by Chad Zunker
We got out of the car and were immediately swarmed by family. Mostly little kids racing up to hug their Aunt Natalie. We walked around the side of the house to the back, where there was a massive deck. I could smell food on a large grill and hear the sound of a football game on an outside TV. I began meeting brothers, youngest to oldest. Roger. Evan. Keith. Greg. Each handshake seemed to squeeze a little harder until my hand was throbbing. I didn’t mind. I was dating their baby sister. Then I finally met the patriarch of the family, Thomas Foster. I swear his massive right hand nearly swallowed mine whole.
His eyes were firm. He had not smiled yet. Or let go of my hand.
“Thanks for having me to your home, Mr. Foster,” I offered.
“My daughter didn’t really give me a choice, son. She insisted that you come.”
He stared even harder at me.
“Daddy,” Natalie interjected. “Be nice.”
Her father slowly smiled at me, let go of my hand.
“Just messing with you, Sam. Welcome to Foster Farms.”
The first activity on the weekend agenda was a family football game. Nearly everyone played, except for two of the wives, including Natalie and the kids. I think the two oldest brothers, Greg and Keith, who were on the opposing team along with Natalie, found it an easy opportunity to officially indoctrinate me into the family. Or maybe run me off, because even though it was supposed to be flag football, and we were all wearing the yellow belts with yellow flags, the two brothers’ full-on tackles on me were fierce, and I could feel my bones crunching and the bruises adding up. Natalie kept telling them to take it easy, but they just kept crushing me and smiling. I returned every smile — I would never let them know that I thought I might have a cracked rib already. Natalie’s father was the QB on my team. The game had gone back and forth for the past hour. We were now down a score on what everyone had deemed the final play of the game. Dinner was ready.
In the huddle, Thomas Foster looked up at me over that thick mustache.
“Okay, Callahan. Time to show me if you’ve really got what it takes to date my daughter.”
“Sir?”
“She deserves a winner, son. And we’re not winning right now.”
“Let’s change that.”
He liked that answer, grinned. He gathered everyone more tightly together in the huddle, and then he drew out a play in the grass with his thick fingers. The two younger brothers, Roger and Evan, who were on my team, would run a crisscross pattern on the left side of the field. Thomas drew a line with a finger to show that I would come right underneath them. The pass would go to the youngest brother, Roger, who would immediately pitch it back to me as I headed in the opposite direction. We’d try to catch them napping. From there, Thomas said it was up to me to somehow get into the end zone and win the game. Don’t let me down were his final words to me.
I went to the line of scrimmage, licked my bottom lip, tasted blood on it. One of the eight-year-old boys snapped the ball between his legs to his grandpa. I cut up the field ten yards, then dashed across the middle like Thomas told me to. Keith, the second oldest brother, tried to give me a shoulder to knock me off balance but I sidestepped him. I was focused. Hell, I wanted to win this game. Find some favor. Natalie’s father avoided the rush from the two ten-year-old twin girls, then tossed the football down field to Roger, who caught it in full stride. Right when Natalie was about to pull Roger’s yellow flag off his belt and end the game, Roger flipped the football back to me. I zigzagged around two of the younger boys, spinning furiously so they couldn’t grab my flags, and then found myself ten yards from the end zone. But between me and victory were two hulking men. Natalie’s oldest brothers. I could hear Natalie’s father yelling, “Get in the end zone, son!”
I wanted this so much. I sprinted up field, juked right, then left, made Keith grasp at air and plant his face in the dirt, then darted around him and ran straight at Greg. I spun when I got to him, but he grabbed my T-shirt collar before I could get free. I drove my legs forward, dragging him, reached for the orange pylon of the end zone. My shirt began to shred as Greg’s massive hands tried to pull me down from behind. But he was too late. The ball crossed the pylon before I collapsed onto the grass. The nieces and nephews on my team shouted in joyful celebration and then decided to dog pile on top of me in the end zone. In between tiny arms and legs and laughter, I looked up and could see Natalie’s father taunting the two oldest sons with a goofy celebration dance. They did not look happy.
Then I spotted Natalie, smiling at me from across the way.
After dinner, Natalie’s father asked if I could help him in the barn. He needed to feed the pigs.
Natalie was leery, but I gave her a look that said everything was cool. No big deal.
I followed his instructions. We grabbed bags of pig feed, filled up some troughs, dragged the hose around to fill up the water, and watched as a half dozen pigs raced out of stables to eat for the night, pig slop and drink flying everywhere — the same way the large family inside the house had just licked their plates clean. The sun was setting. We quietly hung by the fence for a while, enjoying the breeze if not the pig smell. It was a really nice evening in Missouri. I had to admit that I liked life on Foster Farms. And I liked this family.
Thomas was quiet for a long time before he decided to speak.
“My daughter says you haven’t had the easiest life,” he said.
I shrugged. “No sir, but I suppose everyone has their challenges growing up.”
He nodded. “She really likes you, son. I can tell.”
“The feeling is mutual. You have an incredible daughter, sir.”
