by Tim Green
Six million! It was unbelievable.
Clay thought about what it would be like to have six million dollars, or even more if Bill got his way. The signing bonus alone was two million! Not only could he buy whatever the hell he wanted, if he was even just a little careful with his money, he'd never have to work another day in his life after football.
Even after all the percentages that went to Uncle Sam and Bill Clancy, Clay would be a wealthy man. He preferred the term wealthy to rich. Wealth was a word that connoted urbanity; rich made Clay think of yellow Cadillacs and diamond pinkie rings. If he was going to have money, he would be dignified about it. He would live the good life, but never forget that most happiness came from little things like sitting on a porch in a rocking chair with a cold beer and talking, which was exactly what he was about to do.
Clay stepped out onto the porch and sat down in the empty rocker next to Katie's father. Mr. Becker said nothing, but opened a cooler, took out a beer, and handed it to Clay. The two of them sat for some time before the father spoke.
"Lot on your mind, Clay?" he said.
The stars were beginning to show, and a warm, gentle wind rippled the placid surface of the water. A bat flicked across the evening sky, and Clay rocked for a minute or two, sipping his beer before speaking. In the two summers he had spent time with Andrew Becker on that porch, he had never told Clay what to do, or judged what he had done. Instead he listened, and spoke in general terms that only suggested solutions, which was a welcome relief from Clay's own father, who felt he knew the right way to do everything.
"Sometimes the right thing is vague," Andrew had once said to Clay as they sat drinking on the porch in their identical rockers. "That's one of the first things I learned as a lawyer. Whether it's a divorce or a disputed estate, even a crime, there are always gray areas. It's not uncommon for two different judges to rule differently on the same set of facts. Why? Not because they are incompetent or dishonest men, although some are both, but because what's right isn't always clear."
It was ironic that Andrew was exactly the kind of man Clay's father had taught him to scoff. Although he stood just over six feet tall, he was a frail man. His hands and face were soft and kind, and he wore thick spectacles that tended to slide down his nose whenever it was hot. He wore dark old-fashioned suits with a bow tie at all times except when he was at the lake. It was then that he looked the silliest to those who didn't know him. Then he wore an old fishing hat with a few faded lures hooked above the brim, khaki pants with large plaid shirts from which his arms hung like two pale sticks. Clay's father had only met Andrew once. It was after a football game, and he had referred to Andrew ever since as Ichabod Crane. The irony was that Clay deeply admired the man, regardless of the fact that his own father had taught him from a young age that physical frailty was an intolerable weakness.
Andrew Becker, without knowing it or trying, had taught Clay the opposite. Initially, Clay was polite to him because he was Katie's father. But over time Clay was able to see the virtues of intelligence and kindness firsthand. The weaker-looking man had a family that was peaceful and content. And Andrew seemed to rule it with strength and compassion. Clay's own father paled by comparison. Growing up in the Blackwell house, Clay and his mother had known only an interminable undercurrent of stress and the rumblings of his father's anger which hung in the air like an impending storm on a summer night. There had never been quite enough money, his mother had never cooked dinner quite right, and as well as Clay did in school or on the playing fields, things never seemed quite up to the level that Clay's father expected.
"Lot on my mind," Clay said finally. "Talked to Bill Clancy on the phone." He paused for a moment letting that piece of information set in. "Andrew," he continued, "I'm about to have more money than I ever dreamed of all because I can play a game."
"Don't sell yourself so short, Clay," Andrew said. "We both know that you've worked hard, harder than most men work in a lifetime. And you've done it to be great at what you do, and it's certainly no more a game than what I do."
There was silence for a moment before he added, "And don't worry about the money. If God can put a camel through the eye of a needle, then he can certainly let a man as good as you into heaven, even if you will be wealthy."
Clay smiled to himself. Both men sipped their beer.
"Kate's great-grandfather, my mother's dad, used to have a saying: 'Money is the root of all evil,' he would say. 'Evil, shoot me the root.' "
Andrew chuckled at his grandfather's old quip, and Clay laughed with him.
