The Rome of Fall

by Chad Alan Gibbs

  “Who?”

  “Deeez nuuuts!”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “No, seriously, Becca asked about you today.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, she wanted to know if you were going to the game tonight, but I told her I doubted it, since NASA scientists are still trying to calculate how long you’re grounded.” I laughed, and he asked, “Are you going?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Technically, I’m still grounded in perpetuity, but I wouldn’t let that stop me. I don’t particularly give a shit about anything my mother says anymore.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, let me know and you can ride with me and my folks. We’re not leaving until three.”

  I told Silas I’d think about it, with no intentions of thinking about it, then turned on my Sega but couldn’t even hold the controller with the stupid wrist splint on. So I just sat in bed, listening to Morrissey’s Vauxhall and I on repeat, because it was the saddest sad bastard album I owned. I’d listened to it seven times when the sun began to set, and sitting in my ever-darkening room, I started feeling anxious, which inevitably led to thoughts of Becca. She’d asked about me, which meant she was thinking about me, and if she was thinking about me, maybe I still had a chance. It was ten till five, and Gaul was three hours away, so I could be there before halftime if I left now, plus I’d have 180 minutes to come up with some romantic speech for Becca. This could work, and if it didn’t, I could keep driving. I didn’t have to live with Mom. I could drive all the way back to Texas. I thought about packing up my stuff but didn’t have time, so I tossed a change of clothes into a paper sack, along with the book Becca gave me, then quickly showered because I hadn’t in two days. Mom was on the couch when I went downstairs, and I walked past her without a word. A minute later, I was in my car, driving toward Gaul.

  There were a few hiccups in my hastily organized last-ditch effort to win Becca’s heart, one being Friday evening Birmingham traffic. I-459 was a parking lot, and I sat in my Mazda, cursing commuters and listening to the game, because thankfully, Birmingham sports stations were broadcasting all six state championship games simultaneously.

  Rome scored first on a short touchdown pass from Jake Norton to Fletcher Morgan, but in the time it took me to drive a quarter of a mile, Gaul had tied the game. I merged onto I-65 South just as Gaul kicked a short field goal to take a 10-7 lead into the half. I’d planned to be in Gaul by now, but I was still over an hour away and stuck in traffic. Thankfully, the interstate began to move again a few miles south of Birmingham, and it was time to see what my Mazda could do.

  Eighty-six miles per hour is what it could do, which isn’t impressive but was twenty-one miles per hour over the speed limit, according to the state trooper who pulled me over near Clanton, costing me precious time and $153. Twenty minutes later, I was back on the road, but by then I’d lost the Birmingham station, so I scanned the dial until I picked up a faint Montgomery broadcast of the game. Through the static, I pieced together that Rome led 13-10 early in the fourth quarter, and as the signal grew clearer, I realized I didn’t exactly know where Gaul was, so I stopped at a gas station for directions then continued on, observing the speed limit for the most part.

  When I pulled into Gaul, it looked like the set of a post-apocalyptic movie. I think I saw a tumbleweed blow across the street. There were no people, no cars, only a single blinking red light that I ran on my way toward the glowing lights of the stadium on the edge of town. I parked a mile away from the stadium because every car from Gaul and Rome was there, and just before I killed my ignition, the man on the radio said, “Jake Norton back to pass on third and long, sets up to throw, and—oh my, he is hammered from behind! The ball is on the ground! It’s scooped up by a Gaul defender at the forty. He’s at the thirty, twenty-five, twenty, he’s running away! Touchdown! Touchdown, Gaul! The Celtics lead 16-13 with three minutes to play! The Celtics lead, and Rome’s quarterback is still down!”

  “Oh shit,” I said and shut off my car but could still hear the Gaul fans roaring in the distance. I ran the mile to the stadium in five minutes flat, fake heart condition be damned, and passing through the gates where ticket takers no longer took tickets, I saw that Gaul’s extra point had pushed their lead to 17-13, and somehow, they already had the ball back.

  “Brinks,” Silas said, making a show of checking his watch, “get here when you can, man.”

