Pump Fake

by Michael Beck

  "Look," said Bear, nodding at Jade.

  Jade had tilted her head back, eyes closed, allowing the snowflakes to fall on her face. I watched as the flakes landed like butterflies before dissolving. At twenty years of age, she had the same heart-shaped face and blue eyes as Mom. She had been a beauty too.

  "She's doing more of this kind of stuff," I said. "She seems more aware of her surroundings."

  "She still doesn't talk?"

  "Only sometimes in her sleep. Nothing that makes sense."

  "But that's a big improvement. It's been fourteen years of silence, Tan. She's getting better. Taking her on day trips out of SeaView seems to be good for her."

  "We'll see." I hated to be too optimistic. Two years ago was the first time she had spoken in twelve years. Three words. But since then nothing. It was then I had begun to take her out of the SeaView sanatorium as often as I could, to fitness classes, the zoo, shopping, baseball games, the museum, concerts. Anything I could think of.

  Even though she still didn't talk, little by little, she seemed to be taking more notice of her surroundings. The world, I hoped, was gradually seeping into her consciousness, waking her from the dream-state she had been trapped in since the nightmare of fourteen years ago. Doctor Nielson would have me believe that when her skull was fractured her brain was irreparably damaged. But if this was the case, would she still be able to dream? Weren't dreams a sign of awareness? Her dreams gave me hope.

  "Come on, I'll show you around," Bear said as he took Jade through the front door.

  "Hey, Jade. How are you?" said the young man sitting at the front desk. Simon had just started with us. Now we had our own place we suddenly needed employees. Employees. The word made me shudder. The last thing I needed was another responsibility. But Angie and Bear insisted we needed more people, as the business was growing so quickly.

  "Here, have a seat, Jade," Simon said, as usual completely ignoring me. When I was with Jade I became invisible to anyone under the age of twenty.

  I waved my hand in front of his eyes. "How many fingers?" I asked.

  He flicked me a glance like I was crazy. Okay, perhaps that was why he didn't acknowledge me. We left Jade sitting with Simon, watching a box-exercise class while Bear showed me around. I had given some input on the building plans but most of the ideas had come from Bear and Angie. I couldn't believe this place was ours. Well, ours and the bank's. There was a gym, a boxing ring and two halls for exercise classes.

  "So you're going to play ball again?" said Bear as we moved through the facility.

  "Nope. Just train Decker and protect him."

  "But you will be with the team when they are training?"

  "I suppose so."

  "So what are you going to do when they throw you the ball? Say no thanks."

  "I'll see."

  I felt Bear studying me.

  "It's been fourteen years since you've played, Tan. Your mom and dad would want you to play again."

  "I know."

  Silence.

  "Can you let yourself play again?" Bear said quietly.

  "I don't know."

  "Do you believe someone is out to get him?"

  "Someone is certainly messing with him. You don't make up lame stories like cow shit on your car if you're trying to hide something. Someone is trying to wreck his reputation."

  "Breaking his arms would more than wreck his reputation," Bear observed.

  "They weren't going to kill him though."

  "That must be comforting for him."

  "I know what you're saying but it's interesting, isn't it? They wanted to maim him, not kill him."

  "Why do you think?"

  "If I knew that I'd probably know who did it."

  We were heading back to the reception when Bear stopped me.

  "No, this way," he said, indicating a door I hadn't noticed.

  "I don't remember this on the plans."

  "That's because it wasn't." He had that goofy, furtive expression I'd seen on his face at Christmas when giving his daughters, Lucy and Jessica, their presents.

  I stepped through the doorway into an apartment. Kitchen, small living room and two bedrooms. Nothing extravagant but tastefully furnished.

  "What's this for?" I said, puzzled.

  "You and Jade."

  "What?"

  He shrugged. "Angie thought it would be good for you when it gets too cold at Heavenly Falls. Plus, there's no room for Jade in your Winnebago, so if you want her to stay the night, she can."

  I gawped, not believing what I was seeing.

  "Angie thought, huh?" I said.

