward, I flipped my glove hand in a slight motion across my body. The pitch honed in on Johnny, splitting the plate, popping the leather on his thick catcher’s mitt. He held the ball for a moment.
Mr. Spinelli looked up at me, and for the first time that morning, he shifted his glance toward Mr. Murphy. Again, his expression revealed nothing. But he did say, “Let’s see that again.”
I took the throw from Johnny, set my grip, and repeated the same motion. Again, I flipped the glove, and the pitch crossed the middle of the plate. The words of Satchel Paige ran through my head, and I acted as if I’d just done something nobody had ever done before. I took Johnny’s throw with a confident flip of my wrist, and stretched my throwing arm above my head.
“You say you don’t have a name for that thing?” Mr. Spinelli said. Considering his manner up to now, I was fully prepared for a sarcastic follow-up, or a challenge. I shook my head.
“Well, throw a few more of those.” For the first time since I’d started throwing, Mr. Spinelli showed signs of life. His arms dropped to his side, and he stepped forward, so that he was just a few feet behind Johnny. He leaned forward, bracing his hands against his knees. Mr. Murphy moved closer to the plate.
I did as he asked, and the more I threw, the more comfortable I felt with the little hitch in my motion. In the end, I don’t know whether this little flip of my glove actually affected the path of the ball, or if the best secret really is making people believe you have a secret. All I know is that after I had thrown this pitch another twenty times or so, Mr. Spinelli walked up to Johnny and reached for the ball.
“All right, Arbuckle.” He gave a quick nod. “That’s enough.” He motioned to Mr. Murphy, and the two of them walked over across the third-base line and began a quiet conversation. Johnny trotted out to the mound.
“What the hell were you doing out there?” he asked.
I smiled and shrugged. I couldn’t tell from Johnny’s expression or tone whether he was impressed, or if he couldn’t believe I thought I could get away with such blatant fraud. “I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said with admiration.
“Thanks,” I said. We shook hands.
I had not thought about David through the whole tryout. But I glanced over at him now. His ruddy face sported a smile that stretched from one ear to the other. He clapped his hands together a couple of times.
I watched the two scouts confer. It was clear from their body language who had the power between the two. Although Mr. Murphy was a half head taller than Mr. Spinelli, he was leaning toward him, his hands out, palms up, as if he was begging for a morsel of food, or a dime. As he listened, Mr. Spinelli stood with his arms crossed, his chin high. He pounded a fist into his palm when he spoke. Mr. Murphy nodded repeatedly, and it appeared as if no matter what Spinelli said, Murphy would agree with him. The discussion probably lasted a minute, but I wouldn’t be able to guess, as my mind was racing. Finally, the two men turned and walked toward me.
“You’re in,” Johnny said quietly, but I didn’t have time to ask how he knew.
Mr. Spinelli led the way, and Mr. Murphy was smiling at me from behind him. Mr. Spinelli took off his felt hat, plucked a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and wiped his forehead.
“Well, Arbuckle,” he said, “what do you got going on next spring? You have plans?”
I couldn’t breathe. “Urn, well, besides doing my regular work, you know, on the ranch. No. Nothing.”
Mr. Spinelli sniffed. He cleared his throat. “How does seven dollars a week sound? We’ll start you out in A ball, and see what you do in game situations. Everything from there will depend on you. You mow ’em down in A ball, you can move up fast, start earning some real money.”
“Seven bucks a week?” The voice from behind made me jump. “That’s not right. Seven bucks a week?”
Mr. Spinelli’s face suddenly changed completely. His brow lowered just over his eyes, and squeezed together. “And who is this?” He turned to Mr. Murphy. “Who is this?”
“Please don’t pay attention to him,” I said. “I barely know him. I just met him yesterday.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to help. I don’t want you fellas taking advantage of the kid. That’s all.” David stopped fifteen feet from us.
“David, please,” I said, giving him a look. “This is none of your business.”
“Are you a lawyer or something?” Mr. Spinelli asked David. I began to panic, thinking that David was going to ruin my big moment.
“No. I’m a businessman. And a baseball fan. And I just want to make sure you treat my friend right. That’s all.”
“David, please,” I pleaded. “Mr. Spinelli, don’t listen to him. I barely know him.” I stepped in front of David, blocking the path between the two men.
“No, it’s okay,” Mr. Spinelli said. “He’s just trying to help you out. Okay, Arbuckle. Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m going to offer you ten dollars a week. But only if you promise not to tell any of the other players what you’re getting. Except Johnny here, of course, who’s getting the same as you. You two can help each other keep this little secret.” He winked, and grabbed my upper arm. “What do you say?”
My head spun, and my jaw had fallen into a dumb slack. Despite all the years of work, I don’t think I ever believed it would come this far. The offer came as such a surprise that I had no thought of the consequences of my decision. My mind was blank.
“Okay,” I said. “Yeah. That sounds great.”
Mr. Spinelli clapped me on the back, and Mr. Murphy stepped forward and shook my hand with an enthusiasm that confirmed my suspicion that his job might depend on this. Mr. Spinelli arranged to send me a contract, and we all shook hands.
