The Checkdown

by Jamie Bennett

  “Katie!” Taryn stretched her arms up from where she had been reclining on the bed. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Hi, Taryn. How are you doing today?” I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to keep a little distance. Her sorrow, her total, engulfing grief, always overwhelmed me.

  “Three years ago, today,” she said, her eyes welling. “Three years ago today.”

  I remembered very well. I had been the one holding his hand and telling him that it was ok, he could go. She had been out in the waiting area talking on her phone, trying to pretend that it wasn’t happening.

  Taryn had the pictures out, a big box of photographs of Julian ranging in age from birth to a year or so before his death. She didn’t have any from when he looked really sick. We looked at the pictures together, talking about him and reminiscing. I got her something to eat and stood for a while in the kitchen, holding onto the countertop and telling myself that I was fine, that I could do this.

  “Think of what could have been,” she said to me over and over.

  “I know.”

  She picked up a picture of me standing proudly next to him at his high school graduation. “Think of all that he’s missing!” She dissolved into sobs again. “Julian, Julian…”

  I was crying too and trying to get a hold of myself. “I need to go, Taryn. I have to get going.”

  “Don’t leave me!”

  It was pitch dark when I finally made it home that night and I was so exhausted I barely made it into the house. Then I couldn’t go to sleep, not at all, and I tossed and turned for hours. As the night sky got lighter, I finally drifted off.

  The next morning, nothing went right. My phone had run down and the alarm didn’t go off. I was heavy-limbed and sluggish as I tried to make myself hurry down to the stadium. My car, my brand-new car, was making a funny noise. Lakeview Cottage had called and left me a message about my grandma needing to see a new doctor, a specialist, which her meager insurance probably wouldn’t cover.

  And I hadn’t heard a word from Davis. I had no idea how he was, if the doctor had given him terrible news. He was supposed to be back for the game. I looked up into the empty seats of the stadium as I walked in.

  “You’re late, again,” Sam snarled at me. He had an ice pack secured to his back with a black wrap and by the look of his yellowish eyes, he was hungover. He leaned forward and looked into my face. “What the hell’s the matter with you? You look like crap. Lucky you’ll be wearing an animal head.”

  “You’re not one to talk,” I defended myself shakily. I did look like a wreck. My eyes were swollen and puffy and rimmed with dark circles. My skin was both blotchy and pale, a thrilling combination. I felt even worse.

  Then we went out on the field, and I made about ten mistakes, major ones. Trish was incensed. Sam still was moving gingerly, too, so between my errors and his lack of verve the routines looked terrible.

  Trish beckoned to both of us. “What the fuck is going on?” she asked, her voice low and angry. Nice Trish was apparently gone. “I know he’s on his last legs,” she hooked a thumb at Sam, “but I thought I could depend on you, Katie.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry. I’m going to do it better.”

  “When? I want the cable working by the end of the day. Put your supervisor on, then. When do you plan to make this improvement? Tomorrow, after the game?”

  “Right now,” I told here. “I’m going to fix it right now.”

  We went out again and I did improve, but Trish just shook her head and turned around.

  “It’s ok,” one of the Woodsmen Dames who had been at Davis’ party whispered to me. “You’ll do well when it’s game time.”

  I tried to smile at her and whispered back a thanks. A headache was starting like a band around my forehead, all the way down into the back of my neck.

  Sam and I headed back to change to get ready for the pre-game. “Are you all right, Katie? I’m serious. Are you sick? Too much fun last night?”

  “No.” My voice was hoarse. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

  The show began, and I was not fine. The harder I tried to concentrate on the steps, the more of them I messed up. I started the wrong dance to one of the cheerleaders’ songs, and although Sam caught on and went along with me, I knew that Trish would have seen it too. Everything I was doing was clunky and just, well, bad. Somewhere up above, in one of the fancy luxury boxes, I thought that Davis was watching. I hoped that no one in the stands, including Davis, could tell how poorly things were going.