“I do. I feel fortunate. When I lost her mom, Natalie was only twelve, and I worried about what it would do to her with no woman in the house. I figured the boys would be okay. I understood them. They were boys like me. But I wasn’t sure about Natalie. I mean, she’d always been able to hold her own with her brothers, but she was in a pretty volatile place.”
“She turned out pretty tough herself.”
He smiled. “You got that right. She’s the toughest of them all. And so damn stubborn. She will not back down from anything. Just like her mother.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”
He turned to me. “You’re the last one who should be saying sorry about someone else losing a family member.”
“Well, I still am. From everything Natalie has said, Mrs. Foster was an amazing woman.”
He nodded. “Yes, she was. Amazingly tolerant and patient, that’s for sure. And she was so passionate with these kids. Especially Natalie.”
He stared at me for a second, exhaled slowly. “Son, I want you to know something. I’m sure when I asked you to come out here with me to feed the pigs, that you maybe thought I wanted to warn you, like the stereotypical protective father, to place the fear of God in you about ever even thinking about hurting my baby girl. But that’s not it at all. I want you to know that I see a lot of myself in you. I lost both of my parents when I was just a kid. It was just me and my older brother from early on. We lived with my uncle on the farm but other than keeping a bed for us and some food in the pantry, he wasn’t really around too much. We had to fend for ourselves and become men when we should have still been kids. Now, I’m not comparing it to what you went through, please understand me, but I just want you to know that I can relate in some way, and that I really respect you for what you’ve made of yourself out of those tough circumstances. It shows me something about your will and your character.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”
“Listen, if you ever need someone to talk with, maybe an old man like me who’s been around the block a few times, please don’t hesitate to call me. Or, hell, just come stay the weekend. I could use the help. You’ve got an open bed here, if you need it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Foster.”
“Call me Tommy, okay?”
“Okay.”
“We’d better get back inside be
fore those boys of mine eat all of my favorite pie.”
He put his hand on my shoulder and held me firmly in place for a second longer. “Oh, and Sam, one more thing. If you do hurt her, I will kill you. You understand?”
He smiled, winked at me.
“Yes, sir.”
Natalie flipped a switch in a gray electrical box by the concession stand and the large overhead lights began to slowly pop up all around the small softball field. Glendale High. Natalie had been a two-time all-state second baseman. Her old bedroom at Foster Farms was still littered with hundreds of trophies and plaques and ribbons of every kind. She’d gotten a scholarship to the University of Missouri to play softball, where she tore her ACL in her right knee her freshman year while turning a double play. She’d rehabilitated well, but at that point had decided to shift her full focus to journalism, something that had clearly paid off. Just last weekend, I’d escorted her to a ceremony at the National Press Club where she received the Mollenhoff Award, given for excellence in investigative reporting. Natalie had won the award for a series of stories that uncovered a rogue crew of local DC police officers who had used their power to rob from several local store owners. Her stories had led to an official FBI investigation that resulted in four critical arrests. She was a rising star.
We crossed through a gate, walked to the middle of the ball field.
“So this is where the magic happened?” I asked.
“Two straight state championships.”
“You’re a real badass, you know that?”
“Yes, I know.”
“Of course you do. I never did stand a chance that night at the batting cages, did I?”
She grinned. “Never, which was what made it so fun for me.”
We sat on the grass near the pitching mound. The night had cooled off some as gray clouds had moved in.
“I really like your family, Natalie.”
“Even my brothers?”
I smiled. “Especially your brothers. Even though they almost put me in a full body cast.”
“They like you, too. I can tell. So does my dad, which says a lot.”
“Your dad is a good man.”
“I’m really glad you came with me.”
“Me, too. This has been a good day. I feel like I know you a lot better.”
She laughed. “Well, there are many things I wished my brothers wouldn’t have shared.”
“What? Like how you used to kiss the pigs?”
“Hey, not all the pigs. Only my special pig, Annabelle. I named her after my mother.”
“Whatever. Just no pig kissing while we’re here, okay?”
She grabbed a lump of dirt, threw it at me. “If you don’t shut up, there’ll be no kissing of any kind, I can promise you that.”
I laughed, grabbed her around the waist, pulled her toward me. “I’ll be your pig tonight, babe.”
“That’s not much of a stretch.”
I smiled. We kissed. She pulled away. I could tell she was thinking about something serious.
“What?” I asked.
“I was just thinking about your mom, Sam. Have you ever tried to find her?”
I shook my head, lied. “No. And I don’t really care to.”
“Okay, we just haven’t talked much about it. I was just curious, that’s all.”
I quickly changed the subject. “I have you. That’s all I need. And right now, I want to make out with the All-American second baseman on her championship home field.”
“Oh, really?”
I pulled her down with me onto the grass. We began to kiss. Then it started to rain. And it gave us very little warning. The beads were heavy and intense from the first drop. We were getting pummeled within a few seconds.
“Are you kidding me?” I said, staring up into a suddenly stormy sky. “Talk about ruining a good moment.”
