Crackback (13 page)

“Thanks, Mr. Halloran.”

The celebration's in full swing in the locker room. Sam
jumps around taking his pants off two legs at a time. Jonesy and Stillwell laugh together by the trainer's room. I haven't seen them that happy since they were playing.

“One thing I can tell you is you got to be free,” Sam hollers.

Jonesy slaps me on the shoulder. “Big-time play.”

Even Zach comes over and says, “Good game, Man.”

“Thanks.” We bump fists.

Coach Stahl grabs me by the sleeve and pulls me into a corner. “Manning, what were you doing on that last play?”

“Going for the win, Coach. I thought they'd kick.”

“It's not your job to think.” Stahl's chomping his gum. “Your job is to be safety, to stay back in case there's a fake.”

“But we won.”

“That's not the point. The point is discipline, following directions, doing what you're told. And in all of those, you failed.” Stahl spits out his gum. “You won't play another down for this team this year.” He turns and walks away.

I'm too stunned to speak. I just got leveled by a crackback I never saw coming.

At Izzy's, people are celebrating. One guy runs around in his underwear screaming, “We're in the play-offs.”

A group of girls sings loudly, “We are the Eagles, mighty, mighty Eagles. Everywhere we go, people want to know who we are, so we tell them. We are the Eagles, mighty, mighty Eagles.”

I haven't told anyone what Stahl said. Maybe he'll change his mind. Stahl? Who am I kidding? There's no chance.

Zach's behind Tyson at the counter. They're getting burgers before going to a party at the Quarry. “You win on interceptions, Zach.” I hand him his money.

“Hey, the season's not over.”

“Yeah, but you're going to win.”

“Thanks.” He fans the five twenties and tucks them in his pocket. “We'll bet again next year.”

“We'll see.” Zach and I will always be connected by what we've done, but not in the same way. We've chosen different paths now.

At the back booth, I find Strangler and Jonesy.

“You're the star,” Strangler says.

“Star, not Superstar.” Jonesy points to himself.

Brooksy limps in on crutches with Megan. “Just a highankle sprain,” he says. Megan leans his crutches against the wall and goes for food.

I can't keep quiet any longer. “Coach says I screwed up, that I was supposed to be safety on the extra point. He says I'm done playing this year.”

Brooksy, Strangler, and Jonesy look stunned.

“You won the game,” Strangler says.

“‘Just win, Eagles. Just win.'” Brooksy imitates Stahl.

“That sucks.” Jonesy shakes his head. “Something good finally happens, and Coach screws it up.”

These guys are as angry as I am. I like hearing that. There's one other person I want to see. Lucia. She comes back from her dad's tomorrow. I wish she were here now.

It's 1:20 when I get in, but Dad's still up. “Did you lock the door?”

“Yeah, it's locked.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. What did you think of the game?”

“Good game.” Dad sets down his
Sports Illustrated.

“Coach was angry afterward. I had safety on the extra point, and instead I went for the block.”

Dad doesn't say anything. He scrunches up his face.
“Well, that's a tough call. Sometimes you've got to take a chance and go for the win. Considering that offense of yours, that was a smart play.”

I can't believe it's that simple when it comes. Dad gave me a compliment—a compliment about football. “Coach was angry. He said I wouldn't play again this year.”

“That loser.” Dad shakes his head. “You were one of his best players tonight.”

“Thanks.” I sit down on the couch.

“You can get that with young coaches,” Dad says. “They're so insecure they focus more on being the boss than on winning.”

I never thought of Stahl as being insecure. I thought he didn't like me. I'm surprised Dad's taking my side. “Dad, I talked with Mom.”

“I know.” He looks down.

“I'm sorry.”

Dad doesn't respond and we sit without saying anything. Then I remember what I wanted to know. “What was his name?”

“Luke.” Dad whispers it like a prayer.

“What was he like?”

“He was a good little guy. Dark hair, smiley.” Dad's face softens. “Not a day goes by that I don't think of him.”

It must have been so difficult. I try to picture Dad and Luke together.

“You know, when I was young, I always considered myself lucky,” Dad says. “I was lucky in cards, lucky in sports, lucky in life. When Luke died, I never considered myself lucky again.”

Dad pauses. “I was one room away and I didn't know what was happening. In my own house. I didn't do anything.”

We sit in silence. Was losing Luke part of the reason Dad's been so hard on me? Did he see me as the replacement? Dad holds his hands together and spins his thumbs. His fingernails are short, like mine. He must bite his nails, too.

“Dad, where's Luke buried?”

“In the Veteran's Cemetery, by the airport in the Cities.”

“Why there?”

“Your mother and I didn't have much money. We didn't know what to do. A friend said, ‘You've been in the navy. You can have him buried at the Veteran's Cemetery.' I'm not sure about it now, though.”

“Why?”

“No other family's there. The grave is one white marker among thousands.”

“I'd like to see it.”

“Yeah, we'll do that.”

This isn't the type of conversation either of us is used to.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Yeah.”

I know enough not to do something stupid like give him a hug.

Saturday morning when I call Drew, I recognize Stephen's voice.

“Hi, Stephen. It's Miles.”

“Hey, Miles.”

“How about those Patriots on Monday night?”

“Yeah. What a game. Drew and I were there. The place was going crazy,” Stephen says. “I hear you guys had a big win last night, too.”

“Yeah, we pulled off the upset.”

“Congratulations. Here's Drew. He's dying to hear the details.”

“Hi, Miles. You guys knocked off Lincoln.” I'm surprised Drew's still following our games. “I've got it here. ‘Miles Manning flew in to block the extra point for the Eagle victory.' You're the star, Miles.”

