He would do it now, after the game.
He finally reached the spot, recognizing the bush where his headache had begun. Glancing up the street and then behind him, assuring himself that no one was close enough to see him, he removed the wallet from his pocket and tossed it toward the bush. It fell open like a floundering butterfly. He left it like that and walked away.
He hadn’t gone more than five steps when the gravity of what he’d done hit him like a ton of bricks. Stupid, he thought. It was just stupid dropping the wallet back into the bush. It was infantile, ridiculous. And the act of a coward.
Sure, a coward. But would he be brave enough to give the wallet to Pete?
He’d wait and see. At the moment, he’d retrieve it. First things first.
He went back, picked it up, and had started to put it into his pocket when a car stopped along the curb beside him and a voice called his name.
“Hey, Jabber? What did you find?”
He almost froze. He hadn’t thought of looking back to see if a car was coming this time. He hadn’t heard it approach.
He looked at the driver. It was Tony Dranger, Pete’s hang-gliding friend.
“Oh, hi, Tony,” he greeted the other boy numbly. He could have crept into a hole.
“What was that? A wallet?” asked Tony.
Jabber nodded.
“Anything in it?”
Jabber opened it, his fingers trembling. “It’s empty,” he said.
“Any name in it?” asked Tony. “There should be an ID card in it somewhere.”
Jabber looked at the ID card that stood staring him in the face.
“It’s Pete’s,” he said.
“Whose?”
“Pete’s. My brother’s.” Jabber’s voice almost cracked.
“Well, how about that?” exclaimed Tony. “The one he lost while we were playing touch football. Wait’ll he hears the sad news.”
“Right,” murmured Jabber.
“I was just going over to the house,” explained Tony. “Want a lift?”
Jabber got into the car and rode the short distance to the house. Tony said something about asking Pete to go hang-gliding with him, but the words were just fuzzy sounds in Jabber’s head. He was wondering how to face Pete when the showdown came. Now that Tony had seen him pick up the wallet, his decision to tell Pete the truth was a big step closer.
Tony parked in front of the house and started to get out. “Tony, just a minute,” said Jabber.
He was breathing hard.
“Yes, what is it, Jabber?”
Jabber’s face was hot. “Do me a favor, will you? Don’t tell Pete about the wallet. Okay?”
“Oh, sure. You’d rather tell him yourself. I understand.”
“Thanks, Tony.”
They got out of the car and walked up the front steps. Jabber tried to open the door. It was locked. He pounded on the panel three times with the heavy brass knocker. In a moment the door opened, and Karen stood there.
“Oh, hi!” she said, her eyes brightening as she saw Tony. “Look what the cool air brought in!”
“Hi,” said Jabber, going past her. With Tony behind him, she probably hadn’t seen him, anyway.
Tony not only had a fondness for hang-gliding, he had recently developed a fondness for Karen, too. Jabber suspected that sometimes his coming to visit Pete about their favorite sport was just an opportunity for Tony to see her.
They talked in the living room while Jabber went into the kitchen, where the aroma of hashed brown potatoes and hamburgers filled his nostrils.
“Hi, Mom,” he said.
She looked at him from the table where she was reading the evening paper.
“Hi, son,” she said. “We were waiting for you. How come you came in the front way? You usually come in the back.”
“Tony Dranger’s here. He picked me up. Is Pete home?”
“He’s in his room. Better call him. Dinner’s about ready.”
He walked up the stairs and knocked on Pete’s door.
“Yes?” came Pete’s voice.
“Pete. Can I come in a minute?” asked Jabber.
“Sure. Come on.”
He opened the door and went in. Pete was sitting on the bed, reading a magazine.
“Well, hi,” he said amiably. “I knew you’d be coming home any minute. My stomach was throwing me signals. Who won?”
“We did. Two to one.”
“Good for you. Any goals?”
“One.” Jabber closed the door quietly behind him.
“What’s the matter?” asked Pete, sliding his feet to the floor. “You’re looking at me as if I’m a ghost.”