"I thought your grandfather was a minister or something," Clay said.
"Oh yes, he was. But ministers need money to put food on the table and buy new dresses for their wives, same as everyone else."
The door swung open and Katie burst out onto the porch. "Dinner in ten minutes, gentleman, and I hope you two haven't had too much to drink. Mom and I have worked all afternoon to prepare this meal."
Katie wore one of Clay's faded flannel shirts rolled up to her elbows and tucked in to a pair of old Levis. Her feet were bare and her long dark hair was pulled back. She looked beautiful without trying.
"Dinnertime?" Andrew said. "Clay and I were just about to take the boat and head across the lake to Monte's Diner. And if it were much later we'd have been ordering breakfast."
"Funny, Dad. Now I know Clay let you drink too much."
Andrew got up and went inside. Clay stood up from his seat and kissed Katie. His movements were slow and jerky because of his three- mile run that afternoon.
"Oh, you look sore," she said.
"It's that hot pavement and these two hundred and seventy-five pounds my legs had to carry across three miles of it," Clay replied. "But nothing a late-night massage won't take care of."
"Uh-huh, I've heard that before. You love me for my body, don't you?"
"That's what you're famous for, isn't it?"
"Clay, you're a typical football player, and now I know why my father told me to stay away from football players."
"That was until he met me," Clay said.
Kate couldn't help returning Clay's impish smile because he was right. When she had first brought Clay home after they met, her father was beside himself. He had an innate dislike for Neanderthals, as he portended all football players to be. But he had given Clay a chance as she knew he would, and Clay had won him over instantly, which she also knew he would. She put her arms lovingly around Clay's large frame and hugged him, pressing her cheek into his chest. They stood silently for a few moments, then she said, "We better go in . . ."
"Katie," Clay said, holding her tight and rocking gently back and forth as he peered out across the now blackened water at the stars which painted the night sky, "this is what it's about, isn't it? Just holding each other and being here without a care in the world."
Katie looked up into his eyes as he continued to stare, mesmerized by the brilliant constellations. For some reason she felt sad. His voice was distant, as if he was reminiscing about times gone past, or saying goodbye without really saying it.
"We can always do this, Clay," she said hopefully. "We can stay happy with each other, and come here to get away."
"Things won't change between us," he said, as if to convince himself. "I mean, even though we'll be apart a little bit these next couple of years, it's not like I'm not coming back."
"Clay, snap out of it. I'll be here for you. You know that. No matter what, I'll be here. Plane ticket away, remember that's what you told me?"
"I'm not going to change, do you think, Kate?" he said after a pause, thinking of all the money.
"I'm counting on you not changing, Clay," she said pushing her nose between the buttons of his shin until she felt his warm skin. "Let's go eat," she said. "We can take a boat ride after dinner. Maybe we'll run out of gas."
"After dinner? How about now?" he whispered, sticking his hand down the back of her pants. "Come on."
"Clay!" she whispered as he led her q
uickly, quietly by the hand into the house and up to the guest bedroom.
When they got to his room, Clay discreetly locked the door while Katie slipped off her pants. He started to unbutton her shirt.
"We don't have time," she whispered, and pulled him gently down onto the bed.
Clay fumbled to pull off his pants. She grabbed him gently but firmly and guided him inside her. His hands went up under her shirt and found her soft breasts. He pushed and thrust rhythmically. Katie moaned and moved her hips faster. He braced himself with one hand so he could watch her, and see the joining of their bodies. Then he collapsed on top of her and buried his face in the pillow to muffle his cry. "Shhh," she whispered.
Chapter. EIGHT
Mr. Lyles, Vance White said, "We're in full gear."
"That's excellent, Vance," Lyles said from behind his desk. Both men were sipping scotch. It was late in the evening, and the sky outside the vast windows was quickly turning charcoal.
