North Dallas Forty (42 page)

“You recovered from last night?” I asked, not sure how to begin the conversation.

He looked over at me and nodded. I walked over, leaned against the right-hand door, and looked through the open window. We were silent while I ran my eyes absently over the blue and white leather interior. Maxwell turned back to stare out the windshield again.

“What happened?” he finally asked, still looking straight ahead. “I heard you met with B.A. this morning.”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to decide what he was doing at the office on Monday. “He didn’t make me a starter.”

“I know that. What did you say?” He seemed irritated.

“About what?”

“You know. About everything.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “You don’t know what happened up there this morning.”

“Did you say anything about me?”

“What about you? Christ man, Hunter and B.A. and Foote and that guy March from the commissioner’s gestapo. They were all up there. They suspended me for good.” I paused to wait for a reaction from Maxwell. There was none.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

He ignored the question and continued to look straight ahead. He frowned and scratched the back of his neck. “Thanks for not saying anything about me.”

He put the big Cadillac in gear. The transmission clunked and the car started to ease away.

“Hey,” I yelled, stepping back as he pulled out, “how did you know I’d be here? Seth! How did you know?”

The big convertible roared onto the access road and quickly slipped into the northbound stream of traffic.

“Son of a bitch,” I said softly, as the huge automobile disappeared.

I started my car and pulled onto Mockingbird, leaving the North Dallas Towers behind, and aimed toward home, my mind a jumble of thoughts. I was saddened and guilt-ridden but also lighthearted, almost excited, and felt nowhere near the great pain I would have expected over my sudden fall from grace. I guess it’s like B.A. said, football teaches you to overcome adversity. I must be cranking up to overcome.

Football had been my refuge from the fear of loneliness and worthlessness. But now I was beginning to see what Charlotte meant. I must have a value to myself and that has to come from inside, not from achievements in the world.

I turned off Mockingbird and cruised through the wealthy and highly restricted township of Highland Park. On the street and in the driveways I passed parked cars that cost my whole salary. It was reassuring to think of Mr. Businessman’s Rolls Royce or Mercedes in terms of how many bone-shattering blows I would have had to endure to earn it. In terms of ripped ligaments, shredded muscles, and lacerated skin, it put in perspective where I had really been and what an imaginary ephemeral thing I had just lost. I wasn’t their equal. I was merely their entertainment.

The reverend’s Cadillac was idling roughly in the drive when I reached home. Johnny would be inside singing hymns and emptying ash trays. Ash trays were all she cleaned on Mondays. It didn’t take her long as I never smoked tobacco and I ate all my roaches.

I shut off the Riviera and headed up the walk to my house.

The front door was open slightly. It resisted my push and made a loud scratching noise against the hardwood floor of the living room. Sometimes in damp weather the door warped so badly I couldn’t get it locked. Up until the appearance of Mr. Rindquist, I had never worried about it. Now I was glad to be moving.

When I walked in, Johnny was bent over the fireplace emptying an ash tray onto the hearth.

“Hidy, Mr. Phil,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. Two gum wrappers floated lazily to the concrete. “How’s you feelin’ tiday?”

“Fine, Johnny,” I replied, without thinking, “just fine.” The truthfulness of my answer surprised me. I did feel fine, I felt more than fine, I felt excited, anticipatory. It was a new game and I couldn’t deny the thrill of it.

I knew I would lament the way it had all gone, but it would be a bittersweet regret, not pit-of-the-stomach remorse. I had been a good football player and had worked hard on the field; I would rue some of my tactics but I was satisfied; I played because I was good and they couldn’t take that from me. It would be enough.

“Johnny, I won’t be needing you anymore. I’m moving.”

“Oh.” Johnny’s face wrinkled into thought for a moment, then she smiled brightly. “That’s awright. Mr. Andy and Mr. Claridge wants me to come work fo’ them in they new house. I was wantin’ to talk to you ’bout it tiday.”

“Well, that’s fine, Johnny,” I replied. “Tell them you can start today. And Johnny—” I dug some crumpled bills out of my pocket, “—here’s fifty dollars. I want to buy the center page in your church program again. But try and remember this time how my name is spelled.”

