Crunch Time (16 page)

“Are you all right?”

Embarrassment flooded Sean’s thin face. He cleared his throat. “Fine, thank you.”

He clearly wasn’t, but since the last time we’d talked he hung up on me, I said quickly, “Have you seen Tony Ramos? The athletic director?”

“Yes,” Sean said slowly “I just took a picture of him with the basketball team. I’ll show you where he was.”

I followed Sean’s tall, bowlegged body. The camera seemed to weigh him down, so that he listed like a leaking ship. At one point, he seemed to remember something and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a tissue and wiped his face.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” he said, then hoisted his camera again and resumed his slow, tilted walk across the gym floor.

Wait a minute. Camera?

“Sean, what are you doing here?” I rushed up to his side. I mean, he was the senior warden of our Episcopal church in Aspen Meadow, and his only child was five. Marla had said the kid was precocious, but I doubted he was in high school already. “Are you the official school photographer?”

Sean shook his head as we threaded our way around clumps of students and parents. When we passed the entrance to the locker rooms, the odor of sweat almost knocked me flat. Sean said something unintelligible, and I hustled up to his side.

“I didn’t hear you,” I said.

“I’m the
volunteer
school photographer. They needed somebody, so here I am.” After a moment, he said bitterly, “There’s Tony.”

He pointed at Tony Ramos, a short, muscular fellow with close-clipped gray hair straight as a bristle brush. Tony Ramos had been the subject of media coverage this summer, when a national sporting goods company had bought a contraption he’d invented for the CBHS girls’ fast-pitch softball team. Tony had christened it the Pitch Bitch, but when the sporting-goods company had bought the thing for an estimated eight figures, they’d vowed to change it to something more “acceptable to young women.” Tony, not the most garrulous of people in ordinary circumstances, had said, “No comment.” When asked if he would retire from CBHS, he said merely, “No.” Now he was listening to a very pretty woman whom I could see only in profile. She was making comments, bending in toward Tony, and then laughing flirtatiously. When she turned and put her hand on Tony’s arm, I cringed. I recognized her: Brie Quarles.

“Tony?” I said. Sean Breckenridge slithered away. “Sorry to bother you, but we need to—”

“The kitchen door!” he said, slapping his forehead. “I’m so sorry, Goldy. Brie,” he said, turning to her, “I’d love to hear more. Some other time, okay?”

“All righty!” said Brie as she caught sight of me in my workplace kitchen duds. Her smile faded and she turned away. Even though we were both parishioners at St. Luke’s, and we both ostensibly subscribed to the idea that being Christian meant, at the very least, being
nice
to each other, I clearly wasn’t important enough to merit a bit of conversation.

“Hello, Brie,” I called after her. She stopped and turned around, giving me as blasé a look as possible. Despite the weather, she wore a pink polo shirt, khaki shorts, and flashy metallic flats. I certainly hoped she had a good winter coat somewhere in the gym. I said merrily, “I’m catering the church fund-raising dinner at the Breckenridges’ place tomorrow night. You’re going to be a guest?”

“What is this,” she asked, “twenty questions?” And with that, she whirled on one of her flats and flounced away to talk to someone more important.

Well,
I thought as I accompanied Tony Ramos to the kitchen entrance,
that
was interesting
. A truism I’d heard expressed on the radio suddenly came to mind: that the Church of England—in America, the Episcopal Church—is the last bastion standing in the way of the spread of Christianity. I wasn’t quite that cynical, because I did love Saint Luke’s, and the parish did a great deal of good in the community. In any event, I would have to grill Marla on the possibility that the reason the
married
Brie Quarles had been under surveillance was that she was fooling around with the
married
athletic director of Christian Brothers High School.

Tony, feeling remorseful about not being where he was supposed to be when we arrived, helped us schlep in all the boxes. The man was strong, I’d give him that. He then commandeered four athletes to move the two long tables we’d be using to serve food in the gym. In fact, Tony and his soldiers helped so much, our work took half the time I’d allotted.

And lo and behold, who should walk into the kitchen but Arch! I hadn’t seen my own sixteen-year-old son for two days. As usual, I noticed how he was becoming tall and gangly. Also as usual, his disheveled, toast-colored hair looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb lately. The gray circles under his brown eyes indicated he’d stayed up too late with his pals. But he looked happy.

