Yearbook (5 page)

Guy was so busy concentrating on the play he paid no attention to the fact that Corky was heading straight toward him. By the time he woke up to the possibility of impending disaster, however, he was so stunned he couldn’t move. Though his mind was blank from fright, he was greatly relieved when Corky noticed him. The quarterback immediately altered his course.

Too late. Three bruisers were advancing to Corky’s left. His only opening was to continue toward Guy. Thirty yards away and Guy could see Corky’s eyes, wide and rolling, a penned Brahma bull. Twenty-five yards and Guy was still confident Corky would somehow manage to zigzag past him. Fifteen yards and he wasn’t so sure. Five yards and Guy realized he should have moved out of the way thirty yards ago.

Locked and frozen, he stood his ground as—pow!—Corky collided into him.

Eagles rushed from every part of the field.

As this sea of red, yellow, green and blue approached, someone yelled, “Corky! Corky’s hurt!”

How? thought Guy, his eyes shut tight. How did this happen?

Together they lay there on the cold ground, Corky and Guy, their entangled bodies interwoven among spokes and handlebars.

The bruisers formerly hot in Corky’s pursuit helped him up. Not caring for assistance, he abruptly pushed them away. Breathing heavily, with a crimson face, Corky removed his helmet. He looked down at Guy and yelled, “You crazy kid, what the hell’s that bike doing here?”

“I… I…” There was nothing to be said. How could he explain that no matter what vengeance Corky might crave, Guy wished himself more?

As it turned out, he was spared the trouble as someone on the J. V. completed his day, announcing, “Hey! That’s Butch Fowler’s kid brother!”

That did it. The end was finally in sight. The only question remaining was, did he want the blindfold?

Whirling around, Corky searched for Butch, who was suddenly lost in the back of the crowd looking, like everyone else, for himself. Finally spotted, Corky raised a fist at Butch and shouted pointedly, “Keep your damn family out of my way!”

Then he strutted back onto the field. Players followed hastily, dusting off his shoulders, back, thighs and can.

Butch and Guy stood alone on the windy sidelines. Braced for whatever was coming, Guy didn’t back up as the Butcher advanced.

Panting like an asthmatic gorilla, Butch grabbed both of Guy’s jacket lapels and lifted him off the ground. His eyes registered “Out of Control.” Incapable of verbal communication, he gritted his teeth, shook Guy back and forth like a rag doll, then flung him to the ground as one might discard a used tissue.

Guy crawled over to his bicycle, ignoring the blood seeping from his split lip. Mounting the seat, he pedaled off. But bent and twisted, the bicycle was almost in as bad shape as he. It now veered only to the extreme left; so the faster he pedaled, the sooner he’d come full circle and—surprise!—once again found himself face-to-face with Butch.

With the added feature of very hot breath, Butch seethed, “You better not be home when I get there. I’ll destroy you.’’

Guy’s sense of timing told him this was no moment for an injection of comic relief. So once more he tried pedaling off, this time compensating for his veering left factor, pointing his bicycle to the extreme right.

And in this misshapen manner, injured and humiliated, Guy slowly maneuvered his way home.

SEVEN
 

DUMPING HIS MANGLED TWO-WHEELER on the front lawn, Guy limped into the house. Jonathan Leeds, his apres-bowling tasting session ended, was swaggering out.

“Wait 11 you taste the banana bread”—Jonathan pointed to his bloated belly—”that third batch with the walnuts turned out best.”

Guy didn’t answer Jonathan as he quickly headed up the stairs. Passing Butch’s room, he thought fondly of his guppies. Poor devils, he’d not be seeing them again.

Bare essentials, he decided, pulling the backpack from his closet. Toothbrush, a change of underwear, camera, sleeping bag, his Hellman’s mayonnaise jar containing $32.48 in loose change, and he was set.

One-forty-five. Butch could be home in fifteen minutes. Guy hurried.

“Can I see you a minute, Guy?” Birdie called from downstairs.

“I’m busy, Ma,” Guy hollered back, strapping himself into the backpack.

A final look around the room and a closing statement for the diary in his head: Saturday, the seventeenth of September, So long, youth!—and he dashed downstairs, stopping only to trip over Rasputin, asleep in his favorite spot on the landing.

“Leave that cat alone!” Birdie stood at the foot of the stairs. “I want you to try a piece of banana bread. This last batch with the walnuts cries out for comment.” Birdie walked into the kitchen.

“I don’t have much time, Ma,” said Guy, following close behind. “Wrap some up. I’ll take it with me.”

