Damage (5 page)

That night you dream you’re driving the pickup with Heather sitting next to you. But in the dream, she’s not the passenger side, she’s sitting in the center, pressed warm against you, so close that she has one foot resting either side of the stick shift. She’s wearing a very skirt.

You have to reach between her legs to grab the stick. You feel the hum under your foot as you press the gas pedal, powering up the engine, everything starts rolling, then, ahh! you thrust the stick between those slender thighs, into second gear. The engine thrums louder, you grip the knob in your palm, slide the stick out to third gear, let the throbbing build again and…ahh! in to fourth.

That’s when the alarm goes off and you wake up, sweaty and trembling. All through the morning your
body—brain included—seems to be vibrating at a higher frequency than usual. A Heather-frequency. It’s not at all, like a low, pleased hum that carries you into the and it doesn’t wear off completely till afternoon practice.

That’s when Coach reveals his new drill.

Dobie’s already on the other end of the field, setting up cones to mark the turnaround point for sprints. On this end of the field, Coach tells everybody to fasten their chin straps. He tells everybody to get in a circle. Which everyone does, joking around, taking their time.

“Not you, Rhinehart,” Coach says. “Get in middle.”

Rhinehart obediently steps into the center of the circle, stands waiting. “Oh, boy,” Jason Cox cracks. “‘Farmer in the Dell.’ Do we get to hold hands?” Stargill snickers.

Coach ignores them both. “This is our new drill When I was in school, they called this Bull-in-a-Ring.” He picks up his whistle. “Rhinehart, I know this don’t seem fair because you only had a few minutes play Friday But since you gave the most bonehead performance, get to start us off.

“Now listen up, men,” Coach announces to everyone in the circle. “When I point to you, it’s your turn to try knock him down. I want to see some good form. Good, solid hits. Don’t wrap him up, just take him off his feet you can. Then get out of the way, quick. Rhinehart,
those feet moving! Don’t watch me—keep your eyes moving, too! I guarantee you don’t know where it’s going to come from. Everybody down. Set.”

Coach blows his whistle at the same instant he points to Curtis—but Curtis hesitates.

Coach motions from him to Rhinehart.

Curtis ducks his head and drives straight into Rhinehart. It’s like taking down a sack of flour. Rhinehart’s back hits the ground with a
whoof!
You almost expect to see dust rising around him.

Curtis gets to his feet, holds a hand out to help Rhinehart up.

Coach removes the whistle from his mouth. “This ain’t a cotillion,” he says. “Hightower, get out of the way. Rhinehart, shake it off! Get your ass up off the ground and get ready for the next one.”

Curtis goes back to his place in the circle. His mouth is a tight line. Curtis is usually all cold maneuvers on any field, but he doesn’t like this drill, and when you look him across the circle, his eyes are taking on that angry look you’ve only seen once or twice—something he cares about is being tainted, and he’s ready to tear into it and peel the stains off with his bare hands. Only this time, he can’t. There’s nothing he can do about this.

Sometimes Coach sends them one at a time, sometimes two. From all places around the circle, from all directions, and Rhinehart in the middle, staggering to his feet each time like a wounded moose.

When Coach blows the whistle and points to you, try not to think about it at all. You just blast off your stance, drive up and into Rhineheart, like you’ve been taught since third grade.

It’s almost like plowing into one of those blow-punching-bag clowns. Only this one doesn’t pop immediately back up; it stands up very, very slowly.

Over Rhinehart’s shoulder, yards away, Dobie has stopped working. Usually he keeps pretty busy, but now he’s just watching the drill, holding the stack of orange cones that he’s supposed to be putting out.

When it’s all over, Rhinehart isn’t really hurt. walks a little funny as he heads off to get in line sprints, but he doesn’t complain—just shuffles away you see that his eyes are a little red, but that’s something you’re not supposed to see. No one is supposed to see So you shove down the strange sorrow that’s pricking back of your throat, and you silently trudge over to get line along with Rhinehart.

