The man was obviously deeply concerned for his dog and showed no interest in a pretty girl in shorts and T-shirt alone in an office with money in the cash register drawer. “I’m afraid Dr. Graves is not here at the moment,” Cathy said. “I’m only his summer help, but I’ll be happy to see what I can do.”
“How long will he be gone?”
“Until Monday morning. There’s an emergency number I can call, if you like.” Dr. Graves wouldn’t come if the patient were Secretariat. He was president of the Bobcat Booster Club and in charge of introducing the team tonight, a duty he’d looked forward to all week with a sappy pride. He was already at the rodeo grounds.
“He’ll blow me off if you give him my name,” the man said, “and my dog needs help now.”
“I’m sure he’ll ask,” Cathy said. “Would you like me to take a look at her?”
The dog was whimpering pitiably. When she heaved, fresh blood seeped from the deep gashes on her side.
“I’d really appreciate that, miss.”
“Follow me to the surgery,” Cathy said.
She could get in big trouble for what she was about to do. “Lay your dog on the table and stay with her until I can get her sedated,” she instructed.
“Thank you, miss.” The man bent to the dog’s ear, and Cathy caught a whiff of a barnyard odor. “Now just take it easy, Molly. This nice girl is going to fix you up.”
Well, she hoped, but what if she couldn’t fix Molly up? What then? The man was so fierce looking and the silence so profound from the
lack of town traffic that he could scare the fight out of a pit bull, but she wasn’t afraid. She was in her element. In the surgery she was always calm and detached no matter the dire seriousness of the animal’s condition or the temperament of its owner. Quickly Cathy filled a syringe and inserted the needle gently into the quivering flesh. “There. That will take her out of her pain for a while until I can clean and suture her wounds.”
“How bad, Miss?”
“She’s sustained deep lacerations. She’ll live, but she won’t be as feisty as before.” Cathy slipped into latex gloves, tied on a surgical mask, and set to work. The sedative had taken immediate effect, but the man remained stolidly by the table, stroking the dog’s head. Cathy did not enforce the clinic’s rule that patients’ owners were to wait in the reception room. That would be pushing her luck, and the man’s love for his dog was evident. “How old is Molly?” she asked. She noticed the collie had been spayed.
“Going on ten years. You’re Cathy Benson, aren’t you?”
Cathy cast him a surprised glance over the mask. “I am.”
“Emma Benson’s granddaughter, the girl them boys risked their lives for gettin’ her a puppy.”
Cathy shaved the hair away from the deep wounds. “So the story goes.”
“That would be from me,” Wolf Man said proudly, and peered at her closely—to see if the information alarmed her, Cathy guessed.
“So I was told,” she said.
“Then you know who I am?”
Cleaning the serrated tooth marks, Cathy said, “Yes, I do.”
“From my description, I suppose?”
Cathy was torn between kindness and truth. After a short pause, working quickly before the sedative wore off, she said, “Yes, sir, from your description.”
Wolf Man emitted a short laugh of approval. “Well, that’s telling it
like it is. You’re Miss Emma’s granddaughter, all right.” He caressed the dog’s ears. “Your puppy is this here’s son. Your boyfriends got him from the only litter I let ol’ Molly have, because nobody would want a puppy from a dog of Wolf Man’s. I ain’t irresponsible like some folks would have you believe.”
“I can see that.”
Wolf Man said nothing more as Cathy continued her work on the sedated dog—swabbing, suturing, bandaging. When she had finished, she pulled down the mask and stripped off her gloves. “That should do it, Mr. Wolfe. I’m sending you home with some antibiotics and painkillers, and something for Molly’s nausea when she wakes up. Give the drugs to her when and only as long as prescribed. You’ll have to keep her safe and comfortable for at least three weeks to give her injuries time to heal.”
“You’re going to make a fine doctor someday, miss.”
Surprised, she said, “How do you know I plan to become a doctor?”
He grinned, revealing the dark hole of his mouth, his lips lost in the mat of brick-red hair. “There’s hardly anything that goes on in this town that I don’t know about, miss. Now, what do I owe you?”