“I’m sorry.” Jabber took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Pete, I’ve got something to tell you.”
Their eyes locked.
“You found my wallet,” said Pete, no emotion in his voice, no sparkle in his eyes.
Jabber’s face paled. “How did you know?”
Pete’s eyes lit up now. He smiled. “You mean I hit it on the nose? My wild guess was right? You really found my wallet?”
Jabber nodded. “Yes. I found it a couple of days ago. But I was afraid to tell you.”
“Why?”
“I thought you’d accuse me of taking the money that was in it.”
Pete’s smile faded. “You mean that you found the wallet . . . empty?”
“That’s right.”
Pete looked at him squarely. It was hard to tell what he was thinking.
“You believe me, don’t you?” said Jabber.
“Of course I believe you,” said Pete. “Why shouldn’t I?”
He got off the bed and started to pace up and down the room.
He doesn’t believe me, thought Jabber. I knew he wouldn’t.
“Where did you find it?” Pete asked.
“About half a block up the street. Near a bush. Pete, it’s the truth. You’ve got to believe me. That’s where I found it, and it was empty.”
Pete paused. “About half a block up the street? I know I didn’t lose it there.”
“You said you lost it while playing touch football. Somebody must have found it, taken the money, seen your address, and tossed the empty wallet into the bush not far from where you live.”
Pete’s eyes crinkled. “How about that? You’ve got it all figured out.”
The sharpness of the remark stung Jabber. He stared painfully at his brother. “Pete, trust me, I didn’t take your money,” he repeated, his voice rising. “The wallet was empty. Would I have picked it up and brought it to you if I had stolen it?”
He was breathing faster. Sweat glistened on his upper lip.
“Who’s accusing you of stealing it?” said Pete. “I’m not. I just can’t figure out anybody taking the money and dumping the empty wallet near our house, that’s all. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” exclaimed Jabber, his throat aching. “You’re thinking that I stole your money and used it to buy my soccer shoes. Would you think I’d pull a dirty trick like that?”
Pete stood silent. Jabber knew that his brother was thinking hard, weighing the evidence against him.
“No, Jabber,” replied Pete. “I wouldn’t think you’d pull a dirty trick like that. As a matter of fact, I think you showed a lot of guts bringing that empty wallet to me.”
“You mean that, Pete?” Jabber wasn’t sure whether to believe Pete or not.
“Of course I mean that,” said Pete, smiling and thrusting out his hand.
Jabber shook it.
“Thanks, Pete.” He felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Pete really sounded sincere. “Come on. Dinner’s ready, and Tony’s waiting to see you.”
12
There were chores to be done early on Saturday morning before Pete and Jabber could leave for hang-gliding. The garbage had to be bagged. The lawn had to be cleaned of the tiny branches that had broken off the two willow trees during the heavy wind the previous n
ight. The lawn had to be mowed, and right after breakfast a hole had to be dug for a magnolia tree Mrs. Morris had purchased from a nursery. She had been wanting to do it for days. Jabber knew it, but wished she had forgotten about it. He and Pete had dug a dozen holes for trees for their mother over the past two years, and hole-digging wasn’t his idea of fun. Besides, most of the trees still looked like spindly sticks.
But Mrs. Morris had her heart in her plants, trees, and flower garden, and didn’t mind when the boys chided her about them.
Both their father and mother had loved the garden. Since their father had died she had continued taking care of it herself, not minding it because she loved it so, and because, she had once admitted to the children, it kept her “close to Dad.”
Jabber thought it was a bit silly of her, but didn’t say so. If she was happy with that thought, let her be.
Tony drove up at noon, his hang-glider strapped to the roof of his car.
“We haven’t eaten yet,” said Pete, when Tony came to the door.
“I brought some sandwiches and a Thermos jug of hot coffee,” said Tony. “I thought we’d eat at the hill.”
“Hey! You’re thinking, man!” cried Pete. “Got enough for the three of us? Jabber’s coming, too.”
