The Lottery

by D. K. Wall

  The reality was that his classmates had their own best friends, forged over years. That wasn’t going to change over the few months remaining of his school life.

  The few times he stopped by Abe’s Market were no better. Abe removed all the beer from the coolers before reopening after Charlie’s funeral, but he couldn’t bring himself to work in the garage again. He sat on the stool behind the register while Martha stayed back in the deli, neither their usual gregarious selves when customers walked in. They struggled between supporting their son as he worked his way through the court system and feeling ashamed and guilty for what had happened.

  And the three surviving friends who were closest to him before the accident—Danny, Donna, and Hank—were of little help after.

  Danny spent months recovering in a hospital from his injuries then sat in a jail cell serving a sentence for manslaughter and drunk driving. Nathan tried to see him several times, but Danny refused the visits.

  Donna was absorbed with doctor’s visits and baby plans. Nathan tried to help and be supportive, but he always felt awkward and out of step. Grieving for his friend consumed him and made coming to terms with unexpected fatherhood much more difficult. Celebrating the pending arrival of a new life felt wrong when he was still grieving for the one lost.

  Hank was the worst. He had shared the horrific experience and was the only person who could truly understand it, but he refused to talk about the night at all. With the season over, they no longer shared football practice and found they had little to talk about. In the last months of their senior year, he avoided Nathan in the halls at school and never came over to visit the house. He only grudgingly attended their wedding the day after graduation but then left the next day for boot camp.

  With nowhere else to turn and deep in grief, Nathan resumed conversations with his best friend. Charlie had always been a good listener, and his being dead didn’t change that.

  At first, Nathan visited the cemetery several times after leaving the hospital. He talked to the headstone that marked the grave or the outline of sod over the casket, but he didn’t feel as if Charlie was there. Besides, he felt self-conscious talking out loud where others might see him.

  In desperation and loneliness one night, Nathan returned to the river. He sat on the very rock he was sitting on today and sensed his friend in the trees, the running water, the soft breezes. Comforted by that feeling, he began making regular treks to sit and talk in the spot where Charlie had breathed his last.

  Their conversations were as wide ranging as they had been when Charlie was alive. Nathan talked about being behind in studies, the pressure of a pregnant girlfriend, and the job waiting for him under Ronnie.

  And he cried—a lot—something he never felt comfortable doing with anyone else. Hank wouldn’t even acknowledge the grief. Donna didn’t want to be reminded. Ronnie would join too quickly. Abe and Martha were ashamed that they had raised the cause of the pain. And nobody else at school knew how to react.

  The visits became more frequent, daily by the end of the school year. But as summer came and Jacob was born, he couldn’t disappear as easily. And he had less reason because the birth became the impetus for reconciliation. Ronnie came alive again and doted on the infant. Abe and Martha welcomed the newborn into the store. Friends dropped by for visits.

  Most importantly, Nathan felt alive again, holding the wriggling bundle. He saw hope and a future in those gorgeous blue eyes. He might not have fully healed, but the wound scabbed over.

  Thus, the daily chats with Charlie became weekly and then monthly. In the last few years, he came only on the annual date of the accident, Charlie’s birthday, or holidays. In fact, he realized he had not sat in this spot in months, since the last anniversary of the accident the previous November.

  Despite the length of time since their last chat, Nathan settled quickly into the comfortable routine of talking to his deceased friend, telling the story of the last two days in detail. He described the humiliation of being arrested, the horror that he had hurt Donna, the anger at Hank’s betrayal, and the fear of losing his son. He talked until he was exhausted and the story ended.

  He picked at the pebbles on the ground before raising his head. His voice cracked as he spoke. “I can’t lose Jacob.” He chewed on his lip as he considered his words. “I know that’s selfish of me. I should be thinking of what’s best for him, not for me, but I can’t lose anyone else. I don’t think I can take any more.”

