The Wide Game

by Michael West

“Paul!” Danny stood in line behind Robby and Sean, water dripping off his huge physique. “Hey, man, I thought we’d lost you.”

  Tiny rivers raced over Sean’s abs. “How’d it go last night?”

  Paul blushed a bit. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  Sean grinned. “That good, huh?”

  “Fantastic,” Paul confessed, then he noticed that Robby had lowered his head, avoiding eye contact, and he felt a tinge of delight. Jealous much? “So how much did the girls win?”

  “A fuckin’ fortune.” Danny motioned to the crowd. “Over a thousand bucks.”

  “I picked the wrong two cheerleaders,” Robby chuckled. “I ended up with Nancy and Cindi just before we got to the woods. Those two would not shut up. They talked the entire way. It’s no wonder we lost. Everyone could hear us coming.”

  Paul nodded inattentively, his eyes locked with Danny’s. “What happened with Skip?”

  Danny looked to Mick, then back at Paul. “He tried to start somethin’. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “It was like a Schwarzenegger flick, man,” Sean chimed in, his scalp visible through the wet spikes of his crew cut. “They start brawlin’, Skip tries to go all Ninja, and Danny gets him in this killer headlock. I thought he was gonna pop Skip’s head like a fuckin’ zit.”

  Danny smiled. “He ended up playin’ nice. When his stoner friends stumbled outta the woods, he went off somewhere with them.”

  Robby shook his head. “Man, that guy ... If he ever gets in a wreck, and what little brains he has are flowing out his ears, he better hope I’m not the first on the scene.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say,” Paul told him.

  “Yeah,” Robby admitted with enthusiasm. “The world would be better off without him, and you know it.”

  The line moved. Sean took his position on the rock and Paul raised the camcorder. He would need to change batteries soon, but he thought he might have enough to tape one dive.

  Robby cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. “Now diving ... diving ... for gold ... gold ... in the Korean Olympics, Sean Roche ... Roche.”

  Sean took a bow and turned to face the water. He pulled in a deep breath, then jumped from the rocky platform – completing a mid-air tumble before piercing the water with minimal splash. The knot of spectators clapped as Sean kicked his way to the surface, spitting water and smiling up at them.

  “How deep is it?” Paul called down, hoping his battery held out for the answer.

  “I think I knocked skulls with one of the Chinese divers,” Sean shouted in reply, then he did the backstroke toward shore, toward a spot where terraced limestone made awkward steps. He emerged from the water and thrust his fists in the air. “Top that, Fields!”

  Danny stepped into position, thought for a moment, then backed up and ran for the ledge. He leapt into the air, pulled his legs up until his chin met his knees, and struck the water ass first, soaking Sean in the enormous spray. The crowd erupted into a mix of laughter and applause. Danny’s smiling face broke the dark surface and his eyes found Sean at the water’s edge. “How was that?”

  Sean shook his head. “The Russian judge gave you a zero.”

  Danny swam to the side. “Fuckin’ communist.”

  If the steps were not natural, then they’d been fashioned by giants. As he climbed, Danny thought even Larry Bird would have to stretch to stride them.

  Nancy waited for him at the summit. “I need to talk to you.”

  Danny looked at her, his eyes quietly suspicious. “Okay.”

  Sean excused himself. “See you back at the cliff.”

  Danny nodded, wiped runnels of water from his forehead, then gave Nancy his full attention. “What’s up?”

  She looked around, then pulled the Whitesnake cassette from her shorts’ pocket. “I stole this,” she whispered, “for the game.”

  Danny smirked. “Good for you.”

  “I don’t know who I took it from, so how do I get it back to its owner?”

  His smirk became a full-fledged grin. “It’s a tape, sweetheart, not a puppy.” He pointed to the limestone plateau where she’d been dancing. “Why don’t you put it in your stereo and see who accuses you of stealing it.”

  Nancy’s head jerked forward, her eyes wide. “You don’t have some kind of lost and found or something?”

  He shrugged, then his arm swept the throng. “I didn’t expect this to turn into fuckin’ Woodstock.” Then he added, “Just keep it.”

  “It’s not mine,” she huffed.

  “Then, first thing Monday, turn it into the lost and found at school.”

