The Best American Mystery Stories 2019

by Jonathan Lethem

  Both sides of that coin are on view in the stories in this book: the strengths of a conversation within a self-defined community and the integration of its themes and motifs into literature—into the art of fiction—more widely. It’s nice not to have to choose between these things! This recent editorial journey, this immersion in the present tense of the field, has caused me to discover just how vital and diverse and happily contradictory the variations within a so-called genre can be. An anthology, at its best, reproduces a fundamental condition of any field of art or literature: that it is, always, greater than the sum of its parts.

  Crime and mystery are essential to storytelling not only because of the truism—a true truism—that every story that captivates your interest is at some level a mystery. Yes, mystery lurks in language, in narrative, just as it lurks in the human heart. But it’s also the case that the specific do-wronging of one person or persons to another, and the impulse to explore or expose or make right the do-wronging, is the world we’re born to, the life we live, however unnerving it is to dwell on it. Crime stories are deep species gossip. They’re fundamentally stories of power, of its exercise both spontaneous and conspiratorial; stories of impulse and desire, and of the turning of tables. Crime stories allegorize the tensions in our self-civilizing, a process that’s never finished. (If I were a biblical guy I’d say this has been true “since Cain and Abel,” but since Alice in Wonderland is my bible I’ll say “since the tarts were stolen and Tweedledum and Tweedledee strapped on their armor.”) How can we not hang on their outcomes? Will injustice prevail? Might the oppressed outwit the powerful? Are we innocent ourselves, or complicit?

  Turn these pages, and find out.

  Jonathan Lethem

  ROBERT HINDERLITER

  Coach O

  from New Ohio Review

  Coach Oberman watched from his office window as a group of students prepared the bonfire by the south end zone. Two kids stacked tinder while another knelt beside a papier-mâché buffalo they would throw on the fire at the end of the pep rally. Oberman couldn’t wait to watch it burn.

  He’d just gotten off the phone with Mike Treadwell—coach of the Ashland Buffaloes—who’d called to wish him luck in tomorrow’s game. Mike had been Oberman’s assistant for three years before taking the job at Ashland High. And now, after back-to-back state titles in his first two years, he’d been offered the defensive coordinator position at Emporia State University. This would be the last time they’d face off.

  “I’ll miss seeing you across the field,” Mike had said. “Although I sure won’t miss trying to stop that Oberman offense.”

  This was pandering bullshit. In their two head-to-head contests, Mike’s Buffaloes had routed Oberman’s Hornets by at least four touchdowns.

  “I just wanted to say thanks,” Mike had said. “I couldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

  He’d said it like he meant it, with no hint of sarcasm, but Oberman knew there was venom behind those words. In Mike’s two years as assistant, Oberman had treated him badly. Mike had a good mind for the game, there was no denying that, but he was a scrawny wuss with thick glasses and a girlish laugh. He didn’t belong on a football field. Oberman had banished him to working with the punter and made him the butt of jokes in front of the players. When Mike’s brother-in-law became superintendent at Ashland and handed Mike the coaching job, Oberman had scoffed. And now Mike was moving on to a Division II college while Oberman was stuck muddling through another losing season with an eight-man team in Haskerville. He knew the irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

  Oberman picked up a playbook from his desk and flipped through it. In his seventeen years as head coach of the Hornets, the playbook hadn’t changed much—mostly I-formation offense heavy on power runs and quick play-action passes. And in his first few years, those plays had been good enough to keep Haskerville near the top of the standings, even winning a couple regional titles.

  After that, however, the program had gone downhill, bottoming out with a 2–8 record in ’01 and hovering around .500 ever since. The plays weren’t to blame. In a little Kansas town where cows nearly outnumbered people, he just didn’t have enough decent athletes. He’d whipped his group of dimwitted farmer boys into shape as best he could, but it would still take a miracle to beat Ashland. He’d need to think of a genius game plan, something to put Mike in his place one last time.

