by John Coyne
"Coffee?" Derek asked, raising a cup. He stood in the archway to Barbara's small office off the main hall. "Yes, thanks." She smiled, pleased at his gesture. As director of the Ballycastle Foundation, Derek Brennan had a spacious office upstairs, in what had formerly been Fergus's master bedroom, so his visit to her first floor niche was flatteringly premeditated. "And how's Scott?" he asked, coming in and setting the cup on her desk. "God, I wish I knew." "I saw you by the car earlier." He spoke carefully. "I was a college professor, you know, before I joined the Foundation, and I dealt with a lot of kids not too much older than Scott. It's tough being a teenage boy." "Yeah, well, it's tough being a teenage mother, too. If Scott were a girl, I wouldn't feel so inadequate. At least I would have some empathy. But Scott! God, sometimes I feel like we're in the middle of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and his body has been taken over by alien forces." She laughed, and Derek smiled too, watching her. He liked her best at moments like this, when her face relaxed and the tight, controlled lines around her mouth and eyes slipped away. Her laughter made her seem younger and more reckless. "Do you think it might help if I talked to Scott?" Derek suggested. He was sitting on the edge of her desk with his legs hooked over the corner. His closeness, the way he casually took command, made her wary but also secretly pleased her. She liked having him concerned, offering suggestions, but still she resisted. It would not be good for Scotty. It would not even be good for her. She didn't need any other man in her life. "I don't know if Scott would appreciate having another adult telling him what to do just now. As things are, he can barely tolerate my telling him what day it is." "Oh, he seems like a good kid," Derek ventured. "He is really, but with his father dying, and his having to leave school and move here..." She shook her head and for a moment she looked lost, overwhelmed by events. Her fingers were gripping a pencil, squeezing it hard. "Yes," Derek whispered. He touched her, brushed her cheek lightly with the back of his hand. "You okay?" Barbara nodded, blinked away a flash of tears. "Yes, thank you. Just sometimes, you know, I suddenly get self-pitying and start asking myself: why me?" She smiled wryly. "I'm for that," he said firmly. "After what you've been through this last year, you're entitled to all the self-pity you can generate." Barbara laughed, realized at the same time that he had a nice voice. It was soothing, like his touch. She had forgotten how relaxing it could be, talking to another adult. "How about dinner tonight?" he asked. "Why don't you and Scott come over? Nothing fancy, just hamburgers or something. It's Monday night, we'll put on the game. Scott plays football, doesn't he? I thought I saw him in the school uniform." "Well, he went out for the team, but that was more my idea than his. Mine and the school counselor's. We both thought it might be a way to get him involved, meet some friends. He's not very sociable. Since his father died, all he cares about is Hobgoblin." "Hobgoblin...?" "You haven't heard of Hobgoblin?" She looked up, surprised. "It's the rage among teenagers, especially boys. Scott played it at Spencertown." "What is it, exactly?" "A fantasy war game. I'm not really sure how it's played. They use a deck of cards and each person makes up his own character. It's all based on Irish mythology. The characters go on an adventure together, and they do battle in some sort of make-believe ancient world. "It all depends on imagination, Scott says. The more a player becomes his character, the more fun the game is. But it scares me." "Why?" "I don't think it's healthy for Scotty, not now. When his father died, Scotty changed. There were days when he wouldn't even leave his bedroom. He'd sit on the bed playing Hobgoblin by himself for hours. I couldn't reach him." The thought of her son as he had been after Warren's death sent another tremor through her, brought back her strange, almost primeval fear that she would lose him, that he would slip permanently into a private nightmare. "These are stages, Barbara," Derek said, trying to reassure her. "He'll forget all about hobgoblins once he starts getting interested in girls." "That's the real problem," she laughed. "The only way I can keep Scotty normal is to lose him to another woman." Derek stood and moved away from the desk, put a few feet between them before he commented. "Do you mean Scott is my competition?" "No, that's not exactly what I mean. Scotty isn't..." She laughed, realizing she had placed herself in a predicament. "How about lunch?" he offered, making it easy for her. "We can talk about your Jocasta complex over a Big Mac." Then he smiled and sauntered off, not waiting for her reply. He had left her emotionally ragged. His sudden approach had unnerved her. She was not prepared for anyone reaching her feelings, making her care. It was not on her timetable. She had Scotty to worry about, to take care of. She didn't need a man. Yet she had felt defenseless before his eyes, the way he looked at her, and she found herself growing weak when he came close. He had some power over her, she realized. And she recognized the source. It was the way Warren had affected her. The same basic drive of nature. She was responding with the pure instinct of a female. And it delighted her. She was thrilled that another man could touch her. That she could respond with such desire. That she might again have someone in her life besides Scotty.
