The Hosanna Shout

by R. R. Irvine

  “Shit,” Tempest said, glaring at the man who was shambling their way on the balls of his feet. “He always waits for the clergy to leave, so he won’t have to listen to a sermon. He wouldn’t hang around us, Hannah, if you’d stop feeding him.”

  “The town owes him,” she said.

  “My wife, the do-gooder.”

  When the man reached their table, his hands started shaking so badly he pinned them in his armpits.

  Tempest winked openly. “What is it today, Shaky, the malaria again?”

  The man nodded. “Got it in the Second War. Never have been the same since.”

  “Shaky Johnson used to be our deputy sheriff,” Tempest said, “until the shakes got the better of him.”

  “Deputy Johnson took a bullet for this town,” Hannah said. “In the line of duty.” She opened one of the picnic hampers and took out a small flask. “There was a time when Shaky Johnson ruled with an iron fist. If someone stepped out of line, Shaky took care of it.”

  “I knew everything that was going on in this town.” Johnson licked his lips. “I still do when I put my mind to it.”

  “What about it, Shaky?” Tempest said. “Are you going to make any arrests today?”

  “Don’t mock.” Hannah handed Johnson the flask. After several swallows, he sighed, tucked the flask into his back pocket, and held out his hands, which were now steady. “You come back when you’re hungry,” Hannah told him.

  Johnson nodded and trotted away.

  “That’s the last we’ll see of him,” Tempest said, “until the shakes come back.”

  Hannah shrugged. “I’d better start serving the kids.” To Martin she added, “You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Go ahead and feed the children,” Tempest said. “The men won’t be eating until after the game.”

  Hannah began uncovering platters, revealing fried chicken, potato salad, and a green Jell-O mold filled with chunks of pineapple and cottage cheese. She gave the children a peek of dessert, an apple pie, then wrapped it again to protect it against the rising dust.

  “Look, Aunt Hannah,” the older boy said, pointing to the next table, where Ida Odegaard was unveiling a three-layer chocolate cake large enough for a wedding.

  “If I know Ida,” Hannah said, “she’s probably got another cake stashed under the table. She’s known for her chocolate cakes, but won’t share the recipe because it’s a family secret.”

  “I heard that,” Ida called over good-naturedly. “Tell your men to keep their hands off my cake. The kids get first dibs.”

  Martin leaned over to speak to Marty. “What’s your favorite dessert?”

  The boy blinked, then looked from Hannah to the chocolate cake and back.

  “It’s okay, honey,” she told him. “You can have whatever you want.”

  Marty headed for the cake, which Traveler felt like doing himself.

  “No you don’t,” Tempest called after him. “You come back here and sit down and eat your lunch first.”

  The boy obeyed instantly, as did the Snarr children; they all took seats on the bench as near to Hannah as they could get.

  Snarr raised an eyebrow at his sister-in-law, movement only Traveler was in a position to see. Hannah answered with a twitchlike smile before tucking a large paper napkin into the collar of her little girl’s dress. “That’s my angel.” The boys did the same with their own napkins.

  Under the table, Traveler nudged his father to stop him staring at Marty.

  Snarr said, “Are you going to play football with us?”

  “It’s too hot to play anything,” Martin said.

  Snarr started to reply but was interrupted by his wife’s return with a gaunt young man in his late twenties who had dark circles under his eyes.

  As soon as he was introduced to Dr. Snarr, Martin asked, “What’s your professional advice about playing football in this kind of weather?”

  The doctor squinted at the bright sky. “Heat prostration is always a possibility.”

  “It’s the company versus the town,” Snarr put in.

  “In that case—”

  “Jesse’s been up all night trying to deliver Mrs. Gamble’s baby,” Hattie interrupted.

  “Boy or girl?” Martin asked, glancing at Marty.

  “It’s still pending,” the doctor said.

  “If they’d held the picnic next week,” Hattie said, “Jesse would have been reassigned now that Bingham’s too small to rate its own hospital anymore.”