“Where ya going?” Birdie asked, now at the stove.

“I’m running away from home, Ma,”

Birdie looked at him cautiously. Then she caught on. Winking, she elbowed his side. “Always there with the jokes.”

Guy ripped a sheet of wax paper from a carton. “Here. Just slap a piece on there.”

“It should be eaten from a plate.”

“I know, Mother. But I haven’t the time. “

Cutting off a thick slice of bread, Birdie placed it on the wax paper.

Guy bit off a corner.

“Well?” asked Birdie, licking her lips.

“Better.” Guy nodded mid-munch. “Walnuts a nice touch, but a bit overpowering. Distracts from the banana.”

Birdie frowned. “Less walnuts?”

“That should do it.”

With resignation Birdie beelined for the refrigerator.

Looking at her, Guy was momentarily overwhelmed with sadness. He hated good-bys. “I’ll write soon as I’m settled, Ma. That’s a promise.”

“Fine,” Birdie responded, pulling ingredients off cold shelves. “And try to be back in two hours to taste the next loaf.”

The wrapped banana bread tucked safely inside his backpack, Guy walked out the kitchen door, into the garage.

No sense taking his crippled bicycle. He’d be going in circles. Rose’s red one was an alternative, only Guy’s sense of insecurity deterred him from riding into the sunset, seeking his life’s fortune, on a girl’s bike.

The only remaining option was to steal Butch’s streamlined beauty. The lemon-colored Schwinn. Butch always swore he’d kill Guy if the shrimp so much as rubbed against his prized baby buggy. It was ironic that Guy had to steal it now in his desperation to get out of town. The necessity of the theft increased his sweeping commitment to never setting foot in Waterfield again.

Pedaling rapidly against the wind in second gear, Guy opted for the circuitous back road to town rather than risk the chance of passing Butch, now probably on his way home.

After Coach Petrillo told both squads how shitty they were, how they played football like old ladies, he sent them to the showers.

Cleaned, dressed and out of the lockers, Corky hurried to his Chevy and drove to town, where he was meeting Ro-Anne at the Sugar Bowl.

Parched and tired, Guy bicycled onto Poste Avenue. One fast Coke before hitting the Southern State Parkway. Parking Butch s bike against a lamppost, Guy hurried across the street.

Like Corky, he was headed for the Sugar Bowl.

EIGHT
 

GUY DRAINED THE LAST of his soda and placed a dime on the counter. Looking out the window, he saw Corky leave his car, heading straight for the soda shop at a brisk clip.

Omigod! What now? Run? Hide? Stand and fight like a man? Sit and be kicked like a coward? Something, quick!

Guy raced to the magazine rack, plucked a periodical, and buried his face in it.

The jingling of the bells over the entrance meant Corky had just walked in. Guy dug his face deeper into the current issue of Modern Bride.

Glancing around, Corky saw that Ro-Anne hadn’t yet arrived. He made his way to a booth in the rear.

Guy stuffed the magazine into the rack. Turning casually to walk out, his back to the door, he bumped instead into a brick wall, which turned out to be Corky.

“Excuse me,” Guy mumbled in someone else’s voice. Then, head bent low, eyes at the floor, he walked around the quarterback in his fervent haste to leave .

To Guy’s horror a voice from behind demanded, “Just a minute!’’

Christ! This couldbe worse than facing Butch!

Turning slowly around, Guy looked at Corky, gulping, “Yes?”

“You dropped this,” said Corky, holding a wax-paper package of banana bread.

Shuffling over, face still to the linoleum, Guy snatched the parcel from Corky’s hand—a chipmunk grabbing chestnuts. “Thanks,” he muttered as he turned away.

Once again Guy attempted the miracle mile to the door. He hadn’t gone two steps before Corky remembered. “Hey, aren’t you that kid on the field today?”

—Uh-oh—

Corky advanced. Guy held his breath.

Corky extended his left hand. “Sorry I yelled like that. I don’t lose my temper much. When it happens, I just rip into whoever’s closest.”

Had Guy heard right? “Hey,” he squeaked, shaking Corky’s hand, looking up for the first time. “I’m the one should do any apologizing. I never should have been there. I don’t know first thing about football. But it was so exciting watching you play, I just wasn’t thinking.”

Corky studied the fellow shaking below him. “ Who re you?”

“Guy. Guy Fowler,” came the gravelly, grunted answer in an attempted deep register.

“Look at your fingers,” said Corky.

