The Year of the Storm

by John Mantooth

  I said nothing. I knew implicating Seth now would be bad news for him later.

  “Anyway, I’ve been at this policing business for going on twenty-five years now, and I’d like to think experience has taught me a few things. One, I know the kind of man who commits crimes. Hell, I can smell it on them. Rodney Sykes ain’t that kind.”

  I turned on him. “You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s done, what he’s capable of. He beats his son. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “The boy been to the hospital?”

  I sighed. “No, but—”

  “Then I call it discipline.”

  “You didn’t see him!” I felt angry, helpless.

  Branch studied me for a beat or two before nodding. “You feel pretty strongly about this, don’t you, boy? I was going to say—before you interrupted—that the other thing I’ve learned in twenty-five years is that where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. I’ll keep an eye on him. My gut tells me he ain’t the one, but I got nothing else right now.”

  We were coming up on the school now, and he said, “I reckon you should be in school.” He pulled into the parking lot and eased up to the front door near the office. “You know,” he said, “if you’d tell me why you’re so suspicious, it might help me get to the bottom of this.”

  “I already tried,” I said, and got out of the car.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Keep your head down and keep moving,” I said as we started along the narrow dirt road that ran past the field. It was spring, nearly May, and the eighth graders had been invited to football spring training with the varsity. They practiced out on the big field behind the school. Seth and I had to pass the field every day on our way home. Most of the time we tried to leave at different times because being together seemed to attract more attention, but today was one of those beautiful Alabama spring days when it was possible to forget your problems. We’d both been in a good mood, laughing and talking, and had come up on the practice field before we realized where we were. Once we were that close, it only made it worse to turn around.

  We were no more than halfway to the main road when the coach blew his whistle and called for a water break. The whole football team came trotting over to the water hoses near the fence, just a few feet from where Seth and I were.

  “Let’s go,” I said, breaking into a trot.

  Seth grabbed my arm. “Don’t run. That’s what they want.”

  “Look at these two,” one of the players said. I kept my eyes straight ahead, my speed slow and deliberate. Seth was right. Running from these guys wouldn’t help.

  “What I wonder,” another voice said, “is who gets to be on top? I mean, somebody’s got to be the man and somebody’s got to squeal like a bitch.” The voice sounded familiar. Jake.

  Seth stopped. I kept walking, hoping he’d follow me, but he didn’t. I turned to see him making his way over to the fence.

  “I think she likes you, Jake,” one of the players said.

  Sighing, I joined Seth near the fence. I couldn’t do anything else.

  Jake and Ronnie and a couple of other guys walked over to meet us.

  “I never thought you’d turn queer,” Ronnie said to me.

  “We’re not queer,” I said. “Why don’t you just drink your damn water and leave us the hell alone.”

  Jake laughed. “I got a score to settle with you two fudge-packers.” Some of the guys laughed.

  Seth said, “Jake, take off the pads and come over the fence. One on one. Me and you.”

  Jake nearly spit on himself laughing.

  “I’m serious,” Seth said.

  “Go on,” one of the other players said. “Kick his pansy ass.”

  Jake looked around. The coaches were downfield, standing in a loose circle, deep in conversation.

  “Seth,” I said. “We should go.”

  “No. Not until I find out if Jake is a pussy or not.”

  That sealed it. With everybody watching, Jake couldn’t refuse, and he couldn’t bring Ronnie with him either. Seth’s boldness was a stroke of brilliance, or so it seemed. What he didn’t understand was that Jake wouldn’t forget. No matter what happened today with all these players watching, Jake would try again when the odds were stacked in his favor.

  Jake shrugged off his shoulder pads and left them lying on the ground with his helmet. He climbed over the fence easily, in a way that reminded me he was an athlete and Seth clearly was not.

  “I’m going to beat the faggot right out of you, Sethie. No storm shelter to hide in today, you little pussy.”

  He lunged at Seth, leading with his fist. Seth moved aside and Jake ran into a bank of kudzu on the other side of the dirt road. The players laughed. I didn’t. I knew this would only upset Jake even more. He came for Seth again. This time, Seth tried to stop him with a punch, but it was weak—a glancing blow off Jake’s forehead. Jake shrugged it off and grabbed Seth’s shirt with one hand to hold him still. With the other hand, he swung in a long, arching motion. His fist hit Seth’s face. A tooth flew from his mouth and landed at my feet. Seth fell back against the fence. He gripped it with both hands to keep from falling. I couldn’t wait any longer. Rushing Jake, I grabbed him from behind. I was about to hit him when I heard a shrill whistle coming from the field.

  I stopped; we all stopped and watched as Coach Dave Nutley parted the throng of players like Moses parting the Red Sea. He stopped at the fence and surveyed us—Jake in front, me standing right behind him, Seth leaning against the fence, bleeding. He whistled again, this time low, almost to himself.

  “You got some sort of beef with these boys, Jake?”

  Jake lowered his gaze.

  “You hear me, son? Answer me.”

  He cocked a thumb in Seth’s direction. “He’s a queer, Coach.”