Bull-in-a-Ring works. Nobody’s messing around now. Even Dobie is acting like his life depends on getting each cone placed to the inch. Nobody straggles or tosses off jokes. Everybody zips through the drills like Coach yapping at their heels. And Coach is smiling, and practice is really clicking, moving along like clockwork every piece well greased and in place.

When the time comes for running plays, you bend
down into your stance, and there is Curtis, still angry, looking hard and fierce across the line at whatever opposing him.

Which happens to be you. It could be anybody, standing here on this particular day. But it’s you, and every time you take off you can feel Curtis on your heels, his eyes burning holes through your head. He’s ready to pull you down like a wolf pulls down a deer, only this wolf’s going to ram your face into the dirt instead of ripping out your entrails.

So you try to hurry, try to get the ball wrapped up a little more quickly, get moving a little sooner, but somehow everything is just a little
off.
Your hands keep coming up empty. Incomplete pass.

Incomplete.

Incomplete.

“What the hell is going on?” Coach’s voice bawls across the practice field. “Hey! Pride of the Panthers! I’m talking to you!”

Surprised, you look over. Coach’s eyes are on you. Cox is watching. And Billings. And Stargill’s looking you, Stargill who’s been popping up off the ground after every play, like the grass would burn him if he didn’t.

Everybody
is looking at you.

Coach shifts the wad in his cheek, like he’s thinking “You’re hearing footsteps, Reid,” he finally points out.

Hearing footsteps.
You know what that means,
course. Sometimes when a player’s about to make a catch he feels the defender breathing down his neck. Knowing he’s about to get hit makes him lose his concentration. And very often, the ball.

“Keep focused, son,” Coach warns. “Wrap that up tight before you even think about moving.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You get in a game and drop a catchable ball, come Monday you might just wish you’d died trying.” deliberately lets his gaze fall on Rhinehart, whose sweaty already-red face gets even redder. Your shoulders hunch a little. You feel naked and visible, as if the propped-paper doll that was you has been blown away during the course of this afternoon.

After practice, Rhinehart lumbers into the locker room more slowly than usual, but otherwise he doesn’t seem feel any ill effects from having his head pounded out his ass. Dobie’s still outside, collecting the rest of the equipment. All the guys are laughing, messing around like every other practice.

Except Curtis. Sitting on the bench next to you, he pulls his shirt off in one quick, angry movement, over his head.

“I think Coach just wanted us to learn something,” you offer.

“I didn’t learn anything. Just helped beat the crap out
of Rhinehart.” Curtis says it matter-of-factly. But when he takes off his cleats he hurls them into the bottom of his locker, sending chips of dried mud flying.

You don’t try again. You sit there for a moment, half undressed on the bench in front of your open locker. Your practice jersey lies crumpled on the floor, waiting to be exchanged for a clean, already laundered one. Your shoulder pads sit passive, your helmet hangs empty, and you think how the players have been provided with all this equipment to keep them from getting hurt. How the whole school district plans and pays to keep the players safe—at the same time that all of you are trying to pulverize each other into dust.

That’s what you did to Rhinehart; you hit him hard that he couldn’t even get up right away. You get there and hurt somebody like Rhinehart and then walk off without even caring, because that’s what the Pride the Panthers does.

You have to admit that you don’t like this game much anymore. You used to like it; it made you feel good. But somehow football’s become just another one of all things you used to enjoy that got swallowed up. It almost hurts, if you think about how many things you used enjoy.

“You going to tell Coach he’s a dumb jock with stupid idea, Hightower?” Brett Stargill jeers on his way to the showers. He snaps a towel inches away fro
Curtis’s neck as he passes by, not noticing or caring that Curtis doesn’t flinch.

“It’s supposed to be a sport,” Curtis says under his breath. “Not a torture session.”

You make yourself stand up. With that movement, your hand rises and begins to unlace your dirt-pants. It pulls the pads out and tosses them on top of your cleats. All on its own.

It starts to rain as you pull out of the field house parking. The wet-asphalt smell, the sodden air, the miserable afternoon—they all add up to a tightness in your lungs that makes it difficult to breathe deeply. Like some weird bubble is pressing up against the inside of your chest.