Four
"You! Number seventy-two! What's your name?" the coach shouted. He was pacing up and down in front of the junior varsity players, all spread out along the length of the forty-yard line. Scott stepped forward. He hated to be singled out; hated even more the thought of the other kids seeing his awkwardness. "I said, what's your name, kid?" The coach was short, much shorter than Scott, and built like the stump of a tree, with no neck and a flat, squat head. He looked, Scott suddenly noticed, like a Grampus, one of the ugliest mongrels in the Hobgoblin manual of demons and monsters. "Seventy-two! What's your goddamn name?" "Gardiner, sir," Scott murmured. The coach rushed up, planted his legs apart and leaned forward, shouted again, his broad face inches from Scott's chest. "Gardiner, what the fuck are you doing wearing glasses? This is football, for chrissake." Down the length of the line Scott could hear the other kids snickering, turning away to laugh. The coach went on shouting, and Scott felt the hot breath of the man, smelled his sweat. "Get those glasses off!" Scott pulled off his helmet. It was too tight for his head and the thick padding hurt as he forced it over his ears. "How do you expect to play ball wearing glasses?" "It doesn't matter," Scott admitted, clutching his helmet. "I can't play football anyway." "What do you mean, you can't?" The coach backed off and squinted at him, judging his size. "A big guy like you. You played at the prep school, didn't you?" He remembered now who this tall aloof student was. "Yes, but everyone had to play something. It was a school rule. I was only a sophomore; I never played in any league games." Scott spoke quickly, feeling his voice going out of control. It began to squeak, as if the sound was being squeezed from his throat. Along the forty-yard line, the rest of the team began to snicker again. "Well, Gardiner, at this school you either play ball or get off the field. I don't have time to pamper little preppies." He turned away, blew his whistle, shouted to the varsity. "Okay, you bums, get your asses moving. Five laps on the track. That's everybody. Spruce Pine is going to run your butts off tomorrow night." Scott moved onto the track with the other junior varsity players. In the anonymity of the pack he felt safe. He would run to the far end of the field, then off the track and back into the locker room, change clothes and get away. He didn't have to play football. He didn't have to put up with that shit. Or with the coach, that Grampus. "Hey, preppie!" Scott glanced at the outside lane of the track and saw Nick Borgus gaining on him. The heavy linebacker was pushing himself, running full out. Scott picked up his pace. "Slow down, for chrissake," the senior shouted, breathing hard. "Hey, Gardiner, wait a fuckin' minute," Hank Simpson shouted. The other senior had come up on the inside, sandwiching Scott between them. He was as tall as Scott, and as fast. Scott slowed, knowing he couldn't outrun them both. "Listen, don't let Tagariello get to you," Nick said, coming alongside. He spoke between quick bursts of breath. "He's always giving new guys a lot of shit." Scott glanced back and forth between the two seniors who now matched his pace. He had reached the end of the track, where he had planned to run off the field, but t
he two kept him between them as they talked. "Listen, Gardiner, don't worry," Borgus went on. "New guys never get to play except when we scrimmage. Don't worry. You're in our homeroom; we'll take care of you." He glanced over and smiled as if he really meant it, then clapped Scott on the back reassuringly. "Don't worry. Hank and me, we'll make sure no one gangs up on you "
Scott sat on the sidelines for the next twenty minutes with a handful of others, mostly sophomores, extra players not needed for the scrimmage teams that kept taking turns on offense. He didn't mind. At Spencertown he had gone out for football only because of his father. Scott had never liked the game, the tackling and hitting, but he hadn't wanted to disappoint his dad; hadn't wanted him to know he was afraid to play. Now at Flat Rock he had signed up again because of his father, because he thought he owed it to his dad to try, at least. Warren Gardiner would have loved to see his son a football star. For a while Scott stood and followed the practice, moved up and down with the play action, worried that he might have to join them, but when he saw the bench cleared several times and he wasn't called, he relaxed and sat down, forgetting about the game. Instead he imagined that the scrimmage was a battle melee from Hobgoblin. One team he named the Kelpies; the other were the Spriggans. He labeled both ends Groundbats, monsters capable of fighting only within a handful of yards, and gave them a class five rating and the ability to use paws like hands. The backfield for the defense he called the pit, and filled it with sprites and demons. The offensive quarterback he fixed as a Ghent, a fourth-class ghoul, and the big, heavy black fullback was an Azmara, a cleric with the ability to cast spells, unlock doors and heal