Most likely, he couldn’t pay, even if she told him, but she couldn’t risk writing out a bill for the charges. She had just performed minor surgery and administered and dispensed drugs without a license. “No charge,” she said. “Let’s keep this visit our secret if that’s all right with you, and if Molly requires further assistance, you’d best contact me at my grandmother’s, and I’ll see what I can do.”
He smoothed his beard, a spark of conspiratorial understanding in his shrewd eyes. “Well, that’s awfully kind of you. I owe you, miss, and don’t think I won’t remember. I never forget a kindness any more’n I do an injury. Molly and I thank you.”
He gathered up his dog, and Cathy opened the door for him. On his way out, he paused. “One other thing, miss, if I may be so bold.”
“What is it, Mr. Wolfe?”
“The boy you chose… I was sorry he was the one. Mind your heart with him.”
Cathy was still standing with the door open and her lips parted in surprise when the phone rang. She glanced at the clock on the wall.
Oh, my gosh!
It was way past five thirty!
J
ohn had known the minute Trey telephoned to tell him he was coming to his place that he had something up his sleeve. Why would he want to hang out at John’s house, without Cathy, on a cold, gray Sunday afternoon when he could be warm and cozy at Aunt Mabel’s or Miss Emma’s—and when
he
, John, could be there as well? He couldn’t remember when he hadn’t spent Sunday afternoon at either place and stayed for a good supper.
He’d never seen Trey so worked up over a game as he was over the one coming up against Delton. Trey was convinced that his whole future—all their futures, his, Cathy’s, and John’s—rested on beating Delton Friday night, knocking the one obstacle to the district championship out of the way so that Kersey would have a clear shot to state. How could anybody be as cool and sharp as a knife under ice water on the football field and off it as jumpy as a worm over a fire? Everything was going fine. In early October, they’d been visited by Coach Sammy Mueller in person. Looking like a million bucks, he’d flown in to Amarillo, rented a car, made the hour drive to Kersey, and stayed in a motel overnight just to introduce himself to John’s father and Aunt Mabel and to assure them how much he and the other coaches and the Hurricanes were looking forward to having John and
Trey suit up in the orange, green, and white. So far the Bobcats were 9 and 0, having defeated their opponents handily. Trey’s big and only worry was Delton, also undefeated, but in John’s opinion the Rams were overrated. They had a good defensive line and a scrappy little quarterback, but the kid wasn’t much of a field general. He couldn’t touch Trey when it came to assessing the other team’s defense, changing the game play in seconds when he saw something he didn’t like. Trey called the shots right every time, and both he and John were on their way to being selected All-District in their respective positions and, if their luck held, possibly All-State.
Now Trey had just presented a cockamamie scheme to John that could put an end to all that.
“Jeez, TD, what’s the matter with you? Have you gone crazy?”
“Far from it, Tiger. Look—this razor could shave a baby’s butt without waking him from his nap.” Trey demonstrated by running the battery-powered instrument down his forearm. “See?” He held up the razor to show John the hair caught in the blade that had left a swath of hairless skin. “I didn’t feel a thing.”
“Where did you get that? Did you steal it from Dr. Graves’ office?”
“I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it. I’ll put it back once we’re through with it.”
“We?”
John stared at him aghast. “Not this time, TD. I don’t want to have any part in what you’ve got in mind. You do it alone, or you don’t do it at all. You’re our quarterback, for heaven’s sakes. Quarterbacks don’t pull the kind of stunt you’re suggesting.”
“That’s why they’ll never know we did it. Come on, John! Can’t you just see the look on those goons’ faces when they see their mascot?”
“I can see the look on Coach Turner’s face when we get caught.”
Trey had proposed shaving stripes on Delton’s ram mascot to resemble bobcat claw marks. He’d discovered the ram was looked after by Donny Harbison, a boy their age, when Aunt Mabel had sent him to pick up eggs and vegetables from Donny’s mother. The
Harbisons lived in a big farmhouse on the outskirts of Delton. John had a slight acquaintance with the family, who were Catholics, from St. Matthew’s. Trey was absolutely positive that those shaved stripes would demoralize the Rams, and he wanted to do it tomorrow afternoon.