  She considered that with contrite eyes, turning the tape over in her hand.

  Danny sighed. “If you knew this was gonna bother you so much, why’d you play the damn game?”

  “I’ve never been a big risk-taker,” she told him.

  He nodded.

  “And it hit me ... I’ll be a college co-ed next year.” Nancy’s head snapped up, her bangs swayed back and forth. “Maybe I don’t wanna play it safe anymore. Maybe I wanna ... get in touch with my inner reform school chick, stop being Daddy’s well behaved little girlie-girl.”

  Danny’s jaw dropped.

  She giggled. “That hard to imagine, huh?”

  He shrugged. “Just surprised, that’s all.”

  “Not half as surprised as I am.” She walked up to Danny, wrapped her arms around his wet torso, and kissed his chest. “Maybe tonight I could even ... I mean, we could even ...”

  Danny peeled her from him. “Don’t.”

  Nancy’s smile faltered. “Don’t you want to?”

  “You don’t know how much I want to. I just don’t want to take advantage of this ‘evil twin’ phase of yours.”

  “Tea parties with Mr. Stuffy the bear were a phase.” She drew closer to him again and he offered little resistance. “Behold me growing up, taking chances.” She saw the odd look in his eyes. “What, that makes me some kind of sociopath or something?”

  He chuckled. “Just wondering if this sudden urge to ‘grow up’ has something to do with Sandy Doan wanting to jump me.”

  “Okay, first thing ... I only read the relevant parts – what she has tattooed on her butt is between her and God – and second ... who brings their diary, their intimate secrets, on the Wide Game? She was asking to have a guy like Robby take it.”

  “So am I as good a kisser as she thinks I am?”

  “You’re better.” Nancy tilted her head up toward his lips, and, after they kissed, she gave his back a slap. “And she better never find that out.”

  He smiled. “I’m all yours.”

  The sound of screams rose above the cacophony around them.

  Danny’s head whipped around and he saw people run for the cliffs. Robby and Mick stood there, looking into the water with slack jaws and shocked eyes. Mick held Paul’s camera. Skip Williamson stood with them; his eyes were just as startled, but his lips curled up in a malicious grin. Before Danny could ask what had happened, a voice rose above the chatter of on-lookers.

  “Sean Roche fell and hit the rocks,” it said.

  Sixteen

  Sean felt hands on his arm, felt them push, then his feet slipped and the rocky outcropping abandoned them, left them to the mercy of air and gravity. The limestone cliffs spun past his eyes in a blur. It felt as if someone threw a brick at his shoulder blade, at his ankle, and his eyes slammed shut against the pain – bright showers of sparks igniting in the darkness. The next sensation to shatter his senses was the slap of the water across his chest, a slap so violent it forced the breath from his lungs and consciousness from his brain.

  Paul handed his camcorder to Mick, shed his backpack, and dove off the cliff. Sean’s hand sank into green murk; Paul latched onto it, pulled him to the surface. There was a loud splash, and, when Paul looked over, he saw Danny at his side. They worked together without a word, hoisted Sean onto their shoulders, and swam for the water’s edge. Danny climbed out first
, then reached down and pulled Sean from Paul’s grasp.

  “Is he breathing?” Paul wanted to know, watching bright streams of blood chart courses down Sean’s back.

  Either Danny didn’t hear the question, or he just didn’t take time to answer it. Instead, he rushed the summit of the cliff and the knot of spectators loosened to let him pass. “Robby!” He carefully set Sean on the ground and checked the crowd. “Where the fuck are you, man!”

  Robby pushed his way onto the scene, took it all in. The first thing he noticed was Sean’s right foot. It looked like a rag doll’s foot, limp and flat against the ground, part of him and yet disconnected. Next, he saw the blood. It ran across the rock from beneath Sean’s shoulder. He knelt beside his friend, checked for a pulse, for respiration, and was relieved to find both. With great care, Robby rolled Sean onto his side; thick threads of blood evacuated an open puncture wound in his back.

  A castrating fear came over Robby, and he struggled to keep it from surfacing on his face. “Get me some fuckin’ towels ... shirts ... anything!” His voice rose to a shrill whistle. “We need to stop this bleeding!”