  I joined him on the front row of the student section and, fighting to catch my breath, said, “What did ... why ... how does Gaul have the ball again?”

  Silas shook his head. “They knocked Jake Norton out cold, and ...”

  “Oh shit, Jackson?”

  “Yeah,” Silas said. “We ran the damn kickoff back to their ten, but Jackson fumbled the first snap.”

  “Shit.”

  “Shit indeed,” Silas said.

  Gaul tried to run out the clock and rushed their fullback up the middle on first and second down.

  “First down here and it’s over,” I said to Silas.

  “It’s been over,” he said, but on third down, Marshall Ford broke through the line of scrimmage and hit the Gaul running back so hard the ball and his green helmet flew in different directions. Fletcher Morgan recovered the helmet, and Darryl Loder fell on the ball inside Gaul’s ten-yard line. With twenty-six seconds to play, Rome had a shot.

  Jackson scrambled on the sideline looking for his helmet, which he’d thrown in anger after his fumble, and Silas grabbed me and shouted, “Convulsion!”

  “What?”

  “My play, Convulsion! Brinks, it would work here! We’ve got to talk to Jackson!” Silas jumped over the railing and fell to the concourse below. I jumped behind him and helped him up, and we ran to the fence and began yelling at Jackson. He was in the huddle, listening to Coach Pumphrey’s last-minute instructions, and when Jackson ignored him to look our way, I thought Coach P would tear his head off.

  “Jackson, get your ass over here!” Silas screamed, and our friend, the starting quarterback, left the huddle and ran over to us.

  Coach P, equal parts confused and enraged, ran toward us screaming, then realizing the play clock was running out, changed direction and sprinted onto the field to call his final time-out. As he did, the rest of the offense made their way over to Silas, who barked out instructions.

  “Jackson, make sure you tell the head referee what’s going to happen. If he calls the play dead, we’re toast.” Jackson nodded, and Silas turned to Marshall and said, “Marsh, you’ve got to sell this shit. Say it loud so the entire defense will hear. And remember, guys, the clock will be running on the last play, so don’t let it run out. Hands in, here we go.” Silas reached a hand and a crutch over the fence, and together he and the offense shouted, “Victory or death!”

  The players ran onto the field, past a furious Coach P, who shouted instructions his team completely ignored.

  The referee placed the ball at the six-yard-line and blew his whistle, setting the play clock in motion, but Jackson showed little urgency. With the clock ticking, he turned to have a word with the referee, leaving the offense standing around looking confused. Marshall Ford took off his helmet, laughed at his own quarterback, then shook hands with the Gaul defenders. Everyone in Rome would later learn Marsh was congratulating them on their state championship, pointing at Jackson and saying, “Our third-string quarterback is a damn joke. Guy has a panic attack and fumbles every time he steps under center. Congrats, boys, y’all got this won.”

  Jackson finished talking to the referee and rushed to the line of scrimmage, shouting at his players to get into formation, and just as Silas planned, he fumbled the snap and quickly fell on the loose ball.

  “Clock’s ticking; get them lined up, Jackson,” Silas muttered as the referee reset the ball, and noise from both sidelines rose in a crescendo. Marshall Ford screamed at Jackson just for show, and Jackson screamed back before shouting nonsensical instructions to the rest of the of
fense.

  Eighteen seconds. Seventeen seconds.

  Jackson stepped under center. There were three wide receivers bunched to the near sideline, and Jackson looked their direction then barked out signals.

  Twelve seconds. Eleven seconds.

  Jackson stood up, put his hands over his earholes, then lurched toward the far sideline.

  Eight seconds. Seven seconds.

  Jackson began to shake and convulse before falling still on the line of scrimmage. The Rome linemen stood to look at their fallen quarterback but did not move their feet. Gaul defenders stood as well, and one defensive back even started toward Jackson to check on him.

  Two seconds. One second.