  Some of the boys laughed. Coach Nutley walked along the fence until he came to Seth, who had managed to stand up straight and wipe the blood off his face. His bangs covered his eyes and he kept his face hidden as Nutley looked him over. For a moment nobody made a sound. It was so quiet, I heard something slither through the kudzu behind me. A king snake, if I had to guess. Good for killing rattlers. I hoped and prayed Coach Nutley was a king snake and not just another rattler.

  He took a deep breath and began to speak. I can still hear his words just as clear as if he were standing right here beside me:

  “Boys, there’s a lesson to be learned here.”

  I perked up, sure that he was going to punish his players and tell them how wrong they’d been.

  “There’s a time and a place for everything. The football field is a place for football. For hitting, but not with fists. On the football field, you hit by tackling. It’s where you prove your manhood. Prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’re not queer or soft or just plain pussy.” Here, he made sure to look at me. He’d approached me a couple of weeks ago and asked me to play. I wasn’t interested, and I told him so. I could see now, from the look on his face, he hadn’t forgotten that.

  “See, if you boys had any sense, you’d handle this off school grounds, not on the practice field.” The other coaches had joined him now. Both were a little younger than Nutley. I recognized one from school—Coach Harris. The other coach I didn’t recognize. He was heavy and had a face like a small child, all rounded and mischievous with great splashes of red on either side of his nose. He paced alongside Nutley, spitting his dip on the ground in dirty strands.

  “As it stands now, I could get in trouble with my boss, Principal Haynes. So, the way I see it, you boys are going to owe me some sprints.”

  Everybody groaned. The heavyset coach—who must have been a volunteer because I’d never seen him at the school—kept pacing and spitting.

  Nutley cocked his head back at him. “Did you want to say something, Stan?”

  “Yes, sir,” he
said. “Yes, sir, I do.” He spat again and kept pacing. “Best way to handle a queer, gentlemen, is to kick him in the testicles. Yes, sir”—he let some more dip juice run from his mouth and kicked the dirt around it with his foot—“there was a couple of queer boys—we called them homos—at my school growing up. One of my buddies, ole Jim Dawson, caught them holding hands in the bathroom. We kicked ’em in the nuts every chance we got. We must have kicked them boys until their testicles crawled back up their asses, because we healed ’em. Them boys weren’t never queer no more.” He spit again and looked me and Seth over. “It ain’t you boys’s fault, though. You didn’t ask to be babied. You, with the hair: How long did your mama let you suck on her tit?”

  Seth pulled his hair out of his eyes and said, “Don’t talk about my mama.”

  “See,” the heavyset coach said. “He’s got a damn complex because his mama babied him too long.” He walked over to the fence near where I was standing. He put his full weight on it, and a board popped loose and fell to the ground. Nobody paid it any mind. All eyes were on me and the man Coach Nutley had called Stan.

  “You like boys?” he said.

  I shook my head. Why had I believed the coaches might help us? How stupid I was.

  “If you don’t like boys, you need to quit encouraging this one by hanging out with him. Go over and kick him in the balls. Hard. That’ll be a good start to breaking the spell his mama put on him with her babying and tit feeding.”

  When I didn’t move, he said, “Go on. Just kick him square in the nutsack. It’ll do him—”

  Coach Stan never got the rest of his sentence out because his mouth was suddenly full of splinters from the piece of wood in Seth’s hands. Seth hit him solid and for a moment nobody said anything; we all just watched as the coach reached up to his mouth and wiped away blood. His meaty hands covered his mouth for a second like a man might do who was about to throw up. When he moved them, I couldn’t see his mouth or his chin anymore. It was all blood. He tried to say something and Seth hit him again.

  “I told you not to talk about my mama.”

  Then everything happened so fast, I couldn’t keep it straight. I remember Coach Nutley coming over the fence and punching Seth. I remember Seth swinging the board but missing. I remember the heavyset coach trying to shout, but there was only groaning and bubbles of blood bursting. I remember hands on me and pain as my head hit a rock on the gravel and seeing the sky—a perfect blue, like blown glass—and then there was nothing at all.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sheriff Branch came by the house a few days after the fight at football practice. Dad wasn’t home, and Branch seemed relieved. Mama and I were in the den, messing with the radio, trying to pick up the Grand Ole Opry but not getting much of anything except static.

  Branch stood in the doorway, scratching the back of his neck and wincing in that fake way he had. Mama cut the radio off and asked if he needed something.

  “I’m afraid your boy has got hisself wrapped up in a mess.”

  “A mess?”

  “Fair to big one too.”

  Mama had seen my face, the black eye, the cut on the back of my head. I told her me and some other boys were throwing rocks down by the lake and one hit me by accident. I told her I was fine. She didn’t believe me, but Mama never minded pretending.

  Mama tried to act concerned. I didn’t buy it, but Branch might have. It was hard to read him, sometimes.

  “Seems he and another boy disrupted football practice the other day. They started jawing at some of the boys on their water break. Way they tell it was the other boy had a grudge against another boy on the team and started shouting some stuff over the fence. Some of the coaches came down to break it up, and—”

  “That’s a lie,” I said.