  A flowered beach towel hung near Danny’s head. He grabbed it, handed it to Robby. Robby wadded it into a ball and shoved it hard against the breach.

  Paul pushed his way through the crowd. His clothes clung to him, and water poured down into his squishing shoes. “Is he gonna be all right?”

  Danny locked panicky eyes with him. “What the hell happened?”

  “I’m not sure.” He repeated his question for Robby, “Is he gonna be all right?”

  “I don’t know,” Robby shouted, thinking of a million things they had done wrong so far. Had this been an ambulance run, they would have snapped a C-collar around Sean’s neck to immobilize it, carefully brought him up the cliff on a back board, then put him on a stretcher and hauled ass to Community Hospital. Instead, Danny had just picked him up like a bag of raked leaves and dragged him up the rocks. Robby looked at the towel, watched the fabric turn dark, and his EMT training washed over his brain like a splash of cold water. “Get some towels, jackets, anything I can use to cover him up. If we don’t keep him warm, his body’ll go into shock.” Robby shot a glance to Sean’s twisted foot. Something was broken in there ... an ankle, maybe a femur. “I need some sticks ... a couple of belts ... I’ve gotta splint his leg.”

  Some in the ring of spectators appeared to shift their weight, others looked down at Robby with frozen glances.

  “Now people, come on!”

  A member of the swim team offered the letterman jacket from his backpack, wrapped it around Sean’s torso. Annette Wilcher took her Strawberry Shortcake beach towel and draped it across Sean’s long legs. A few other on-lookers left the circle and returned with some thick tree branches. Danny broke the limbs into lengths that suited Robby’s needs. Three others yanked the belts from their shorts and held them out for Danny as he passed. He grabbed them up, handing everything to Robby.

  “Hold this,” Robby directed; he grabbed Danny’s hand and pulled it to the wad of towel at Sean’s back, “and press it against the wound as hard as you can.”

  Danny did as Robby said; his stomach sank at the sight of Sean’s blood in the towel. Nancy knelt down behind him, placed her hand on his broad shoulder. He looked at her, his eyes, normally focused and alert, now care-worn.

  “He’s gonna be fine.” Nancy looked as if she believed it. “Robby knows this stuff.”

  Danny nodded and turned his attention back to the towel, pressed it hard against his friend’s back. He had faith in Robby, but this was bad. Sean needed a hospital, and they were a long way from anything resembling that.

  Robby took the sticks and belts, then moved to Sean’s injured leg and pulled back the beach towel. He grasped the separated foot and turned it; audible snaps drew disgusted, worried reactions from the on-lookers. Robby’s eyes found Annette Wilcher again. “I need you to hold his foot while I splint it.”

  She nodded, looking green, then knelt down and reached around Robby’s grip.

  When he was sure she had hold, Robby pulled away. He slid the belts under Sean’s leg, placed two of the thickest sticks on either side, then pulled them tight, temporarily keeping the broken bones together. When the last belt was fastened, Robby looked up at Annette. “You can let go now.”

  She moved away, eager to do so.

  The crowd began to drift. Entire groups gathered up their belongings to leave. Some looked concerned, others upset that their day of fun had come to such a screeching halt.

  Deidra pushed her way through the spectators that remained. She found Paul and threw her arms around his neck; relief washed worry from her face with sudden tears. “They told me you fell.”

  “Sean fell.” Paul patted her on the back. “I dove in after him.”

  She pulled away, wiped a tear from her eye as she looked down, transferring her concern. “Jesus.”

  Mick was behind her with Paul’s camcorder and backpack. “How is he?”

  Paul shrugged, then he took back the Sony and switched it from camera to playback. He looked into the viewfinder, watched the action in reverse as he searched through the tape. Finally, he saw Sean swim backward, saw him go underwater after his first dive. Paul hit stop, then let it play.

  A rush of blurred images ended with a huge, threatening eyeball that filled the monitor. A quick zoom out revealed Skip Williamson. He went after Mick, his face twisted, his mouth moving in a stream of curses. Paul had not packed his earpiece, so his mind supplied the title cards to this silent film.

  Williamson said that he could have won the game if not saddled with a queer like Mick.