  The center snapped the ball to the running back, Brent Holdbrooks, who raced toward the near sideline as the game clock expired. The Gaul defenders, who’d been watching the opposing quarterback lie motionless on the ground, reacted late but still managed to cut off Holdbrook’s path to the end zone, and that’s when he stopped, looked back across the field, and lofted a wobbly pass toward the far sideline, where Jackson Crowder stood all alone.

  From our spot along the fence, I could tell the ball was overthrown. I saw Jackson turn and race toward the back corner of the end zone but lost sight of him as he dove. The pass fell to earth as thousands of prayers rose to the heavens, and every Roman inhaled the last breath they’d take in a world where Jackson Crowder was just a mere mortal.

  No one believes me when I tell them this, but I swear the roar of the Rome fans blew Silas and me over the fence like a bomb blast. I don’t remember climbing the fence, so that has to be what happened. I don’t remember a lot, to be honest, mostly because the entire Rome student section trampled me on their way to the end zone where Jackson waited on his teammates’ shoulders, one hand raising his helmet to the heavens, the other still clutching the football that changed his life forever.

  Chapter Twenty-Six (2017)

  “As you can see, this is a beautiful stone. Excellent cut. Virtually colorless. Flawless clarity.”

  Everyone from financial planners to therapists recommend putting off major life decisions for at least six months while grieving the death of a loved one. So obviously, I was in the Riverton Mall, buying Becca an engagement ring, two days after burying my mother. With a surgeon’s care, the man behind the glass counter placed the diamond on the black velvet cloth in front of me, and I stared at it, pretending it didn’t look exactly like the first ten he’d shown me.

  “And how much is this one?” I asked.

  The man made a show of checking his price sheet then in a lower voice said, “This stone is $24,750.” When I coughed that number back to him, he said, “Of course, one cannot put a price on these things.”

  “Oh no,” I said, “I’ve put a price on it. The same price I told you ten minutes ago when I walked in. Now, do you have anything smaller than the Hope Diamond, or should I check out Riverton Pawn?”

  I knew the fine folks at Harrell’s Diamonds would try to play me with the, “Nothing is too expensive for the love of your life” line, and I also knew I’d fall for it and give them every dollar I had in an attempt to prove my love for Becca to some stranger. That’s why I’d booked our flights to London the night before, along with our room at Claridge’s. If I hadn’t, I’d have bought Becca a much bigger diamond but would have proposed to her at Winona Falls, which, while lovely, is not Tower Bridge.

  Her parents knew that I was taking her to London but not that I’d bought a ring—I’d talk to them about that later. I spoke to Becca’s mom the day after my mother’s funeral and inquired about their Christmas plans. She invited me to spend the holiday with them, which wasn’t exactly why I called, but I appreciated it, nonetheless. Plus, I found out Becca was free after the 27thth, and school didn’t start back until January 8th. We’d spend New Year’s in London and come home engaged. The confirmation email from Delta was in my glove compartment. I planned to surprise her on our drive to Tuscaloosa Friday for the state championship game.

  The rest of that school week was a complete waste. After first period on Wednesday, when the curly-haired girl near the door, who openly despised football, announced she was freaking out she was so nervous about Friday’s game then proceeded to vomit in the garbage can, I gave up any thoughts of finishing the third act of Julius Caesar. At one point during second period on Thursday, I even left my classroom unattended and walked down the hall to see Silas.

  His classroom was no different. Students played on their phones while Silas sat behind his desk, nervously going over plays on his iPad.

  “Are you ready?” I asked, pulling up a chair and sitting next to him.

  “Beyotch, I was born ready,” Silas whispered.

  “I can’t argue. You did draw up a game-winning play when you were seventeen.”

  “Yeah, but I should have had Brent throw the ball to Fletcher instead of Jackson. What a different world that would be.”

  “Oh god, I think we’re all lucky not to be living in a Fletcherocracy.”

  “Honestly, it wouldn’t be that much different,” Silas said. “More spitting, that’s all.”

  He motioned for me to lean in, and when I did, he said, “Keep this on the low, Brinks, but I applied for the offensive analyst job at Newberry.”

  “That’s awesome,” I said, trying to act surprised.