Out on 171 you stop for a red light; the engine down to a low drone. The wipers pump back and forth. You notice that your fingers are numb; it’s because they’re squeezing the steering wheel. Your blood has given trying to make its way into those too-tight fists and is hurrying back to the heart to get air.

What you really want to do is give up trying, too. Lay your head down on the steering wheel and quit squeezing, quit breathing, quit trying.

The problem is, you can’t. Just quit, that is. When people want to quit, they have to choose. Make a decision Take action.

If it was you who had to quit, you wouldn’t pick g
or pills. You’d pick your dad’s razor. After all, he wasn’t that much older than you are when he died.

It would make a mess to do it properly—cut toward the palm instead of across the wrist. You don’t remember where you read that, how people try to kill themselves and end up alive with severed tendons.

The truck idles. The wipers fight to keep your view clear. Just ahead, in the drizzle, a street sign says Keller Avenue. You’ve stared at it for a while before you really see it—and then you realize where you are.

A right turn will take you toward Heather’s house.

Everything inside you shifts a little. Decisions hang off somewhere in the distance, like a little cloud that can’t quite see. And won’t have to see, if you just turn right.

A car honks behind you—the light’s green.

You cut the wheel and turn. Your fingers must have loosened a little; they start to tingle.

Your hands know all the turns by heart; your feet know just when to brake and when to accelerate.

In front of the Mackenzies’ house, you kill the engine and just sit for a few moments. The blades of grass bright green in the slackening rain. The long driveway that edges past the house is spattered with puddles.

Heather’s house.

A small house. Shutters inside windows, closed. The concrete porch where she kissed you good night.

You pull the door handle and slide out of the truck. The air is steamy hot. Drops plop on your neck and face. Your feet stride around to the curb, carry you all the way up the sidewalk. Two steps up to the porch, and you’ standing in front of the door. Your finger presses the doorbell, and after a few moments the door opens.

For a split second you don’t recognize Heather; catch a flash of big startled eyes, but everything else is very un-Heatherish impression—oversize, faded shirt; baggy shorts; white athletic socks—before she pushes the door almost closed and peeps at you from behind it.

Even then all you can think is that she looks
different,
her hair in a ponytail, wisps hanging down around face. Her lips paler, her face younger.

She does not look pleased.

“Hey,” you greet her, suddenly aware you have reason to be here. “I was on my way home. Thought drop by.”

Silence. Heather’s face is expressionless; she stares point somewhere around the middle of your shirtfront.

“Hang on a sec,” she finally says, and the door shuts in your face.

Through the glass panel you see her blurred figure scuttle off to the right, down the hallway. You wait.

And wait.

And wait. The rain picks up again, making a curtain
around the house—but it’s okay. You are dry, here on the porch.

When she finally opens the door again, she’s wearing denim shorts and a sleeveless blouse, tucked in. Her hair falls over her shoulders, shining and perfect. Her face looks different, too, more defined.

She steps back to let you in. “The rule is,” she announces, “call before you come. Then I won’t make you wait on the porch.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t—”

“No, it’s okay. Come in,” she urges, when you hesitate. “All I’m saying is, next time call first.”

She pulls the door shut behind you. You follow her into the living room, watching her walk. You know you’re not the only guy who has watched Heather walk, many, many times through the years. Of course she’s got the best rear end anybody’s ever seen, anywhere—but she also has a stride that’s somewhere between weightless and breathtaking. Her head is always held high.

“I was just doing homework,” she says as she leads you into the kitchen. “It’s so boring. You can give me moral support.” The table is covered with books, papers, markers, and index cards. “Sit right here.” She points at a chair, starts to slip into the opposite place—then hesitates. “Oh. Did you want something to drink? Although I think all we have right now is Diet Pepsi. Do you like Diet Pepsi?”

“I’m not thirsty. Thanks, though.”

“See, if I’d known you were coming, I might had something else to off—”

“Well, hello!” says a female voice. “I thought I heard the doorbell!”

You turn to see an older version of Heather, in jeans and a black tank top. Blonder. Maybe a little more starched—every curve looks like it’s been pushed and padded and smoothed and strapped into place.