Hometown Favorite: A Novel (42 page)

"One last walk-through and then we can leave," Dewayne
said.

Once it was no longer a crime scene, professional cleaners
had come in the house, scrubbed away the aftereffects of the
crimes, and restored order. Dewayne limped from room to
room, using an umbrella as a cane for support. It was just as
he remembered it a few minutes ago, a few hours ago, a few
centuries ago.

He climbed the stairs, praying that one day his wife, his
niece and nephew, would no longer blame him. He went into
Robert Dewayne Jobe III's room and picked up little Robert's
pillow off the bed and brought it to his face. It still smelled
of the wonderful combination of a baby's life, but it was the
faint whiff of Rosella's favorite perfume that brought him to
his knees, bellowing like a mortally wounded beast, for he
knew she had performed this same ritual. No more laughter.
No more tears of a child demanding his father's attention. No
more cooing and gibberish. No more son.

He prayed his son, his only son, did not blame him. He prayed
God did not blame him, for he blamed himself. He blamed himself
for all that had happened. He blamed himself for every wicked
act ever done in the world now and forever. He blamed himself
for God turning his back on him, for forsaking him, and the pit
of his gut did not go deep enough to contain all the torment blistering inside his soul. It rose, expelled a glut of grief, and pierced
his heart again in vindictive strikes of lightning.

He crumbled to the floor, and his soaked eyes caught sight
of a blue teddy bear lying beneath the bed. He had brought
it home for Robert from one of his trips. He reached out and
drew it to him, pressing it against his heaving chest.

Jake backed his car out of the driveway and drove along the
avenue past the homes of happy families in the midst of their
routines. Dewayne tried to think of routines. What was the
routine of his family before all hell had broken loose? What
were those mundane activities that are established early in
the life of a family, giving them definition and character and
certitude? He could not remember as he ran his finger over the
furry eyes and ears of the teddy bear, hoping for recall.

"How much money have you got, Jake?" he asked.

"I've got some savings, should be enough to get us through,
buy your medicines. The hospital gave us enough pills for a
few weeks till we set something up back home'

"You got enough money to get us to Costa Rica?"

Jake came to a stop sign. Turning east would head them
in the direction of Mississippi. West would take them to the
airport.

"Just a slight detour is all I'm talking about;" Dewayne
said.

"Don't you think the law should have time to run its course?"
Jake asked.

"It's time I don't have, and I don't trust the system to do the
right thing."

"What is the right thing, Dewayne?"

"I'm dying, Jake. Why am I dying and Tyler Rogan is living?
Is that the right thing? Is there justice in that? So drug me up,
Jake, and let's go kill him'

A car pulled up behind them and the driver blew the horn.
Jake rolled down his window and waved the vehicle around.
In Springdale, most people would have stopped to ask if they
needed assistance when they passed. Houston was not Springdale.

"Killing is what he deserves, but given your condition, I'm afraid I'd be the one to have to do it, which I wouldn't mind. It
might drive me back to the bottle, which some days I wouldn't
mind either, but I'm kind of getting used to being sober. I
might enjoy it again if I can keep my wits about me and can
stay with it, but I need you to help me do that ... help me keep
my wits about me"

Dewayne's large hands gripped the teddy bear. "Drive;" he
said, and Jake eased the car onto the highway.

Dewayne did not want to go home until he had paid a visit to
his mother. Jake helped him out of the car, and they ambled
along the path in a predawn shroud of mist until they came
upon the modest headstone with Cherie Jobe's name inscribed
upon it. She lay next to her husband of less than one year.

"I didn't know what you might want to say, so I just put her
name and dates," Jake said. "There's plenty of room to write
something if you want"

"Thank you, Jake," Dewayne said, and he knelt beside the
headstone and began a slow, easy polish across the granite top
with his fingers.

The memories of his mother began to rise and dissolve at
random. There was so much to remember, and he straggled
behind each image flash, unable to convince it to remain. He
wanted to soak each memory of its emotional warmth, but the
scenes would not cooperate. The reminiscences insisted on
teasing him, taking advantage of his dull wits made slow by
the exhaustion of grief, and disappeared unrepentant of their
sting to his heart.

"It's done, Mama. I'm a free man, and God forgive me, I'm
so sorry ... sorry." Dewayne held his breath every few words as though he were underwater and releasing just enough air
to say a few more.

"You don't have to do this all at once, son," Jake said, resting
a hand on Dewayne's shoulder.

It was as if Jake had been able to see the jumble in Dewayne's
head and gave him permission to release the sorrow reserved
for his mother.

Dewayne would die in his home in Springdale. He had taken
nothing with him from the house in Houston except his son's
blue teddy bear and a couple of suitcases of clothes; everything
else was meaningless possessions.

Before he left Houston, he had made one phone call: to
Coach Gyra. He told him his plans and wished him well before
the preseason began. Dewayne was still under contract, and
Gyra stated without reservation that he wanted him back. Gyra
believed Dewayne's presence with the Stars would be a real
inspiration to the team. Dewayne appreciated the sentiment
but did not think his teammates seeing him in a wheelchair, his
body plugged into IVs and looking scrawny as a starving dog,
would be much inspiration. Neither man mentioned what both
were thinking ... Dewayne's time on this earth was ending.
Before signing off, Gyra told Dewayne that the Stars' insurance
would cover all medical expenses as long as needed.

"There shouldn't be much required from now on," Dewayne
said. "I'm refusing further treatment. They'll keep me comfortable, and I've got good help. Thank you for this blessing."

