Silent Witness (5 page)

Sam stood frozen. And then, suddenly, he saw Tony.

He turned, flipping away the ball, and ran toward him.

They met on the goal line. For an instant, they stopped there, then they threw their arms around each other.

Wordless, Sam held Tony close. In that moment there was no one Tony Lord loved as much as he loved Sam Robb.

‘Touchdown,' Tony said in a thick voice. ‘That's the play.'

Their team-mates pressed against them at the goal line, whooping and hugging and pounding each other. Nothing coherent was said: it was a moment they could share only with each other, and needed no words. At some unspoken signal, they broke away and headed through the exit gate toward the darkened tan brick building that had always looked to Tony more like a factory than a high school, the cheering fans who had poured from the stands forming two lines around them from the gate to the doorway.

Inside the door, Tony stopped in the narrow corridor as the line of team-mates slowed to pass him, shaking their hands as he waited for Coach Jackson. As was his custom, the coach held himself aloof, trailing behind the team as if nothing much had happened. He would save his emotions for his players.

As he reached the door, Jackson found Tony waiting.

The coach gave him a look of mock annoyance, a man diverted from his business. ‘What you want, Lord?'

‘Give him the game ball, okay?'

Jackson put one hand on Tony's shoulder, not smiling. ‘I'll do what I goddamn want,' he said, and headed for the locker room.

Why, Tony wondered, did the coach deny Sam the recognition he craved, even a thing so small. Sam played hard for Jackson and, beneath his bravado, feared the coach as much as most kids did. There was something skewed here: once more, Tony thought of the rumor that he devoutly wished Sam would never hear – that Coach Jackson was fucking Sam's mother. Tony hoped the coach's heart held up.

Turning, he went to the locker room.

The team sat on wooden benches in front of battered gray lockers, heads bowed, newly quiet as Coach Jackson – who Tony was confident had not seen the inside of a church for years – spoke a terse prayer.

‘Thank you, Lord,' he finished. Then his head snapped up abruptly, and he stepped atop a bench, his communion with the Almighty done.

‘All right,' Jackson said brusquely. ‘I won't tell you all that bullshit – that you're the greatest team I ever coached, that I'll think of you on my deathbed. 'Cause I hope to live long enough to forget about you all.

‘The only thing that matters is what
you
take with you when you leave here.

‘They don't keep score out there. This championship may be the last thing you ever win. But the most important job you did tonight was not to win but to
achieve
.

‘You did your best. You worked with the other guy. You respected yourself. Take that with you, and things just may turn out right.'

The sweaty faces looked up as one to Jackson. In spite of himself, Tony was moved: Jackson had helped him learn that he could keep his head and make things turn out right. This was better than the game ball, because Tony could take it with him.

Jackson snatched the ball from an assistant and held it out in front of him.

Tony glanced at Sam. His friend sat gazing up at Jackson with a hope and need so naked that Tony looked away.

‘Still,' Jackson said, ‘there's this ball. There are a lot of guys that I could give this to. But some of you might fumble.'

Some laughter now. But Tony saw that Sam did not laugh at all. His eyes were stuck on Jackson.

Jackson turned to Tony. ‘So I'm giving this to Tony Lord. I don't need to tell you why – you've played with him all season.'

As Tony stepped forward, the team began clapping and cheering; when Johnny D'Abruzzi stood, and then Ernie Nixon, they all did. Tony did not look at Sam.

What to say. Quickly, Tony rejected some slop about sharing the game ball with Sam – this would slight the rest of them and, he decided, condescend to Sam.

Tony stood on the bench next to Jackson, looking out at them as he gathered his thoughts, and then began in solemn tones.

‘I owe this ball to every one of you guys. So I want to share it with you.' Pausing, Tony grinned. ‘Visiting hours are nine to five.'

The team laughed in surprise.

Encouraged, Tony went on. ‘If you think about it, though, if it weren't for Sam Robb's catch, Jack Parham would be holding this game ball in some hospital, trying to figure out if it's a football or a world globe. So in honor of Jack Parham, Sam gets to sleep with the ball on weekends.'