  He turned away, clearly embarrassed. "Well, I thought it would be good for security too, having someone at night on the premises. You like it?"

  "Like it? It's great. What's through there?" I said, indicating a door I hadn't been through.

  "Have a look." Bear said this way too casually. I stared at him suspiciously as I opened the door. I stopped, not believing what I was seeing. Bear had a silly grin on his face, watching me.

  It was a small shooting range. Two targets hung from hooks at the end of a forty foot long room.

  "It's soundproofed, but you probably don't want to be trying to watch TV when someone is using it," he said.

  "Beats sitting outside in the snow in thirty degrees throwing knives," I said.

  We stepped back into the foyer. Simon was standing in front of Jade, talking animatedly. I was used to scenes like this. Wherever I took her, strangers would talk to Jade even though they never received the slightest response from her. Her silence was a vacuum they had to fill.

  I noticed the small office behind the front desk that Angie, Bear's wife, was using. Engraved in capital letters on the door was the inscription, "ANGIE JOHNSTON, MANAGER".

  "What's my title?" I said.

  "Resident Idiot."

  "Can I get that in capitals too?"

  CHAPTER 5

  "So the media is going to believe I'd hire a nine-fingered, twenty-nine-year-old quarterback who hasn't played ball since high school?" said Coach Watkins.

  We were in his office, situated in the Turbos' state-of-the-art, training facility in Florham Park, New Jersey. For some reason he didn't seem enamored with the idea of gaining the services of yours truly. Along with Decker and his agent, Chester, was Sanderson, the team manager.

  "The way the team has been going they might see it as a positive step, Coach," I offered. Everyone referred to Watkins as simply, Coach, even the media.

  Coach glared at me.

  "Perhaps you could tell them that you're trying to bring more women to the game," I said, flashing my pearly whites.

  "I could tell them you play like a woman. That I'd think they'd swallow," said Coach, while looking at me like I was something that had just crawled in and died in his office. "What makes you think Decker is in danger anyway? The only damn thing he's in danger of losing is the starting quarterback position."

  Decker grinned weakly, as if Coach had made a good joke. Looking at Coach's humorless visage I doubted if Coach ever made a joke. In his playing days, Coach Watkins had been a defensive linesman. Even then he had a reputation for being a no-nonsense player who would fight over every inch of yardage like he was in the trenches of the Somme. He was an ugly and mean-spirited man who would do anything to win. And that was just his wife's opinion.

  "Don't believe the media," I said, surprising myself by sticking up for Decker. "He wasn't drunk when he was mugged. There's evidence to believe that the attack was intentional and that Decker was their target."

  "You mean the target of Daffy Duck?" Coach said, clearly enjoying how it rolled off his tongue.

  "Donald Duck," I corrected him.

  "Oh, that's right. Daffy was the lookout."

  I sighed. "No. That was Bugs Bunny."

  The silence in the room spoke for itself.

  "I know what it sounds like, Coach, but I promise you I haven't made it up." Decker spoke quietly but with great intensi
ty. "And I haven't been hitting the booze. I haven't touched a drop since I got fined last year. Football is everything to me. Everything. You think I'd mess it up for a drink or a night on the town? Coach, you know me. I'd do anything to play. Anything."

  Coach regarded him for a moment, and then considered me. "Can you even play a little?"

  "A little," I said.

  "A little? He won two State Championships in high school," said Chester. "Who knows how far he could have gone?" Chester sounded like he thought he was going to get fifteen percent of me too.

  "And how far did he go?"

  Chester was silent.

  Yeah, thanks Chester. "I stopped playing after my sophomore year."

  "Why?"

  "Things happened."

  Again Coach regarded me with eyes as gray and heavy as the forbidding clouds that were building outside.

  "We do have our own fitness staff who can look after Troy," offered Sanderson.

  "They might be able to tape his ankles and train him but can they prevent Troy from being hurt from another attack?" said Chester.

  "And he can?" Sanderson looked at me dubiously.

  I tried to appear tough but this was probably negated by my "Make love not war" t-shirt.

