To Wake the Giant, Page 2

  He touched first, curled toward second, his eye on the ball again, a quick turn in his gut. Beside him, Clyde said, “It’s gonna hit your house.”

  Biggs watched it drop, a sharp punch through the kitchen window. The others turned to him now, and Russo said, “Holy crap. You busted it to hell. Your folks home? Geez, Tommy, I ain’t seen you hit one that far since high school.”

  Biggs looked at Russo. “You never pitched me a fat one like that. I was gonna kill it.”

  Russo turned again toward the Biggs house. “You killed it. Too bad it was foul.”

  Biggs didn’t care about the game anymore, walked slowly off the field, past third base and the run-down lean-to that passed for the dugout. No one called him back, all of them silently grateful it was him and not any one of them.

  He didn’t turn back, couldn’t hide the quiver in his voice. “I gotta make sure nobody’s hurt.”

  His eyes stayed on the jagged hole punched in the window, and he moved with measured steps, in no rush to meet the wrath that would surely come from his father. At nineteen, Biggs knew there would be no belt, and his father had rarely used fists on his son. But there was anger in the man’s words, the deathly glare from his eyes. No matter how old Biggs might be, his father’s eyes showed a brutal viciousness, punishment enough for any offense.

  Even before he graduated high school, Biggs had grown taller than his father, with broader shoulders, stronger arms. As he grew older, not one of his friends doubted that a nineteen-year-old with Biggs’s athletic strengths could handle any of his father’s mouthy brutishness. But Biggs knew that no matter the physical difference between them, his father was always to be obeyed. Or feared. His anger would often erupt for no apparent reason, a terrifying viciousness sometimes directed at Biggs’s mother, the man’s sharp voice carrying through the entire neighborhood.

  As he grew older, Biggs finally began to understand just why his father seemed so angry. For so many of the men in the small community, the jobs had gone away, the lumber plant nearly shut down, one more casualty of the Depression. Some of those jobs had moved farther west, to another plant out in the Florida Panhandle. Men like Clarence Biggs seemed to live on hope and on pledges from the local politicians of the great efforts they were making to bring in more plants, factories, jobs for all. In every tavern, men repeated the optimism they heard from the newspaper—that the town would survive, even prosper, that Florida’s celebrated boom of the 1920s would return, and with that, opportunity for all.

  But in this neighborhood of ragged homes with clapboard walls, of vacant fields of sand and sandspurs, there was very little to be hopeful about. No matter what the men in the fancy suits promised them, Clarence Biggs had stopped paying attention to what Palatka was trying to be. What was here, now, were broken men. They knew what poor was, their pride as empty as their hope. Like most of them, Clarence had settled for work where he could find it. Every day, he spent long hours at a seafood plant near the St. Johns River. There was nothing elegant about scaling and gutting fish, the pay not enough to buy the fish he cleaned, and the stench he carried home on his clothes reminded them all that Clarence was too weary and too defeated to be embarrassed.

  Biggs reached the front door, stood for a long minute, glanced back to the weed-infested vacant lot that was the ball field. His friends were gathered, watching him, and he waved them away, thought, Just play the damn game. He lowered his head now, let out a breath. No, I guess they can’t do that. The only ball we’ve got is in Mom’s kitchen.

  The doorknob was flimsy, barely catching, and he turned it slowly, pushed the door open, heard the familiar squeal. He slipped inside, was surprised to see his father standing, arms crossed, near the opening to the small kitchen. Tommy saw the ball now in the man’s hand, and his father held it out toward him.

  “What kind of damned ball is this?”

  He knew he was being baited, knew this would go however his father wanted.

  “Only ball we got. The masking tape holds it together. Herman’s father had a roll.”

  “Herman hit the ball through the kitchen window? Maybe one of those other jerks you play with? Maybe it was Babe Ruth, stopped by to play a couple innings.”

  “No. It was me.”

  “You? You actually hit the ball out of those weeds?”

  “Yeah. Me. I’m sorry, Pop.” He saw his mother, coming slowly out of their bedroom, standing quietly behind her husband. “I’m sorry, Mom. Didn’t mean to bust your window. Hope nobody’s hurt or anything.”

