Pop (23 page)

He owed that much to Charlie.

Marcus looked at Three Alarm Park as if he'd never seen it before in his life. How much had the world changed since he and Charlie had first played football here? Part of him was waiting for the NFL veteran to burst out of the bushes and unleash one of the famous pops that had earned him his nickname.

No. That hint of movement atop the Paper Airplane? Just a squirrel. Anyway, he should know better than to look for Charlie. It wasn't likely that the family would let him wander around on his own again. Marcus had himself to thank for that.

Yet the sculpture called to him—almost as if, by climbing to the King of Pop's aerie, he would somehow be closer to the man himself. He began to ascend one of the smooth granite flukes, amazed that he felt absolutely no fear of falling. Here was the payoff from all those weeks of Camp Popovich: His center of gravity was low, his balance as steady as the heavy stone he was standing on. He had never understood the former linebacker's attraction to perilous perches until this moment. To Charlie, they weren't perilous at all.

He sat at the top and enjoyed a Charlie's-eye view of the park. This must have been one of the few experiences that still made total sense to Charlie—something he could remember from the past
and
experience in the present. Marcus stayed up there, drinking it in, for more than an hour before the cold wind drove him down.

Back on the Vespa, on Poplar Street, he suddenly found himself face-to-fang with Kenneth Oliver. The exterminator didn't exactly look happy to see him, but the warlike animosity seemed to be absent. And could that be a little embarrassment softening the man's perpetual outrage?

“Officer Deluca explained the misunderstanding.”

Marcus nodded curtly. Still, he vowed to himself that one insult, one derogatory word against Charlie, and Deluca was going to have to set another court date—this one for assault.

But the exterminator had no interest in reassigning blame. Instead, he said, “I have something for you.”

He stepped into his shop and emerged a moment later holding an old photograph in a cracked frame. Marcus accepted it with a frown.

“It was in the basement of my store,” Mr. Oliver explained. “I didn't realize what it was until Officer Deluca came to explain about Mr. Popovich.”

Marcus examined the picture. It featured a proprietor standing in the doorway of K.O. Pest Control, minus the giant cockroach. The sign in the window—
DINGLEY'S HARDWARE EMPORIUM
—matched the one in the print outside Mom's office at the newspaper. From the sour expression on Old Man Dingley's face, Marcus could tell he was twice the stinker Kenneth Oliver was on his worst day. No wonder Charlie mixed the two up. They were practically brothers across time. This was, without question, a guy who deserved to have every nail in his store dumped out and mixed up.

“Why give it to me?” Marcus asked.

And then he saw why. Reflected in the plate glass below the lettering were two kids—boys, probably about twelve or thirteen. While it was impossible to tell from a simple still shot that they were up to no good, Marcus could see that this was a pair of natural hell-raisers. One of them had dark, unruly curls.

Charlie. Marcus would have bet his life on it. The other boy was indistinct, his face half hidden beneath the visor of a baseball cap. But it was a pretty good bet that this was Charlie's partner in crime, James McTavish.

“I thought you might know someone who'd want this,” the exterminator explained.

Was that a smile? Not possible.

“Thanks,” he said. “I'll see that he gets it.”

Marcus stood on the porch of the Popovich home, the Dingley picture under his arm, feeling foolish. How could he possibly be welcome in this place after EBU homecoming? After
everything?

He might never have worked up the courage to ring the bell if Chelsea hadn't noticed him there and opened the door. “You.”

“Hi. Uh—where's Troy?”

She was annoyed. “Do I look like his secretary? He's got a life again, since quitting football. You should try it sometime.”

Marcus shuffled uncomfortably. “I'd better go. I just came here to bring you this.”

Her eyes fell on the picture in Marcus's hands. “What is it?”

He held out the broken frame. “Check out the kids reflected in the window. Isn't that your dad on the left?”

She examined the image. “Maybe. I'll show Mom.” She frowned. “Where'd you get it?”

“It's kind of a long story.” Marcus hesitated. “How's Charlie doing? Is he okay?”

He saw a brief flash of anger in her eyes, but it passed quickly. She seemed to be weighing his interest, deciding if it was genuine—or even whether or not he had the right to be interested.

“I'm not sure,” she replied at last. “I don't trust myself anymore. When I thought I knew how he was, he turned out to be much worse.”

Marcus hung his head. “Thanks to me.”

“No,” she said gently. “Taking Dad to homecoming was the right thing to do.
We
should have done it. Mom thinks so. Even Troy thinks so now.”

Marcus, however, felt that he might never be sure. The moment of triumph had been so fleeting compared with the grim reality of what was in store for Charlie.

Chelsea hugged the picture. “Listen, I'm glad you're here.”

He managed a crooked smile. “No, you're not.”

“My mom was going to call. We need some help with Daddy, and we know he really responds to you. It's okay if you want to say no.”

The Kennesaw Retirement Lodge resembled a gracious old manor house nestled among rolling hills and rich greenery. The elegant lobby could have been the reception area in any five-star resort in the country. But underneath the scent of fresh flowers and furniture polish, Marcus detected the antiseptic smell of a hospital—a harsh reminder of what this place truly was.

“I appreciate your coming with us today,” Mrs. Popovich murmured to Marcus. “Charlie really likes you, even if he thinks you're someone else.”

“I'm happy to help,” Marcus stammered. In actuality, he would have traded all that he owned to be anywhere else. But he owed this family. It was the least he could do.

What a procession they made. Chelsea and her mother, devastated; Troy, tight-lipped, trapped between anger and sorrow; Marcus, uncomfortable and out of place. Only Charlie seemed untouched by the crushing weight of where they were and what their business was.