“Hey, Mom.” A shy smile flickered across his face. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine, thanks.” I tilted my head at Yolanda, who was arranging the pork on large platters. “Yolanda and her great-aunt, Ferdinanda, are staying with us for a few days. They’re on cots in the dining room.”

Arch lit up as Yolanda walked over. “Cool! Is this the aunt who smokes cigars?”

Yolanda grinned at him. “Yup. But you’re not allowed to have any.”

“I’m in training,” Arch joked. “No smoking, no booze.”

“Arch!” I cried.

“Gotcha, Mom.” He surveyed the food. “Looks great. I need to ask you for something. One of the kids on our team? He’s been diagnosed with leukemia and started his treatment. Could I bring him some lunch?”

“I’ll do it,” I said, and swiftly put together cutlery and a dish full of food.

“He’ll never eat that much,” Arch warned as he blinked at the loaded plate. “He’s here because he missed being with the team. But he doesn’t want the other kids to stare at him in the gym, so the team is gathered in one of the halls with him, and his mom’s going to pick him up by a side door.”

“Just lead the way.”

Arch did. We entered a warren of hallways and eventually came to a tunnel of lockers with a clutch of boys at the end. A pile of sabers, épées, and foils indicated practice was over. The kids were seated around an emaciated, bald classmate whose skin was a terrible color. I got down on my knees, introduced myself, and handed him the plate. Arch had brought a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” the boy said as he looked at me with eyes that looked huge. “I’m Peter.”

“Well, enjoy,” I replied.

Peter’s forehead wrinkled. He said to his teammates, “So am I going to eat this while all of you are watching me?”

“Yeah,” replied one of the kids, “and after that, we’re going home to shave our heads, so we can look like you, too!”

They all laughed, then started talking, apparently to divert attention away from Peter so that he would not, indeed, be embarrassed. Several of the boys began to gather the equipment, while a couple got to their feet to open their lockers. Then there was a crash and a whoop of pain.

Everyone stopped moving and looked at Peter, who swallowed what was in his mouth. “It wasn’t me, guys.”

“It was me!” shouted one of the boys, whom I couldn’t see. “What the hell, Boats,” the kid, still invisible, shouted, “can’t you look where you’re opening your locker door?”

Boats, aka Alexander Boatfield III, closed his locker door, revealing a kid holding on to his nose, which was bleeding profusely. “Oh, Jesus,” said Boats. “I’m sorry, Mikulski. I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s obvious!” cried the offended Mikulski. I did not know this kid, whose last name was Mikulski. He must have been a new member of the team. What worried me more at the moment was that his hand could not contain the red flood from his nose. Blood dripped down his shirt and onto the floor.

“All right,” I said authoritatively, “I want to take you to the nurse. Arch, give him a shirt. Mikulski, sorry I don’t know your first name—”

“Brad!”

“Brad,” I said calmly, “we need to see if your nose is broken. Let’s go.” I took Brad’s free arm and signaled to Arch to lead the way back.

“This sucks!” Brad howled as I guided him down the hallway. “I’m going to look like shit for the school picture!”

“Cool it, Mikulski,” Arch said in a low voice once we’d turned a corner. “Peter’s a lot worse off than you, and you don’t hear him crying.”

“Jesus, Arch, I’m in pain here! Have a little compassion!”

Arch looked at me and rolled his eyes. The three of us tried to hustle along, but since Brad had his head tipped back, it was slow going. Just before the next hallway corner, I heard a clanking that I could not immediately identify. Then Sean Breckenridge, carrying all his photographic equipment, hove into view, and before Arch and I could pull Brad Mikulski back, Sean banged right into him.

“Jesus H. Christ!” hollered Mikulski. “Is this the blind leading the blind or what?”

“Omigod,” murmured Sean Breckenridge, looking at me. “I’m sorry, I was in such a hurry that I didn’t pay attention to where I was going. Goldy, have you seen—” In midquestion, Sean happened to look over at Brad Mikulski, who had lowered his chin to see who’d plowed into him. Brad’s blood was everywhere at this point—on his face, his shirt, Arch’s shirt—and it was dripping onto the floor.

Sean Breckenridge’s mouth dropped open and his cheeks paled. His eyes rolled upward as he keeled forward.

“Arch!” I shouted. “Catch him!”

Arch deftly stepped into Sean Breckenridge’s trajectory, absorbed the weight of his fall, and lowered him to the floor.