Guy shoved quivering hands into his pockets and shrugged apologetically. “Just a little out of control.” Come on, stupid! Think of something to say. Something clever. If you’re funny, maybe he’ll like you. It’s your only shot! Guy rocked back and forth on his heels.

“You always this fidgety?”

“Not always,” said Guy, trying to steady his knees. “Sometimes at dinner I’m allowed to cut my own meat.”

Corky didn’t smile. “Why don’t you just relax?”

“I can’t.” Guy grimaced.

“How come?” Corky glanced at the door, looking for Ro-Anne.

“Don’t know. Maybe I’m a little excited about leaving town.”

“Leaving town?”

“Yeah. I’m calling it quits on dear old Waterfield.”

“Is that right? Where you going?”

“Who knows?” Guy spread his arms wide open. “Wherever romance and high adventure beckon.”

Corky looked at him, almost smiled.

“I’m trying to avoid death. Aha-ha-ha.” Guy launched another unsuccessful stab at humor.

“What’s with you?” asked Corky.

He suddenly seemed so genuinely interested, Guy felt obliged to tell. “Well, you know my brother, Butch Fowler?”

Corky stared down at the small fry in front of him, trying to figure out how those two could emerge from the same family. “Oh, right. Big Butch. He’s in my fraternity.”

“That’s the one. He’s promised extensive torture when next we meet. He thinks he was as embarrassed at practice today by our collision as me. If he only knew!”

Corky got the picture. “Why don’t I speak with Butch?”

“Would you do that?” Guy’s voice rose two octaves too many. “Hey, that would be great, really great if you would. I’d be more than forever grateful to you. Honest.”

“No problem. Just relax.”

Relax? How could Guy relax?

“This is the best thing’s ever happened to me, Corky. Really! If you’d just call him. He’ll listen to you. He will. Christ, Butch thinks you’re the greatest thing going. “

Corky seemed embarrassed by the compliment, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.

“I’ve got a dime.” Guy removed the heavy mayonnaise jar from his backpack. Dipping in, he took out a ten-cent piece.

Corky looked at the jar of coins. What a strange little hoy!

Guy shook the jar fiercely. “One should never be without loose change.”

That one worked. Corky laughed and took the dime.

The two of them looked an unlikely pair, walking together to the telephone booth—Corky nearly six-three, Guy nearly five-zero.

Putting the dime down the slot, Guy dialed his number.

Rose and Butch raced for the phone.

Butch got it. “Hello?”

“Hi, Butchie,” greeted Guy as if nothing had happened.

“You son of a bitch! …” Butch screamed.

“Yes. Well, Butch, how nice you’ve had some time to cool off. “

“You’ve never known the meaning of misery before, you shit-ass. What I’ve got planned for you will …”

As Butch continued yelling, Guy fought to say, “Yeah, sure. Sure, Butch. Listen. Uhm, me and Corky Henderson are down here at the Sugar Bowl having a Coke. Just wondered if maybe you’d like to join us.”

Butch’s rampage stopped cold. “… Wha—?”

“Hold on, Butch. Speak to him yourself.” Moving the receiver away from his mouth, Guy called out, “Hey, Corky! It’s Butch! Yeah, my brother, Butch. Want to say hello?”

Entertained, Corky grabbed the receiver. “Hey, Butch. What’s the word?”

“That you, Corky?”

“Yeah. Listen. Your brother and I talked it out. He knows he shouldn’t’ve been so close to the sidelines today. I’m not mad at him, so no reason for you to be, agreed?”

Butch was stumped. “Oh, sure. Of course. Whatever you say. Hey, if you guys gonna hang out there a while, I’ll come right over. “

“Don’t bother. I’m meeting Ro-Anne. And give your brother a break, will ya? He’s a good kid.”

Without waiting for a reply Corky hung up. “Well, kid, that’s that. You owe me a thousand dollars.”

Guy held out his mayonnaise jar. “Would you settle for thirty-two forty-eight?”

Corky smiled. “I was just kidding.”

Guy returned the money to his backpack.

The bell above the door rang. Ro-Anne making a late entrance.

“I gotta go,” Corky told Guy as he waved to his girl friend.

“Thanks again. Thanks a million. I’ll make it up to you, Corky. I will.”

“No sweat,” said Corky over his shoulder.

Guy bicycled home at full speed, the better to return the yellow Schwinn before Butch might discover it missing. Along the way he reopened his diary to record how strong he felt, being fueled by the idyllic vision of Corky and Ro-Anne kissing hello.

NINE