  The Woodsmen were down by 27 at the half to the Sidewinders. It seemed like the defense had given up; special teams had scored on a kick return, but other than that, nothing was clicking offensively either. “I’m just about done,” Sam gasped, as we limped into the tunnel. His eyes widened. “Uh oh.” He moved faster than he had for the entire preceding hour and a half and disappeared into his dressing room.

  Trish was barreling down on me like a tornado. “Katie? A word?” she asked. Oh, she had plenty of them, and not one of them was pleasant or friendly. She yelled at me in the tunnel for at least ten minutes while simultaneously explaining to someone how to manually open the garage door, then went to watch the Dames come out for the end of the halftime show. I leaned against the wall, Nutty head at my feet, trying to hold it together. Only one more half.

  It didn’t get any better in the second half. I started whispering apologies to Sam. I had danced with more precision and energy when I had appendicitis and went on stage anyway in high school. Then I fell. I wobbled out of a turn, never easy in my costume, and fell, onto my hands and knees. It was one of the absolute worst moments in my performing life.

  I was never, ever so glad to hear the words, “Nutty, it’s ok! We’ll get ‘em next time” at the end of the game, which the Woodsmen lost by 42 (it would have been more, but the Sidewinders pulled their first-string quarterback and a large number of their starters). Sam fake-consoled me, and we left the field.

  I was getting out of the shower when Trish came into the locker room. “Woodsmen Dames, circle up,” she called. What followed was…not too bad. She had a few things to point out, but all in all, she was pleased with how they had done. The cheerleaders were positively ecstatic, hugging each other and jumping up and down.

  “Now, Nutty,” Trish said, and turned to me. I gulped, then bit down on the inside of my cheek. I was not going to start crying. No way.

  “I started here, with the Woodsmen as a Dame myself.” She shook her head ruefully. “It was almost twenty years ago. I moved to assistant choreographer. I’ve been the head choreographer for eleven years. During my time here, there have been four different Nuttys.” She stepped closer to me and her voice rose. “In all that time, in twenty years, I have never seen a more piss-poor performance than what you just put on today. I was ashamed to be associated with you and your partner.” Louder. “From start to finish, it was appalling. If I thought I could replace you, I’d fire you right now.” It went on in the same vein, but now she was full out screaming: “If you don’t give a fuck, don’t bother coming,” “lack of talent,” “fucking disgrace,” “attitude in the shitter,” “clumsy,” “disappointment and embarrassment to the organization,” etc., etc.

  She finally stopped for a moment to catch her breath. She hadn’t even interrupted herself with a concurrent conversation, she had been so interested in yelling at me. I stood, eyes down, face flaming with shame and the pressing need to cry.

  “That’s it,” she said, disdainfully dismissive. “I don’t have anything else to say to you.”

  I nodded, not able to speak for a moment, and haphazardly pulled on my clothes. It was dead silent in the locker room, not one sound from anyone until someone dropped her hairdryer and we all almost died of fright. I was sniffing a little, now, trying hard not to. I grabbed my bag and walked quickly out of the locker room.

  I had it in my mind that I needed to find Davis. I knew that I was worried about his doctor appointment in Detroit, and I
had the idea that if I could clear that up, I would feel better. I went down the hall that led to where the players came out of the locker room, where neither Dames nor mascots were allowed to tread. Lyle, Sam’s chatty security guard friend, was at the door to the players’ lounge where they went to greet their wives and family after the games.

  Lyle took a look at me, pale, wet hair, trembling lips, and opened the door to let me into the restricted area.

  It was very subdued, as it probably always was after a loss. Davis was there. He was sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, deep in discussion with some of the offensive players.

  “Katie.”

  I looked up to Cesar. He got a kind of horrified look on his face. “Katie, are you…what happened?”