"It is except one thing," White said. "I want Blackwell in here. I've got a guy who's going to be a rookie and starting on a team of mostly hard- assed veterans. A lot of winning football is chemistry, and if Blackwell isn't in here doing what everyone else is doing, those guys won't respect him. And if they don't respect him, they won't work well with him. So . . ."
"I know, I know, Vance. I told you I'd have him here and I will. I can't believe they haven't taken what we've offered. I've already had the Steelers and the Vikings call me to bitch about jacking up the pay structure for the whole round." He waved his hand in the air. "I don't give a damn about them, don't get me wrong. But damn it, this Clancy is just being downright unreasonable."
Humphry hit the desktop with his fist.
"Well ... I don't know what to tell you, Mr. Lyles, but I need him in here. I don't know about money deals, I only know about winning."
"Damn," Humphry said as if to himself. "He'll be here, Vance. I'm going to do what I should have done in the first place. It's just that I thought Clancy would be reasonable. But . . . that doesn't matter now. I know how to get him and I will."
"Bill Clancy."
"Clancy, why haven't you returned my calls? Or taken them, for that matter?" Humphry Lyles asked in an angry voice.
"Mr. Lyles, the last time we spoke, I believe you threatened me, and as a former district attorney in New York City, I took offense at that. This isn't backwoods Alabama."
"Clancy, since you obviously don't want this to be pleasant, I'm not about to banter words with a cheap parasite like you, I'll just get down to business," Lyles said.
"I don't know if I'm interested in doing business with you right now, Mr. Lyles."
"Oh, yes, you are, Clancy. Do you know why? Because you're a rat, and I know how to deal with rats, whether they're country rats or city rats. I didn't get to where I am without knowing how to deal with rats. Rats like cheese, Clancy, and that's what I'm going to give you because I want Clay Blackwell and I want you out of my life. I'm talking about a good deal for Blackwell to cover your ass, and then a little cheese for you."
"I don't operate that way, Mr. Lyles. I'm not interested."
Humphry let the phone remain silent for almost a minute. Just as he thought, Clancy was very interested, otherwise the line would be dead.
"Six point five for Blackwell. That's a half-million-dollar increase that makes you look like a genius," Humphry said.
The phone was silent.
"Two fifty for you, in cash," Humphry said, and then he too fell silent.
"A million," said Clancy.
"Five hundred thousand," said Humphry.
"Done. I'll have Clay there within a week."
"Tomorrow, Clancy," Humphry said.
"Tomorrow's Friday, Mr. Lyles. Give him the weekend to get ready, I'll have him there Monday morning. I'll expect to get a package from Federal Express on Saturday."
"You'll get half Saturday and the rest on Monday when I see Blackwell."
"Mr. Lyles, I never thought I'd hear myself saying this, but it's been a pleasure doing business with you. I don't know why it is that you're so big on getting Clay down there for some rah-rah summer training program, but with a deal like this, I really don't care."
"Like I said, Clancy, you're a rat," Humphry said.
"I'll see you Monday, Mr. Lyles," Bill Clancy said and hung up the phone.
"Clay, phone, honey," Mrs. Blackwell said as she wiped her brow. It was a hot day, and even though the windows were open, the breeze did nothing to cut the thick heat.
"Who is it, Ma?" Clay yelled from the upstairs bathroom. He had just gotten home from a workout and had taken a cold shower.
"It's Bill, honey," Mrs. Blackwell yelled back.
Clay came crashing down the stairs two at a time. Even when he was a boy, his mother had winced at the sound, always expecting the next step to bring her son through the floorboards and straight into the basement. Now, with Clay's immense size, her worry was doubled. To think of her son being hurt now, right before he signed his contract, after so many years of injury-free sports, was almost too much for her to bear. She knew her fear was justified. The house had been cheaply built on the inside to stay within their budget and still be the biggest house on the block. Her husband had insisted.
