As an Old Memory

by Vic Kerry

  “Corey Aaron?” Alan asked.

  “Yes, he’s trying to put the moves on me. I’m a little too savvy for that.”

  Alan was glad to hear about her ability to sniff out a snake in the grass. He didn’t like Corey. Disliking specific students was frowned upon, but every teacher did it. Corey happened to be one of the students he disliked. Behind his “I’m trying to save the world” fake swagger, the kid was slimy. His granola attitude only started a few years ago. Before that, he was the biggest redneck kid Alan had ever seen. Occasionally, when Corey Aaron was on the field or in the weight room working out, his red neck showed through his California-cool persona.

  “I think you’re late for class. I know I am.” Alan escorted Jessica out of the room. “Come by around six p.m. That’s when we eat supper. You can grab some with us.”

  “Okay, sounds good.”

  They walked together to the main hall before he went his way and she hers. Something wasn’t quite right about that girl. Josh mooned over her, and she always acted like she was impervious to it. His son told him that she would never let him into her house or introduce him to her parents. It was like she wasn’t real or something.

  The noise of the field house hit Alan and brought him out of his ponderings. The smell was the next thing he noticed. It stank as if he hadn’t spent hours cleaning the place. It amazed him how a couple of dozen teenage boys could bring such a pervasive funk to a place. Thomas passed by in his shoulder pads with his practice jersey over his arm. Alan grabbed him by the neck of the pads and pulled him back toward him. If they had been playing football, he would have gotten a penalty for a horse collar.

  “What is it?” Thomas asked with a surprised tone in his voice. “I’ve got to get out on the field or coach will have my hide.”

  “You do understand I’m one of the assistant coaches, not just your dad, right? If I pull you aside and cause you to be late, it doesn’t count.”

  “You’re right,” Thomas conceded. “What is it?”

  “What did y’all do to get it stinking back in here so quickly? We worked very hard on this place for it get back in this shape.”

  “I don’t know. It smelled like that when I got in here. Maybe one of the PE classes did weightlifting or something today.”

  “It smelled like this when I got here this morning,” Coach Turnbuckle said as he walked out of Alan’s office. “I was waiting to ride your hide, but I was eavesdropping. You two cleaned this place last night?”

  “Yeah, you can check with my wife about when we got home.”

  “We even saw a ghost in the school building,” Thomas said.

  Coach Turnbuckle gave Alan a look that made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like bullies, and the coach was the biggest one in the school. If his job didn’t depend on being an assistant coach, Alan would have gut-punched the guy a long time ago, and probably would in the future once the economics of life were in his favor.

  “Get your jersey on and get out there with the rest of the boys,” Alan said. “Tell them to start running around the field. We’ll be out there in a few minutes.”

  Thomas nodded and pulled his jersey over his pads as he walked out of the field house. The door slammed on its stiff spring hinge. It helped to snap some of the tension that had built up inside of Alan.

  “Ghost?” Coach Turnbuckle asked.

  “That’s neither here or there. We scrubbed this place. I had it smelling like Clorox when we left.”

  “Maybe breathing the fumes caused you to hallucinate that ghost. I will say, though, when I walked in here this morning it smelled far worse than this. I almost gagged. It smelled like a raccoon had crawled somewhere and died.”

  “Maybe something did overnight.”

  “I checked the whole place, every nook and cranny that something could crawl in. Nothing.”

  “What happened to that smell?”

  “It went away about noon, disappeared like it never existed. This smell remained. I know you’re telling the truth. I can’t figure out what happened. Maybe it’s the air conditioning or something like that.”

  “If this smell is coming from that, we need to be worrying about Legionnaire’s disease.”

  The coach shrugged. “If it ain’t that, I got no idea what it could be.”

  “What was here before the field house?” Alan asked.

  “You went to high school here. Don’t you remember?” the coach asked.

  “No, it was here when I was in school, but it was new back then.”