  Mick countered that it was Skip’s own fault for being an asshole.

  This led to a shoving match.

  Paul shook his head, upset with his own unsteady camerawork. It looked as if he’d been dancing with it. This was not far from the truth. He had to dodge being knocked over by Mick and hit by Skip.

  An icon flashed in the lower right-hand corner of the screen, a battery with a line through it, but Paul took little notice of it.

  Sean burst into the frame, came between the combatants. Skip asked him about his Ninja star. Sean said he didn’t have it on him. Skip threw him aside, then pushed Mick again. The blurred rush that followed ended on Sean as his body hit the water.

  Static ate the image. The camcorder sucked the last drop of juice from the battery and shut down.

  Paul looked at Mick. “Did you see anyone touch Sean after Skip?”

  Mick shook his head. “He pushed Sean, then me, then everyone screamed.”

  Deidra’s eyes rose to the camcorder. “Skip did this to Sean?”

  “Looks like it.”

  A smile pulled at Mick’s lips. “You got it on tape?”

  Paul nodded.

  Danny’s face tightened. He looked at the towel again, saw that the bleeding had slowed, and turned to Nancy. “Hold this.”

  Nancy pressed the wad to Sean’s wound with one hand, and grabbed Danny’s muscular calf with the other. “What are you gonna do?”

  Danny pulled free of her grasp. He stood, made a fist at his side. “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch.” He marched toward the limestone monolith. “Williamson!”

  It was the bell at the start of a boxing match. The dissolving ring of spectators stopped in their tracks. Their focus shifted from Sean’s plight to what they perceived as a title bout.

  “Williamson!”

  The other stoners looked at Danny, their eyes glazed and red, but Skip continued to look at the ground. Danny stomped toward him, slapped a joint from his fingertips and pushed him back against the limestone wall, PORK SUCKS FAT ONES sprayed in blue above Skip’s head. Their principal’s last name was Polk, but his weight had led the students to brand him Pork.

  “Microwavin’ little animals lost its edge?” Danny asked. “Now you wanna get your kicks from killin’ kids?”

  “What the fuck are you talkin’ ab
out, Fields?” Skip presented his best poker face, but inside he was sweating. Skip was a bully. He scared animals and people who were smaller or frailer than he, scared them with the threat that he could, that he would harm them. Skip had no power over Danny, however, and that fact drove him insane with rage. “I’ve had it, fucker! Stop hassling me and get the fuck outta my way.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or you’re goin’ down.”

  “I’m impressed.” Danny took a step closer to him. “You actually said that with a straight face.”

  Skip’s mouth pulled into a sneer. “You asked for it.”

  Kenny Dorr and Mack Coyne jumped on Danny’s back; Dorr’s arms wrapped around his neck and Coyne punched his right side. Some of the spectators screamed, others chanted Danny’s name – as if he were Hulk Hogan, and this was a tag-team cage match with Roddy Piper.

  Paul handed his camcorder to Mick and took a step toward the action.

  Deidra grabbed his arm to pull him back. “Are you insane? They’ll kill you.”

  Paul shook free of her grip, but it became clear that his friend needed no help.

  With his right hand, Danny grabbed a fistful of Coyne’s greasy hair, with his left, Dorr’s wrist. In what appeared to be a single, violent motion, he pulled both boys from his body and threw them onto the ground. Coyne landed on limestone, howling in pain. Dorr landed in the grass, leapt back to his feet, and charged. Danny brought his foot up hard, as if he were kicking an extra point, and the tip of his shoe speared Dorr’s crotch. The scream that followed rivaled any Jamie Lee Curtis ever uttered on film. Both boys went down for the count, leaving Williamson to face Danny alone.

  Skip launched a right hook aimed at Danny’s chin. Danny ducked and stepped back into the grass. Skip stumbled, turned to fling up another jab. Danny grabbed the hand, pinned it against Skip Williamson’s back, and pushed him down into the grass.

  “You threw Sean off the cliff!” Danny told him; he pushed the point of his knee into Skip’s spine and yanked his arm up to his shoulder blades. “He might die now because of you!”

  Skip clawed at the grass and clenched his teeth against the pain. “I fuckin’ hate you!”