Communist
When I was in eighth grade, my best friend’s mom published an editorial in our local newspaper supporting some far-off Arizona copper miners demanding better wages and working conditions. If that wasn’t bad enough, she gave her full name followed by “Communist.”
Mrs. Hamlin’s editorial appeared in the spring of 1967, a time when most people were more worried about civil rights’ demonstrators, war protestors, and hippies than copper miners. But everyone knew Commies were infiltrating the Blacks, sponsoring protesters, and ruining America’s youth with sex, drugs, and rock and roll. It made sense Commies were also behind labor unions, especially after Mrs. Hamlin, “Communist,” came out in favor of the copper miners.
Until I met her, all I knew about Commies was they had The Bomb, which was reason enough to fear and hate them. Except, according to Mrs. Hamlin, we had The Bomb first, so if we’d been Commies, we’d have wanted a bomb of our own. She favored equal opportunity and fair pay, believed private property was the root of all evil, and considered Dr. King a hero, not a troublemaker. She deemed all wars immoral and, unlike my parents who ridiculed pop music, thought The Beatles, especially Paul, were cute.
After her editorial came out, eggs were thrown at Jack’s house, and Mrs. Hamlin received mail advising her to go back to where she came from, which happened to be New York City. Jack’s dad, a research scientist for a pharmaceutical company located in our small, Indiana town, had been hired away from another company out East. Mr. Hamlin worked long hours and, most evenings, fell asleep in front of the TV. If he cared, one way or the other, that his wife was a Communist, he didn’t let on.
Although Jack lived in a big house across town and I lived in Sunnyside, an aging development of three-bedroom slabs, we were bound together by a love for baseball. It didn’t hurt our friendship that I wasn’t the most popular kid, and my classmates were slow to accept newcomers. But these weren’t considerations two teenage boys dwelt on. Rangier and stronger than me, he played short to my second because he could make the throw from deep in the hole and I couldn’t. He batted lead-off because he could get on base with a grounder up the middle as easily as a line drive to right, while I hit seventh where I couldn’t do much harm.
When we weren’t playing ball, we followed our favorite teams. An only child, I spent many evenings with my dad listening to the Cardinals’ games on KMOX radio. We cheered for Gibbie, Brock, and Roger Maris, the former Yankee star who’d broken Babe Ruth’s homerun record. He wasn’t breaking records in St. Louis, but he was helping the Cards win a pennant.
Mrs. Hamlin and Jack followed the Yankees, but with Maris traded, Mantle in decline, and Whitey Ford retired, these Yanks weren’t the Yanks of old. Although they struggled to stay above .500, Mrs. Hamlin said the Yankees were winners, and they’d be back, just wait.
Because my parents worked late—my dad a car salesman, my mom a store clerk—I regularly dined with the Hamlins following baseball practice. These meals weren’t spaghetti from a box, meatloaf, or casserole. Mrs. Hamlin made dishes bearing names I couldn’t pronounce and swimming in sauces I would’ve drunk through a straw. After dinner, she and Jack drove me home.
Sometimes, her thick red hair cascaded onto her shoulders like a movie star’s. Other times, she wore it swept up into a bun, revealing the enticing curve of her slender neck. I liked watching her drive, one hand on the wheel, the other searching from radio station to station, a cigarette dancing between full lips. One minute, we had The Rolling Stones on WLS and the next the latest news from NPR.
Mrs. Hamlin had an opinion on everything.
* * *
Mid-season, our team was leading the league when Jack’s mom published another editorial, this one supporting the copper miners’ decision to strike. Again, she signed her name, “Katherine Hamlin, Communist.”
At our game the following day, our best pitcher, Mike Schumacher, refused to take the field with a Commie’s son. Mike’s dad, a self-identifying member of the John Birch Society, wouldn’t allow it. The game went on without Mike, but no one talked to Jack or even cheered when he homered in the fifth. After we pulled out the win despite the absence of Mike’s arm, Mr. Schumacher huddled with Coach Miller.
When I told my dad what had happened, he said he doubted Mrs. Hamlin was a real Communist because real Communists didn’t go around announcing the fact. More than likely, she was no more than a misinformed agitator, bad enough in my dad’s view.
“But maybe, she’s right,” I said. “Maybe, those miners aren’t being treated fairly.”