  He stared at the boulder, watching the water twist around it. The sounds of the forest filled the void until he spoke again. “I wonder every day what you would have become. Would you be teaching here in the high school? Inspiring other kids like me to read a little Shakespeare and think it’s cool? You could have me laughing at your stories of stupid things your students would do while we watched our kids playing together.

  “Or maybe your own novels would be bestsellers by now. We would be standing at the grill, cooking burgers while I ask you what you meant by some chapter you wrote. And after dinner, you would tell some of your funny, made-up stories. What I would give to hear another one.”

  He picked up a stick from the ground and twirled it in his fingers. Gripping it with both hands, he broke it cleanly in two. “Instead, all I hear is you trying to breathe. Coughing and gagging from the water. Choking to death while I lay right there, doing nothing.”

  Charlie’s jersey hung in the trophy case in the front hall of the high school. Above it, his smiling face beamed from a photograph, a memorial to a beloved student, a warning of the dangers of drinking and driving. Yet everyone believed his death was instantaneous and painless.

  Even Ronnie. The police had told him Charlie hadn’t suffered—he had died on impact or, at least, was unconscious, never knowing pain.

  That trooper had told Nathan the same lie about his own dad. They always told the family that.

  He didn’t suffer. He never knew what happened.

  But Nathan knew. And Danny and Hank knew. They never discussed it after the accident. All were too busy and absorbed in their own problems to talk about Charlie’s suffering.

  They certainly told no one else that Charlie had still been alive after the crash. Not a soul. Not even Ronnie. Not once. Nathan had let him believe the lie of instant death because it was easier than telling the truth. He saw how Ronnie blamed Danny, hating him for taking his son.

  If Nathan told him the truth, that Charlie had been alive and might have been saved, maybe Ronnie would look at him with the same disgust. That was something he just couldn’t handle.

  But the fact was Charlie was alive that night, for at least an hour, and they could have saved him.

  Danny couldn’t—he was trapped in the wreckage.

  And Nathan, despite all his doubts over the years, knew he couldn’t—he was too injured to go into the water. But…

  Nathan’s eyes blurred as he watched the white foam bounce and splash over the spot where his friend had died. He tossed the stick with a sudden fury and screamed the deepest secret of that night. “Why didn’t Hank drag you out? He was right there with you. He propped your head up and then just left you there. If he had gotten you to the bank, I could have stayed with you. Talked to you. Kept you alive. But he didn’t give me the chance.”

  Tears flowed down his face as he sobbed, his chest heaving. The sun flashed in his eyes as the trees vacillated in the breeze. He collapsed backward onto the ground, stared up at the leaves, and whispered, “Why didn’t he save you?”

  20

  As the tears dried up, exhaustion crept over his body. Numbness replaced the flood of emotions from the last two days. He needed a couple of hours of release, and nothing worked better than watching his son play baseball.

  Nathan stood and brushed the dirt from his clothes. With a whispered word of thanks to Charlie, he climbed back into the truck and continued through the dense woods toward the Point.

  Around a final bend, the forest abruptly ended and opened into a sma
ll field. The grass was beaten down and rutted from high schoolers’ cars. A pile of beer cans gleamed in the sunlight at the end of the open area. A close inspection of the overgrown grass along the edge of the field would reveal thousands of cigarette butts and more than a few used condoms.

  Little had changed at the Point over the last generation. As the darkness descended, particularly on weekend nights, teenagers drifted in. Made out. Drank beer and liquor. Smoked weed and cigarettes. Got laid or blown. Or just hung out and talked with friends.

  But in the light of a Saturday afternoon, much too early in the day for the inevitable gathering of adolescents, the lot was empty.

  Directly below, the park spread out on the flat ground between the factories and the rise of the mountains.

  Years earlier, during the strong manufacturing economy of the time, the owners of the mills had donated money to build a sprawling park in the shadows of the plants. Even after jobs fled overseas, the park remained a source of civic pride.