villagers. A positive force for good in the football melee. Hank Simpson and Nick Borgus were on the defensive team, playing halfback and linebacker. Scott named them last, reviewing the dozens of possible races in his mind before deciding. Hank he cast as a Giant Troll, because of his size, and classified him as sixth level with limited ability, brain dysfunction, and shortsightedness. Nick he made a Banshee, a wailing woman with long, streaming hair and a gray cloak over a green dress. Banshees had the ability to do magic and use spells and poison. But Scott added a handicap, making it impossible for her to see during the day. Scott wished he had his Hobgoblin cards with him. He could have played a real game then, and worked out a battle melee. Yet even without cards he still had his imagination. He made himself the Dealer and concentrated on how these football players might battle, what adventures they could undertake. He let his mind work out all the possibilities. In the woods and field of Knock an Ar the two armies battled. Scott closed his eyes and listened to the rush of fighting men, heard the thud of leather and the groans as the men came together, fighting hand-to-hand for territory. He opened his eyes and there on the field was the medieval melee. The Kelpies and Spriggans, crashing, swinging pole axes and halberds, charging with lances. On the flank a small Barquest ripped into the Spriggans; its teeth and claws grabbed flesh, tossed over the taller creatures. He watched the Giant Troll sweep past him, followed by the screaming Banshee. In his mind, Scott rolled the Hobgoblin dice, read the revenge points: twenty-seven plus. That meant one of the Spriggans had scored a direct hit. The Giant Troll was down, his legs hacked off below the knees. Scott flipped a Hobgoblin attack card. It gave the Banshee a chance to retaliate. Seizing the Giant Troll's mace, she swung out, shrieking, striking at the Azmara. Scott flipped another card. The Azmara withstood the strike, fended off the blow with his shield, then dealt his own return: a blow to the Banshee with his lance, driving it deep into the leather shoulder armor of the wailing woman. Scott mentally rolled again: eleven plus. More than enough to kill the Banshee. Yet she had magical powers, Scott knew. Powers that could revive her, bring her back to life to fight again. "Hey, Gardiner! Gardiner, goddamn you!" The coach's voice broke through Scott's concentration. "Get your ass out here." Scott bolted to his feet, grabbing his helmet. He could see Tagariello standing with Simpson and Borgus. They were taller than the coach, dominating him with their size and heavy equipment. "Come here, kid." The coach moved out of the cluster of players, still shouting as he came toward the sidelines. He was wearing cleated shoes and tore up the turf as he rushed toward Scott. "Get on offense, Gardiner. Play right end." He was pointing toward the second team. "And get your ass moving!" Scott ran through the defense team to the huddle. Envisioning the game as a melee had revived his interest, and now he was psyched up to play. "Go get 'em, Gardinerl" Hank Simpson shouted, clapping his hands together as Scott ran past. He sounded encouraging, but when Scott glanced over, he saw Hank looking back at Borgus, and both of them were grinning. The first play was an end run left. The play action was away from Scott. He did not even have to block and his team gained three yards. On the next down, the quarterback Kohler called a short pass to both ends. Scott was to go down five yards and then out toward the sideline. The pass would be into the flat. He set up a few yards off tackle and glanced across the line, watched the defense develop, saw Hank Simpson move over to cover him. But Scott knew better than to think the quarterback would throw the ball his way. He was the fourth string end, the last player called off the bench. They needed him to fill a position, and the quarterback hadn't even looked at him in the huddle. He had called the left end's number and told him to look alert. "Watch Gardiner!" Nick Borgus shouted from his linebacker position as he jumped around behind the center. Scott grinned under his helmet, pleased that they were including him. At the snap he jumped forward, sprinted the first five yards, ran right at Simpson, who kept backing away, not letting Scott get behind him and into the open field. Scott kept grinning. It suddenly felt great to be running, to be playing football, to have the senior under control, to know that Simpson had no idea which way he would turn. At the fifty yard line, Scott planted his left foot, pivoted, and spun off to the right. He took three long strides before glancing over his shoulder toward the quarterback. The football was already in the air, sailing smoothly toward him through the afternoon sky. He raised his hands almost in self-defense and grabbed the spiral, pulled it effortlessly into his arms as he stepped out of bounds. Behind him Scott heard the team cheer his catch, and as he ran back to the huddle, spotted Simpson and Borgus together, whispering in the backfield