  The doctor’s beeper went off. “That’s it. I’ve got a feeling I’m about to deliver Bingham’s last baby.” He looked toward the playing field where the sawhorses were being repositioned along the sidelines. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Let me fix you a plate of food before you go,” Hattie said.

  He shook his head. “With Mrs. Gamble’s cooperation I’ll be back later to eat.”

  “Or set bones,” Martin muttered.

  “You’re acting like old ladies,” Tempest said. “What better way to work up an appetite than with a friendly game of touch football?”

  “If you ask me, the Martins are the ones showing a little sense,” Hattie said.

  “I didn’t ask you,” Tempest said.

  Lyman Snarr pointed a finger at his brother-in-law and was about to say something when Mayor Odegaard arrived, carrying a six-foot aluminum stepladder in one hand and a bullhorn in the other. “How’s Mrs. Gamble?” he asked the doctor.

  Jesse Snarr touched his beeper. “I’m on my way back to the hospital right now.”

  “You tell her for me, the town needs a Bible name for luck.”

  The mayor opened the ladder, set it next to the table, and sat on the second of its five rungs. “How about John if it’s a boy?”

  “I’ll give her the message,” the doctor said before hurrying away.

  Odegaard tapped Traveler on the shoulder. “Hold the ladder for me, will you, young man?”

  As soon as Traveler obliged, the mayor, still carrying his bullhorn, climbed onto the ladder’s upper rung, a vantage point that gave him a bird’s-eye view of the picnic area. “Come up a step,” he said to Traveler, “and let me show you a few things about Bingham.”

  Gingerly, Traveler tested the ladder’s stability before easing onto the first rung.

  The mayor pointed toward the tables beyond the refreshment stand. “As you can see for yourself, we’ve got Croatians on one side, Serbs on the other, even though there’s no consensus among them as to which way they’re voting.”

  The Serbs, Traveler noticed, were wearing lodge hats, many so moth-eaten they looked generations old.

  “Not many are company men I can tell you that, but they’ll sure as hell take sides when we start playing football. I hear Father Jake’s brought in some ringers, a couple of miners who used to play ball for Draper High School. That’s why the town needs someone your size, to even things out. If you look close, money’s changing hands right now. The company’s a two-to-one favorite.”

  “With someone your size,” Tempest told Traveler, “we might beat the odds.”

  “My money stays in my pocket,” Odegaard said.

  “What do you say, Mr. Martin?” Tempest asked. “Give us a hand. We can get to know each other better that way.”

  Traveler glanced at his father for advice, but he had his eyes on the boy.

  “In the old days,” the mayor said, “we could have used old Killum-Cow Charlie on our side. He was a local strongman who used to work Bourgard’s slaughterhouse down in Frogtown.”

  Shouts erupted from the refreshment area where two big men, one a priest, were climbing onto the makeshift stage.

  “That’s Father Jake Bannon and Frank Murdock,” the mayor said. “They’re hand-in-glove with the company, Murdock because he owns a lot of land, and Father Jake because he wants to move on to bigger things in Salt Lake. Jake played ball for Notre Dame, second-string but still better than anybody we’ve got. We’re going to get creamed out t
here without help.”

  Even from a distance, Father Jake looked impressive, at least thirty pounds heavier than Traveler, who’d slimmed down since his playing days.

  “What’s it to be?” Odegaard said. “Everybody has to choose sides. I’m quarterbacking for the home team.”

  Traveler stepped off the ladder.

  “You go ahead, son.” Martin raised an eyebrow in Tempest’s direction. “I’ll stay behind with the women and children and root for you.”

  Against his better judgment, Traveler shrugged his acceptance.

  “Good man.” The mayor raised the bullhorn to his lips and announced, “Gentlemen, let’s play some football.”

  23

  WHILE TRAVELER stood on the sidelines drinking beer with his new teammates, the opposing co-captains, Mayor Odegaard and Garth Tempest representing the city, and Father Bannon and Frank Murdock for the company, met in the middle of the dusty field to watch Father Balic toss a coin. The sun, though past its zenith, felt hotter than ever. The air was filled with gnats rising from the newly mown weeds underfoot. The playing area itself couldn’t have been more than forty yards long and twenty wide.