When they entered the front door of Dewayne's childhood
home, Jake repeated the story of how he had found Cherie,
peaceful and still as though curled up for a nap, so Dewayne
might feel another layer of closure. Then Jake carried the bags
into his bedroom. Dewayne followed behind him, holding
the apron he, Sly, and Jesse had ordered for Cherie and then
decorated with their crude paintings of football players. It looked the same as the day Cherie had opened it-no stain
or sign of use. The only blemishes of age were the flecks of
paint that had crumbled off the picture each young man
had painted.

Jake unzipped the suitcases on the bed and opened the top
dresser drawer.

"Thanks, Jake. I'll take it from here;" Dewayne said.

"I'll go to the switch box and turn on the power. Need some
air circulating;" Jake said. "Then I'll hustle some food from the
store and cook us up some breakfast."

"Hang this back up in the kitchen for me, please." Dewayne
handed him Cherie's apron. "I don't think she ever used it'

"I don't think that was the intention," Jake said and left the
room with the apron.

The room had never changed. Cherie never moved an object
except to clean around or under it and then put it back in the
exact spot. He shuffled through the room, cradling the teddy
bear in his arm, and handled each object. He opened the closet,
taking visual inventory of the first eighteen years of his life that
had become ancient history in a short time. He set the bear on
top of the dresser, gathered a wad of socks and T-shirts from
the opened suitcase, and tossed them inside the top drawer,
disregarding any order.

He caught a glimpse of a present half the size of the drawer,
pulled it out, and sat on the bed. The cheap wrapping paper
had faded with age, and the red ribbon tied at the top like a
shoelace was disintegrating. He snapped the ribbon off the
box with his finger and ripped off the paper. There was a card
taped to the top of the box, "To Dewayne, From Coach Hopper." When had he received this gift? He called out to Jake, but
he had left for the store.

Dewayne opened the box and removed a tarnished silverplated football mounted on a black wooden stand with an inscription written in Old English just below the frets on the
football: "Without adversity you have no character. Without
character, you have no hope. Never lose hope. To the best receiver a coach could ever have, Jake Hopper." The date inscribed
on the stand was the date of his departure for college. He stuck
the box back inside the drawer, and then closed his eyes, trying
to remember when he received this gift until the effort exhausted
him.

When Dewayne opened his eyes again, he lay curled around
the suitcases, smelling bacon and eggs, and listening to Jake
whistling. He could not remember the last time he had felt
hungry, and his mouth began to flood with moisture. Jake
entered the room with a glass of orange juice.

"I didn't want to wake you, but we're almost ready. I figured
you hadn't had a decent meal in weeks," he said, handing Dewayne the glass.

Dewayne rubbed his eyes and accepted the glass of cold orange juice. After drinking the juice, he handed the empty glass
back to Jake and raised the metal football resting in his lap. At
first he thought he might tell him he had just now opened it,
but thought better of it.

"I never thanked you for this," Dewayne said.

"It's as true now as it was then ... all of it;" Jake said.

"Sounds like a quote from the Bible," Dewayne said, running
a finger over the inscription.

"Don't know, could be. It's a good source of inspiration last
I checked '

"Jake ... Coach ... you don't have to do all this, you know,"
Dewayne said, holding out his arms to include the totality of
all Jake was doing.

"Well, there's where you're wrong;" Jake said, and Dewayne
looked at him with a puzzled expression. "I'm an old drunk and you're dying. I thought maybe under the circumstances that
might make us a good team. We've been pretty well forgotten
... well, I have anyway, but I saw no need for either of us to
be alone right now. I confess I need you more than you need
me, but we both need hope. I thought maybe if we stuck it out
for as long as it takes, we might find us some hope. And if that
doesn't convince you, then I have to do it for your mother. I
loved her ... can't deny it."

He'd said it at last. After all those years, he had let someone
in on his secret.

Dewayne could not help but smile at Jake's uncommon shyness.

"You ever tell her this?" he asked.

"Came close a time or two, but no, my affections were a oneway street. Her love for you and your father was enough."

Both men gave each other a moment of silent grace to contemplate the what-ifs of a relationship between Jake and Cherie,
until Jake ended it.

"Come on. I don't want our eggs to get cold."

Their routine was simple: meals, medication, rest, limited
physical therapy to maintain some level of strength-late-night
walks were the best so as not to attract attention. Since Dewayne
had declined further medical treatment, the local Springdale
doctors' group was in charge of attending to his overall care;
a home health nurse made routine visits to monitor his vitals
and make the necessary adjustments to all the medicines. Jake
devoted his time to shielding Dewayne from the public, though
the hometown folks were not the problem. In fact, they were
protective. After several minutes of concentrated praise for
Dewayne and anecdotal stories of his football prowess to any
and all reporters who had come to Springdale to interview their
hometown hero, they would, with the sincerest of smiles, give convoluted directions to a variety of nonexistent locations where
Dewayne could be found. They just did not trust the slant these
outsiders would give their boy. He was due proper respect and
who best to give it to him. Jake handled those persistent few who
slipped through the front lines, hoping for a Jobe sighting.

All of Dewayne's finances would remain frozen in court until
after the trial, but Jake had enough funds to provide for their
welfare. However, it was rare that Jake went out into the community to shop that he did not return with sacks of donated
supplies, and the goodwill and affections of the community. The
incomparable citizens of Springdale would allow this football
star to live the rest of his life in peace and assure him that in
spite of what the world had done to him and how the media
had treated him, they would always remember him with kindness and grace.