“Billy, that’s between the miners and management.”
When asked about the Birchers, my dad said that although he’d never join, he respected them. They stood as our front line against Commies, Pinkos, and Fellow Travelers. Like Commies, Birchers held in-home meetings and recognized each other with secret handshakes. But unlike Commies, who wanted only to enslave and rule, Birchers represented freedom and free enterprise.
“Son,” my dad said, “those Birchers will lay down their lives to protect us from the Reds.”
“Yeah, but what’s this got to do with baseball?”
My mom looked up from her Good Housekeeping and gave her stock answer. “Listen to your dad, Billy. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
A few days later, Coach Miller made his decision. Convinced by Mr. Schumacher, several parents had signed a letter refusing to allow their sons to play if Jack continued to play. Coach had no choice, and I didn’t blame him when he kicked Jack off the team so we could have a team.
But with Jack gone, I wanted to quit. The way I saw it, if Jack couldn’t play, I wouldn’t play. My dad, who hadn’t signed the letter because he didn’t want to get involved in politics, insisted otherwise. If I quit the team on account of Jack getting kicked off, people might consider me a Commie sympathizer which would reflect badly on the family.
“But you said Mrs. Hamlin wasn’t a real Communist.”
“I did, and I doubt she is. But she’s claimed it, and now she owns it.”
“Billy,” my mom chimed in, “I might not be the best Christian, but I am a Christian, and it would break my heart if you sided with those godless Commies.”
* * *
Jack’s ejection from the team should have been the end of it. But at our next game, Mrs. Hamlin and Jack stood along the third base line, holding posterboard signs. Mrs. Hamlin’s read FREEDOM MEANS FREEDOM; Jack’s blared BASEBALL FOR ALL.
At first, some of the parents politely encouraged Mrs. Hamlin and Jack to lower their signs and take a seat, but when they refused, a couple of dads confiscated the signs and smashed them on the ground. Mrs. Hamlin and Jack sat down, locked arms, and raised their fists in protest. People booed and threw popcorn, but Jack and Mrs. Hamlin didn’t budge. After a while, cops came and escorted them off the field.
“Agitators,” my dad concluded. “Like I said.”
“The problem,” my mom observed, “is you’re judged by the company you keep.”
“Yep,” my dad agreed. “Birds of a feather.”
In fact, my mom said, she and my dad had discussed it, and they thought I should break off my friendship with Jack.
“But he’s not a Commie.”
“Listen,” my dad said, “people talk, don’t think they don’t.”
“That’s right,” my mom said. “And we don’t want them talking about Billy Kramer.”
Without Jack’s glove and bat, our team finished nearer the middle of the spring-league pack than in the lead. Coach claimed to be proud of us, anyway. We would face future adversity, too, he warned, whether injury, inclement weather, or an opposing pitcher’s hard-breaking curve. What mattered, Coach said, was how we dealt with adversity. After losing Jack, we could have folded like a cheap beach chair and ended up in the cellar. Instead, we’d dealt with his loss like champions, playing our best and ignoring the rest. No coach could expect more.
* * *
In the past, I’d been considered too young to be left alone at home over summer vacation. Instead, I’d been sent to YMCA and church camps or, when camps weren’t available, shipped to my aunt’s house where I was made to play with cousins I didn’t much care for. But now that I was older, I was left on my own and expected to keep busy cutting the grass, painting the garage, and tending the vegetable garden. It wouldn’t be long, my dad said, before I’d be old enough to land a paying job. If I wanted to play ball then, I could play industrial league softball like any other working man.
Jack and I had hardly spoken since Coach kicked him off the team. After school ended, I didn’t even bump into him in the hall or cafeteria. There were neighborhood kids my age, but Steve Myers remained stuck on model cars, and all Terry Hooley talked about were his 4-H rabbits. The more I reflected on it, the more unfair it seemed that I’d been banned from seeing my friend Jack. After all, we’d done nothing wrong.
One June morning, the garage painted, I broke free and, against my parents’ wishes, biked to Jack’s house.
Mrs. Hamlin answered the door, smiling as if nothing had happened and saying how happy she was to see me. When asked if Jack could play, she replied they were in the middle of his piano lesson, but I was welcome to wait inside.
This was the first I’d heard about Jack and piano lessons. “Sure, if it’s okay.”