  “Yeah, I applied two years ago, but they went another direction. I gotta think, though, with the numbers we’ve put up this year, and if we can cap it off with a state championship, I’ve got a real shot of working on a college staff next year.”

  “No one deserves it more than you. You know I’m rooting for you, man.”

  I patted his back, and he said, “Thanks, homie.”

  “Okay,” I said, “let me get back and make sure they haven’t set my room on fire.”

  “Will you be there tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said and left his room feeling like shit.

  ~ ~ ~

  At Rome High School, a wall of cubbyholes in the lounge served as teacher mailboxes. There was never anything in them worth reading—a check stub each month, the occasional newsletter from the Alabama Education Association, advertisements for teacher conferences Rome couldn’t afford to send us to because the school was saving for a high-definition video scoreboard. Over four months, I checked my box five times at most and often wondered how things would have played out had I not checked it that day. I pulled out the envelope addressed to “Markuss Brincks,” whoever that is, and opened it to find a handwritten note.

  Brinks,

  I know you think I’m an asshole, but I have something very important to show you tomorrow morning. Something that will change your mind on a great many things. Meet me at The Pindarus Motel in East Riverton, room 100, tomorrow morning at 6:15 a.m. I promise, Brinks, things between us will be different in the morning.

  Jackson Crowder

  P.S. Don’t tell anyone else you are coming, even Becca.

  I’m not sure how the note found its way into my mailbox, though I suspect Melvin the janitor played a part in its delivery. What I do know, with absolute certainty, is that Jackson Crowder did not write it. So who did? The owner of The Pindarus Motel in East Riverton.

  Deacon Cassburn.

  ~ ~ ~

  “You don’t have to get up yet, babe. It’s just five-thirty.”

  Five days a week, Becca woke up early and went to the Riverton YMCA to work out. Five days a week, I did not.

  I sat up and wiped my eyes, and said, “I need to, though.”

  “You're coming to work out with me?” she asked, with what I mistook for excitement.

  “What? God no.”

  Becca laughed, and I lied, “I need to run by Mom’s house before school and find some paperwork the attorney asked about.” I hated lying to her.

  She kissed me on the head and said, “I’ll see you at the pep rally then. Love you.”

  “Love you too,” I
said, and she was gone.

  I showered, made the short drive to East Riverton, and parked beneath the flashing vacancy sign of The Pindarus Motel. The parking lot was mostly empty, but I saw Jackson’s truck parked in front of what I assumed was room 100, so I stepped out of my car into the cold December morning and walked that way. There was an envelope with my name on it taped to the door, and I opened it to find a key card to the room. I held the card up to the lock, saw the light blink from red to green, opened the door to the dark room, and flipped on the light.

  Have you ever walked into your garage at night, turned on the light, and watched cockroaches scatter? Well, it’s not much different, really, than walking into a seedy Riverton Motel, turning on a light, and watching the love of your life and your former best friend do the same thing.

  I turned around without a word while they scrambled for sheets and clothes, and by the time I reached my car, Becca was in the door, shouting my name, but I ignored her and drove away. She called thirty seconds later, and I declined the call, then she sent a text, and another, and another, and I turned off my phone without reading them. I don’t remember driving to the school parking lot, but that’s where I was, screaming and beating my hand on the dashboard, when Deacon Cassburn pulled up next to me.

  If I’d had a gun, I’d have shot him. And sure, technically, I’d be shooting the messenger, but there can be some therapy in that. I didn’t have one though, despite Rome’s insane open-carry policy, and when Deacon climbed down from his truck and leaned through my open window, I stared straight ahead.

  “Howdy, Brinks,” he said, patting me on the shoulder, “seen anything interesting this lovely morning?”

  I squeezed my steering wheel until my knuckles popped, and Deacon backed up a few steps out of precaution.

  “It’s funny,” he said, “the whole town had heard the rumors about Becca and Jackson, but nobody could prove ‘em. Then, lo and behold, they booked a room in the wrong damn motel. If you want to know what sort of man your friend Jackson is, he made Becca pay for the room.”