Amidst rising laughter, the young faces turned to Sam. ‘
All right, Sam
,' someone called. Sam grinned with pleasure and surprise. Tony waited until the laughter died, and tossed the ball underhand to Sam.

‘Nice catch,' he said. ‘Again.'

The team turned back to Tony. His tone was quiet now.

‘You guys are the best. Coach Jackson may forget you – he's got a lot on his mind. But I never will.'

He stepped down from the bench before they could applaud, embracing the players who stood nearest him. But when he got to Sam, he said only, ‘Where are our girlfriends hiding?'

Half smiling, Sam spun the football on the end of one finger like a world globe, watching it with great concentration. ‘The parking lot,' he answered, and flipped the ball back to Tony.

A half hour later, dressed in oxford shirts and khakis, they left the building together.

Outside, a few students and fans and a couple of local reporters still waited, milling about in the cold night air. Raggedly they applauded. Tony felt both pleasure and puzzlement: it was like celebrity, but only for a season, and it happened too young and passed too quickly to seem quite real. Already the heroes of two years ago were half ignored when they visited the team; often Tony sensed that they left without whatever they had come for, not knowing that they had only borrowed it in the first place.

But this was
their
season, his and Sam's: as the two reporters came forward, one young and one middle-aged, pads in hand, a certain pride entered Sam's face, which, to Tony, seemed close to innocence.

‘Move closer, Tony,' the young reporter called out, and snapped a picture of the two of them. ‘You know,' he said, ‘you guys look like brothers.'

They didn't, Tony knew: Sam's hair was close to white, Tony's caramel blond; Sam's smooth face was deceptively young, Tony's angular, his thin nose somewhat ridged; Sam was stronger and, at six feet, a good inch taller than Tony. But this season, Tony knew, people would see them as they wished.

The older man stepped forward, voice jocular. ‘So which one of you boys gets Athlete of the Year?'

Tony felt his goodwill vanish. ‘Who knows?' he said carelessly. ‘There are a lot of guys at this school who can play, and it's not even basketball season.'

Sam stepped forward. ‘It's like that play tonight. We both made it up, back in ninth grade.' He paused, smiling at Tony. ‘When I figured out this guy could actually get the ball to me. See, we've always worked together, so we don't care who gets the credit.'

Sam was lying, Tony knew; he cared more deeply than he could say. But so did Tony. To lie was all they could do; to speak the truth felt dangerous.

‘Thanks,' said Tony. ‘We've got people waiting for us.'

‘Dates?' The younger reporter looked curious. ‘Who you guys going out with?'

Only in Lake City, Tony thought. He looked to Sam. ‘Sue Cash,' Sam said, and shrugged. ‘Like always.'

‘How about you, Tony?'

Tony hesitated. ‘Alison Taylor,' he answered.

The man nodded, almost solemnly. Alison Taylor, his look seemed to say. It was only fitting.

‘Let's go,' Tony murmured.

Sue and Alison waited beneath a tree at the far corner of the empty parking lot, talking quietly, Sue in her cheerleader's uniform and Sam's letter jacket, and Alison wearing a navy-blue coat, Villager sweater, and pleated skirt. When she saw Sam and Tony, Sue ran up to Sam. Alison hung back a little; as if to fill the void, Sue turned to Tony, giving him a tight squeeze.

‘You guys were both so great, Tony. At the end I thought I'd die.'

Looking down at her, Tony smiled. It was hard to imagine Sue Cash dying of anything; not with those lively big brown eyes, the compact body so full of energy, the expressive face that reminded Tony of the cute kid sister in a Hollywood musical – snub nose, strong clean chin, dimples when she smiled, the tight nimbus of brown curls. But unlike most girls Tony knew, Sue could almost be imagined as some lucky family's wife and mother: beneath her extroversion was something womanly and stable, the sense that Sue would always take care of whatever needed tending – at the moment, Tony himself.

‘Sue,' Tony told her, ‘you definitely beat a game ball.'

They grinned at each other. Then Sue turned back to Sam, pressing her face against his chest as he held her close again, a couple.

