When You Believe

by Deborah Bedford

  He rolled over onto his back. The stinking bodies were gone and he could see banks of lights blaring down on him from every direction. They whirled above him, moving, drawing circles. He had no sense of time passing until Deanna Woodruff, the team’s trainer, floated over him with her six-pack of Gatorade bottles and a sports towel. Somewhere far away the band played. And the next thing he knew, someone was shoving his ribcage, bulldozer pressure. He came up out of himself. He snarled at everybody standing within ten miles. “That’s it. You found it, okay?”

  Faces swam in and out in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut. And heard, “Thing’s already been swollen. It isn’t a new injury. Leavitt, has this been bothering you before?”

  Sam winced and opened his eyes again. “Just since”—he grimaced—“yesterday’s powder-puff.”

  They lifted him, their shoulders thrust beneath his armpits, human crutches bearing him along. A smattering of polite applause erupted from the stands.

  Deanna rummaged through the first-aid box on the Fire-Rattler sidelines, helped him off with his jersey, and began to girdle his middle with tape. She had him halfway bound up like a mummy when, suddenly, he lifted his eyes to the stands and there she was.

  “Shelby!” he hollered, jerking away from Deanna, not making it very far. He left what felt like most of his epidermis on a scant ten inches of athletic tape.

  Sam couldn’t be sure whether it was the pain or the Vioxx he’d just downed or the way he could see Shelby clutching the railing that made him woozy. Deanna batted his elbow out of the way. “Get your arm down, Leavitt. Stop moving.”

  “Shelby. Down here!”

  “Fortney wants me to get you back out there. I’ve got about two more minutes to tape this rib.”

  Shelby either wouldn’t or couldn’t hear him. Five or six rows of people turned in answer to his voice, but Shelby wasn’t one of them. She stood exactly where she had appeared, between Joe Rex Hannibal, who made his living cutting meat at Winn-Dixie, and Sharla Crabtree, head bookkeeper at the Shadrach Bank and Trust, looking out across the Shadrach football field as if she gazed out over an endless nothing. He tried to unwind himself like a spool of thread. “Dee, let me go a minute. She’s right there.”

  “Tough luck.” Deanna grabbed one end of the tape and rewound him, forcing him to the bench. “Get your head in the game.”

  By the time he was able to stand up again and pivot toward the bleachers, she was disappearing. She backed away, stepping down into the aisle behind Joe Rex and Sharla, a solid row of standing loyal fans. She didn’t appear again.

  “Leavitt.” Coach gripped his shoulder and held it a minute with concern. “You gonna be up to this?”

  “Sure I am,” Sam said without turning. Then said it loud enough again to convince himself. “Sure I am.”

  “Okay, then.” Fortney whacked him on the butt. “Get on out there. You’re in.”

  And the only thing Sam could think about as he ran to join the huddle was Shelby’s face; the number he thought he’d seen painted on her cheek. Not her senior season like the rest of the girls, no. A football number, a tight-end number. 84. The jersey number he’d been wearing all year.

  INSIDE THE HIGH SCHOOL during the football game, Riley McCaskill had his floor polisher cranked up full speed. It wove back and forth across the gym floor, vibrating in loud circles, as Riley polished the boards for the dance.

  Earlier this evening, there had been plenty of people around. Volunteer parents had been busy arranging tables, flopping open tablecloths and carrying finger foods to the Home Ec refrigerator. Student-council members had spent hours balancing on ladders, hanging disco balls, and draping black paper from the light fixtures. But now, except for Riley and the disc jockey who had been testing his sound system, most people had finished their jobs and had filtered away.

  Because so many had been coming and going, the downstairs side door just outside the gym had been left unlocked. Above the constant whine of the floor polisher, no one could have heard as this door clicked open and someone slipped inside.

  Every light in downstairs C-hall had been left blazing. A figure moved into the stairwell and began to climb the steps into darkness.

  After enough time had passed for eyes to adjust at the top, the form slowly, silently began to make its way along the upstairs C-hall.

  A wavering, pale beam switched on. Apparently unsatisfied with the amount of light being given out, the intruder smacked the old flashlight in a palm. But the beam stayed just as pale, just as weak.

  The flashlight began to play over the locker numbers. 145. 146. 147. And, as if the figure had finally figured out which direction it needed to go, it began to move a little faster.

  The person didn’t touch any locker handles. He didn’t rattle any metal doors. But when he came to Shelby Tatum’s locker, he stopped, focused the flashlight beam on the combination lock, and double-checked a square of paper in his pocket. He redirected the light on the locker number, as if to make sure. When he was certain he’d found the right one, he began to twirl the dial, fiddling with the sequence of numbers, not certain that he knew how to make the tumblers fall into place.

  Nobody stopped him, nobody questioned him, as he fumbled with the combination at least five times before finally wrenching open the door. When he did, a great tumble of Shelby’s things fell out at him—textbooks with doodles on their covers, a jumble of folded notes, assorted papers, Sam Leavitt’s senior picture, and a Claire’s lip gloss. Three different sweaters dangled from hooks below.

