The story so far: After getting driven out of professional baseball for a drug charge he was innocent of, Hank James is starting to find success with an independent league team called The Cedar Falls HooseCows. At least, he was until he ran into a relief pitcher named Alan Carpenter who seemed unhittable. Hank lost his wife in the process of getting kicked out of baseball, but recently they’ve been talking again . . . ( photographs courtesy Axel Kohagen)
“Guess you’re not a celebrity down here yet,” Hank’s wife Penny commented as they left Mondo’s restaurant in Iowa City.
“After the last three games, I’m not sure if I’ll be a celebrity anywhere this year,” Hank said. He had done the interview with the local television station, but his numbers had gone down in the rest of the series with the Man-Pigs. His at bat against Alan Carpenter had shaken him. In the last game of the series, when Carpenter came in to preserve a one-run lead for Mason City, Hank was glad he had stayed on the bench. The guys who faced him all struck out, and rumors were spreading through the small league that no one had even hit a foul ball against the pitcher.
Hank caught his wife almost taking his hand in hers as they walked down the pedestrian mall. He sensed they were finally growing ready to forgive each other, and he also sensed talking about, face to face, might kill that readiness. He rubbed his thumb against his fingers until the desire to grab and hold her hand went away.
“Rest of the team sleeping one off today?” she asked. Around them, scruffy and disheveled college students smoked cigarettes, played drums, juggled, and tried their best to be as bohemian as they could be. Everyone had their own cup of coffee to sip on.
“They wish. Taylor Nickles has them doing some project out at his acreage. Sounds like they’re putting in a whole foundation or something. Todd thinks Taylor’s putting in a new house and then just tearing down the old one. It’s been in the family for years.
“Anyway, it wasn’t mandatory, but most of the guys were afraid he’d cut their playing time if they skipped. I figured I’d take my chances.”
“Because you’re the superhero,” his wife grinned at him, and that particular moment was over far too quickly.
They continued walking together, talking and teasing each other. They walked so closely together their hips would bump at the sides, and he would want to take her into his arms. It was a longish walk to Oakland Cemetery, but it went too fast for Hank James.
Once they made their way into the cemetery, it didn’t take long to see the tombstone he had come for. Hank reached into his bag and began assembling his camera. She was a stone monument who had been there since 1912, but his heart was telling him she might beat her wings and fly away if he wasn’t fast enough.
“She’s beautiful,” Penny said. From her tone, it sounded more like she had just said “She’s horrifying.”
The Black Angel of Iowa City was exactly what she sounded like. She towered over the cemetery and was so black she appeared to be a dark cloud somehow trapped and hovering in one place. Her face was turned down and her wings were half-wilted, as if she was aware she had become a thing to frighten the bold on late night adventures, and would never return to heaven.
“She’s exactly what you said she would be,” his wife said, “But somehow, it didn’t really hit me until I saw her how breathtaking she would be.”
Hank nodded, but was more interested in taking pictures. It was nice to see her taking an interest in his graveyard photography; she had tolerated it before, but never shown much interest. The light was just behind the angel’s wings, and he felt he was getting some amazing shots. He had used black and white film, and he was very glad he had. The cemetery itself was humid and still.
They approached the grave respectfully, and Hank pointed his camera up to take shots of the angel’s sad face. He heard his wife sigh, and turned to see her wipe sweat from her forehead and then prepare to lean on the base of the angel, right by her feet. He quickly grabbed her hand, and she was startled.
“Bad luck to touch her,” Hank said, trying for a smile.
“Are you really that superstitious?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“I’m a ballplayer,” he said.
He continued taking pictures, and she stood a few steps away from the statue and gazed up and down the cemetery. He knew her well enough to know she was getting bored. The sandals she had worn were heavy and he knew the strap rubbed her ankle when she walked too much in them. He also knew she would wear them all summer long, even if she knew she would be doing too much walking in them.
“Just a few more,” he said. He hurried to switch lenses and almost dropped his camera. His reflexes saved him, and he grabbed its strap in time to stop it from falling at the foot of the statue.
He blinked and remembered what it meant to be at the foot of the statue, or underneath it. He loved the art and humanity in the monuments in cemeteries, but sometimes he couldn’t help but feel sad and scared when he realized he was standing over row after row of dead hopes and dead dreams.
“Well, now you’re done it,” his wife said.
“What?” Hank asked. He began to stand, carefully cradling the camera in his right hand.
“Look where your left hand is,” she pointed. He looked. When he had steadied himself to catch the camera, his left hand had come down right on top of the angel’s foot. He looked up into her face, but this time he did not see sadness. He did not see anything at all but weathered, aging blackness.
“It’s bad luck, you know,” his wife said.
(NEXT)