  Oberman dropped the playbook, grabbed his jacket, and stepped out of his office into the locker room. He took a deep breath of sweat, steam, and jockstraps, then made his way through the empty gym to the rear exit. Outside, a few of his players were milling around the field, either tossing a football or lounging on the bleachers watching the cheerleaders run through their routine. The pep rally would start soon. Oberman walked out to the sideline and stood there, hands on his hips, until a voice from the bleachers called his name.

  “Coach O!”

  It was his quarterback, Javi Esteban, sitting alone on the bottom row. He had a two-liter bottle of Pepsi gripped in one meaty hand and the other raised in a wave. Oberman stepped over.

  “You sticking around for the fire, Coach?”

  “Guess I am.”

  “Wanna throw a ball around?”

  With his round cheeks and fleshy arms, Javi was built more like a trombonist than a quarterback. But he was nimble for his size, and strong. He could sidestep a charging defender and launch the ball fifty yards downfield with the flick of his wrist. When he was on his game, he had D-II talent, maybe even D-I. Oberman had already fielded a few calls from recruiters.

  Javi was a quiet kid, with a sadness in his eyes even on the rare occasions he smiled. He didn’t have much to smile about. His dad had lost both legs in Iraq, and his little sister had cerebral palsy. He worked weekends at the putt-putt course across from the cemetery. Football seemed to be the one bright spot in Javi’s life, and he especially liked Oberman. After practice, he’d stay to help Oberman put away equipment. Sometimes they’d talk, but usually they just worked together in silence. It was at these times, Oberman thought, that Javi seemed most at peace. He liked the kid, but now he was in no mood to play catch.

  “I’ve got to do some thinking, Javi. Save that arm for tomorrow.”

  “Okay, Coach. I’ll be ready!”

  As Oberman walked away down the sideline, he shook his head and cursed. Javi’s eyes had been red, his gaze unsteady. That Pepsi bottle was probably a quarter full of vodka.

  He’d been aware of Javi’s drinking for two weeks now. Kids were kids, and he didn’t begrudge them a few beers on the weekend, but one day Javi had looked wobbly in practice, a half-beat slow on all his reads, and Oberman had smelled liquor on his breath. He’d debated whether to say something, but the next day Javi was sharp, zipping the ball to his receivers, so Oberman held his tongue.

  And then during last Friday’s game, Javi threw three interceptions against the Willow Creek Muskrats—the winless, perpetually bottom-feeding Willow Creek Muskrats—including a first quarter pick-six that put the Hornets in an early hole. He looked dazed and sloppy. Oberman pulled him aside at halftime and asked him if he was fit to play. Javi insisted he was fine, and in the second half they came back and won, thanks mainly to their running game and defense, but the near-disaster cost Oberman a sleepless night mulling over what to do.

  The following day, Saturday afternoon, he’d gone to Javi’s house. He’d planned to talk with the family, make them aware of the situation so they could rein in the problem before it got worse. In the Estebans’ living room, Javi’s mom offered him store-bought cookies while Mr. Esteban sat scowling in his wheelchair, clearly drunk. Javi’s little sister, Mia, sat on the floor watching a cartoon. She smiled up shyly at Oberman, skinny arms twisted across her chest. Javi, white-faced in the corner, looked at Oberman with such panic and pleading in his eyes that Oberman couldn’t bring himself to mention the alcohol. And the whole next week in practice, Javi had been focused. Oberman had thought the proble
m was behind them. But now here was Javi tonight with the two-liter.

  He’d have to say something. He couldn’t afford another shaky performance out of his quarterback, especially against Ashland. There was too much on the line.

  Earlier that day he’d been coldly reminded of how much was on the line when the superintendent, Bob DiMarco, had called him out to the district office for a chat. He’d lectured Oberman about how a winning football team really brings the community together, lifts the spirits of the whole town. He was sure Oberman remembered what that felt like, all those years ago. It wasn’t a threat, exactly. Oberman had been the football coach and PE teacher at Haskerville High for seventeen years now, and he doubted they’d fire him even if he never won another game.