Alison came forward, more tentative than the self-possessed girl she usually appeared. She gave him a fleeting kiss and smiled for the first time. ‘My hero,' she said. ‘Is this where you drag me from the campfire?'

Her humor sounded a bit shaky – again, unlike Alison. Tonight she had a tensile quality; Tony was aware of Sue and Sam watching them.

‘Maybe for a Coke,' he answered.

With a hesitant smile, she gave a half shake of the head, too small for the others to see. Tony felt a tightness in his chest.

She was different from any girl he had known: smart and a little guarded, with an air of self-possession that implied that she accepted who she was or, perhaps, who her family was. That she was not like this tonight told Tony what he wished to know.

Softly, he said, ‘We'd better get going.' Taking her hand, he turned to Sam and Sue.

‘Come on with us,' Sam said. ‘At least for a while. I've got some whiskey in the car – it'll warm you up.'

Tony felt Alison's hand touch his elbow. ‘No, thanks. I think we need a little time.'

Sam glanced at Alison and then gave Tony a crooked, somewhat sour smile. Guess you don't need whiskey, the expression said. Once more, Tony sensed Alison's discomfort.

‘Just don't let the cops catch you,' Tony said to Sam.

Sam laughed. ‘In this town, tonight? Who's going to throw either one of us in jail? Like Alison says, we're heroes, man. We can do anything we want.'

For a night, Tony thought. There was something worrisome in Sam's elation; he had too far to fall.

‘See you Monday,' Alison said to Sue. She said nothing to Sam.

Turning, Tony and Alison walked to Tony's car. It was a '61 Ford Fairlane; Tony had bought it with his earnings from two summer jobs, and he kept it waxed and polished. But the most important thing was that the radio worked.

Inside the car, Alison turned to him.

She even
looked
different – like money, Tony sometimes thought, or a delicate sliver of steel. Her raven-black hair fell straight on both sides of her face, accenting the hollows of her cheeks, the cleft chin, the china complexion. Whereas Sue was vibrant, Alison was watchful and had a certain mettle. Sometimes when she smiled, it was with an air of secret reflection, but her black eyes had a quiet directness, and she seldom looked away. She appeared much like what she was: the class president, a girl other kids were more certain they admired than that they knew. The gift she had given Tony was to let him in.

Now he did not wish to rush her. ‘I guess we've still got things to work out.'

She gave him a pensive look. But her voice had a quiet resolve. ‘No,' she answered. ‘I know what I want now.'

Silent, Tony kissed her. They would end what they had started, he thought, on the summer night that had torn them both apart.

The night had been warm, even for Lake City in the summer; wearing T-shirts and shorts, the four of them had cut through Alison's backyard, down the steps from the cliff to the Taylors' mooring, and then over to the public beach of the park that, like the old house that was now the library, had belonged to Alison's family before they gave it to the city, and years later still bore their name.

The beach was sandy, soft enough for sitting on or making out. Lake Erie was befouled; a somewhat fetid smell hung over the water, the sources of which did not bear close thought. But they were seventeen, and this was all the beach they had.

They built a campfire with driftwood and kerosene, cooked hot dogs. Sam had brought the beer; good-naturedly, he popped the tops off the cool brown bottles of Carling he had bought with fake ID and handed them each a beer. Once more, it struck Tony that they were a somewhat curious foursome: whereas Alison plainly liked Sue, she seemed to look at Sam with wariness, as if observing a natural phenomenon whose course she could not quite predict. Still, she was willing to admit that Sam brought to most occasions a sense of fun and a certain magnetism; Tony knew that Alison felt it too, even if Sam sometimes called her the ‘Ice Queen.'

They sat back, drinking beer, in no hurry. The moon was large and full, its light refracting on the water that lapped against the shore. Beneath the quiet, Tony noticed Sam studying Alison, then him.

Tony could guess why. Though it was never spoken among the four of them, everyone knew that Sam and Sue had been doing it for months. With Tony, Sam was quite open about this, and expected reciprocity. But Tony had nothing to offer. Just the week before, he had said as much yet again.