  She stared at him, shook her head slowly, a hint of anger in her tired eyes. She motioned toward the kitchen. “I had a head of cabbage chopped up in the sink. Making slaw for dinner.”

  His father poked a finger toward him. “And thanks to you, that cabbage is in the trash. Full of busted glass.” Tommy looked downward, and his father said, “So, Mr. DiMaggio, unless you wanna chew your way through that mess, we got nothing else to eat tonight. Can’t make soup out of this damned baseball. And let me tell you one more thing, slugger. Somebody’s gotta fix that window, and right now. We got mosquitoes enough in this damn house.”

  “Yes, sir. You want I should go to the neighbor’s, see if somebody can offer us something for dinner?”

  His mother shook her head. “No need. I’ll get something from Mrs. King. She’s always offering collards from their garden. Mighty nice of her to help us out.”

  He waited, as though there might be more, something else he could say. He was used to the despair in both of them, saw it again now. But his father surprised him, tossed him the makeshift baseball.

  “Put some more tape on it. It’s coming apart. Maybe you can find some big-time ball scout to come watch you, sign you to some big deal with the Yankees. I bet they don’t wrap their balls with tape.”

  * * *

  —

  “Hand me the yardstick. And thanks for helping me out.”

  Russo held it up to him. “Hey, I threw the ball. I’m a little bit to blame. You get all the busted glass outta there?”

  Biggs scanned the edge of the window frame. “Yeah, best as I can tell. Okay, it’s…sixteen by…twenty. But we gotta tack it on over the whole thing, so let’s cut the board four inches bigger each way.”

  “You’re the boss, Tommy.”

  He stepped down from the makeshift ladder, an old wooden crate. “I ain’t the boss of much of nothing. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Tried to get a job over at the hardware store. Nothing there. I could sweep the floor at the damn barber shop. No pay, just a free haircut. My father lets me know every damn day how much work he has to do to feed us. Mostly me. I’m stuck, Ray. No other word for it.”

  Russo drew a pencil line on the old piece of clapboard, picked up the rusty hand saw, hesitated. Biggs reached for the saw, said, “You want me to cut it? It oughta be my job anyway.”

  Russo handed him the saw, said, “I got something to tell you. Kinda important. I was gonna tell you after the game today. I wanted you to know before any of the others.” He paused. “I joined the navy.”

  Biggs waited for the joke, but Russo’s expression didn’t change.

  “The United States Navy? You mean like, the ocean and stuff?”

  Russo smiled now. “That’s the one. There was a recruiter set up in the city, at the post office. I got on the pay phone to my dad, talked it over. He said to go ahead. He said it made him proud. You know, he was a sailor back in the Great War. Said he fired those big damn guns. He talked about all that when I was a kid. I never give it much thought until I tried finding work, just like you. There’s nothing around here, Tommy. Nothing at all. But now, I’m set to make twenty-one bucks a month, guaranteed. Think what you could buy with that.”

  Biggs stared at his friend, said, “What the hell? You mean all this? You really leaving? When?”

  Russo seemed to inflate, p
ride on his face. “I damn sure do mean it. They say I’ll take the train out of Jacksonville, heading up to some place in Illinois, north of Chicago. I leave in a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks? Jesus, Ray.”

  “I gotta tell you, Tommy, I went home, took the papers in so my dad could see ’em, and my mama, she starts bawling, Oh Raphaele, Raphaele, stai attento. She’s always thinking I’m gonna step in something bad, always telling me to be careful. The more upset she gets, the more Italian she speaks. My dad’s not like that, not at all. He wants me to do good, any way I can. He can’t hardly work no more since he cracked his skull at that construction site, and I know that both of ’em need all the help I can give ’em. The navy’s the way. Promise you that.”

  “Why the navy? Just ’cause of your dad?”

  “Well, maybe one more thing. Doris is moving away. Her parents are heading up to Chicago. Her dad got a job with some hotshot somebody, and he’s taking advantage.”

  Biggs wasn’t sure how to respond. “You been dating her for more than a year.”

