“You’re such a feminist!” her friends accused her. “What’s your objection? You’d be assigned to Trey!”
“I will be
assigned
to nobody!” Cathy had announced, appalled at the idea.
Coach Turner’s daughter, Tara, had been assigned to Trey. She was well developed and had acquired a reputation for being easy, and Trey was embarrassed at her lavish attention and did everything he could to discourage it. Bebe looked after John.
For as many years as Cathy had lived in Texas, she’d never understood the state’s delirious enthusiasm for high school football or the importance given to its program over other school activities or achievements. She didn’t make a point of it to Trey and John, but they knew she didn’t buy into the game. “No problem,” John said one night when she confessed she’d never really gotten the hang of a sport whose violent objective was to get a ball over a goal line.
“No problem is right,” Trey had said with a grin, and given her a soft cuff on the chin. “That means you love us for who we are, not because we play football.”
She gazed down at the pair on the field with a sense of pride and ownership, Rufus beside her, quivering to join them, his attention riveted on their every move. As Laura had commented on photographs of them Cathy had sent in her last letter, they were “beyond cool.” Both had shot up to over six feet during the winter and carried 185 pounds of hard, teenage muscle. They’d escaped acne and braces and prescription glasses. They were smart and witty and funny. They made excellent grades, almost tying her for valedictorian last year at the graduation of the ninth-grade class to high school.
But it was their skill on the football field that made them the darlings of the school and heroes of the town. As early as last season, at
only fifteen, they’d been looked over by college recruiters, men whose job it was to fill the rosters of their football programs, and Trey and John were counting on being offered football scholarships at the university of their choice by the end of their junior year. Both wanted to attend college where summer never ended, and they dreamed of going to the University of Miami, which had won its first national championship in 1983.
Trey had had it all worked out since eighth grade when he knew she had her heart set on becoming a doctor and attending the University of Southern California with Laura.
“Forget California,” he said. “You’re coming to Miami with John and me. Miami has a great medical school, and what’s the difference between sand and surf in California and the beaches in Florida?” He was obsessed with the idea of the three staying a unit, and as time went on, to her surprise, her grandmother supported his notion. “What does USC’s medical school have that the Miller School of Medicine at Miami does not?” she asked. “You’d have a ride to school and home for holidays and summer break, and I’d feel easier knowing the boys were looking out for you.”
Cathy had known that last Friday night was coming for some time and had speculated how it would alter the nature of their threesome relationship, since John was always with her and Trey. Other kids she knew were already experimenting with sex, and Cissie Jane, it was rumored, had lost her virginity to last season’s captain of the football team. Until last Friday, she and Trey had never even kissed.
Yet, almost since that first day in Miss Whitby’s homeroom, she’d felt
linked
to Trey. Not
tethered
, but
connected
. It was as if, no matter where she went, with whom, or what she did, she was the shore and he was the ocean lying at low tide, but always in sight. Why Trey and not John she didn’t know. John was a dream, and if she were pressed, she’d have to say she admired and respected him more than Trey. John loved her, too, and in the same way as Trey. Not by word or
gesture had John expressed it—he never would—but she knew. Her heart ached for him, but there was an undeniable chemistry between her and Trey that had always been there, quiet and untapped, and lately when she’d catch him watching her from under hooded lids her skin would tingle and she’d feel as if the air had been sucked from her lungs. In those moments, she sensed the ocean stir, move closer to land, and that feeling, too, made her go warm all over. Someday, the tide would surge in and take the beach. It was only a matter of time.
Rufus’s ears shot up. There was a disturbance on the field. Somebody was down. Players were gathering around their fallen teammate, and coaches and student trainers ran from the sidelines to elbow their way through the huddle. Murmurs of concern rose from the stands and along the fence. Cathy searched for Trey and John but could spot neither one. Rufus whimpered and would have bounded down the bleachers if she had not grabbed his collar. Suddenly she caught sight of John standing and glancing toward the stands as if looking for her. She waved her hand, and he pointed toward the parking lot where they had left their vehicles. He’d removed his helmet and his expression was bleak.