  “Let me think. I think it was a parking lot and maybe a smoking section. I don’t recall too well. Principal Chapman told me ages ago. Why?”

  “Just wondering. We better get outside and make sure the boys are actually running.”

  Coach Turnbuckle and Alan left the building. To his surprise, the football team was running around the field. They actually listened to Thomas. Alan figured cleaning for so long yesterday gave him the idea he didn’t want to do it again.

  Turnbuckle blew his whistle and told the players to get to the center of the field. He split them into two teams and started running plays. Alan stood on the sideline playing referee. Sweat started to bead on his upper lip. He rubbed it off. The day seemed far too humid.

  The team ran a play. He trotted downfield, following Corey Aaron, who’d broken a good tackle. The field ahead of Corey was empty, and the running back headed straight into the end zone. Alan threw his hands up as the signal for touchdown.

  “Outstanding, Mr. Aaron!” Turnbuckle yelled, clapping his hands. “Horrible, Mr. Otis.”

  The defensive player who hadn’t stopped Corey’s run shook his head. Alan understood why. His block was outstanding. Corey had run though it with an expert move.

  Turnbuckle yelled out directions and blew the whistle. They ran another play. The ball went back to Corey. He went to the outside with a sudden burst of speed. Neal Otis broke his assignment and went after the runner. He shot down a diagonal, slamming with full force into Corey. Both flew to the sideline. The ball came loose and soared though the air, landing with two bounces. The two players hit the ground hard. Corey huffed. Otis lay atop the other player as they skidded across the patch of sideline grass, stopping only after hitting the fence.

  The defensive side scooped up the ball and headed in the other direction. Alan ran to the two players on the sideline because neither seemed to rouse. Coach Turnbuckle yelled for him to keep up with the ball, but Alan ignored him. When he got to the boys, Otis rolled off Corey. He pulled off his helmet.

  Neal Otis’s cheeks were red. He gasped for air, barely sitting up. Corey let out another grunt. Alan knelt beside him and helped him get his helmet off. The boy’s eyes were unfocused and staring off into the space.

  “Is he okay?” Otis asked. His voice sounded stunned.

  Alan snapped his fingers in front of Corey’s face and gave him a forceful shake. The player’s eyes focused with another long moan. Alan held up three fingers in front of the player’s face.

  “How many fingers do you see?”

  Corey squinted and blinked hard. He shook his head, “Three, but one of them is dancing around.”

  “I told you to follow that play,” Coach Turnbuckle yelled, trotting over to Alan.

  “He got his bell rung pretty hard. Neither of them moved after the hit. I needed to check on them. This late in the year, having full contact practice is going to get someone hurt.”

  “Otis looks okay,” Turnbuckle said. “Fantastic hit, boy. Next time try not to hurt your teammate.”

  “I’m not okay,” Otis said. “I need to get out of the pads. I’m having a hard time catching my breath.”

  “Does it hurt when you breathe?” Alan asked.

  “A little bit.”

  “Probably bruised or cracked a rib,” Turnbuckle said. “We need to get him in the field house and give it a look. How about you, Aaron?”

  “He was dazed and unfocused,” Alan said.

  “Still am a little b
it,” Corey sounded like his redneck self and not the California persona he usually portrayed.

  “He sounds Southern again,” Turnbuckle said. “Get ’em both in there and checked out.” He turned back to the players. “Thomas, get over here and help your daddy get these guys into the field house.”

  Thomas ran from midfield. He helped Neal Otis up. Alan got Corey to his feet and helped him walk back to the field house. Once they were inside, Thomas headed out. Alan helped Otis get his pads off and poked around on his ribs. The player didn’t punch him in the nose or scream like a girl. Alan was sure they weren’t broken.

  “I’m breathing easier, coach,” Otis said. “I think getting those pads off helped.”

  “You’re out for the night,” Alan said. “Go hit the showers and head home. Tell your folks what happened and if you start hurting worse, head over to the hospital.”

  “All right,” Otis hopped down from the examination table and headed toward the showers.

