Muckers

by Sandra Neil Wallace

  “It’s a peninsula,” I tell Cruz.

  “Oh, that explains it,” he says, scowling at me. “We’re fighting a peninsula. Sounds like another new screwball disease, no?”

  “I might not even get to Korea.” There’s a tinge of disappointment in Rabbit’s voice. “I could end up in Japan. That’s where Pete Torres’s brother’s been stationed. Going over drills and building foxholes at the base in Sendai.”

  Rabbit stuffs a sack of Mrs. Palermo’s food into his duffel. Cruz says she was bawling something awful in front of the ovens and too shook up to come.

  “At least you won’t be fighting the Reds,” Cruz says. “Get anywhere near an A-bomb and you’ll be screaming bloody murder.”

  “You can live through one,” Rabbit says, tugging the drawstring secure before eyeballing Cruz. “Don’t you ever read the paper? They write about it all the time.”

  “I don’t need no paper telling me to be a few countries back when that atom bomb hits. And all the Verde Miner writes about is those stupid pineapple parties up on Gringo Ridge.”

  “Pinochle, not pineapple,” I tell him. “And the Russians are the ones behind Korea.”

  “Pee-knuckle.” Cruz repeats it like he’s some bratty kid. “Bet they play that on the peninsula, too. Huh, Ugly?”

  “Half Korea’s communist, Cruz,” Rabbit says.

  “Think I don’t know that? And you ain’t been further than Kingman, so don’t be showing off.” Cruz takes a kick at the duffel bag before Rabbit hauls it over his shoulder. “If you don’t come back, I don’t wanna hear about it, idiot. No griping.”

  Rabbit waves a hand in the air and keeps walking.

  “You know we play Cottonville in three weeks,” Cruz hollers, throwing a silver lighter at the duffel bag.

  “What’s this for?” Rabbit bends down for it and gets whacked in the head by the bag.

  “For when you smoke,” Cruz says. Then he starts laughing. “But don’t be trying it when you’re carrying something. Like a gun.”

  “I don’t smoke.” Rabbit tightens his fist around the lighter and whips it at Cruz, but the lighter caroms off the sidewalk and dribbles toward us, settling next to my foot.

  “You will.” Cruz grins. “Keep it.” He tosses the lighter back, gently this time, so Rabbit can make a one-handed catch. “It was my grandfather’s,” Cruz says.

  Rabbit takes it and heads up Main, waiting for a cranky old Studebaker to pass. We keep watching him from the other side and it’s strange, him walking away from us. Then Rabbit hops on the bus like he’s headed for Smelter City to visit a cousin or something—no different—and we lose sight of him.

  Things get quiet—there’s not even a wind—and the sun is leaving an amber trail of ninety-degree heat, like yesterday’s rain never happened. A bead of sweat from Cruz’s brow drips onto his nose. He lets it slide all the way down his chin.

  “What are you looking at?” he growls, but the air’s already gone flat between us. Cruz reaches for something else to say, but now there’s only me.

  “He’ll be home by Christmas,” he finally grumbles.

  They said that about Bobby, too.

  “Think he’d miss a free meal at the Square on Christmas Eve?” Cruz jabs me in the ribs with his pack of Luckies. “Maybe he’ll be home sooner. He’s only got enough smoked-meat sandwiches to get him through the first hour. By the time they get to Prescott, his stomach’ll be rumbling.”

  The first time I ever saw Rabbit was at Christmas, lined up to see Santa. I think he must have been six. I already knew Santa didn’t exist. I’d found out the year before, when they’d asked Pop to play him at the Square. Only he couldn’t go through with it. He’d managed to get the beard on and the shiny, fat belt before passing out on the chesterfield, stone drunk. The furry red-and-white costume was lying on the dining room table still wrapped in cellophane. So Santa was a no-show at the Square and we had to go to Cottonville instead.

  Maw took me to the Square the following year, maybe thinking I hadn’t remembered. And I still wanted to believe, to be like Rabbit. But you can’t undo a thing like that.

  That year Rabbit wouldn’t get on Santa’s knee unless he got the candy cane first. Cruz was in line right behind him and wondering why Mr. Mackenzie had taken Santa’s place. He walked right up, pulled down that flimsy white beard, and said, “Hey, Mr. Mac.”

  Rabbit screamed and Cruz knocked him over. “What’s the matter?” Cruz said. “You think the real Santa’s got time to be here when he’s busy making a million toys?” So Rabbit stopped crying, took the candy cane from Mr. Mackenzie, and told him what he wanted for Christmas. But I couldn’t believe Cruz. I knew that if Santa was real, he would have never asked Pop to stand in for him.

  All the passengers are on the bus now, and Rabbit’s grabbed a window seat on our side, about halfway down. He leans into the glass and I’m waiting for him to glance back at us, but he doesn’t. And he’s got to know we’re still here. No one else is around.

  I guess it’s no big deal going off to Korea. The only other person I know who’s there is Buddy Ritz, and he’s been in the service since 1938. Not like when Bobby left for the Second World War; that felt like a party. There were nearly two dozen boys who’d signed up, calling it “the pursuit of happiness” or “fighting for the noble cause.” And I swear the whole town filled up Main Street, swarming the bus and yelling, “Kill a Jap for me!” They even had a police escort, with Faye Miller leading it, stringing a necklace of candy hearts around Bobby’s neck before he walked onto that bus so he wouldn’t forget they were engaged. Was he red.