Oh, my God!
It was Trey who was hurt. He was being helped to his feet. His helmet was off, and even from where she stood, she could see the red and swollen distortion of his face.
Bebe and Melissa turned to look at her in dismay as she snapped Rufus’s leash onto his collar.
It’s only a toothache,
Cathy told herself. Antibiotics and a strong inflammation-fighting drug would fix him up once the tooth was pulled. Still, she waited beside her grandmother’s car with her knuckles to her mouth until the boys finally appeared from the field house—John still in his football gear and Trey in school clothes, escorted by the head coach himself. Apparently, she was to drive Trey home while John returned to practice. There was applause from a large group of concerned adults and students who had gathered to hear firsthand what had happened to their quarterback.
“It’s okay, folks!” Coach Turner called to the group. “Trey’s just got
a problem with a bad tooth. He’ll be back with us in a few days. Let’s let Cathy get him home so he can go to the dentist.”
Trey gave her a weak smile, all he looked capable of, and Cathy held tight to Rufus’s leash to keep him from jumping on him. “I’m sorry to let you down, Coach,” Trey mumbled.
Coach Turner laid a hand on the back of Trey’s neck and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “You didn’t let me down, son. Don’t worry. It’s not like you’ve lost your place in line. You’ll be back, but not until you’re well, okay?”
“Okay,” Trey said. He turned to John. “If I don’t get back by Friday night, Tiger, you don’t need me to show that Miami scout what you got.”
“You’ll be back, TD.”
Cathy was busy loading Rufus into the backseat of the Ford while John helped Trey into the car. Her heart in her throat, she started the motor. “All in?” she managed to ask.
Trey laid his head back and closed his eyes. “All in for sure. Take me home, Catherine Ann.”
One of the coaches had already contacted Mabel, and her Cadillac was out of the garage and she was waiting on the front porch when they drove up. “I have Dr. Wilson standing by,” she announced. “He’ll take care of that tooth in a hurry. Good lord, Trey, look at you! How did I miss seeing how sick you were?”
“Because I didn’t let you see, Aunt Mabel. I thought it would go away.” He touched the tip of Cathy’s nose, his eyes swimming in pain. “We’ll talk tonight, Catherine Ann,” he said.
Cathy nodded, and Mabel said, “We’d better go, dear.”
“I need a glass of water first, Aunt Mabel.”
Inside the house, Mabel said, “Sit down, Trey, and I’ll get you that water.”
“I don’t need water, Aunt Mabel.”
“What? But you said—”
“And I don’t need a dentist. I need a doctor.”
“What?”
“It’s not my teeth. I’ve got something going on…”—he dropped his eyes to his groin—“down there.”
“M
UMPS?
” M
ABEL SAID
in surprise when Dr. Thomas delivered his diagnosis.
“That’s it. The poor kid thought at first the swelling was due to a problem with his teeth.”
Mabel clapped her cheeks. “My baby sister must not have had him immunized when he was an infant. Merciful heavens, I feel terrible that I didn’t take more notice, but lately Trey has kept so much to himself, hasn’t even taken his meals with me. I just thought he was being a typical teenager. If he’d just said something…”
“Now, don’t go blaming yourself, Mabel. What kid getting ready to suit up for spring football practice is going to tell his aunt he’s not feeling well—especially the quarterback of the team? He’ll have to be quarantined and the school notified, but fortunately, mumps is the least contagious of children’s diseases, and it’s rare for a youngster to contract mumps at Trey’s age.” He wrote on a pad. “These prescriptions will ease his pain and get his fever down, and I’m going to give you a sheet of instructions on how to make him more comfortable. Then, in about a year, we’ll need to run some tests.”
“Tests? What kind of tests?”