“Got plenty,” answered Tony. “Besides, I had my mother stick an extra half a loaf of Italian bread and a hunk of salami into a bag. You ready?”
“In that case, we’re ready!” said Pete, laughing.
The conversation in the car on the way to Knob Hill touched on a sensitive topic for Jabber. It surprised and embarrassed him. It was Tony who brought it up.
“I heard that you might quit soccer and play football, Jabber,” he said. “That true?”
He looked at Jabber in the rearview mirror, and must have noticed the surprised expression come over the younger boy’s face. The sudden confusion.
“I said that?” said Jabber, frowning.
When? he wondered to himself. When did I say a thing like that? And to whom?
Then he remembered. He had said it to Mose Borman at the soccer game. In a fit of disgust. Oh, man!
Pete turned in the front seat and looked at him, his eyes brightening. “Hey! How come I hadn’t heard of this?” he demanded.
Jabber smiled weakly. How could he tell Pete that he hadn’t really meant it? That it was just something he had said off the top of his head?
“Where did you hear the scuttlebutt, friend?” Pete asked Tony when he received no answer from his brother.
“Mose Borman. Jabber’s friend.”
Mose ought to be hung, thought Jabber. I just said that because I was disgusted for playing so lousy. Why didn’t Mose keep his mouth shut?
“Smart move, Jabber!” exclaimed Tony. “As a matter of fact, I was surprised you went out for soccer instead of football. After the big name your father made for himself I couldn’t see for beans why you went out for a different sport. Right, Pete?”
“I’ve been telling him that all along,” said Pete. “Hey, man, I’m pleased! This is good news!”
He extended his hand, and Jabber found himself shaking it. He felt in a dreamlike state. Why am I doing this? he asked himself. I don’t want to play football! I want to play soccer!
On the other hand, Jabber saw how happy it had made Pete to think that he had changed his mind. And, if there were a lingering doubt in Pete’s mind about Jabber’s stealing his money, Jabber’s shift to football would undoubtedly erase that, too.
“You tell Mom about this and she’ll be happier than if you got her a hundred plants and flowers for her birthday,” said Pete. “She’s always wanted both of us to follow in Dad’s footsteps in football, you know.”
“She really likes football that much, does she?” asked Tony.
“Likes it? She never missed a game Dad played in,” replied Pete enthusiastically.
“Does she go to your games?”
“Well, no. She doesn’t have the time. She works all week, and on weekends she washes clothes, cleans up the house, et cetera, et cetera. Even with all of us helping out, my mother’s a real busy woman.”
She could find the time to go if she wanted to, thought Jabber. But if she went to see Pete play, she would have to make the time to see me play. It would be easier on everybody if I played football.
As they approached Knob Hill they saw a hang-glider already in the air. It was shifting briskly. Either the pilot was new at the controls, or the wind was unusually strong.
They drove up the hill and parked a few yards away from the only other car there. A girl was leaning against its front bumper, watching the hang-glider with more concern than interest. She glanced briefly at the newcomers, then shifted her attention back to the glider.
“That’s Jane Wallace,” said Tony. “And that’s Tom Miller flying the wing. He’s not bad, but that wind is giving him a rough time. What do you think, Pete?”
“I’ve flown in stronger winds than this,” replied Pete boldly. “Anyway, if Miller isn’t scared, we’re not going to chicken out, are we?”
Tony shrugged. “Okay.”
The wind was changeable and stronger than any Jabber remembered experiencing before when he and Pete had come here to hang-glide. Deep inside he wished Pete would reconsider. But he knew his brother. Pete was fearless, proud. If Tom Miller was brave enough to hang-glide in this wind, Pete would be, too. Tony was just obliging Pete.
They removed the hang-gliders from the roof of the car, opened them, harnessed themselves, and prepared for flight.
“You first,” said Tony.
A grin played across Pete’s face. This was a sport he loved as much as football. He ran a short distance down the steep hill and took off. Instantly the strong wind caught the underside of his wing and carried him quickly up fifty feet.