  I walked right past him over to where Davis was sitting. He stood easily when he saw me. It seemed like his knee was ok, and I opened my mouth to ask how his appointment with the doctor in Detroit had gone and to say I was glad that he was back. Instead, I clapped my hand over my lips to stop the sob that threatened.

  “Chipmunk, what’s the matter?”

  I didn’t care that he was surrounded by ten giant football players, with ten more watching. I stumbled over and put my face in his chest and burst into tears, noisy, gushing tears. Davis’ arms went around me, holding me, his hand pressing my face to him. I hung onto handfuls of his shirt and bawled. “Ok,” I heard him saying softly. “Ok.” In a louder voice, “I’ll see you all next week at my house. We’ll figure it out.”

  Davis sat, and pulled me with him, and I curled up in his lap, now hiding my face in his neck. When my sobs turned to gasps, then just regular breaths, I tried to get up.

  “No,” he said, still holding me. His big hand rubbed up and down my back. “Let’s just stay a while.”

  I closed my eyes and did just that.

  Chapter 12

  After that weekend, things could only get better.

  Later in the day on that Sunday, cuddled in a ball on his couch, I told Davis in a halting, sobbing kind of way about how the day before was the three-year anniversary of Julian’s death. I told him about going over to commemorate the day with his mom and how I had to do it on his birthday, too. How I had done that every year since Julian died, and how I could barely take it. It was like squeezing lemon juice into an open cut on those days, especially at first. For me, those days had been getting easier, but not for Taryn.

  “Why do you do that?” he asked me. He was sitting close, so I could touch him, if I wanted to.

  “She’s alone,” I explained. “Julian’s dad has totally checked out. She would have had her son, but…”

  Davis took my hand. “Stop going over there,” he said definitively. “Next time she calls, say it’s not helping anyone, and you can’t do that anymore. Then we’ll go sailing instead. On my new boat.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, Cesar talked me into it.”

  I told him about messing up at the game, about falling, about Trish’s dressing down. He definitely did not like that part. A very scary frown deepened across his face and he let go of my hand to make a fist.

  “Shit happens, Katie. We all screw up. Do you remember my interception on a checkdown pass in the last two minutes of the playoff game two years ago? I could have made that pass in my sleep, but I fucked it up. You’ll do it better next time.” He looked even angrier. “I don’t like the way that woman talked to you. No one’s going to talk to you like that.”

  “It’s how she deals with everyone. At least, she went through that frighteningly nice period, but now she’s back to straight-up mean. But I’m not a bad dancer, I just had a bad day. Next Sunday I’m going to be the best damn Nutty she’s ever seen.”

  The frown went away. “That’s the chipmunk I know.”

  Davis had good news from the doctor in Detroit—what I considered to be good news. She was very pleased with his progress, saying it exceeded what she had expected. Her preliminary prognosis was that he could come back to football in March, at the earliest.

  “After the season,” Davis stated.

  “After this season, before the next one,” I corrected him. “This means that you’ll have plenty more seasons to play in the future. Davis, this is good news.” I grabbed his hand back again. “Very good news. This makes me very happy.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, and gripped my hand in his.

  As the week went on, with Trish ignoring me (which was better than tongue lashing me), I became even more determined to prove her wrong. My attitude wasn’t in the shitter. I did have talent. Enough for the Chipmunk, anyway.

  Sam’s back was steadily improving, with him able to get through an entire routine without resorting to some truly vile swearing. We had tweaked our moves, without Trish’s approval, to work around the things he was still struggling with. He was popping pills, which I really hoped he had obtained with a valid prescription, but he was stronger and less exhausted, too. I was feeling good about how we were going to do on Sunday.

  The noise from my car’s engine had gotten weird enough that I called the service department at the dealership, and I also let Mason know I was coming in. We’d cooled off in our communication, which rather than making me disappointed, made me feel relieved. He met me at the service bay when I chugged up.

  “What did you do to it already?” he greeted me.

  “Nothing that I particularly remember, but I did try to do some repairs by hitting the engine with a hammer,” I answered.