  "Mark is a vet and served over in Afghanistan. I'd let Mark look after my baby girl, and she's three and has cystic fibrosis. That's how much I trust him," said Chester.

  Chester, Decker had told me earlier, was unmarried and childless.

  "Returned soldier story? The press would eat that up," said Sanderson, his eyes lighting up. "Did you win any medals?"

  "Win any medals? Only the Congressional Medal of Honor. He's a goddam war hero," said Chester.

  I felt Decker regard me.

  "I can just see the headlines," continued Chester, really getting into it. "War Hero Joins Turbos."

  "No," I said. "There's to be no mention of my Army record."

  "Why not? It would be a great story," said Sanderson. "It could be great publicity for the club."

  "And sell a lot of seats," added Chester.

  "I'm not here to sell fucking seats."

  "Why don't you want anyone to know? We're proud of all you boys," said Sanderson.

  "Even if I killed women and children?"

  There was silence.

  "Did you?" said Sanderson tentatively.

  I felt a grin split my face. I knew by his reaction it was not a nice smile.

  "I'll use an alias, Mark Rennat, while I'm here. I've planted a cover story at Roosevelt High School that will back me up. The school owes me a favor and the cover should pass any cursory enquiries they get from the media. However, you will probably have to clear it with the League. "

  "Why the alias?" Sanderson said.

  "You said it yourself. My past is too...rich. It would attract media attention. If I am to help Troy, I need to be in the background not on the front page."

  "I don't care if you're fucking Gene Autry," said Coach, "just so long as you get Troy fit and on the field. We can get you on the roster by putting Fielding on the long term injury list, can't we, Sando?"

  Sanderson nodded. "Fielding needs a knee reconstruction so he'll be out for the season anyway. What will we tell the media? How are we going to explain adding a high school footballer to the roster?"

  Coach pointed at Chester. "Ask him. He seems pretty good at spreading it."

  Chester grinned, thinking he had just received a compliment.

  "No problem. I have some great ideas," he said, standing up and rubbing his hands together. "By the way, who was Gene Autry?"

  "He was a running back with the Giants back in the seventies. He was a great player," said Coach sarcastically.

  "Oh, yeah. Right. I think I've heard of him."

  Coach studied him. "I just bet you have."

  CHAPTER 6

  One step into the player's locker room and I was fifteen again. The smell of sweat, liniment and strapping tape was a time warp to my childhood. Long forgotten memories flooded over me. Memories I'd squashed and tried to forget. They felt so real I could reach out and grasp them. Or thrust them away. My last football game, the State Championship.

  I remembered I threw four touchdown passes in that game. The last one with only 43 seconds on the clock, when we trailed by five points. I could even remember the down count, fourth and fifteen.

  Was that really me? I felt like I was watching someone else. Surely that young, hopeful, idealistic kid wasn't me? Where had he gone? What had happened to him?

  I shook my head. I knew where he had gone. My parents weren't the only ones killed that day. Just as surely as they were slain, so was he.

  "Over here," said Decker, nudging me.

  Players were sitting in their locker corrals, changing for training. There must have been fifty players plus trainers and coaches, all in various states of undress.

  "Hey, it's the dancer. What are you doing here?" Sachelle "Hawk" Hawkins, dressed only in a cup, was standing next to my corral. I didn't answer as I couldn't take my eyes off my name, which was inscribed on a plate above the corral. I knew that the whole thing was pretend but, for a moment, even the fake name on the corral made it seem real. That the last fourteen years hadn't happened and my life had taken the path it was always meant to.

  "Here, you'll need these," said a voice at my shoulder.

  An elderly trainer, with brown skin, as wrinkled as a dried out prune, handed me a complete player's kit. Shoulder pads and a helmet sat on top of the pile.

  "You're playing?" Hawk regarded me as if a dog had just turned into a cat.

  "He's a reserve quarterback. He's taking Fielding's spot on the roster," said Decker.

  "Quarterback? Where did you play?" asked Hawk.

  "Roosevelt."

  "You played for Roosevelt College? I have some friends who went there."

  "No, Roosevelt High."