I started to get up, but Natalie pulled me right back down to her on the grass. “Hey, a little water never hurt anyone, right?”
SEVENTEEN
Sunday, 5:02 a.m.
Austin, Texas
1 day, 18 hours, 58 minutes to Election Day
The Austin airport was nearly empty at five in the morning.
I didn’t like this, as it made me feel even more vulnerable, more exposed, more likely to be spotted. It felt like every set of eyes was on me, both travelers and airport employees, even though my hair was now a different color, my pair of round glasses were fake, and I wore a black knit ski cap. I wished I was stuck in a thick pack of travelers, but I had to get on the first flight out to DC. I couldn’t delay until mid-morning when there would be thousands more people in the airport. Every minute mattered. I had to take risks, and this was one I was willing to take. Even if I felt like I had a target on my back.
There were airport security guys every hundred feet. Every time one of the men lifted their walkie-talkies to their mouths as I walked past, I had to force myself to walk evenly, not stare or stop, and certainly not take off running. I decided I’d rather jack cars for future travel than skirt through airports, if I had the choice. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time for a cross country drive right now.
I had a black backpack with all my current worldly belongings hanging over my shoulder. Tablet, a change of clothes, all my toiletries. Even though there was a chill in the airport, I started to sweat heavily as I handed my new driver’s license to the security guard behind his podium, along with the airline ticket. I tried to appear confident, casual, at ease. I was simply Dobbs Howard. I had decided that Dobbs was a middle school soccer coach, if I was asked. Inside my chest, my heart was sprinting the hundred-meter dash.
The security man reminded me of Peter Falk from the old Columbo TV series. I used to watch episodes while studying in my dorm room at CU late at night. His small eyes bounced slowly back and forth behind his eyeglasses, between my driver's license, my airline ticket and my face. He was taking three times as long with me as the business man in front of me who had just passed through easily. Come on, man. I swallowed, then reminded myself not to swallow.
Finally, Columbo stamped my boarding pass and sent me through to the next step. I exhaled. My backpack made it through the conveyer belt scanner. I stood in the tube with my arms above my head, and then I was finally released into the secure inner sanctum of the airport. I’d passed the first hurdle of my journey.
From there, I found my way to the very back of an empty gate, away from everyone else, and sat facing an opposite direction, waiting until the very last minute to board my United flight out of Austin. I hopped on during the final boarding call, head tucked low, eyes on my shoes. The plane was full and I was near the back. An aisle seat. The only one I could get last minute. A plane stuffed with mostly business men and women, according to their travel garb, headed to the nation’s capital. I was thankful to feel the airplane lift up off the runway and into the air without any Feds suddenly rushing on board, yanking me off, and dragging me to a dark holding room. I tried to close my eyes, relax. I pretended to sleep for the first thirty minutes.
The airplane leveled off at 30,000 feet, and the flight attendant began serving drinks. I had coffee, black. So did my travel mate, an older red-headed man in a dark suit, who tried to strike up a conversation about it. He couldn’t stand the flavored coffees that everyone else had to have at Starbucks. Just give it to him black. Like a real man. Right? I did my best to be polite, nodded in agreement. I said very little. He seemed to catch the hint. I was not an airplane talker. So he took out his copy of the Austin American-Statesman, unfolded it. I cursed under my breath. Of course. A photo of me was on the bottom right corner of the front page. A law school yearbook photo, along with a story of the manhunt. DC Law Student Suspected of Murder, FBI Involved.
I wondered if the man would put it together. I was wearing glasses and the black knit cap, but my face was the same. It wouldn’t take more than a few seconds of close comparison back-and-forth to notice a strong resemblance. His eyes seemed to be on the t
op article, about the current conflict between Russia and the Ukraine. The middle article was about the current state of pivotal national election races, including a graph showing that McCallister’s lead over Mitchell in Texas had grown to five points. We were now two days from Election Day. How long would these articles hold his attention? Before reaching my photo.
I had to act. The way I figured, I had several options. Walk to the front, pull the emergency exit door, and take a dive out. Float off and really end this thing altogether. Or option B, pretend to puke in the airplane restroom for the next two hours, which would undoubtedly draw even more attention on me. Or the most viable option, get him talking. I’d learned early on that every man over sixty had a trigger point. A button you could push to get them going. Men at that age wanted to feel like their lives had meaning. That they’d invested in something worthwhile; something worth sharing with younger guys, like me. My go-to triggers were usually military service, career, or family. I could usually find that button within a few seconds. My eyes did a quick scan. Dark suit. He was traveling on business, not vacation. No wedding ring. Divorced? Widowed? Black briefcase on the floor in front of him. Manila folder he’d stuck in the seatback with paperwork in it. I spotted the words MBA Conference scribbled at the top. Mortgage Bankers Association. Bingo. My entry point.
“You think the Fed is going to adjust the interest rates again?” I asked.
The man looked over from behind the newspaper. “Sorry?”
“I saw the folder in front of you. You work in banking?”
He peered around the paper, at the folder. “Oh, yes, I do. Headed up to a conference right now. You asking about interest rates?”