Letters from Becca: A Contemporary Romance Fiction Novel

by Margaret Ferguson

  Jessica continued to dust off her daughter, then took an envelope from her hand that also had dust on it. She looked at the date of the postmark.

  “That’s been there, what, two months?” she said, handing it to him.

  John’s smile faded as he looked at the return address. He slowly stepped back and fell into the chair by his desk.

  “Dad?” Jessica moved to his side. “Daddy? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  John looked up suddenly and set the envelope face down on the desk. “Yes, I’m fine,” he said. He forced a smile and stood. “Now you get on home before old what’s-his-face sends the state police looking for you two.”

  Jessica hesitated. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  John hugged them both, then held the door open for them. “I’m fine, dear. Now, off with you, before the new widow across the street starts thinking I have a young mistress. Wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation, now would you?”

  Jessica narrowed her brow. “I love you, Daddy. See you in a few days.”

  “Love you too, honey. Bye,” he waved. “Goodbye, Punkin.”

  Amanda waved over her mother’s shoulder as John closed the door. He walked back to the desk and picked up the letter, sat down, and slowly opened the envelope. As he unfolded the pages, the familiar handwriting brought back a flood of memories.

  Dear John,

  It feels like an eternity since I last wrote you. I have so much to tell you—I don’t even know where to start. Maybe I should begin by saying how much I’ve missed you in my life. We’ve been friends since the beginning of time, it seems. The time has gotten away from us, putting a greater distance between us. I look in the mirror now and can see that time has finally caught up with me.

  John turned the page with a sigh.

  I feel old, John. And tired and a little sad. Sad for what I’ve missed by letting you out of my life. I remember the fun we used to have. The dreams we used to share.

  John dropped his hand to his lap, then walked to the bookcase in his library. He glanced at the titles, his glasses sitting low on his nose as he searched. When he found the yearbook, he slowly pulled it out. He dusted it off and began to flip through the pages. A sad smile grew on his face as he found the page he wanted. His hand ran over the picture of him in his football uniform and Becca in a cheer squad uniform posing for the picture. He closed his eyes and lay back in the chair.

  Chapter 3: November 8, 1957

  A coach paced on the sidelines and then glanced up at the scoreboard. They were down 24 to 21. There were two minutes, two seconds remaining in their last scheduled game of the season. It was their first down at the eleven-yard line. The coach leaned over, yelled something into Number 81’s ear and sent him in with a pat on the backside. The player ran to the huddle, leaned in and moments later the team clapped and moved to their positions. The ball was snapped to the quarterback who immediately fumbled it. He fell on the ball, and then everyone fell onto him.

  When they were all standing, they still had possession of the ball. The coach yelled instructions over the drums playing in the stands. The quarterback nodded. The players huddled, broke, and positioned themselves on the line. There were no timeouts left. They snapped the ball once more. The quarterback took several steps back and then threw a lateral pass to Number 81, who caught it and ran eight yards before running out of bounds. The play stopped with fifty-nine seconds left on the clock. It was third down and six yards to go. The crowds on both sides of the field were on their feet in a frenzy.

  The quarterback called them quickly into the huddle. He turned to his team. “They’re all over me out there. You guys have got to keep ‘em back, or we’re sunk. We can do this! Just one more play. We can do this, right?”

  “Right!” The players clapped in unison and moved to their positions.

  The ball was snapped. Within seconds, the quarterback saw that he was about to be sacked, so he ran the ball out of bounds. The clock was stopped with nineteen seconds showing. Fourth down and four yards. The team huddled for the last play of the game. It was potentially the last game of the season if they didn’t win, making it the last game of many of their lives. The quarterback looked at the clock. Then he turned to the coach, who was yelling instructions before turning back to Number 81.

  “Okay, this is it, guys,” Number 81 stated, matter-of-factly. He looked at the quarterback. “David, you know the play we’ve been practicing? Now’s the time.”

  David looked at the coach, then back to Number 81. “We screw this up, John, and we’re dead.”

  John shrugged and flashed a coy smile. “What do we have to lose?”

  “Just the biggest game of the season,” David said flatly. He hesitated, and then turned to the large man to his left. “Washington, I’ll hand off to you.” He then he turned to his teammates. “Get the ball to John and he’ll draw them out.”

  “That’s not the play the coach called,” Washington said, concerned.

  David turned to him. “Do you trust me?”

  A moment later Washington nodded, and then one by one the rest of the team nodded.

  “You guys have one more play in you? Are you tough enough to hold these girls back?”

  They nodded and yelled as they ran to their positions with just seconds to spare. They ignored the coach screaming from the sidelines, knowing they were not lined up according to the play he called.

  The ball was snapped to David at the last second. David handed the ball to Washington, who pitched it backward to John at the ten-yard line, drawing the entire defensive line. John took two steps back and faked a pass to the receiver. He immediately turned, and threw a pass over their heads to David, who was waiting uncovered in the end zone. The clock ran out long before the play was made, but the pass was good, and the crowd roared.