  Traveler knelt to pick foxtails from his jeans before rolling his cuffs ankle high.

  Beside him, Lyman Starr did the same. “Officially Kennecott isn’t represented here,” Snarr said, “only those who favor selling out to them.”

  “Do any of them work for the company?” Traveler asked.

  “Like the mayor said, some are miners. Some work at the smelter, but they’re only company men in the sense that Kennecott pays their wages. It’s really the town that’s divided.”

  Traveler double-tied the laces on his running shoes. “You can’t blame people for wanting to sell out and make money.”

  “I’m a renter myself. But there are those who say the company is trying to get things cheap.”

  Out on the field Father Balic, who’d exchanged his priestly robes for jeans and a short-sleeve Hawaiian-style shirt, supervised the shaking of hands, then dramatically flipped a silver dollar high into the air. When it landed, the mayor raised his bullhorn. “Cityhood wins the toss.”

  A moment later, Balic waved his arms, signaling all players to join him on the field. As soon as everyone had gathered around him, Balic said, “Here are the rules. We’re going to play for thirty minutes, including the timeouts for beer, which I will call personally. Whoever’s ahead at the end of thirty minutes wins. I’ll start my watch as soon as we kick off and let it run. There will be no first downs. You get four plays to score or kick. One other thing, Father Bannon’s team is short a man, so Garth Tempest has volunteered to fill in.”

  Tempest, Traveler noticed suddenly, was gnashing his teeth.

  Traveler leaned close to Snarr. “What’s up with your brother-in-law?”

  “Shit. I know that look. He’s probably gloating about the prospect of knocking me on my ass.”

  “I get the feeling it’s me he’s after.”

  Snarr shook his head. “He’s a mean drunk, but not dumb enough to take on someone your size. Me, he tries to bully every chance he gets.”

  “He’s only had a couple of beers.”

  Even as Traveler spoke, the teams headed for the beer keg and one last pregame thirst quenching.

  “Once we start,” Father Balic said, raising his paper cup in a toast, “you men can come out of the game for a beer whenever you want, but the rest keep on playing.”

  Over the top of his cup, Traveler watched Garth Tempest, who appeared to be staring back.

  “Let’s get going,” the mayor said. “The women are waiting.” He handed his bullhorn to Father Balic and led his team onto the field.

  The kickoff went to the mayor personally, who was tackled after a short gain.

  “I thought we were playing touch,” Traveler said in the huddle.

  “We are,” the mayor said, “but you can’t dispute a tackle.”

  Traveler sighed. The pudgy Mayor Odegaard had to be forty-five at least and was already breathing hard. Looking around the huddle, Traveler realized he stood out as the biggest man, as did the Catholic priest on the other team.

  “Do you want to carry the ball?” the mayor asked.

  Traveler shook his head. “It’s easier to pass on a field this size. I’ll stay in to block for you.”

  At the line of scrimmage, the priest, wearing a Notre Dame sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off to reveal intimidating biceps, lined up opposite Traveler. Tempest was facing his brother-in-law, as Snarr had predicted.

  Traveler took no aggressive action but merely got in the priest’s way long enough for the mayor to throw his pass. The ball sailed thirty yards into the end zone for a touchdown, much to Traveler’s surprise.

  The mayor immediately left the game for a beer, which left the team one man short on defense. Even so, Traveler made only a perfunctory move to get by the priest and rush the passer. The company quarterback didn’t have much of an arm and had to settle for ten-yard passes. Even so, he moved his team within striking distance on its final down.

  As they lined up for the play, the priest grinned at Traveler and muttered, “Mormon pussy.”

  The comment so surprised Traveler that he failed to sidestep the priest’s block and landed on his backside, with the priest on top, jabbing a deliberate elbow into Traveler’s ribs.

  “Touchdown!” Father Balic called.

  Traveler got up slowly, smiling to cover his pain. If they see you’re hurt, his pro coach, Bart Siddons, used to say, they’ll be on you like wolves. If you want to survive, you have to get mad and get even.

  Traveler took a deep breath. He had no intention of getting mad. All he had to do was watch himself. The priest, despite his biceps, wasn’t that good.