  Special events were held there throughout the year. The Millerton High School Orchestra and Choir performed in the band shell. Local churches came together and hosted Easter sunrise services. The local manufacturers association—those that were left—continued to sponsor an ever-smaller fireworks show for the Fourth of July. For Memorial Day and Veterans Day, VFW members planted rows of American flags to represent fallen soldiers, including to the consternation of a few, casualties on the Confederate side of the Civil War.

  Young couples married under the shade trees and later pushed strollers along the paths. Children explored the faded informational signs on the nature trail winding through the forest on the perimeter. The basketball courts hosted shirts-versus-skins games. Pop Warner football drew crowds in the fall while Little League baseball and softball games did the same in the spring.

  On this sunny spring day, the parking lots overflowed as families gathered. Young teenagers, clad in safety helmets and kneepads, practiced tricks on their skateboards. Bicyclers and joggers shared the paved paths. A group of teens played soccer. Dogs ran inside the fenced dog park.

  But Nathan’s focus was the group of uniformed Little Leaguers suited up for baseball on the lined fields. The boys were finishing warm-ups as he walked to the edge of the Point.

  The trees on the hill below him cluttered his view, and he was too far away to see clearly. He needed to get closer to enjoy the game, but he wanted to remain out of sight.

  He scanned the crowds around the field until he spotted Donna. She sat stiffly on a folding chair, perhaps being careful to protect her injured ribs. A blanket was spread at her feet, the fixings of a picnic lunch scattered about. Matt and Colette sprawled on the ground beside her, chatting as they waited for the start of the game. They looked tranquil and happy. Nathan ached to sit with them and enjoy the sunny afternoon.

  But Nathan wondered why Hank wasn’t sitting with them. True, Donna had said they would try to hide their affair, especially from Jacob since they hadn’t told him, but Danny was right—he could sit with his brother and sister-in-law without raising suspicions.

  Maybe he had returned to Atlanta, called back for work. Security for bigwigs wasn’t a Monday-through-Friday job. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t there, and that was one fewer set of eyes that could spot Nathan sneaking through the woods.

  Knowing where Donna was made his choice of direction easier. He wanted to be sure to stay the proper distance away from her and hidden from view but still close enough to watch the game. He worked his way down the hill and through the trees on the opposite side of the outfield from where she sat.

  After ten minutes of fighting his way through the dense forest, he emerged onto the nature trail. Walking on the finely ground mulch of the trail was easier and quieter than crashing through the woods but still hidden from the ball fields by the trees. The trail terminated near the Nature Center at the lower parking lot, but well before that, it crossed through the woods just beyond the left outfield fence. He would be able to veer off into the thicket of trees between the trail and ball field and find a quiet, hidden place to watch the game.

  A young boy came skipping around the corner of the trail, laughing and licking an ice-cream cone. Steps behind him, a little girl clutched her dad’s hand and sang some inane Disney song from yet another inane Disney movie. He nodded at the dad as they passed.

  Hold on tight to them, Dad. They can slip away from you fast.

  Rounding another bend, Nathan slowed his steps. The light from the open field filtered through the tree leaves. He could see the fence and painted lines. This wasn’t as good as a seat closer to home base, but he would have a clear view of the game yet remain secluded from view. He slipped off the trail and found an old stump to serve as a seat, confident he was hidden.

  A team of boys wearing blue T-shirts played defense. Their outfield was backing up in respect for the batter stepping out of the dugout. The closest defender was backed almost to the fence just beyond the tree line, mere yards from Nathan’s hiding spot.

  The batter walked to home plate, taking smooth practice swings. His jersey glowed in the sun. The lettering for Abe’s Market was clear even from Nathan’s vantage point, the red leaping from the crisp whiteness.

  This early in the game, the boy hadn’t yet streaked it with dirt and grass, but he would. He always did. He would dive for balls, roll in the grass, and pop the glove over his head, high in the air so that the umpire could see his catch. After a hit, he would slide for a base if the throw was close. His mother worked hard after each game to get that jersey clean.