  “Year and a half. Hurts like hell, but she’s gotta go with ’em. She’s only seventeen. Can’t blame her. She cried and all that, but I could tell she’s excited to see the big city. Not too many are bigger than Chicago.”

  “Wow. I always figured you two to get married. You gave me hope.” Biggs laughed. “I ain’t had a steady girl since Jane, and hell, that was two years ago. There hasn’t been anybody around here that’s done anything for me. The good ones all run off to Jacksonville or Miami and find some jerk who wears a suit.” He paused, could see how serious Russo was, none of his usual playfulness. “Jesus, Ray. The navy. Why not the army? That could be good too.”

  Russo smiled. “It’s the right thing to do, Tommy. But I tell you what. Monday, let’s take the bus into the city, and you can talk to this fella, this recruiter. He’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  Biggs took the hand saw, leaned low, perched the teeth on the edge of the board, eyed the pencil mark, his brain swirling with a strange energy. He started to cut, the saw grinding back and forth through the thin board. Russo leaned down, adding weight, steadying the board, and Biggs stopped now, looked at his friend, said, “Yeah, I’ll go. Got nothing else to do. Guess it can’t hurt.”

  JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA—MONDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1940

  He loved the big buildings, couldn’t help staring upward at the massive banks, Barnett, Atlantic, and a huge sign across the street, Walgreens, a parade of people flowing in and out. Russo tugged at his sleeve.

  “Come on. No time for sightseeing. That recruiter said he’d only be here until four.”

  Biggs’s eyes stayed on the banks, fat buildings in every direction. “Guess it’s easy to see where all the money is, huh?”

  Russo ignored him, led the way across a wide street, cars halted at a red light to let them pass.

  Biggs stared at the cars. “I’d like to drive one of those things one day. My pop says we’ll never be able to afford one.”

  “Will you hurry? Don’t matter how big a building is, it’s just a pile of brick and stone. Cars are just hunks of tin with a motor. You sound like you’re wandering in from the Okefenokee Swamp. You can see every building in Palatka from your back porch.”

  “Don’t have a back porch.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Well, from my back porch.”

  “Your back porch is two boards set up on concrete blocks.”

  “It’s better than yours.” Russo pointed down the street. “There. Look, the post office. Christ, they got a Christmas tree. But the navy sign’s still there. He’s set up inside.”

  Biggs felt a rumbling discomfort, thought of his parents. You should have told them, at least mentioned where you were going. But he knew to expect the worst, even a scolding for the quarter he wasted on the bus fare. He could predict the anger, just didn’t want to hear it every day. It was a sickening pattern, the best reason he knew for telling them nothing at all. And if there was something here, something to excite him, the way it had excited his friend? What would that do? How would he tell them?

  He stopped on the sidewalk, felt a chilly breeze, pulled at his light jacket, couldn’t avoid a shiver. All around him, above him, were signs of the coming holiday, lights above the store windows, paper images of Santa Claus, Christmas carols, what he could only imagine was a shopkeeper’s offer of good cheer, encouraging customers to spend their money. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed, and said, “I don’t know, Ray. This sounds like a waste of time. It’s all right for you—your pop knows all about ships and stuff. But I don’t think this is gonna work out in my house.”

  Russo moved close to him, a hard stare. “Listen to me. You got nothing more than me. You got no more shot at college than I do. Look around you. Banks and insurance companies, drug stores and doctors’ offices. You and me, we could go in there and maybe sweep their floors, empty their trash baskets. Except there’s a dozen guys lined up for that job too. Dammit, Tommy, you’re a hard worker, and you got guts. Except maybe right now. Just talk to the navy guy. It costs you nothing, and there’s nothing to be scared of. They don’t hog-tie people and haul ’em off in the back of wagons anymore.”

  “When did the navy ever do that?”

  Russo thought a moment. “Well, not our navy, but somebody did it, somewhere. Let’s go.”

  They moved up the shallow steps into the post office, the American flag high overhead, spread wide by the breeze. Russo led the way, Biggs’s hands sweating, and he saw the recruiter now, white uniform, seated behind a narrow table. The sailor saw them coming, seemed to read them both, a broad smile, recognizing Russo.