  The mayor came back in the game for the kickoff, reeking of beer and looking a bit red in the eyes. This time, the mayor moved out of the way so someone else could handle the kickoff. Traveler made one block for the runner, who cut the wrong way and lost yardage.

  “Time out!” Father Balic hollered through the bullhorn. “Beer break.”

  Traveler settled for water, while the others gulped enough beer to make them slosh.

  When play resumed, the mayor called another long pass before moving them to the line of scrimmage. Traveler found himself facing Garth Tempest, while Father Bannon had switched to Lyman Snarr. As a result, the priest flattened the mayor before he had time to throw and Traveler found himself trying to fend off punches worthy of a street-fighter.

  Traveler took a shot on his shoulder before pinning Tempest’s arms. “I know you’re drunk,” Traveler whispered in the man’s ear, “but don’t push it.”

  He looked around for the referee, but Father Balic was on the sidelines drinking beer.

  “You don’t scare me,” Tempest said once he was on his feet.

  When Traveler nudged him toward his teammates, Tempest tripped, which caused the priest to rush Traveler, coming nose-to-nose to say, “If you want to shove somebody, try me.”

  Play with anger. Coach Siddons’s words echoed inside Traveler’s head. Hate them. They’re the enemy. It’s the only way you’ll survive as a linebacker in professional football.

  Traveler backed away.

  The priest turned around to slap hands with Tempest.

  In the huddle Traveler saw that Lyman Snarr had a bloody nose from trying to stop Father Bannon’s last pass rush. The mayor was patting the dust from the seat of his pants; his hair was matted with foxtails.

  “I need more time to throw,” he said.

  The other players, Snarr included, avoided Traveler’s eyes.

  “I’ll take the priest,” he said.

  Snarr wiped his nose. “Thank God.”

  “Keep an eye on your brother-in-law,” Traveler told him.

  On the next play, Tempest blindsided him, the kind of clip that could tear up a knee, while the priest rammed a forearm into the side of Traveler’s head. Pain blinded him momenta
rily while instinct, fueled by years of practice, tucked him into a protective ball enabling him to roll with the blow. He came up limping and grinding his teeth. Use the pain. Steep yourself in it. Adrenaline started his hands shaking.

  “Are you okay?” the mayor said.

  Traveler nodded. Sweat stung his eyes but he refused to wipe them as he turned his back on the opposition and joined the huddle. Only then did he realize that the mayor had completed a pass halfway down the field.

  “Sorry about Garth,” Snarr said. He had a cut ear to go along with his bloody nose. “I couldn’t stop him.”

  Traveler glanced back to see Tempest watching him from the new line of scrimmage. The man’s wild-eyed look was the same one Traveler had seen in the mirror on game days.

  “Listen up,” the mayor said. “Keep them off me one more time and I’ll put it in the end zone for sure.”

  Snarr groaned.

  As they moved to the line of scrimmage, Traveler studied the opposition. Tempest looked crazy, while Bannon merely acted cocky. Take the priest out and he’d be slow to recover, if at all. Chances were Tempest would have to be disabled totally before he’d let up.

  “I’m going after Notre Dame first,” he whispered to Snarr. “Protect yourself.”

  Bannon and Tempest switched places at the last minute, leaving Snarr to face the priest as the ball was snapped. Traveler used Tempest’s momentum to hurl him aside, then cracked back on Bannon from behind, strictly illegal but effective. The priest could walk afterward, but only with a limp. From then on, he just went through the motions, allowing Traveler to concentrate on Tempest. By the end of the game, Tempest was lining up as far from Traveler as possible.

  Someone fired a pistol and Father Balic gathered both teams around the beer keg to declare the game a tie. Wives began mingling with the sweaty, grime-covered players, handing out wet paper towels and Band-Aids. Hattie Snarr shook her head at her husband’s plight before going to work on him. Traveler went through half a dozen towels before the last one came away from his face in a reasonably clean condition.

  Cups brimming with foamy beer were handed out for a toast.

  “To Bingham,” the mayor said. “May her memory never die.”