Jabber’s heart leaped as he stared frantically at the yellow wing, at Pete strapped in it, and his dangling legs.
He shifted his attention to Tony. Tony hadn’t moved. He looked worried. Already Pete was having a rough time.
“He shouldn’t have gone,” exclaimed Jabber. “I knew he shouldn’t have gone. But you can’t tell him that. You can’t tell him anything. Better not go, Tony. That wind is too strong.”
Pete was circling wide over the hill some two hundred yards away, his wing dipping and rising like a ship caught in a wild, tumultuous sea.
Jabber looked for Tom Miller, saw him down in the valley, gliding in for a landing. He heard clapping and a soft cry of triumph, and saw the girl, Jane Wallace, standing away from the car and applauding happily.
He glanced back toward Pete, and froze as he saw Pete’s wing skimming the tops of the pine trees in the distance. Suddenly the yellow wing swooped toward the ground, rose for an instant, then floundered like a wounded bird.
In a moment Pete was on the ground, obscured by the wing.
“Tony! He’s probably hurt!” shouted Jabber anxiously.
“Let’s go!” said Tony, quickly releasing himself from the harness and folding the wing.
They sprinted across the rugged hill toward Pete, Jabber panting with worry. The wing was moving, billowing like a boat sail in the gusty wind. But Pete was lying still on the ground.
They reached him, and saw the look of pain on his face as he lay there, a hand clutching his left leg.
“Pete!” Tony crouched beside him.
“I think I busted my left leg,” said Pete. “Oh, man, it hurts.”
“The closest house is down in the valley,” said Tony. “I’ll drive down there and phone for an ambulance. Don’t move. Just stay put.”
He took off like a sprinter in a hundred-meter dash.
Jabber knelt beside his brother. “You shouldn’t have tried it, Pete,” he said, choking with emotion. “You saw the wind blowing Tom Miller around the sky. It was too strong.”
Pete raised his hand. Jabber took it, squeezing it tenderly.
“It’s spilt milk now, Jabber,” said Pete with a pained smile.
“I know I shouldn’t have gone. But I would have been all right if that wind hadn’t caught me by surprise when I took off. It lifted me so fast that I hurt my right wrist. From then on I couldn’t control the wing. I’m sure I would’ve flown it without trouble if I hadn’t hurt my wrist.”
Still the sure, arrogant Pete. Hating to admit to failure.
As the minutes passed while they waited for the arrival of the ambulance, Jabber’s mind began to race. What if the injury was so serious Pete couldn’t finish the football season? Where would that leave Jabber? Would it really clinch his decision to give up soccer and shift to football?
Right now it looked to him as if it would.
13
It took twenty-seven minutes from the time Tony made the telephone call till the time the ambulance arrived. One of the two medics apologized for the delay, saying that they’d been on another emergency when the call came in.
They examined Pete’s legs carefully and found that his left leg was fractured. How seriously, only an X ray could tell.
They hustled him off to the hospital, Jabber riding along with him, Tony following in his car.
“It was a stupid accident,” complained Pete. “It burns me to a crisp.”
“Maybe it’s not too serious,” Jabber said, trying to comfort his brother. “Maybe you’ll be flying again before you know it.”
“Well, it all depends,” said Pete. “If I’m a fast healer, I might be back up on that hill tomorrow.”
He laughed, and Jabber laughed with him.
“Don’t bet on it,” said the medic sitting beside Jabber.
It took only minutes before the ambulance, siren going, rolled up to the curb in front of the emergency entrance of the Birch Valley Hospital. Pete was rushed inside to the emergency ward where a doctor and a nurse were waiting for him. Carefully the medics moved him from the stretcher to a table.
“I’ll call Mom and tell her,” said Jabber.
“No. Wait a while,” said Pete. “Maybe I won’t have to stay here.”
He lay stiffly, his eyes shut with pain.
“He your brother?” the doctor asked Jabber.
Soccer Halfback Page 6