  Nathan’s pride swelled as the boy held his hand out to keep the umpire from allowing the throw as he knocked the bat against his feet, loosening any caked-on dirt. He kicked his feet into the batter’s box and dug in his cleats for grip, just like the pros he admired so much on television. Positioned and ready, he gripped the bat with both hands. The tip bounced over his shoulder.

  Jacob was at bat.

  When he was six years old, Jacob had begged to go to a soccer day camp at the park. He had played in an organized town league ever since. The tryout date for Middleton Middle School was already circled on the summer calendar.

  Playing soccer in the autumns meant Jacob wouldn’t follow in his dad’s football footsteps, a decision that thrilled Donna since he would avoid the inevitable football injuries. As much as Nathan had loved the sport as a kid, he was quietly relieved too.

  In the winter, Jacob and his buddies played basketball until they couldn’t see the net in the dark. Sometimes, after a good game in the neighborhood, he would talk about trying out for the school team, but Nathan could never tell if he really wanted to or not.

  But baseball was Jacob’s passion. He and Nathan could spend hours in the backyard, tossing the ball back and forth in a nearly endless game of catch. Every spring, he’d played for the town Little League teams, starting with tee ball at four years old. This was his last Little League year, and the middle-school coaches were eager for him to join their team the next spring.

  They didn’t know he might be in Atlanta by summer and not playing for Millerton Middle. Of course, Jacob didn’t know that yet either. He stood at the plate, not knowing that his world had already been shattered.

  When he wasn’t playing baseball, Jacob was watching it on TV. They traveled down to Asheville several times each season for games of the minor league Tourists, a Class-A farm team for the Colorado Rockies. Jacob always insisted on getting there early so he could watch the players warm up, and he had snatched quite a few autographs that way.

  The past summer, Nathan had spent some of their hard-earned savings on a family weekend in Atlanta. Jacob was lukewarm about going, not wanting to be away from his friends, until he learned his dad had scored tickets to not one but two Braves games from a salesman visiting the plant. He still talked about that weekend and how awesome being in that huge stadium was.

  In a few months, he would be living in that giant city. That security com
pany probably even had access to tickets so that Hank could take him often. The mere thought of not being able to see Jacob’s smile in those stands crushed Nathan.

  The boy stood still for the first three pitches, challenging the pitcher to give him a good throw. The count stood at two balls and one strike, a good situation for a hitter. He bounced the tip of the bat in his hand, his knees bent and body ready to fly. The pitcher reared back and released a fastball low and to the center, a dangerous pitch against a strong hitter. Jacob didn’t pass the gift up, his swing smooth and true. Crack! The ball rose high into the air as it raced for the far end of the field. The outfielder backed as far as he could, but he never stood a chance. The ball sailed far over the left-field fence and bounced into the woods not far from Nathan. He froze, hoping to remain hidden.

  Two little kids raced after the ball, the winner getting to toss the ball back onto the field—the Little League budget wasn’t big enough to allow the fans to keep errant balls. They were so focused on beating each other that they never noticed Nathan among the trees. One of them snagged the ball and ran to toss it to an umpire as Jacob jogged around the bases. He didn’t gloat or brag, but the bounce in his step signified his elation.

  The crowd, scattered among blankets and folding chairs on both sides of foul territory, cheered his success. Whoops and hollers of congratulations floated through the air, but one familiar whoop pierced through them all. Donna, despite her pain, cheered from the other side of the field while Matt whistled and Colette clapped.

  The crowd quieted down as the boys’ celebration ended and they trotted back to their dugout. Luke approached the plate for his at bat. He connected with his first swing but sent the ball into foul territory. Families dodged the ball as it bounced off one folding chair. A laughing dad caught it and tossed it back toward the umpires, high school baseball players who volunteered their Saturdays to be back on the field with the Little Leaguers.