“I can’t believe I’m sitting next to a future pitching star for my favorite goddam team.” David Westford chuckled like a little kid weaving through the streets of Omaha.
“Well, I thought you were going to ruin everything for a second there.”
David laughed. “Yeah. I could tell you were worried. But hell, you got to watch guys like that. They won’t give you a dollar unless you ask ’em for it. And they won’t give you an extra one unless you scare ’em a little.”
“Yeah…well, I guess I owe you a thank-you.”
“Hell no. You don’t owe me nothing, son. You earned it. You can pitch. You’re going to let me take you out tonight, aren’t you? You got to celebrate, right?”
“No, no. I’ve got to catch the train. In fact, what time is it?”
David pulled his watch from its little pocket. “You can’t wait until tomorrow morning?”
“What time is it?”
He looked at his watch. “Three-fifteen.”
“Damn. I’ve got to hurry.”
“What time is your train?”
“Four.”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
“No, David. Come on now, you’ve done enough. Thank you, but you’ve already done too much.”
I did catch my train, and of course David did give me a ride, and an hour later I was retracing the route home with a very different perspective from the one I had three days earlier. I ate an early dinner, but when I reached back into my pants for my wallet, I felt nothing there. I panicked. I searched my pants pockets, then my jacket. Then I searched them again. The waiter stood patiently watching, then impatiently watching. I looked up at him, my mouth slack. “I don’t know…“I think I lost my wallet. I don’t know…can I go back and check my seat?”
He nodded with a bored expression, and followed me. I searched my satchel, the floor,
the space between the cushions, everywhere. We asked the conductor, and the passengers around me. Nobody had seen it. The tenth time I patted my palms against my chest, then my thighs, I flashed back to that morning, when I’d gotten lost. A man had bumped into me. Then another man had bumped me from behind. I hadn’t thought much about it at the time, except that it seemed rude. But it suddenly hit me that my pocket had been picked. And my heart jumped up into my throat until I remembered that I’d slipped the check from Mr. Tanner in my boot. I pulled my boot off, and there it was, safely tucked away. I showed it to the waiter.
“I guess my wallet was stolen while I was in Omaha. Can I send a check when I get home? I’m very sorry. But as you can see, I have enough to cover it.”
“This check is made out to you?”
I nodded, a white lie. But he agreed. I guess he didn’t have much choice.
I sank into my seat, and felt an immediate change of heart about my experience in Omaha. The thrill of that first night on the streets seemed like weeks ago. The shrimp, the thick cotton sheets, the bathtub, it all felt like a façade, a setup. I was so exhausted from waking up early and from the strain of the day that I fell asleep before the windows were dark.
When I woke up the next morning, I had a whole day on the train, again studying ranches so much like our own, thinking about my decision, and considering the prospect of telling my family. And the more the miles rolled by, and the clicking and clacking beat away at my conscience, the more my resolve began to fade. When I had first gotten on the train, I would not have suspected that there was any possibility that I would change my mind. I was ready I felt sure about what I wanted to do.
But now I saw these ranches racing by, and they made me realize how much I missed everything—the space, the smell of the grass, the feel of the warm wind that traveled unimpeded across miles of fresh nature. And the people. I missed my family. And as I thought about harvest, one of my favorite times of the year, and about watching the yellowing stalks of wheat being swallowed by the thresher, and about feeling a burlap bag swell with grain between my knees, I got excited about being back home. I hated thinking of the look on my parents’ faces as I told them I was leaving.
For the first time, I had a slight understanding of why Jack would disappear the way he did, without telling anyone, to avoid seeing that look. And I wondered whether George had experienced this same hesitation, whether it might have had something to do with the fact that he never left. I changed my mind hourly, telling myself that I could always change it later. I could always come back to the ranch. I thought about ten dollars a week, and how I might be able to make even more, and maybe save some and come back with a little money put away. The next minute I was thinking about how lonely I felt in the hotel lobby that second night, and wondered how I could even consider moving.
By the time the train pulled into Belle late that evening, my head was muddled. The fact that I’d given Mr. Spinelli and Mr. Murphy my word weighed heavy on me—especially Mr. Murphy, who seemed to have a lot riding on my answer. As I expected, there was a message at the hotel:
Couldn’t wait. Had to get back for
harvest. Jack
I went directly to the post office, where Annie Ketchal was just loading her truck. I dreaded another night with Annie and her stories, another night without sleep, especially with harvest the next morning. But as I climbed into the cab of her truck, it occurred to me that I could actually ask her to let me sleep. It seemed like a good idea, one that I was surprised I hadn’t thought of on my last trip with her. But once we started out, I couldn’t find a gap in the conversation big enough to wedge a word into. So I listened for a while, waiting for an opening, and as it turned out, she told me something important.
“I heard your brother was in town today.”
I nodded. “Yeah. He was there to pick me up, actually. I was supposed to be here yesterday.”
“Oh yeah? What happened?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s a long story. I just got hung up.”