“Why, thank you, Mistah Phil. An ahm shore the rev’ren’ll be rat pleased. Thank you. Thank you.” She smiled widely and began untying her apron.

I wandered back to my bedroom to decide what to take and what to leave behind.

I sat on the bed and looked around the room, thinking about the sleepless nights I had spent there, some because the aches were too great to allow any rest, others because the fear had crept to the back of my throat and waited for me to close my eyes. I had lived in terror of its all ending, but now that it had, except for a slight melancholy ache and some momentary confusion, I felt great. It made all those fears that still floated near the ceiling and hung from the walls seem foolish, pointless; the nights I lay in bed and cried wolf to myself. I could recall few good times inside these bedroom walls; an occasional girl who passed through my life in one night looking for something I didn’t have or had misplaced. Mostly it had been a place where I would finally retreat to let my mind and body heal.

I pulled an old suitcase from beneath the bed, gathered up three pairs of Levi’s and several sweaters, and carried it to the car.

I returned to the house and unplugged the color television and placed it on the bed. I decided to leave the old Voice of Music stereo that had played everything from The Brothers Four to the Rolling Stones. I wrote a note to my landlord, enclosed a month’s rent, and told him he could have anything left in the house. I picked up the color television and walked out to the car. I stopped to attach my landlord’s letter to the mailbox.

“Mr. Phil.”

I finished loading everything into the back seat of the Riviera and turned to face Johnny, calling me from the reverend’s car as it backed from my driveway.

“Yeah, Johnny,” I answered, impatient to be on my way.

“Uncle Billy Bunk sent that tape back.”

The aged Cadillac bumped into the street.

“What tape?” I asked.

“You know,” Johnny replied, “the one me an’ mah sistah an’ the rev’ren’ here recorded about you.”

I nodded that I recalled the tape. A loud metallic clunk from beneath the car signaled the shift from reverse to drive.

“Well,” Johnny continued, leaning out the window and calling back to me as they moved off down the street, slowly picking up speed, “Uncle Billy says they couldn’t use it. He said you was ...”

The reverend had nursed the clunking, smoking car up to speed and out of earshot. The last of Johnny’s statement was lost in a cloud of blue vapor.

“I should think not,” I said aloud. “I should think not.”

I folded my arms on the car roof and rested my chin on them. I gazed vacantly at the ramshackle house across the street; the rot of age already had consumed the front steps and part of the porch. The collapsing house was occupied by a creaky old man I had seen only a couple of times as he shuffled hopefully to his mailbox only to find it empty. I stared at the house and the unkempt lawn for a long time, wishing I had been a better neighbor to the old man.

“Well, old man,” I said to the dying house, “I guess this means neither of us will get a phone call from the President.”

I climbed into the front seat, adjusted the steering wheel, pushed
Sweetheart of the Rodeo
onto the tape deck and pulled away from the curb. I never even looked to see if the front door was closed.

I smoked a joint, pointed the car east and smashed down on the accelerator. Once on the highway, I kept the needle on ninety. The speed was exhilarating. Combined with marijuana and the Byrds at full volume it was near hallucinogenic.

“... I don’t care how many letters they sent

The morning came and the morning went.

Pick up your money and pack up your tent

You ain’t goin’ nowhere ...”

I was on the two-lane stretch, about twenty miles from Lacota, the central Texas hills rolling by. As I roared along the concrete strip, cattle looked up lazily from their grazing and children ran down to fence lines to wave. Charlotte would be expecting me sometime today. Standing in the yard in a loose-fitting Western shirt with her breasts thrust forward and her hands jammed in the hip pockets of her jeans, she would break into that even, gentle smile that came more from her eyes than her lips. We would go right to bed. Or maybe just there on the cold grass and show that poor Brangus steer what he missed.

“... Buy me a flute

And a gun that shoots

Strap yourself to a tree with roots

Cause you ain’t goin’ nowhere ...”