  Still, it pissed him off that DiMarco thought he needed a pep talk. The football team meant more to Oberman than anything. His pride as a man, his sense of self-worth—it was all out there on the field. Every day in practice he shouted himself hoarse, whipped lazy blockers in the helmet with his whistle, and got down in the mud with his players to show them proper technique. He didn’t need some bureaucratic prick telling him football was important.

  The sun was falling behind the pine-tree shelterbelt surrounding the field. A faint clack and low hum sounded as the floodlights came on and started to warm up. Oberman walked across the field, cutting a wide arc around the cheerleaders. It had rained that morning, and the grass was spongy under his feet. The field smelled clean and earthy, and as he stopped at the 50-yard line and looked from end zone to end zone, he thought of all the hours he’d spent on football fields—all the joy, camaraderie, and lessons the sport had given him over the years. He’d been playing or coaching since he was eight years old. His happiest memories were all related to football. He’d even been one of those clowns who proposed to his girlfriend on the field. That had been his senior year at Fort Hays State, when he ran up in the stands after the last home game of the season, grabbed his girlfriend’s hand, led her down to the sideline, and knelt on one knee. Her name was Sandra, and they’d been married now for eighteen years.

  Remembering that moment—the giddiness he’d felt as he loosened the tape from his ankle where he’d hidden the ring, the clamor of excitement through the crowd as they realized what was happening, Sandra’s hand to her mouth, already sobbing and nodding before he could even say the words—remembering that moment made Oberman queasy. A great yawning cavity opened in his chest.

  He’d found out last weekend that she’d been seeing Lonny Hinkle, the Haskerville High English teacher.

  The past Saturday, after he’d come back from the Estebans’ house, Sandra told him she wanted to have a girls’ night with her old college roommate, Maisley. Maisley was living in Lawrence now, working in the provost’s office at KU, and every few months Sandra would drive up to meet her for a movie and margaritas. She would crash on Maisley’s couch and drive back to Haskerville the next day. Usually they’d plan their get-togethers a few weeks in advance, but Oberman knew Sandra had been stressed lately, dealing with her mom’s dementia, so he told her to go ahead and have fun, and he would take care of Ruth.

  Ruth had been living with them for three years since her diagnosis, but in the past few months she’d taken a sharp turn for the worse. She was always talking about trolls. They were everywhere, she said—their red eyes peeking out from air vents or under the couch. They wanted to tear her to pieces. Oberman and Sandra had to constantly reassure her that she was safe, that trolls weren’t real. And so he’d understood Sandra’s desire for a night away.

  The following morning, before Sandra came home, Oberman got a call from his brother in Dodge City.

  “Were you guys in Dodge last night?” his brother said. “I was dropping off Ashley at around one A.M., and I swear I saw Sandra coming out of that bar by the China Chow. But she was with this tall bald guy. It looked like he was wearing a scarf. You know anything about that?”

  Oberman told his brother he was crazy, that Sandra had been home all night. And then he hung up, locked himself in the bedroom, and pulled out his hunting rifle from the back of the closet. Hands shaking, he took the gun from its case and laid it on the bed.

  Could it be true? Was Sandra cheating on him? In the past year she’d started acting strange—trying a vegan diet, listening to New Age music, and reading books about spirituality and emotional detoxing. It’d left Oberman baffled and annoyed. At one point he’d told her that if he had to listen to one more second of that goddamn sitar, he’d throw the CD player out the window. He winked when he’d said it, but they’d been at odds since Ruth moved in, and maybe he’d been ignoring warning signs for a while. “I feel like I’m on the verge of a great transformation,” she’d told him recently. At the time, Oberman had just rolled his eyes. Now, though, he wondered if her transformation involved Lonny Hinkle.