  "Where did you go to college?"

  "I didn't."

  "Where did you play football then?"

  "Nowhere."

  "Nowhere? You're fucking kidding me. How old are you?"

  "Twenty-nine, but I've led a pure life so my body is more like twenty-four."

  "This is a joke, right? You're here to give the cheerleaders lessons or something?"

  "Who's giving the cheerleaders lessons? That's my job." Lamar Robertson, the giant offensive guard, stood at my shoulder.

  Seeing him dressed only in his padded playing pants, I couldn't believe the size of his torso. The width of his back reminded me of a silverback mountain gorilla I had one time seen at a zoo. Although enormous, Lamar wasn't built like a bodybuilder. He wasn't cut or ripped. In fact, if I was game I could grab a handful of fat on each of his hips. I wasn't. For underneath that layer of fat, just like on a polar bear, was pure muscle.

  "Leave it, Hawk. Coach knows what he's doing," said Decker tersely. The long ropey muscles of his upper body rippled as he pulled off his t-shirt. He had an ugly burn scar on his left shoulder the size of a tennis ball.

  "What does Coach know?" asked Lamar.

  "Twinkle toes here is our new reserve quarterback," said Hawk.

  Lamar peered down at me.

  I felt like I was looking up the side of a skyscraper.

  "Do you own any pets?" he said.

  "I have a dog."

  "Really? I have a Shitzu. What do you have?"

  "A Labrador."

  "What's his name?"

  "Little Bear."

  "Does he look like a bear?"

  "No. I named him after a friend."

  "And he looks like your friend?"

  "Kind of. They're both missing a limb."

  "Lamar, who cares if he owns a dog with one leg or no fucking legs? Didn't you hear me? This guy is the new reserve quarterback and he hasn't played since high school," said Hawk.

  Lamar looked at Hawk then at me. He had very soft, brown eyes. I hated to say it, but they were kind of puppy dog eyes.

  "Hawk doesn't
have any pets," Lamar continued as if this explained something. "I have a dog, two merino sheep, five lambs, three parrots, a lemur, twenty snakes, a wolf and a mountain lion."

  "Frigging hell. You and your fucking animals." Hawk rolled his eyes. "Fuck, what happened to you?" Hawk had seen the scars that covered my front and back.

  I shrugged. "Kitchen accident. Boiling cooking oil is a bitch."

  He studied me. At a stretch, the kaleidoscope of white spots on my front could have been made by boiling oil. My back was different.

  "No way cooking oil did that to your back. What are they? Knife cuts?"

  "Nothing so exciting. I got cut up pretty badly when surfing on a coral reef in Hawaii."

  "Coral reef, huh? I've heard of that." He kept studying me. I felt like I was an artifact in a museum. "What does that say?" He pointed at the tattoo on my stomach. In letters three inches high it said, nunquam alieno 12.6.98. Never forget.

  "Hawk, give it a rest. Let the guy get changed, will you," said Decker.

  "What? I'm just asking, that's all. What's wrong with that?"

  "That's all right," I said. "I'm an X Files fan. It says aliens are out there."

  "You have an X Files tattoo on your stomach? Are you fucking crazy? Who does that?"

  "Don't you have a tattoo of your ex-girlfriend's name on your chest?" Decker said.

  Hawk glared at him. "That's different. She was my soul mate. We were going to be together forever."

  "How long were you together?" asked Lamar innocently.

  Hawk spat his gum out onto the floor. "You can all suck my big fat one." He stormed off.

  "They were together three weeks," Decker said. "Hawk is prone to exaggeration."

  Lamar nodded. "That's for sure. I've seen him in the shower and I'm afraid he ain't got a big fat one at all." He held up his thumb and forefinger, an inch apart. "I was thinking of giving Hawk one of my lambs for Christmas. I thought it might have a calming effect on him. What do you think?" he asked me.

  "I think he'd probably eat it."

  "That what I thought," sighed Lamar and wandered off as if he'd spotted a rare species of lizard hiding behind someone's boots.

  I held up the helmet and playing strip that the trainer had left in my corral.