That the front gate was open didn’t even register in my excitement to get to Charlotte. I reached the house and pulled up behind Bob Beaudreau’s Continental Mark III with the personalized “
M FUNDS
” license plates. He was probably inside pleading with her to take him back. I would beat his ass if he even looked sideways.

The door on the driver’s side had been left open and the sound of the still running engine blended eerily with the highpitched buzz that signaled the keys were in the ignition. I reached inside and switched off the motor, taking out the keys and laying them on the seat.

Instantly it was silent and I strained to hear some clue as to what was happening. My mind jumped at a masochistic flicker of finding them in bed together, but I knew it was false.

The two cats were resting lazily in the sand beneath the kitchen steps. They looked up hungrily at the sound of my foot on the bottom stair, expecting another set of calf testicles.

The house was quiet as I moved from the kitchen down the hallway toward the den. My confusion was rapidly building. Maybe they weren’t even in the house. I should have checked the barn.

I felt excited, almost lighthearted, as my adrenal cortex reacted to the tension. I stepped around the corner and down into the den.

Bob Beaudreau was sitting on the couch, alone. He was dressed neatly in a light blue suit and a wide red-and-blue-striped tie. He watched calmly as I entered the room.

“I thought I heard somebody,” he said, crossing his legs. Large dark brown stains covered his trousers. “They’re in the bedroom,” he added, pointing down the hall and then using his finger to scratch his cheek.

Lying on a magazine atop the low coffee table in front of the couch was Beaudreau’s fat blue steel .357 Magnum. He had placed it on a magazine to keep it from scratching the tabletop.

They were just shredded pieces of brown and white flesh. Lumps of nothing. The bullets hadn’t hit solidly anywhere, just knocked off hunks of meat and bone.

Charlotte must have died instantly from a bullet that hit her in the cheek and tore off the side of her head back to her ear. Another slug had hit her breast, bursting it like a balloon, leaving a ragged, bloody flap of skin hanging from her chest.

David must have bled to death, a huge red-black path followed him to the corner where he was grotesquely huddled. One of his hands was almost blown off at the wrist and was twisted palm up in a silent gesture. Two giant trenches had been ripped out of his back and buttocks.

“I caught ’em in bed early this mornin’,” Beaudreau explained, his voice calm while his wild eyes searched my face. He started to giggle. “I’ll bet you didn’t know she was fucking the nigger.”

I walked over and picked up the gun and stood in front of him.

“You thought you’d tricked me,” he said, looking up at me and trying to control his giggle. His white tassled loafers were soaked with blood and had turned a bright auburn color. “The both of you—having a big laugh. Well, the joke’s on you.” He broke into a short high-pitched giggle, then stopped as suddenly as he started and narrowed his eyes. “I tried to be your friend,” he cried, pointing a finger at my face. “I liked you.”

I raised the gun and aimed right into his face. His expression never changed. I turned my head as I pulled the trigger, because I knew he would splatter some.

“It’s empty,” he said.

The hammer slammed into the spent cartridge with a pointless click. The frustration ripped through me like an electric shock. I lunged across the low table, lifting the gun over my head like a club. My foot caught and I fell on top of him. He began squealing like a pig and tried to crawl away from me. I swung at his head with the gun and hit him a glancing blow on the forehead with the barrel. The sight gouged a chunk out of his brow just below the hairline and the blood ran down into his right eye.

“Stop it,” he screamed, rubbing his hand over his eye and looking at the blood that came away on his fingers. He started to scramble off the couch away from me. “You’re crazy!”

I swung at him with all my strength, the weight of the gun adding a murderous velocity to the blow. I hit him just behind the right ear as he was trying to stand. Somehow my index finger had gotten between the trigger guard and his skull. I felt the finger shatter. Beaudreau went down in a heap on the floor. My hand had gone numb and the gun flew across the room when I tried to hit him again.

I started kicking him while he lay whimpering on the floor. I wanted to kick him to death, but he was too fat and had curled up in a ball.

I picked up the coffee table, but my broken finger wouldn’t hold and the table slipped to the floor. I grabbed it again and tried to crush his skull with it, but I couldn’t grip it tightly enough to get a good swing. It bounced off the side of his head and out of my hands.