“I've never seen so many old people in my life. What is this, the Crypt Keeper family reunion?”

Such a comment normally would have triggered at least a snicker from Marcus, but nothing seemed funny right now. Charlie's observation had a deeper truth behind it. The lodge's residents
were
old. The youngest of them must have had twenty years on Charlie. Many seemed to be in their nineties or even older. Not all were in ill health, but there were a lot of canes, walkers, and wheelchairs. It was hard to picture an NFL linebacker, not far from peak physical condition, living here.

Troy was thinking the same thing. “This was a mistake,” he said grimly. “We're leaving.”

Mrs. Molloy, the social worker who was serving as their guide, smiled understandingly. “I know it can be jarring at first—”

Troy cut her off. “My father doesn't belong here.”

The social worker was patient. “We're the facility that's equipped and staffed to deal with his particular problem. It just so happens that most people with the same special needs are considerably older.”

In a small lounge at the end of the hall, three wheelchair-bound ladies sat staring at a television set that exhibited nothing but snow. Their concentration was intense and unwavering.

It was sad, and Charlie must have thought so, too, because he walked over, picked up the remote, and changed the channel for them. “Better, right?”

He got no response. No one even blinked. If the viewers noticed that the show they were now watching was any different from the nothing that had preceded it, they gave no indication.

Charlie sat down in an empty chair and began to watch with them. In an instant, his expression was as blank as theirs. He blended in perfectly, as if he had always been there.

Mrs. Molloy nodded approvingly. “You see? He'll be helpful to the older residents while receiving the services he needs.”

“Wait a minute.” Charlie was suddenly on his feet again, facing them accusingly. “You're talking about
me
? Living
here
?”

Mrs. Popovich rushed to her husband and took his hand. “Charlie,” she began huskily. “You don't understand—”

“Do you think I'm blind?” he bellowed. “I know what this place is! It's an old folks' home, and it has nothing to do with me! Okay, sure, maybe I forget a few things but—” He stopped short, looking anxiously from face to face—his wife, his daughter, his son, and finally Marcus. He frowned uncertainly. “Mac?” It was almost a plea. If this truly was his old friend Mac, then that was proof that his concept of the universe still made sense.

Marcus was struck dumb. This was the first time Charlie had ever called him Mac outside the context of football. He hesitated. It would have been easy to say yes, just as he had dozens of times before. He'd become so accustomed to playing the role of Mac that he'd actually caught himself thinking as if he
were
Mac.

But now, in this place, he could not bring himself to perpetuate the lie. It would offer the King of Pop a few seconds of comfort while putting off what genuinely needed to happen for the man's own welfare and safety. Would that be doing Charlie a favor?

He looked desperately to Mrs. Popovich for some kind of guidance. Yes, he was here for support, but this was too much to put on his shoulders! He knew in an instant that there would be no help from Charlie's wife. Her eyes were so filled with tears that he doubted she could even see him.

He shook his head sadly. “My name is Marcus Jordan.”

Twin streaks coursed down the former linebacker's flushed cheeks. A muffled sob escaped Chelsea; Troy turned away. Mrs. Popovich took her husband's arm and held on, as if she could keep him with her simply by not letting him go. Marcus was turned to stone at the sight of this NFL veteran—husband, father, tower of strength—weeping like a frightened child.

Before this moment, the very nature of Charlie's confusion had protected him from the truth of his situation. But at last, he was face-to-face with the fact that his life was never going to be the same again.

I
t was the perfect early-December day for the last football game of the year. The temperature hovered around fifty, mostly because of the bright sunshine pouring out of a clear blue sky.

The DNA bleachers were packed and boisterous. Virtually all of Kennesaw was there to see history made with the completion of a second perfect season. The Raiders and their first-string quarterback, Marcus Jordan, were already up to a two-touchdown lead against their hapless opponents, the three-and-six Latham Lions.

The next play was a quick pitch, followed by a teeth-jarring block to spring Ron for a twelve-yard gain. It wasn't typical quarterback play—from midget leagues to the pros, coaches pampered their precious field generals. Marcus was pretty sure that half the time he did it just to watch Barker squirm.

And because he loved the pop. He'd learned that from the King himself.

He drank in the crowd noise, the chorus of cheerleaders chanting his name. In a way, this would always be Troy's team, but the guys—and the town—had made a place for Marcus, too. Especially since Number Seven's new position was in the bleachers next to his father. Mrs. Popovich had lost interest in the Raiders the minute Troy was sidelined, and Chelsea's football boycott was still in full force. That left the ex-Golden Boy to accompany Charlie to watch the sport he still loved and had once played better than all but a few. It had to hurt for Troy to watch Marcus in his old job, but there he was, even cheering a little. Troy Popovich was a major jerk, but this was pretty damn loyal. You had to give him that.

At the thought of Charlie, Marcus bobbled a snap and had to fall on the ball at the bottom of a pile of Lions.

“Head in the game, Jordan!” bawled Barker from the bench.

The images of last month's visit to the Kennesaw Retirement Lodge had become a haunting screen saver in Marcus's brain, popping up whenever he wasn't actively thinking about something else. It had to be fifty times worse for Charlie's family. And Charlie himself? In all likelihood, the former linebacker had forgotten the facility and the fact that his name was now on the waiting list for the next available room there. Still, there was something different about him. According to Chelsea, his energy level was down and he was acting withdrawn. And while that may have been common for a man Charlie's age, it wasn't the norm for this NFL veteran, perhaps the world's oldest juvenile delinquent.

“It's like he suddenly got old,” she had told Marcus. “Maybe he doesn't remember the visit, but he senses something's up. Something sad.”