  All the players on the bench ran onto the field and lifted David as he removed his helmet. John raised his arms in triumph. The crowd poured from the stands. People John knew and some he didn’t know were patting him on the back and shoulder pads. He smiled proudly and turned toward the locker room. The coach grabbed John from behind and turned him in place, his fingers threaded through the wires on his facemask, jerking him back around.

  “What the hell was that?” he yelled. “That wasn’t the play I called.” He let go of John’s facemask as he shoved him backward. “You’re through with this team, Montgomery! I don’t care if this is your senior year! You hear me, son? You’re finished!” He turned, then yelled over his shoulder, “Clean out your locker!”

  John jerked his helmet off and followed the coach toward the locker room, but he was stopped multiple times by fans and other players. He slowed, then stopped, staring at the scoreboard. As he turned around, David was walking toward the locker room with Becca, who was smiling and swinging her pom-poms. He said something that made her laugh and she fell against his shoulder. She turned and saw John, then rushed to his side and grabbed his arm.

  “You were great out there!” she beamed. “God, I was so nervous! Everyone was! It was so exciting!”

  John walked on without smiling or talking.

  Becca leaned forward as she kept up with him. “You okay?”

  “Look, Becca, I gotta go. Meet me behind the gym and I’ll drive you home.” John walked quickly away from her toward the locker room.

  Becca slowed down and then stopped. David jogged up to her and stopped beside her. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  Becca frowned. “I’m not sure,” she turned to him, concern on her face. “What’s wrong with John?”

  “What isn’t wrong with John?” he teased.

  Becca rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

  “He changed the play.” David started to walk again, Becca keeping up.

  “So what?” she asked. “We won, right?”

  “Coach doesn’t care. It’s just one more time John did things his own way, so coach is mad,” David added.

  “Doesn’t seem fair,” Becca replied,
shaking her head.

  “So, a bunch of us are going to eat after. Why don’t you come with us?”

  Becca smiled. “John’s taking me home. I’ll see how he feels. If he’s in a bad mood, he’ll probably just want to go home.”

  Washington passed by them and slapped David’s shoulder. “Good call, man.”

  “Thanks,” he said, turning back to Becca. “So, if he goes home, then come by after,” he added with a wry smile.

  They arrived at the locker room where the offensive line coach stood in front of the door. “Locker room, Richardson. Now!”

  David’s smile faded. “Yessir.” He turned to Becca. “I’ll see you later,” he winked. “Maybe,” he added with a smile before walking into the locker room. He went straight to his locker. Inside, half the players had already showered, the rest were headed that direction. John stood by his locker, drying his hair with a towel. David opened the locker next to his best friend’s and took off his jersey. The coach rounded the corner and stood immediately in front of them.

  “Do you mind telling me what you were thinking out there? What in the world possessed you to even consider changing the play I called?”

  John continued dressing. David stood perfectly still, not sure whether he should speak or not.

  “When I call a play, that’s the play you run. Understand?”

  “Yes sir,” David replied.

  “Do you understand?” he repeated, hanging over John.

  “In case you didn’t look at the scoreboard, we won,” John said in a lower voice, without facing the offensive line coach.

  “What did you say?” the coach asked angrily.

  John looked up at him, not backing down. “I said, we won. So why don’t you just get off my back?” John didn’t look away. “Besides, you threw me off the team,” he said sarcastically. “Remember?”

  David looked at his friend and then shook his head while the other players either ignored them or stood around them expectantly.

  “Always the smart-mouth little punk, aren’t you?” the coach said, hands on hips. “You lucked out, that’s all. You took a chance—a helluva chance with your team—so you could play hero.”

  John smirked as he pulled on his shirt. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore, now do you?”

  The coach sighed. “Look, maybe I shouldn’t have—” he began. “Look, they pay me to do the thinking around here. You just lucked out, that’s all. You could have cost us the game, which could have cost us the playoffs,” he said, lowering his voice. “You didn’t, but you very well could have.”

  John slid on his letter jacket and filled his pockets with personal items from the locker. “Yeah, sure coach. Whatever you say.”

  “Look, Montgomery, I was angry.” He looked down as he crossed his arms. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said what I did. You can stay on the team,” he clarified, side-glancing at the head coach. “But that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. I’m running your butt off in practice tomorrow for this little stunt.”

  “No thanks,” John said, shoving the last of his possessions into his pockets.

  “What?” the coach asked, becoming angry again.

  “Not interested,” he said slowly, sarcastically. “No thanks. As in, I quit.”

  “You ungrateful little—” the coach began and then held his tongue. “You’ve always got to buck the system. You’re on a team, but you’re not a team player, Montgomery. You’re good, John. You could even be a great player if you weren’t so cocky. I’ve coached here for fifteen years and do you know why?”

  “No one else will hire you?” John replied apathetically.

  Some of the players snickered; some of them made faces, but hid their smirks.

  The coach leaned forward and shoved John. “You little punk. You know what your problem is, son? You’re just like your old man. No one could tell him what to do either. That’s why he never amounted to anything and neither will you if you keep up this attitude.” He poked John in the chest with his finger.