“We won’t get caught,” he insisted. “That’s what I’m telling you. Mrs. Harbison told Aunt Mabel they’re going to be out of town until Thursday. Their twerp of a son will be at band practice after school on Monday. We can cut English and be back in plenty of time for practice.”
“I don’t want to cut English.”
“We’ll say that by the time the last period rolled around, we were so sick from what we ate at Bennie’s that we had to miss English. We went to the home economics room to lie down. Hell, John, we’re four pointers and team captains to boot. Who’s not going to believe us?”
“All we’ll accomplish is to make the ram look sheared, not clawed, and that will just make the Rams more determined to win, not scared.”
Trey got up angrily from the bed. There wasn’t much room for him to pace in John’s room. Twin beds and a bureau, desk, and chair took up most of the space, and two boys their size almost filled the rest of it. “Let’s go outside,” John suggested. “You need air.”
“I need your help with this, Tiger. That’s what I need.” Trey’s fuming expression and tone slipped into their appeal mode. “Why can’t you realize what’s at stake? Trust me, we’ll be
roadkill
to Coach Mueller if we don’t get a few more games under our belt after district. Do you want to see us go our separate ways if we aren’t offered scholarships to Miami? To see Cathy go off alone—without me?
Do you?
” Trey’s look was desperate.
“Your grades would get you into Miami, TD. Don’t be so melodramatic. You don’t have to go on scholarship.”
“Without you?”
He made the idea sound unthinkable, and John admitted it was like a punch to his gut. Sometimes he thought it was almost unhealthy how tight the three of them were, but the truth was he couldn’t imagine his life without Trey and Cathy. They were his family. They were the only ones in the world who loved him or that he loved. They were one for all and all for one, and they had looked forward to going to the University of Miami so long—and together—they’d put all other schools out of their minds.
“Besides,” Trey said, “without a scholarship, I couldn’t ask Aunt Mabel to pay the high out-of-state tuition when I could go to as fine a school anywhere in Texas. The only reason we’re going to Miami is the prestige of their football program that will give us a leg up to the NFL.”
John willed his expression inscrutable as a rock, but Trey could tell when he was getting to him. Trey sat down next to him on the bed. “We’re going to need all the help we can get out there Friday night, Tiger, and I believe we should consider any idea that might give us an edge. Can’t you just imagine what their players will be thinking when they see their mascot on the sidelines Friday night? Those stripes will scare them shitless.”
“Oh, Trey…”
“If you don’t help me, I’ll get Gil Baker to go with me. I can’t do this by myself.”
Gil Baker?
Gil Baker, one of their defensive linemen, couldn’t keep his mouth closed if it were sewn shut. He’d spout the secret of their escapade—brag about it—and news of what they’d done would be all over town by the start of school Tuesday morning. Coach Turner wouldn’t hesitate to kick both of them off the team—he was that kind of coach—and what would
that
do to Trey’s record in the eyes of Sammy Mueller! Their prank might even be against the law and get Trey in trouble with Sheriff Tyson.
But John knew Trey. Once he made up his mind to do something, no logic in the world could persuade him to change it.
“I promise, Tiger, that if you do this for me, I won’t ever ask you to do another thing that goes against your grain.”
“I won’t hold my breath. Okay, but this is the last damn fool shenanigan I’m ever going to let you talk me into, TD, and the only reason I’m going along with it is to make sure you don’t hurt that ram.”
Trey put up his hand for a high five. “You’re my man, John.”
On Monday, Trey initiated the plan from the moment he and Cathy, John and Bebe climbed into the Mustang after a lunch of hamburgers at Bennie’s—the local grease hole, it was called—to return to school for afternoon classes.
“I don’t feel so good,” Trey said.
“What’s wrong with you?” Cathy asked.
Trey bent over the steering wheel, holding his stomach. “I think… I think I may have picked up a food virus.”