  Branch held up a hand. “You hold your tongue, boy. You ain’t in a position to say a damned word.”

  “They lied to you.”

  Branch shook his head and winced like he was so disappointed in me, but I could tell that underneath he wanted this all along. He wanted me to lose control in front of my mother, so he could say, See, ma’am, this is what happened out at the field. The boy just can’t control himself.

  It hurt, I mean, physically hurt, because at that moment I hated Sheriff Branch and all those damn coaches. I bit my lip and didn’t say another word.

  He looked at my mother. “We’ve got numerous witnesses. The good news is the coach in question doesn’t want to pursue charges, at least not toward Walter.”

  Relief flooded over me. But . . . wait. He’d said toward me. What about Seth?

  “You might want to stay clear of your little buddy. He’s going to go to trial for this one, and I ain’t so sure he’s in the clear for them girls either.”

  “The girls? What? Seth had nothing to do with those girls going missing.”

  Branch shrugged. “Time will tell.”

  “What are you talking about?” Before I even realized what I was doing, I charged forward, getting in Branch’s personal space. I wasn’t planning on hitting him or even touching him, but he must have seen it differently.

  “Just back the hell up, kid.” His eyes went hard and his voice was no longer sarcastic country-boy. Now it was fierce, ugly, hateful. “You really don’t want to do something you’re going to regret.”

  I stepped back. “Why,” I said, almost in tears, “do you think Seth is involved in that stuff?”

  Branch wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “That’s police business, but my advice to you is to stay clear of that boy. He ain’t right in the head.” He turned to my mother. “This boy, Seth. We’ve spoken to the father. Nothing but trouble everywhere he’s been. You’d do well to keep your boy clear of him, he’s a homosexual.” Up until this last part, my mother had barely seemed awake. But suddenly she seemed to straighten up, a look of concern dawning on her face.

  Branch seemed encouraged by this. “Yeah, his daddy says the boy ain’t never been right, that he’s always been a pervert.” My mother seemed to realize that she was encouraging him and dropped the look of concern almost as quickly as it had come. Branch shrugged and turned to leave but stopped and put his hand on my shoulder. “You got lucky this time, son. My experience with luck is that it always runs out.” Then he winked and left my mother and me in a silence that seemed as big as the whole sky.

  —

  We watched him drive away. I waited a beat or two to see if she was going to say anything. When she didn’t, I said, “So you don’t care about me getting in trouble with the law, but when he mentions that Seth’s a queer, you suddenly give a shit?” I hadn’t realized the anger that was inside me, the anger that had been building over this kind of attitude, the same attitude I had once held not too long ago.

  She shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “It’s not that. I don’t care about that. It’s . . .” She hesitated as if she couldn’t find the right words.

  “It’s what?”

  “It’s you hanging out with him. Please stop.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t care if he was qu—”

  “I don’t. It’s his father. My brother.”

  “Exactly. We’re blood. Cousins, Mama. We have to stick together.”

  “His father is dangerous.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She sat down on the couch and turned the radio back on, twisting the knob to pick up the station out of Birmingham. Hank Williams was singing about a whippoorwill and the kind of loneliness that burns the soul from the inside out.

  “I don’t guess I ever told you much about Broken Branch, did I?”

  “No.”

  “You ever heard of it?”

  I thought about Seth and the shelter in the woods. “Yeah. It was where you grew up, right?”

  She ignored the question, her eyes focusing on the big maple tre
e right outside the window. The late-afternoon light died on it, turning the leaves bronze. “I was so little when the tornado came. I can only remember being scared. It’s the feeling, you know? Nothing but the feeling right in my gut. I remember it to this day.”

  I said nothing. I knew these spells were rare. Anything could break it.

  “Rodney wasn’t a bad boy at first. He was quiet, though. Some said he’d been cursed at birth, stricken dumb. I think the first time he said a word, he must have taken everybody by surprise.” She smiled and her face looked ten, maybe twenty years younger. I saw Seth again in her eyes, the way she held her chin. “He was really sad too, I remember that. He wanted Mama back so bad. He wanted Broken Branch back too, but it was gone. Mama was gone. Daddy had disappeared a few days before the big storm. I don’t remember him that well because even before he disappeared, he had already, well, sort of disappeared. I mean, he only came home to sleep. He and Mama didn’t see eye to eye on things. I was too little to understand it, but it was a feeling even a little girl couldn’t miss.” She hesitated, as if trying to find her place in a very long book. When she spoke again, the smile was gone. “I was thirteen, I think, the first time I remember thinking there was something bad wrong with him. Rodney, that is. We were living out near County Road Seven in a house with four other kids. Our parents—if you could call them that—took us in only because they needed help in their garden. Anyway, one day in the fields, Rodney and me found a kitten that seemed lost. We petted it and played with it and that night we snuck it back to the house. When the man—we called him Jim because he only let his ‘real’ kids call him Daddy—saw it, he got angry and said he wouldn’t waste his money on feeding a damn cat. He kicked it . . .”