  The man knew he’d found the right locker because he recognized the smell of her pink lotion. Something she bought at Bath and Body Works. He didn’t know the name of it, but he would recognize the stuff anywhere.

  No sense leaving things intact here. No sense taking any chances. He had come prepared. He began to rake things off the shelves into a plastic trash bag.

  When he had shoved everything in, he tied the handles in a knot. He chuckled under his breath. This wasn’t even heavy. He had been worrying about that.

  He used the light to find his way to the stairwell again. He would have to watch out for the janitor and the dance preparations down there. It had been a long time since he had been to a dance. He punched the flashlight button and the shaft of light was gone. He stood, gripping the banister with one hand and hanging on to the bag of Shelby’s things in the other. He waited for his eyes to adjust again.

  Without making a sound, he descended into the light. He stopped, listening for the floor polisher to make sure he wouldn’t be seen. Somewhere off to his right, he could still hear it.

  He slipped out of the school the same way he had come.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lydia hadn’t meant for anyone to know she was headed out to the marina.

  She had tried to sit in the stands at the football game first. But it was one of the most miserable things she had ever done, being surrounded by people in such a festive place, forced to smile and exchange pleasantries. She didn’t care at all about the new diner that was opening on Main Street or the cold front that had blown through last week or the shoe sale in Osceola at a boutique called Stepping Stones. She couldn’t escape the darkness in her heart long enough to listen to anyone or to pretend that she cared.

  And underneath it all, she knew that everyone suspected she knew something that she wasn’t saying. By now, they had heard about the Democrat Reflex and the radio station showing up at the rally. Lydia had the feeling that other people’s light-hearted conversations with her were as forced as her own.

  With great relief, she left after the third quarter. But arriving home that night was almost as difficult as sitting at the game. Just walking in the door, hanging her pea jacket on the peg, reminded her that this place would now be without Charlie.

  Before Charlie, no hint of masculinity could be found in this place. None of the belongings that he’d left scattered around lately because he had known he would always be returning. No man’s fishin
g galoshes to stumble over sideways by the door. No keys and coins or Leatherman pocketknife left in a tangle on the counter. No khaki jackets forgotten, draped across the arm of a chair.

  So many of his things seemed to belong here now. Even his Bible, which he’d brought over when they were talking about writing their own wedding vows. Everywhere she looked reminded her of what they’d lost.

  Lydia removed the coat from the peg again, shrugged into it, and left. Ten minutes later, in the dark, she parked beside the Viney Creek Marina at Uncle Cy’s.

  Soft light spilled from what looked like a gas lantern that had been set on the end of the dock. For a moment, as the light flared, it elongated her small shadow and illuminated what was left of the hollyhocks beside the boathouse.

  A hot jolt scalded her. He wouldn’t be here, would he? “Charlie? Is it you?” She took large and hurried steps toward the wooden platform he had built, certain that it was him, that he’d come, that he was waiting here for her. She bolted all the way to the water before she checked herself. She placed her palm against the side of her cheek, laid her face against it, seeking refuge in the cool of her own skin.

  She heard the sound of a child laughing. A different man’s voice called out, “No, it isn’t Charlie.”

  Unwarranted, ridiculous disappointment plummeted all the way to her toes. “I’m so sorry. I thought—” But of course it wouldn’t be him. She didn’t want it to be him.

  “Lydia? Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on out and share the light.”

  “Who—?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Who?”

  “Brad Gritton.”

  “Oh.”

  There wasn’t any way she could gracefully back out of this. And, suddenly, she wasn’t certain that she wanted to. She had heard how he had unplugged the sound system this morning. For that, she would be eternally grateful.

  Clutching her coat around her in the damp night air, she stepped forward. There, illuminated in the light, sat Brad and a little boy with dark, downy hair that fuzzed like goose down around his face. The back of it swirled in knots and stuck straight out, the ultimate bed head.

  “Hey,” she said, her voice gone softer when she saw the child.

  The little boy, probably about four, hung on to a fishing pole with one hand. Brad held on to it with the other.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Then, “You night fishing?”

  “Yep. It’s way past the kid’s bedtime, but I promised. Meet Taylor.”

  Lydia bent so she could see the boy’s face. “I didn’t know you—” She stopped.

  But Brad was shaking his head. “I don’t. He’s my sister’s.”

  The little boy sat on the very end of the pier, hunched over in a warm little corduroy coat, staring at the frenzied wisps of fins from the brim drawn to the light. The legs of his flannel pajamas were rolled up to his knees. His feet were wet and bare.

  “Hi, Taylor. I’m Lydia. Very nice to meet you.”

  With eyes as bright as candles, he clutched the cork handle of the pole, his hand tiny and perfect, as pale as moonglow, with his uncle’s huge hand right beside it. “Nith to meet you, thoo.”

  Brad grinned.

  “Why aren’t you at the game?” she asked.

  “Too loud for us over there.” Brad rumpled his nephew’s hair. “Isn’t it, kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah,” Brad repeated.

  After a pause: “This is a good chance,” she said, “to thank you for what you did yesterday. You could have joined right in with the journalism vultures.”

  His fingers moved through his nephew’s hair. “I didn’t like their method. There are better ways.”