He appeared behind his mom. “Hey, man. Long time no see.”
“Yeah, I’ve been painting the garage.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Mrs. Hamlin said, “and that’s all that counts.”
I watched and listened while they practiced Bob Dylan’s song, “The Times They Are a Changin’.” Her fingers, nails manicured and painted red to match her lipstick, floated over the keys. Although Jack hunted and pecked, I could see he’d played before.
When they finished, I clapped and told them how impressed I was.
“Let’s all sing,” Mrs. Hamlin said. “Billy, please join us.”
“Oh, I can’t sing.”
“Neither can Dylan,” Jack said, and we all laughed. “C’mon, get in here.”
My only previous experience with singing was on the few occasions a year my family attended church. There, I kept my head down, mumbling and stumbling over the words in the hymnal. But here, encouraged by Jack and his mom, I gave voice to the lyrics, and by the fourth verse, I was belting out the tune, too.
“Excellent,” Mrs. Hamlin said. “You have a very nice voice, Billy.”
Jack punched me on the shoulder. “You sing alright. Not as good as you field but not bad.”
Mrs. Hamlin explained that Jack and she usually baked following his piano lesson, but since I’d come all this way, she would understand if we wanted to play.
Before I could respond, Jack spoke up. “Let’s bake first. We’ll play catch afterwards and have something tasty to chow down when we come inside.”
Little Debbie, Dolly Madison, and Betty Crocker were the only bakery we enjoyed at my house, but I sensed Jack and his mom had something different in mind.
Mrs. Hamlin led us into the kitchen and suggested we make a strawberry tart. Strawberries were in season, she explained, and Jack and she had picked two quarts the day before.
First, we needed to wash our hands and put on aprons. Here in the States, she said, only women wore aprons. But in Europe, the most famous chefs were men, and they wore their aprons with pride.
Next, we gathered ingredients and equipment. Flour, eggs, cream, sugar, and butter aligned on the counter. Mixing bowls and measuring spoons and cups joined what Mrs. Hamlin called our mise en place.
We followed a handwritten recipe, mixing dry in one bowl and wet in another. “Baking is science,” she said. “Our measurements must be precise.”
We formed a doughball, rolled it out, and placed it in a special tart pan. We spread pastry cream over the dough, and then Jack’s mom layered carefully sliced berries, just so, on top. “Food should look as good as it tastes,” she instructed. “No one will eat if, first, they’re not engaged visually.”
After popping the tart in the oven, she sent Jack and me outside, claiming she couldn’t have done this without us.
Like before, we tossed the ball back and forth and hit grounders and pop-ups to each other, all the while chattering about pennant races and our favorite players. But without the anticipation of an upcoming game where our skills would be put to the test, we lacked our old enthusiasm. After a while, the heat got the best of us, and we headed inside.
Our timing couldn’t have been better. That strawberry tart was fresh out of the oven and looking and smelling great. But, Mrs. Hamlin said, before we enjoyed the tart, growing boys like us needed something more nutritious. She’d made sandwiches, and not just ordinary sandwiches. She’d made Monte Cristo sandwiches with ham, brioche bread, and gruyere cheese.
While Jack and I ate our sandwiches, she topped the tart with fresh whipped cream and plated slices. After inhaling our plated portions, I followed Jack’s lead and dug into the pan. In no time, we snarfed the entire tart. Mrs. Hamlin laughed and said it looked like Mr. Hamlin would have no desert that night.
“That was the best pie, I mean tart, I’ve ever eaten,” I said.
Jack elbowed me. “I told you we should bake first.”
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Gary V. Powell lives with his beautiful wife near the shores of lovely Lake Norman, North Carolina. A 2022 deGroot Foundation Writer of Note and a Pushcart Prize nominee for both his poetry and short fiction, his first poetry chapbook, Super Blood Wolf Moon, won Kallisto Gaia Press’s 2020 Contemporary Poetry Prize. His second poetry chapbook, Permafrost, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2023. Recent poetry appears in or at the Telluride Institute, Southword 44, and Kakalak. His prize-winning poems, “The Largesse of the Maidenhair Fern,” and “Wiffle Ball,” appear in Passager Journal and Writer’s Digest, respectively. Recent fiction appears in the North Carolina Literary Review, Bull Men’s Fiction, moonShine Review, and Prime Number Magazine.