  “Maybe that wasn’t a good idea.” Mason laughed. “How have you been? Staying away from the shots?”

  I blushed. “Yes. Again, I’m so sorry that I acted like such, um, like that.”

  Mason laughed again. “I found it very funny. You, the next day, probably not so much. Do you have time for an early lunch?”

  I checked my phone. “I have time for coffee.”

  We sat together and sipped, and once again, I had so much fun with him. We talked and laughed the whole time we were together. When I checked my phone, half an hour had passed in a blink. “I have to run. Can you bring me back to the dealership?” I asked him.

  I sat in the passenger seat, looking out the window and formulating what I wanted to say. Mason could be a good friend. But that was all he was going to be.

  He drummed on the steering wheel as he drove. “Katie, Katie, Katie. I feel like you’re going to let me down easy.”

  I looked up guiltily. “I think you’re awesome.”

  “But you can’t see this happening.”

  “No,” I said. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Because of Davis?”

  It gave me a little shock when he said it. “Yeah,” I admitted. “Because of Davis.”

  “You guys are…”

  “We’re not anything,” I said quickly. “I wasn’t trying to lead you on while I was with someone else. I guess the answer is, not because of Davis, but because of me. I’m sorry.”

  Mason sighed. “I think I saw it coming when you did that flying leap rather than let me kiss your cheek.”

  “That was not my finest hour. Can we blame the shots again?”

  “The evils of liquor,” Mason concurred. “I’m sorry this isn’t going to happen. I like you a lot.”

  “Can I say it? The F word?”

  Mason glanced over at me. “The one I’m thinking of probably doesn’t apply to us.”

  I laughed. “Can we be friends? Would that be too weird?”

  “No,” he smiled. “That’s a good F word for us.”

  It turned out that the weird noise from my engine was only a hose that had gotten loose, something I could have fixed myself if I’d had any knowledge at all of what happened under the hood. I felt even more relief after my conversation with Mason. I decided I would sic Lindy on him. She probably had a list of people she could hook him up with, but I thought I would help him vet them, first. I opened the windows and let the cool autumn air rush through my now-quiet car as I went to
get Davis. Things were good. I felt good.

  Davis, on the other hand, did not. Grumpy did not begin to describe him when I picked him up from physical therapy and he wedged himself in my little car.

  Today was the day that he had been planning to grill his physical therapists about when they thought he could return to football. “Did the PT agree with the doctor that December is too soon?” I asked casually.

  “Yes,” he bit out.

  We drove for a while in silence, but then a song I loved came on the radio, and I turned it up. It didn’t take too long before I was singing. I looked over at Davis, who was now watching me, kind of fascinated, and it made me laugh. I knew my singing voice wasn’t one for the ages and I sang louder, looking right at him.

  He smiled, then chuckled. Then, to my utter surprise, a very, very deep bass voice joined in. Sweet Jesus. We were performing a duet.

  I pulled up in front of Davis’ house and turned off the car.

  “Katie.”

  I looked over at him, and he leaned over and kissed me, just briefly. It shook me down to my toes.

  Davis looked into my eyes, his face close to mine. He put his hand on the back of my neck and pulled me to him again, this time harder, and longer. I parted my lips and his tongue slipped inside my mouth. I tasted him for the first time.

  After a while he sat back. My heart was pounding, and both of us were out of breath. Davis shifted uncomfortably. “Gearshift is puncturing my lungs,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said breathlessly. “Oh, let’s get out. Yeah, my car is too small for…my car is just so small! Really you look like you’re riding in a toy car. Or like it’s the circus or something.” I kept babbling, unable to stop myself, about the time I had gone to the circus as a child. “But I always felt so bad for the animals. They didn’t seem like it. Yeah, I feel the same way when I go to zoos, which maybe is a little weird, because I myself dress as an animal, and maybe that’s exploiting them too. I haven’t given this too much thought.”