The doctor held her eye. “I think you know, Mabel.”
Mabel felt the blood leave her head. “Oh, Doctor, you don’t think—”
“Let’s just make sure, shall we?”
H
ere, Son, let me do that,” Bert Caldwell said to John.
John reluctantly turned from the mirror to allow his father to line up his tuxedo tie, keeping his mouth closed to prevent inhaling Bert’s whiskey breath. To John’s surprise, the familiar smell was absent, but then occasionally his father stayed sober a few days between jobs. Tonight was one of them. For some reason, he thought the night of his son’s high school junior prom reason enough to lay off the bottle, at least until John had left the house.
Bert stepped back to admire his handiwork. “That’ll do it,” he said. “You need help with the cummerbund?”
“No thanks. I got it,” John said, fastening the pleated sash of maroon silk around his waist. Feeling uncomfortable under his father’s gaze, wishing he’d leave, John removed the satin-lapelled jacket from its hanger and slipped it on, turning to adjust the French cuffs of his shirtsleeves in the mirror.
“Not bad for a rented outfit,” Bert pronounced. “But I would’ve bought you one. You’ll probably need a tux for certain occasions at Miami.”
“That’s still over a year away,” John said, and granted his father a slight smile. “I may grow another inch or two by then.”
Bert nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I suppose so. You look… dashing, Son. I wish your mother were here to see you.”
“Me, too,” John said.
There was an awkward silence. “Are you sure you don’t want to take my car? You’re too gussied up to ride in a pickup.”
“No thanks. I washed and polished Old Red to a high shine, vacuumed the seats. It’ll be good enough.”
“Well then—” Bert removed a number of bills from his wallet. “Take these. You’ll want to have enough on a night like tonight. It comes only once in your life.”
John slipped his own wallet into the coat of the tuxedo. “That’s okay. I don’t need it. Everything’s already prepaid.”
“Take it anyway.” Bert thrust the bills at him. “I’d feel better knowing you had some extra cash.”
John took the offering. “Thank you,” he said simply.
The two men’s gazes intersected for a fraction of a second, Bert having to lift his a couple of inches. “This girl you’re taking to the prom… what’s her name again?” he asked.
John had never told him her name, but he said, “Bebe Baldwin.”
“Her dad owns the filling station off Main.”
“That’s right.”
“She’s one of them Bobettes.”
“Right again.”
“Well, she’s a lucky girl. I imagine a couple of football studs like you and Trey could have your pick of the litter.”
“I’m lucky. Bebe is a nice girl.”
Bert’s nod conceded that the claim was probably so. “I’m sure,” he said. “Well, you kids enjoy yourselves. Drive carefully.” He flicked two fingers from his forehead in a Panhandle salute and left the room.
John noted the shuffle and slumped shoulders and felt a pinch of pity for him. There were some things you could never make right again, no matter how much you’d like to begin anew. That day of nine
years ago John might have made go away if his father had mended his ways, if his moments of sad regret didn’t come between floozies and drinking bouts that turned him into a monster capable of whipping an eight-year-old boy into a welt.
He threw the money on the bureau and swept a comb through his hair again, annoyed at his father for jimmying loose the memory of that afternoon nine years ago. John’s mother had been gone a year when he’d come home from school and found a strange woman in bed with his father. “Why didn’t you knock, you goddamned little bastard!” Bert had roared, throwing back the covers, and John was not able to make it to safety before Bert had yanked a belt from his pants tossed on a chair.
Trey heard the commotion. He and John always walked home together, and thank God Trey had gotten only to the gate and guessed what was going on. He flew to the next-door neighbor’s home to call Sheriff Tyson and then ran back to tear through the house screaming, “Stop it! Stop it!” He threw his body between John and the belt and took a few licks himself before the floozy blonde warned his father that a squad car had pulled up. The next thing John knew, the sheriff and his deputy had slammed into the house and Deke Tyson was ordering his father to put down the belt.