  John leaned forward as well, in a daring manner. “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll just become a coach so I can inspire and encourage kids,” he began. He then tapped his finger on the coach’s chest with his last three words to emphasize his anger. “Just…like…you!”

  The players stood silently as the coach took a step toward John. The head coach and defensive line coach grabbed his arms to hold him back.

  “You’re a punk,” he said angrily, inches from John’s face.

  John looked at the coach, then turned to David and nodded once. David nodded in return. Then John turned and walked down the row of lockers and out the doors. The coach turned and looked—one by one—at each player, daring them to blink, even once. They all turned quickly, trying to appear busy.

  John walked angrily across the dark gravel parking lot, replaying the things his coach had said. They matched the words his father always said to him. Berating and belittling him. But they were both wrong. He had worked hard these past few years. His grades were excellent. He had held the same job for four years, working every evening after school and most weekends to earn money. He planned to go to college, and if that didn’t work, he would enlist in the Army. Whatever he had to do to leave this town and his father, he was going to do.

  He stopped in front of a black ‘47 Olds 66 Club Coupe and rubbed his hand gently across the hood. John had successfully lied to his father, telling him he was staying after school for athletics. Not that his father would have noticed his absence, since he was rarely home himself. And he never feared his father attending any of his events. That would only cut into his father’s time at the tavern.

  Every week for four years, John put all his money in the bank, so there was nothing around the house for his father to steal. He bought his prized possession from a widow in San Antonio who wanted to get rid of it for less than five hundred dollars, and he still had money left. John’s heart calmed as he ran his hand over the hood, like he would one day caress a woman.

  His father didn’t even know he owned it. He kept the car parked at David’s house, around the corner. Once, his father saw him driving in town. “What do you think you’re doing driving such a fancy car?” he had asked. John lied and told him he had borrowed it from David for a date.

  John sat in his car and ran his hands over the steering wheel. He closed his eyes and laid his head back. A few moments later, as he got ready to turn the ignition switch, he looked forward and saw David walking across the parking lot. He was about to honk when he saw Becca. John watched them stepping in and out of the shadows. He saw how David looked at her. And how Becca laughed, nudging him with her shoulder, shuffling her feet, and then looking shyly away. His heart began racing again. He turned the key and his coupe fired up. Slowly, he pulled across the parking lot and drove up beside them.

  David turned as he pulled up. “Hey, John.”

  John nodded once without saying anything.

  David continued, “Good call on the field.”

  John nodded again.

  “Don’t listen to the coach. He’s just blowing off steam. He’ll cool off.”

  Becca stepped toward the car. “David’s right. He’ll get over it. Besides, you guys won,” she beamed. “That’s all that matters, right?” she asked, turning to David then back to John.

  John looked between the two. “Becca, you ready?” he asked.

  David put his hand in the window frame. “We’re going to get a bite to eat. You want to join us?”

  John looked at Becca, then glared at David without saying a word.

  David took his hand off the car and exhaled. “Well, I was just keeping Becca company until you got here.” When John didn’t say anything, he turned to Becca. “You take care, okay? I’ll see you Sunday.” He turned back to John, nodded once more, patted the car, then walked away.

  “What’s wrong with you? You didn’t have to be so rude to him,” Becca reprimanded.

  “See you Sunday?” he repeated
sarcastically.

  “Church, John. See you at church,” she said, slamming her pom-poms against her legs. She shook her head, turned, walked away.

  John turned off the car, got out, and followed her. “Becca, I’m sorry.” He ran to catch up with her and grabbed her arm. “I’m just mad because coach was mad. Let’s not do this now, okay?”

  Becca turned, tears in her eyes. “You always do this! Now you’re getting mad and you’re taking it out on David? He’s your best friend.” She looked into his eyes.

  “You’re my best friend,” he reminded her.

  She sighed. “So, why are you doing this?” she shook her head. “I don’t understand. You won, for God’s sake.”

  John grabbed her and hugged her. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Becca pushed away and looked around, almost embarrassed.

  “What’s wrong?” John asked, confused. He studied her face and stepped back. “Are you afraid someone will see?”

  Becca stepped further away from him, getting angry herself. “You know, this is a bad idea. Us,” she looked down, unable to face him. “We went from being best friends to this,” she motioned between them. “I don’t even know what this is anymore. We don’t feel right anymore. It feels like I’m walking on eggshells every time I’m around you lately. You’re moody all the time.”

  He hung his head.

  “I want to go back to being friends. Best friends. This is all too confusing.” She wiped away a tear.

  John looked up. “I love you, Becca.”

  “I love you, too. But I don’t like feeling this way.”

  John rubbed her arms, then took her hands. “What do I have to do to make it right?”

  Becca shook her head. “I don’t know, John. I just know I can’t do this anymore. Aunt Betty said—” she began.

  “I knew it!” John pulled away. “I knew someone was putting ideas in your head.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sobbed. “I needed someone to talk to.”

  “You can talk to me,” he insisted.

  “I can’t talk to you,” she retorted. “You’re working all the time, either on schoolwork or at the market. We hardly see each other, and when we do, we are usually arguing. You don’t like my friends. You don’t like my aunt.”