  “You did what was right for the kids.”

  “I did what I believed.”

  That brought a long string of silence.

  Taylor broke it by dabbing his toes in the water again, just for a half a second, and screeching.

  Lydia couldn’t help having motherly instincts. “You don’t think it’s too cold for his feet to be in the water out here?”

  Brad pulled a towel from his pocket. “We’re prepared. I told him his toes looked like worms and, if he wiggled them enough, he might get a fish to bite them.”

  Silence came again. It was interrupted only by the distant surging of cricket song and the slap slap slap of waves breaking against the pilings.

  “Hey,” he said at last. “Today I learned something about you.”

  She stiffened, thinking he would say he had learned that she had made the report to Nibarger, that she had protected Shelby and betrayed Charlie. “That so?” She steeled herself.

  “They’ve got all these old issues of the Democrat Reflex on microfiche over at the newspaper office. I was running a search and I found something.”

  “What?”

  “That story about you going out when you were young and finding people. About how you were the one who helped find that Boy Scout who got lost.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “What was that, Lydia? How did you go out in the woods like that and lead everybody to that kid? How did you know where to find him?”

  If she hesitated to answer, her heart was softened by the sight of Brad bringing out the towel again and drying the little boy’s feet. “There, now,” he whispered to Taylor as he rolled the child’s little plaid pajama legs down so they reached his ankles. Next he began to tug on a pair of warm socks. “I think we’ve had enough fishing for one night, little guy.”

  “Nowadays,” she said, “I can’t even find myself.”

  Out on the Brownbranch, a duck must have gotten disturbed in its sleep. A loud quack echoed across the water. For a moment they both stared into the blackness toward the sound. “The story said that, when you were a little girl, you touched the trunks of trees. That people thought trees talked to you. Were they just making all that up?”

  She didn’t say anything right off. Then, “It was coming here that made it start.” Yes, she remembered that. “There’s always been something special about Shadrach.”

  “When it started? What started?”

  “Being out in the woods and knowing which way to turn. That’s all it was.” Then, “It didn’t frighten me, you know. I used to think it was God.”

  “Oh,” he said quietly. “God.” Taylor’s grip had loosened on the fishing pole. His eyelids had gone half mast, his little body rocking from the struggle of keeping his eyes open. Brad rescued the pole and reeled in the line. With thumbnail and forefinger, he peeled the dead worm off the hook and flipped it into the water. “The great paradox of God.”

  Taylor had slumped over onto Brad’s knee. Brad turned the knob on the lantern as the light went low and then flickered out completely. What had looked like a very dark night overhead began to glimmer and shine with stars.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The love in the world. Everybody says it’s there. Well, if it is, then it’s the most consistent thing in the world. But how can something so consistent also be so unpredictable?”

  He took off his own coat and bunched it around Taylor’s little body, then lifted the child up and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of Missouri sorghum. Somehow he found the fishing pole in the dark, and the tackle box, too.

  “Here,” she said. “I’ll carry the lantern.”

  “Thanks.”

  They walked the length of the pier together. When their feet began to crunch acorns and they were back on dry land, he told her, “Taylor’s mom died of cancer last year. My sister was the best friend I ever had.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So are a lot of people.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s okay. Nobody does. I don’t.” Then, “There are things to be grateful for, I suppose. But I just don’t get it sometimes. Why God does what He does.”

  “Now you’re the one who’s talking about God.”

&
nbsp; “Yeah.”

  Lydia stared out into nothingness. “Maybe that’s how it used to be for me, too, with the trees. I don’t know how to do it anymore. Now maybe it’s all just… words.”

  Brad didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask any questions. And suddenly, despite all of Brad’s digging for the answers, maybe because of them, she felt safe to talk.

  “The things they asked in that meeting this morning were awful. She had to repeat what had happened over and over again. What made her say someone had acted inappropriately with her? How many times had it happened? Had he forced her to touch him when she didn’t want to?”

  Yes, Shelby had answered. It had happened four or five times. Yes, he made me touch him back.

  “She held on to my hand the whole time,” Lydia said to Brad, “like I was the only one who could keep her from sinking into quicksand.”

  “It doesn’t get any tougher than that.”

  “No.”

  “Wow.”

  “Taylor’s asleep.”

  “Yeah.”

  They stopped walking, stood listening to the even, deep breathing of the little boy.

  “I really love this kid,” Brad said, his voice lowered to a whisper. “We don’t get to see each other often, but we’re all trying to get things on an even keel again. He lives with his dad in Kentucky.”

  “Is that what you mean about God being a paradox?” she asked, her voice a whisper, too, because a paradox, when she looked at Brad and his nephew together, seemed like something she wanted to understand.

  “I’ve discovered that you always know where you stand with God; you seldom know what He’s going to do next.”

  The water moved out past the rim of light. She looked at him, shrugged her shoulders, gave a sad little laugh. “All you were doing was fishing with your nephew. And you got me instead.”

  “That isn’t such a bad thing, maybe.”

  They’d walked all the way to Brad’s SUV. She opened the door for him so he could put the little boy inside. “Thanks for letting me talk.”