  “Mr. Russo, Raphaele, right?”

  “Just Ray’s okay, sir. I brought my buddy, thought he’d want to hear what you had to say.”

  The sailor stood, tall, gray hair at the temples. He held his hand out toward Biggs, kept the smile. “Chief Petty Officer Harvey Goodman. At your service, young man.”

  Biggs felt a strong handshake.

  “Thomas Biggs, sir.”

  Goodman sat down again, motioned to the lone chair in front of him. Biggs sat slowly, still nervous, and Goodman said, “High school diploma, Mr. Biggs?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. It’s not required, certainly. Most of our younger recruits didn’t get that far, but having the diploma can open some doors for you. For one thing, the navy hopes that all of its recruits can read. That always helps. I’m guessing that you’re here because Mr. Russo has told you of all the advantages of a life at sea.”

  “Well, I suppose so, sir. He told me he’s going to get twenty-one dollars a month.”

  Goodman laughed. “That’s the least of it, Mr. Biggs. Yes, you’ll get twenty-one dollars per month, which will increase if you’re promoted, or if you qualify for one of the many specialties needed on every vessel. The longer you stay in the service, the greater your chance of that.” He held up his left arm, several stripes on the sleeve of his jacket. “Twenty years, son. That’s what these stripes mean. And this patch on my arm? My rating. As I said, chief petty officer. Let’s just say that I make a good bit more than twenty-one dollars per month.”

  The smile on Goodman’s face invited a laugh, and Russo went along, a low chuckle. Biggs felt himself relaxing and Goodman said, “I’ve got plenty of literature for you to read, son, and I’m here to answer any questions. Don’t be bashful.”

  Biggs looked down for a second, hesitated, then said, “Does the army pay any more?”

  Goodman laughed again. “That’s a good question, son. Let me answer it like this. You live in Florida, so I’ll ask you…are you familiar with mosquitoes? Mud? Snakes? Maybe a scorpion or two? Ever sleep out on the ground, where ticks and redbugs bite you so bad you scratch for a week? Had poison ivy?”

  Goodman waited for a response, and Biggs knew exactly wher
e this was going.

  “Suppose I have, sir. Most of it.”

  “Let me ask you this. You ever eat powdered eggs, powdered milk, plucked vermin out of your clothes, bugs in your water glass, chewed sand in your oatmeal? You ever march for miles through mud and sandspurs, maybe a swamp or two? Well, son, all of that, that’s life in the army. Now, let me ask you this. You ever dream of seeing foreign lands, exotic islands, places more beautiful than you’ve ever known?” He didn’t wait for the answer. “That’s the navy, son. And there’s more. You get free room and board, and when you’re at sea, you’ll be on the most modern and strongest ships in the entire world. You’ll be given the best food Uncle Sam can provide, no sand in any of it. Hot meals, hot showers.” Goodman paused. “You’ll have the opportunity to train for a whole variety of specialties, from mechanics to electronics, plus working with the most powerful artillery the world has ever seen. You love your country, son?”

  “Of course…yes, sir.”

  “There’s a nasty fellow over there in Germany. He’s already whipped the French, the Dutch, and a whole bunch of other good folks. Smart people in Washington are saying he’s eventually gonna try to whip us. We’ve got the ships, the guns, and now we need good men, strong men. That sound like you, son?”

  Biggs felt energized, sat up straight, glanced at Russo, who was nodding with a big toothy grin.

  “I believe so, sir. But I don’t know what to do.”

  “You eighteen?”

  “Nineteen, sir.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  The question was unexpected.

  “Well, yes, sir. Birth certificate in a box in my mom’s closet.”

  “Bring it to me, son. I’ve got papers right here, just like what Mr. Russo signed. When you enlist, the clock starts ticking on that pay. You’ll do six weeks of basic training first, up in Great Lakes, Illinois. You’ll go through all sorts of tests, physical and mental. The navy will help you find out just what you need to be doing, and just where you’ll do it.”