  Hinkle had come to Haskerville two years ago from somewhere in the Northeast—Connecticut, maybe, or Vermont. He was in his mid-thirties, still single, and wore that red scarf nine months out of the year like a European dandy. Oberman had suspected he might be gay until a rumor came through the teachers’ lounge that he’d moved to Kansas to escape a chaotic love triangle with the principal and home-ec teacher at his last school. In their few conversations, Hinkle had bored Oberman senseless with talk of animal welfare. He’d apparently adopted three rescue dogs and was trying to set up a regional ASPCA chapter. Sandra had recently started volunteering at the local animal shelter. That must’ve been where they’d met. Maybe, Oberman thought, they were in Dodge on some sort of humanitarian mission—saving a dog from an abusive home or scoping out a suspected exotic animal smuggler. Sandra had a big heart. He loved that about her, and he loved that ridiculous sweater she wore with a corgi on it, tighter than she realized. Made her look nineteen. And anyway, this wouldn’t be the first time she’d forgotten to tell him about some volunteer activity. But as he stared at the rifle on his bed, his mind whirled with dark thoughts.

  Oberman walked off the field, sat on the front row of the empty visitors’ bleachers, and watched the stands on the home side slowly fill with people. All HHS teachers were expected to attend, but so far Hinkle hadn’t showed. He wouldn’t dare. Most of the other teachers had arrived, along with several dozen students and a few of the team’s most ardent supporters. It wasn’t like it used to be. Back when they were at the top of the league, half the town turned up for pep rallies, and game days brought out Hornets flags in every yard and motivational signs on every store window. These days no one could seem to muster much spirit. DiMarco was right.

  When he’d gotten the call from DiMarco to come to the District Office, Oberman didn’t think the meeting would be about football. In the aftermath of hearing about Sandra and Hinkle, he’d made a poor decision.

  At least he hadn’t shot anyone. In fact, by the time Sandra came home on Sunday, the rifle was back in the closet. He didn’t say a thing. At practice and during games he was all snarling intensity, but off the field he couldn’t stand conflict. In eighteen years of marriage, he’d never struck Sandra, never torn into her with hateful words, and never touched another woman. All Sunday he avoided her, sitting in the den with the Chiefs game on, thinking about what to do.

  And then on Monday morning, when the teachers’ lounge was empty, he put a bullet in Hinkle’s mailbox on top of a sticky note that said END IT. But the janitor saw it first, and soon all the school employees were gathered in the lounge along with the police, who were saying that whoever put the bullet in the box could be charged with aggravated assault. Hinkle was white as a ghost, and no one would look at Oberman.

  That’s where things stood. So far the police hadn’t talked to Oberman. That must mean Hinkle had played dumb when they questioned him. He wasn’t ready to admit the affair. But that could change any moment if his fear began to outweigh his shame. And even if Hinkle kept his mouth shut, Oberman wasn’t out of the woods. He’d written the note in blocky caps, but he hadn’t though
t to wipe the bullet before leaving it in the box.

  There was also the question of how much other people knew. Had the other teachers really been avoiding Oberman’s gaze when the police came, or was it just his imagination? The timing of DiMarco’s meeting had been suspicious, but the conversation hadn’t strayed from football. Or was that in itself a sign that DiMarco was on to him? Wouldn’t it be natural to bring up the big event from earlier in the week? Oberman’s students were of course aware there’d been a major commotion on Monday, but their jokes and wild speculations made it clear they hadn’t connected anything to him. So it was mainly DiMarco he’d been worried about, and possibly the other teachers, until the call today from Mike Treadwell.

  It had only been a small comment at the end of their conversation. “By the way,” Mike had said, “say hi to Sandra for me.”

  It could’ve been innocuous. Like everything else Mike had said, the tone had been friendly. But in his two years as assistant coach, he’d had only the briefest of interactions with Sandra. They might’ve exchanged a few pleasantries after a game or during a chance encounter at the grocery store, but certainly not enough to expect Oberman to pass on a greeting. Had a rumor reached Ashland? Had Mike heard about the affair, or maybe even seen Hinkle and Sandra together? There’d been a long pause on the phone before Oberman replied, “Sure thing,” and quickly ended the call.

  At the time he’d decided to give Mike the benefit of the doubt, convinced himself he was overthinking things. But now that he’d given the comment time to simmer, Oberman felt that Mike must know something. In fact, maybe that had been the whole point of the call—trying to psych Oberman out, or just rub it in. A little payback for the way Oberman had treated him. But to bring a man’s wife into it over an old grudge—that was too far.