“Not quite.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was supposed to be safety on that play. Instead, I went for the block. Coach says he won't play me the rest of the year.”

“But you made the play to win the game. That must count for something?”

“You'd think so.” Talking about it won't change Stahl's decision, though. That's done. Then I remember why I called. “Drew, thank you.”

“For what?”

“Mom and Dad told me about Luke.”

“Ahhh.” Drew pauses. “I'm glad, Miles.”

“Me, too, but it takes some getting used to.”

“Of course, but now you know. You've got something to work with.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Drew.”

“You're welcome, Miles. Say hi to everyone.”

Out in the backyard, Martha and Mom drag pine branches to the bonfire. Dad collects brush all year and gets a burning permit in October. He throws the branches in and sparks fly. He loves watching things burn. “Nice of you to finally join us,” he says.

I ignore it and haul some branches from the pile behind the garage.

“I just talked with Drew,” I say. “He says hi to everyone.”

“I like Drew,” Martha says.

“How's he doing?” Mom takes off her gloves.

“Good,” I say, though I forgot to ask. “He sounds good.”

“How's Stephen?”

“He's good, too.”

Dad pokes at the fire with a stick. He doesn't say anything. Sometimes that's a step forward. Sometimes not saying anything says plenty.

Martha and I go behind the garage for another load. We pull out dried cornstalks and squash vines. Hard to believe we got so much food from these dried-out plants.

“Mom and Dad told me about Luke.” Martha looks up from yanking a vine.

“They told you together?”

“Yes, this morning. Dad said he and Mom wanted to talk to me. I knew it was important. They told me about Luke dying. Mom was crying. It's so sad, isn't it?”

“Yeah. I wonder what he'd be like.” I try to imagine Luke now. He'd be two years older than me. “He'd be in college.”

“He'd be the oldest,” Martha says. “It helps to have an older brother.”

I imagine shooting hoops with Luke. I imagine him protecting me. I'd have had somebody to talk to about Dad, somebody to help me figure him out.

Martha and I haul our load. Luke feels more like a brother, not just the baby who died.

At the fire, Dad wraps his arm around Mom's shoulder. Both their eyes are red.

“That's good,” Dad says as Martha and I throw plants on the fire. They crackle and fizz and burst into flames.

My favorite time of the year is the warm-up after the first frost. Some people call it Indian summer, but that doesn't make sense; Indians know their seasons. It's not as if they'd have a different summer.

Lucia and I walk along the west side of the river. A brown and black striped caterpillar creeps across the path.

“A woolly bear.” Lucia bends down. “Feel it.” She sets it in my hand.

It's not that soft. More bristly, like a brush. “When we were little, we thought you could predict how cold the winter would be by the woolly bear's coat.”

“I still believe that,” Lucia says.

“You do?”

“Yes. I like the idea that some animals know what's coming, that they can prepare.”

I set the woolly bear on the other side of the path. Across the way, the Hahawakpa joins the Clearwater. The Hahawakpa is browner and stays separate from the Clearwater before they come together.

I tell Lucia about the game: getting to play with Sam, running into Goatee, blocking the kick, the joy of the victory. Then Stahl getting angry and telling me I won't play again this year.

“Wow,” Lucia says.

“I'm glad I went for the block. I'd do it again. Even if Stahl says it's wrong.”

“Yes.” Lucia nods. “Yes.”

I tell her about Dad saying I made a smart play and how much that means. I tell her how we all talked about Luke.

“Oh, Miles,” she says.

As we walk north, the signs of people lessen. I think about next year. Who will be head coach, Sepolski or Stahl? Will Jonesy and Stillwell recover completely? How will Zach and I get along? Will things change with Dad?

“Look.” Lucia stops. A fox and three kits bound in a meadow. They have gray backs and red ears and necks. The kits jump and tug at one another. They look like a cross between cats and dogs as they arch their backs and slink low to the ground.

“It's rare to see foxes in the middle of the day,” Lucia says. “Aren't they beautiful?”

“Yeah, beautiful.”
Like you,
I think as the foxes catch our scent and dart into the bushes.

“Let's take this path.” Lucia chooses a gravel trail that changes to dirt, then to grass as it narrows to a single track. “It's a deer trail. I've seen them down here in the morning.”

The path opens on to a clearing on the bank of the river. Grass has been matted down. On the opposite side, the burnt brown oak leaves—the last to go—flutter on branches. Gnawed trees and piles of wood chips show that beavers have been busy. I take off my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist.

One of the things I like about Lucia is how easy it is to be quiet with her. Some people have to talk all the time; she's not like that.

A creek trickles into the river, making its own small confluence. The river is lined with these. Some are large like the Hahawakpa. Most are small. Most don't even have names. All come together to form the river.

Lucia grabs my hand and points. A bald eagle glides above the water. I feel Lucia's warmth as we stand side by side. A dive, a stretch of claws, a snatch of fish.

“That's a good sign,” Lucia says.

“Yes.” Then I can't help myself. “Did you know, though, that eagles are major scavengers, that they eat roadkill and steal fish from ospreys?”

“Where did you hear that?” Lucia tilts her head back.

“I've been doing research. If I'm going to hang out with you, I've got to keep up on things.”

Lucia laughs. “You're doing fine, Miles. Just fine.”

I look into her eyes. They're clearer than the water, and deeper. Time slows like the present will last forever. This is exactly where I should be.

I lean forward and kiss Lucia.

Fine, just fine.