“I swear, this is getting out of hand,” said Brad Mikulski, staring down at an unconscious Sean Breckenridge. “We’re going to have to open a ward on hallway B. Somebody needs to call a priest.”

“Sit down on the floor, Brad,” I ordered. “Arch, run and get us some help, would you, please? Ask them to bring compresses and ammonia salts.”

Brad Mikulski sat on the floor, lifted his chin, and cut his glance sideways at Sean Breckenridge. “It’s just a little blood, man. Why do you have to be such a wuss?”

Moments later, Arch reappeared with two nurses. One was fortyish and slender; the other, young, bulky, and blond, appeared to be an assistant. Both wore the blue PJ-type scrubs common these days among their profession. Unsure of the extent of the injuries, each was carrying a first-aid kit. The older one gave instructions to the younger, who held a small tube of ammonia salts under Sean’s nose. He jerked awake, looking confused. The other nurse shook her head at Brad Mikulski, who, in turn, was watching the goings-on with Sean Breckenridge with interest.

The older nurse said wearily, “What have you done to yourself this time, Mikulski?”

While Brad Mikulski was in the middle of his protestations that he hadn’t done anything, the problem was what had been done to him, the nurse interrupted him. She told me she and her colleague would handle the situation, and that Arch and I could go back to whatever it was we’d been doing before the collision.

“Do you know how to get to the gym from here?” Arch asked me.

When I said that I was sure I did not, my son began to lead me. As we walked along, I asked about Peter’s condition.

“We don’t know much,” Arch said protectively. “Please don’t ask me a bunch of questions I can’t answer.”

“Oh-
kay.
” Was I
that
nosy? Well, probably yes.

Arch furrowed his brow, as if he were trying to remember something important. “Somebody said that—outside?—it’s snowing to beat the band.”

“It’s coming down in Aspen Meadow,” I said. “You won’t be home too late, will you?”

“Gus’s grandparents invited Todd and me over for dinner. They said they’d bring me home, too. Remember, my car’s in our garage? You were afraid the radials weren’t going to be good enough to get through the winter, and you wanted to get real snow tires for it.”

“Right, we’ll get to that. Speaking of which, I’m worried about the weather. The snow is coming down
really
hard, so please ask the Vikarioses to bring you home early. Like nine at the latest?”

“Sure.” He deposited me at the door of the kitchen. “Thanks for being nice to Peter. And to Mikulski, too.”

“Arch, of course I would be nice to—” But my son had taken off. As I watched his retreating back, I wished I’d asked who Peter’s mother was. I simply couldn’t imagine being in her shoes. The pain she must have been feeling . . . I wondered about Peter’s prognosis. Arch was always accusing me of nosiness, so it sure didn’t feel right to be digging around in this.

Then again, what about Brad Mikulski? Was his mother Hermie, the one who might have hired Ernest to look into the puppy mill, over her son’s supposed objections? Brad didn’t come to church, so I hadn’t seen them together. Still, I shook my head at the fact that I’d been too preoccupied by Brad’s blood and Sean Breckenridge’s reaction to it to ask. I took a deep breath and focused on the work at hand, which was feeding a big crowd of athletes, parents, teachers, and medical personnel.

When I returned to the gym, Tony Ramos was speaking into the bullhorn, and the kids were organizing themselves according to his instructions. The physicals would continue through lunch, Tony announced. When Yolanda and I started to serve at quarter to twelve, two lines of more or less disciplined kids moved along both sides of the tables, piling their plates high with salads, buffalo wings, sandwiches, and cookies. The school provided the drinks: water, milk, and juices—no pop, thank goodness—so that was one less thing to deal with.

As I spooned a refill of Caprese salad into one of the buffet bowls, I saw something that gave me a start. It was a kid, a boy, not very tall, overweight, with tufts of light brown hair sticking out at all angles from his head. He was holding himself somewhat apart, which made his lumpy stomach stand out even more. I’d never seen him at CBHS, and if he was from our church, I didn’t recognize him. But I knew him, somehow. Arch had reentered the gym with his team, so I caught his eye and motioned him over.

“Don’t look now,” I said surreptitiously as I deposited the last few tomato slices into the bowl, “but there’s a heavy kid nearby, and he looks familiar. Is he from Aspen Meadow? Is he new to the school?”