I could tell that not getting a straight answer just about killed Annie, but she nodded, looking out the window. And I leaned back, resting my head against the seat, and closed my eyes. I was just about to tell her that I wanted to sleep.
“I also heard Jack was in the bank today,” she said, “asking about your land.”
I was so tired, and so unfocused on what Annie had to say, that this took a few seconds to register. But when it did, I lifted my head.
“He what?”
She wiggled in her seat, sensing that she had something good here. “He was asking about what it’s worth.”
“Our land?”
“Yeah. Your land.”
“Are you sure?”
Annie nodded, squinting. She stopped to drop off a mail sack. “And I guess he was also asking how much money was in the account.” And she got out, letting a cold wind blow through the cab.
And suddenly I was wide-awake. In the time it took for that cold wind to reach inside and slap me, I realized that there was no longer a choice. These rumors could mean nothing. And Jack’s questions to the bank could be completely innocent. He might have just been curious. But I didn’t trust Jack. I couldn’t bear the thought of him even remotely considering the thought of pulling any of the land out from under our family.
Annie climbed back into the cab. “But I did hear it from Trudy Spears. Her husband works there, you know.”
Any remaining doubts disappeared right then and there. I leaned back and closed my eyes. “Annie, if you don’t mind, we’ve got harvesting to do tomorrow, so I need to get some sleep.”
“Sure,” she said. “Sure. Of course.”
And I rested my head on the seat again, pretending to sleep, thinking about Jack, and about the ranch. And it didn’t take long to realize that I’d made a decision.
For years, I convinced myself that the combination of the robbery and Annie Ketchal’s news changed my mind about going to St. Louis. But I know better now. I know that when it came right down to it, I just used these facts as an excuse. As much as I liked the idea of exploring more of the world, I couldn’t leave. The truth of the matter was, I didn’t want to leave.
6
summer 1929
When I returned home from Omaha, with my dedication to the ranch rejuvenated, I took a good look around. And I’m afraid I wasn’t happy with what I saw. It became clear to me within days, as we immersed ourselves in the harvest routine, that I had been so distracted in recent years by thoughts of Rita, and of baseball, and dreaming of far-off places, that I hadn’t been paying much attention to the world around me. I noticed that although all the work was getting done on the ranch, most of us, and I include myself in the mix, were simply going through the motions. We walked around like a bunch of horses—waiting to be cornered and bridled before we’d finally do what we knew was expected of us. Then stomping our hooves until somebody stuffed some grain in our faces at the end of the day. The only exceptions—my parents. I saw that we had all gotten so accustomed to Mom and Dad doing most of the work, especially in terms of the business end of things, that we had no notion of how out of balance everything had become.
Although I knew the basic facts about the ranch—how much land we had (over ten thousand acres), and how much stock (three hundred cattle, nearly a hundred sheep), and a general idea of what it took to keep the place running, I knew very little else. Mom had occasionally made noises about teaching me how to keep the books, but I’m sure my lack of enthusiasm dampened her desire to make the effort. But now I asked, and she was thrilled for the opportunity to pass on the knowledge.
And one thing soon became clear. I didn’t realize what a good business team my folks were. I knew we’d acquired some land here and there, but I assumed our neighbors were also picking up their share as more and more homesteaders packed up and moved on. We had a few more head of livestock than most folks, but I hadn’t seen this as a big advantage. I guess I figured we had to put more money into
the place to keep the extra stock fed, so that it evened out in the long run. And the small amount of farming we did led to unpredictable results.
But apparently Dad’s extra half hour or hour every day added up, and through the years Mom squirreled away enough reserves that soon after I got back from Omaha, they laid out enough cash to build the biggest house in the county. But that makes it sound extravagant, which it wasn’t. It was nowhere near the size of the one I’d seen in Nebraska, or a lot of the houses in town. It was just big for our area. Five bedrooms, to be exact. Two stories, plus a cellar. And a nice big kitchen, a dining room, and a living room.
The house was built to last, with the oak flooring that Jack and I had traveled to Bozeman for. Since we didn’t have electrical service out that far, we had to buy a big wind charger, with a windmill twirling in one corner of the yard. And we dug a septic tank in the opposite corner. But we couldn’t afford to shingle the roof. So when we moved in, the rain sang against corrugated tin on those rare occasions when it did rain.
Still, two years later, the house wasn’t painted. It didn’t look as though it would be for a while, either. Not only was paint expensive, but of course you have to paint in warm weather, and most of the important tasks that needed our attention had to be done when the sun was shining. And Mom insisted we paint it ourselves. Always saving.
We moved in on Mom’s birthday, August 12, 1927, sleeping for the first time ever in rooms of our own. Jack and Rita and their first child, the newest George Arbuckle, even spent the night, spreading bedrolls on the living room floor. They eventually moved from their tiny house to the old house. The barn cats took over their house, multiplying in astonishing quantities until the house was literally filled with cats—close to thirty of them.
“Hey, Blake! We got a big bag over here.” Steve Glasser waved to me from across the herd, then pointed down to a cow lumbering along, her hind legs wide apart, her bag swollen to the size of a month-old baby. She’d lost her calf.
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