  Alan turned his attention to Corey, who sat in a chair and leaned against the wall. He was still conscious but looked rough. Alan helped him get his shoulder pads off. He made sure to look in the boy’s eyes. They were focused, and both pupils looked the same size.

  “I think you’re going to be okay,” Alan said. “I’m still going to call your folks and have them take you down to the hospital to be sure.”

  “Don’t do that,” Corey leaned against the wall. “Call my brother.”

  “Jack? How is he doing?” he asked. Corey’s older brother had been a fantastic kicker on the football team.

  “He lost his scholarship to Samford. Got over to Birmingham and partied too much. Momma’s let him come home, but he had to start working as a logger.”

  “What’s his number?”

  Corey shook his head. “Scratch that, he’s out in the woods. I’ll drive myself.”

  “I think you might have a concussion. I don’t think you need to drive. I’m calling your mother.”

  Corey grabbed his arm as he tried to walk away. “Don’t do that, please. It will worry her. She’s sick.”

  Alan had used that excuse a few times when he was Corey’s age. Although this was the kid who got on his last nerve, Alan empathized with him at that moment.

  “How much does she drink?”

  “She’s sick,” Corey insisted.

  “My father was an alcoholic when I was a teenager. I’ve used the same excuse.” Alan walked to Corey’s locker and got his T-shirt. “Bush” was written on it in large white block letters. “Put this on. I’ll take you to the hospital.”

  “Thank you.”

  Neal Otis walked out of the showers with a towel around his waist as Alan helped Corey to his feet. He could tell that Corey seemed embarrassed.

  “We’re heading to the hospital,” Alan said.

  “I couldn’t get a hold of my mother on the phone,” Corey said, his California accent returning. “Coach here is taking me.”

  “That’s right,” Alan covered for him.

  “Sorry about hurting you,” Otis said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Corey said.

  Alan and Corey walked through the building to the door. A smell like cigarette smoke, gasoline, and rotten meat flourished as they stepped outside.

  “Do you smell that, or am I having hallucinations?” Corey asked.

  “I smell it.”

  It was like someone watched them. Alan looked around like a paranoid but found nothing. He patted Corey on the back, and they headed to his car. Alan glanced over his shoulder to ease his mind. He glimpsed someone at the edge of his peripheral vision. The boy seemed to be smoking and gave him the finger. Alan turned to catch the punk. Nothing was there.

  “Are you okay?” Corey asked.

  “I thought I saw something.”

  “Maybe you should get checked for a concussion too.”

  Josh sat on his bed reading Christine. He’d made good headway through the novel. The story gripped him even though he’d doubted it early on. He hadn’t had any homework to deal with since he’d been suspended, and television was still off limits even for that short amount of time he had between bringing his grandfather back from the funeral and his mother arriving home. Grandpa Sim was having supper with them. It was his mother’s idea, which shocked Josh because she tried to avoid him as much as possible.

  As he read, Josh’s thoughts drifted back to the car ride home from the cemetery. His grandfather had seemed in a sourer mood than usual. Josh attributed it to Sim’s old friend having passed away.

  “How did you get that fat lip?” Sim had asked in a gruff, uncaring voice.

  “I got into a fight yesterday.”

  “Is that why you’re out of school today?”

  “I certainly didn’t take off to carry you to a funeral,” Josh said before he could catch himself.

  “Watch your mouth, boy. You ain’t so big that I won’t bust the other side of your lip for you.” Josh could tell he had no heart in his almost cartoonish old man threat. “What kind of a fight did you have that got you suspended—or don’t they paddle for fights anymore?”

  “They paddle for fights, but I beat up three guys on my own.”

  “Did you say you beat off three guys?”

  “You know good and well what I said. They were making fun of Aunt Charlotte. I took care of it.”

  “All by yourself?”

  “I used a textbook twice, but after that, all by myself.”

  “Where was your brother?” Sim gave genuine attention to the story.