Clay didn't go through the stairs. He appeared in the kitchen doorway with a white towel wrapped around his waist, dripping wet. His mother admired her boy's handsome face and tried to remember when he was only a baby. She couldn't do that, though. His large frame, tanned and muscular, was too much a man's to let her to remember him as a baby. It seemed so long ago. She quickly handed him the phone.
Like many mothers, she sensed things about her boy in a way that was prophetic. She knew that this phone call was the one that would take him from her for the last time, and that things would never be quite the same for the rest of her life. She felt she would surely cry, but she had learned through the years with her husband to bury the tears until she was alone. Besides, the excitement that lit up her boy's face made it hard for her to be sad. She remembered draft day, when the excitement had seemed to belong to her. Probably because then it was all a dream, but now she knew that Clay's agent had reached an agreement and he would be leaving. He would not come home again. He would have a home of his own, and when he did come, it would be for dinner, or coffee, and as a visitor.
Clay slammed down the receiver and let out a whoop of excitement and relief. He gave his mother a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
"Ma, I'm signed! Six point five million! Can you believe it? Six point five! Six point five!"
Clay held his mother's waist as he danced her around the kitchen. The water from his still damp body soaked quickly through her cotton blouse, and she found herself slightly dazed with the news--and thinking about the time he had pneumonia. He would wake during the night and call to her in a feverish panic, and when she went to him, she would hold him and calm him, and his fever-drenched body would soak her nightgown through and through with perspiration. He was too excited now to see the tears in her eyes, and she quickly wiped them away.
"Can you believe Bill Clancy!" Clay said. "Ma, he's a genius. Just last weekend I was bugging him to sign, but no, he said, wait, just wait. Wait? Can you believe it? We waited another five days and it's worth five hundred thousand dollars, half a million. This is unbelievable! I gotta call Katie, she's not gonna believe it. This is great!"
Now Clay's mother was laughing, caught up in the excitement of her son's happy moment.
"Katie," Clay said into the phone, "we got it! Bill Clancy just called. Six point five million over four years! Can you believe it? We gotta celebrate. Pack your stuff, I'm picking you up in an hour, we'll go up to the lake tonight and have a big steak and some champagne at The Wild Duck . . . What? No, who cares about workouts tomorrow, we gotta celebrate tonight! We'll start the weekend early, I gotta go to Birmingham first thing Monday. I'll see you in an hour."
"Clay," Mrs. Blackwell said when he had hung up the p
hone, "honey, you will stop by the plant on your way to tell your father, won't you?"
When she saw the frown on his face she added, "For me, honey."
"O. K., Ma, but I'm not gonna get him off the line. If he gets a hold of me he'll have me at Mickey's with a shot in my hand before I can get a word in edgewise. I'll leave a message at the break-room desk that I was there, and Y11 write him a note and leave it."
"Clay, can't you just tell him yourself?"
"Ma, you know he'd leave work on the spot and make me stay out all night with him and his buddies. I want to spend this last weekend with Katie. You understand, Mom."
"All right, Clay." She smiled, knowing that he was right. She would not in all likelihood see her husband until the early morning. He would get Clay's note and declare a national holiday. She could count on making a sick call for him in the morning. Then he would spend the weekend between excitement for Clay's dream come true and resentment for the fact that he himself wasn't signing a million-dollar contract. Her husband could never understand why Clay spent so much time in the mountains with Katie, and would resent that as well.
The drive was pleasant. They passed by green pastures spotted with black-and-white Jersey milk cows, and farmers turning their equipment toward dull red or gray barns for the night. After an hour and a half of driving, the farm country began to be replaced with towering pines and the green Adirondack foothills, which soon made way for the oldest mountain range on the continent. It was a balmy summer evening, and they drove with the windows rolled down and the warm, rich mountain air whipping through the open windows as the old truck rattled down the highway. The sun had disappeared behind a bank of purple clouds in the western sky, and it left a red furnace glow that promised to fade to dusk. Clay felt for the headlights, then reached across the seat to find Katie's warm hand.