  “In class. He got down there after it was over. He was coming to the rescue.”

  “Probably thought a queer like you couldn’t handle yourself.”

  Josh slammed the brakes on the in the middle of the street. Sim never wore a seat belt, and the sudden stop flung him into the dashboard. Josh punched the accelerator unleashing all the car’s horsepower. Sim was flung back as the car quickly approached sixty and then seventy miles per hour.

  “What are you doing, boy?” He pawed at Josh’s arm.

  “Driving.”

  “What kind of driving is that?”

  “Queer driving. Didn’t you know that all gay guys drove way crazy like this?”

  He slammed the brakes again. Sim hit the dashboard much harder this time. Josh shifted into park, and pressed his hand hard into the old man’s back so that he couldn’t lift back up. Sim made some grunts of protest, but could do little else to free himself from the situation.

  “Let me explain some things to you,” Josh said. “Number one, I don’t like you, and as soon as I’m eighteen, we’re never going to speak again. Number two, I’m not gay, and if I were, it would be okay because this isn’t the good old days that you grew your bigot ass up in. Number three, I’m not a virgin. That backseat can attest to that. Number four, I beat up three guys by myself because despite the fact that I keep a low-key attitude, I’m a tough mofo like my daddy. He taught us to handle bullies like your sorry old hide. Number five, I ain’t going to put up with your crap anymore. You get it?”

  “Yes,” Sim made no protest, which surprised Josh.

  “We’re going to head on over to the house. I’m going to go to my room to read, not because I’m gay, but because I like to read and I don’t want to be around you. You can watch TV or smoke on the patio, or if you feel real industrious, cook supper for my mother—who works, not because she is a women’s lib dyke, but because she likes having a career. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yeah.”

  Josh let his grandfather up, feeling a little giddy from the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. They came home, and he did what he said.

  As he sat staring at the page, still in the Arnie—Teenage Love-Songs section of the book, he dreaded what punishment his parents would dole out when old man Sim told them about the car ride. Josh hoped that his mom had another King book on the shelf, because he’d probably be reading for entertainment for another couple of weeks. He
didn’t figure his mother would mind him standing up to his grandfather, since she couldn’t stand him. The language would be what got him into trouble. Despite the fact that she used it herself, she liked to live under the fantasy that her sons never said such vulgar things.

  He was able to focus on the reading again, but a knock on the door interrupted him. His mother poked her head in. She managed to sneak in unnoticed, but with Sim watching TV loudly downstairs, he wouldn’t have been able to hear the trumpets when Christ returned, which is what Sim said would happen if that queer Bill Clinton got re-elected in November.

  “Whatcha need?” he asked. “Help in the kitchen?”

  “No, someone’s here to see you,” his mother said. “It’s Jessica.”

  Josh jumped off the bed, tossing Christine to the floor. “You didn’t leave her downstairs with him, did you?”

  His mother’s eyebrows dove into an indignant look. “Of course not, she’s out on the patio. What do you think, I’m stupid or something?” “Tell her to come up.”

  His mother’s look asked the same question again. “You go down there. She’s not coming up to your room.” She paused and glanced at the book on the floor. “Pick up my book, please.”

  Josh smiled, knelt, picked up the book, and gingerly placed it on his bed. Then, he pushed past his mother. She followed him down the steps, through the living room past Sim (who slept kicked back in the recliner with the television blasting Jeopardy), and into the kitchen. Jessica sat at the round wrought-iron table in the middle of the patio. The umbrella, used mostly in summer, was rolled out to block the glare of the late October sun. The same sun caught the highlights of her blond hair, making it look like it had caught fire. He started out the door as his mother took a pan from under the stove. It clanked metal to metal and cleared his head.

  “If it’s okay, can she stay for dinner?” Josh asked.

  “According to her, your father already invited her,” his mother said. “I’m surprised you’d want her to stay with him here.”

  Josh looked back toward the living room. “We don’t have to worry about him.”