  “I don’t even know which way their eyes go over there,” Cruz says. “Do they slant up or down?” Cruz is acting like an idiot, the way he always does when things get bent out of shape.

  “They must be waiting for the driver,” Cruz figures, spreading his legs out and leaning against the fire hydrant. “Can’t you see him sucking back coffee at the lunch counter?”

  I think I do, so I nod, but I can tell Cruz is itching to argue. He grips the head of the fire hydrant and his legs start fidgeting. It’s going to be tough on him not having Rabbit here to argue with. I’m more of a listener.

  “It’s not even a war,” Cruz says. “They’ll push those commies back to their line. What is it? Thirty-eight yards? That’s all they need to do. How long can that take? Nobody beats MacArthur.”

  “If it’s not a war, then why’s MacArthur even there?”

  Cruz just about falls off his perch when I say it. But MacArthur’s the one who got Bobby killed, sending him over to the Pacific when he was due to come home. Now the general’s taking ninety-eight-pound teenagers with him to Korea, who’ve flunked P.E.

  The driver hops on and the bus pulls out. That’s when Rabbit turns around and looks at us. He’s got the biggest grin on his face and I’ve never seen him smile that way before. Like he’s got something over Cruz and me. It gets even bigger as the bus heaves, coughing a black wad of smoke at us before rounding the switchback to Prescott.

  “Hey, next time we see him, he’ll be in a green uniform. Can you beat it?” Cruz says.

  “Maybe even a Purple Heart,” I joke.

  “Or a yellow one.” Cruz smirks. “He’s still afraid of the dark.”

  It’s true. At Scout camp the first time, Rabbit slept in his bunk with a flashlight aimed at the ceiling the whole night, until Mr. and Mrs. Palermo came to get him the next morning. It’s the only time he’s ever been away from home overnight. And none of us has ever been outside of Arizona. The closest me and Cruz have come was the White Mountains, when we gave St. John’s a good going-over on their football field last year, a few miles before New Mexico.

  Rabbit will be halfway around the world, six thousand miles from here.

  “That’ll get him laid,” Cruz laughs, looking at the sky like he can imagine it. “A Purple Heart’s gotta be at least as big as an Eagle Scout medal.”

  By the time it’s Christmas, we’ll hav
e taken the Yavapai Cup. That’s what I’ll focus on. Rabbit getting back. Us winning the Cup. I don’t want to think about either of those things not happening. Rabbit could get lucky and so could we. Not everyone who goes to war gets killed. Only he doesn’t have Cruz beside him anymore, and I don’t know how much good a gun’ll do.

  “He’ll miss the game of the year,” Cruz says, tapping the butt of his cigarette pack to coax out a smoke. “Maybe the century. You’ll have to write him about it.”

  So that’s how it’s going to be. Me still in between Rabbit and Cruz, interpreting them for each other long-distance.

  “I’m gonna beat the living crap out of those Wolves,” Cruz mumbles, the cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Shit!” he yells, fumbling around in his pockets. “I gave my lighter away, didn’t I?”

  MID-WEEK EDITION

  Last Rites for Hatley Miner

  Funeral services were held graveside for Milosh Maxim Diklovich, age 48. Mr. Diklovich, a long-time boarder of Mrs. Lillian Slubetz, and shaft-man for Eureka Copper, died Sunday at the miners’ hospital. After his shift boss, Alastar O’Sullivan, drove him to Phoenix last month, Mr. Diklovich underwent a lung operation and was thought to have been improving. Born in the village of Jošan in Lika, Croatia, he was known around town for his accordion playing. There are no known survivors. Mrs. Slubetz played Mr. Diklovich’s accordion during the interment.

  WANT ADS

  FOR SALE—Westinghouse ranges, excellent condition. Used as school demonstrators. Buy now. Pay balance & pick up in June. Bill Menary. Hatley Schools.

  WANTED—You to try our FULL-O-FLAVOR steaks now served in Hatley restaurants. Pounded cheese, veal or elk steak sandwiches. Taste what you’ve been missing. Norm Schnitz, FULL-O-FLAVOR founder.

  WANTED—Fancy dress for Independence Day Fiesta. Will alter any size. Mrs. Santiago Villanueva. Gulch.

  IMMUNIZE AGAINST WHOOPING COUGH—Dr. A. C. Brown says all young children should be immunized since the Purdyman baby took ill. The disease has taken the lives of three Indian children working at the Navajo cotton pickers’ camp at Black Mountain Indian Reservation.

  Chapter 11

  BENCHED

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 8

  6:07 P.M.

  PRACTICE FINALLY ENDED TEN MINUTES ago, but my face still feels like it’s flaming hot. Not because I did much, but because I’m flat-out mad. And now Coach Hansen’s asked me to stay. What’s he want with me anyhow? I wasn’t even late. And he’s the last person I feel like talking to since he’s the one I’m P.O.’d at. He didn’t even know I existed the past two hours, giving Quesada all the quarterback time, with me relegated near the pit and punting most of practice, looking like a jackass instead of first-string.

  Cruz kept coming over and asking if me and Coach were just fooling, like maybe this was a practice before practice, and aren’t I the quarterback? I sure thought I was. Kicked the ball clear through the posts and into the pit, I got so heated. There’s already two W’s in our column, and there’s no way I’m going back to being second-string.

  “You know you’re slipping,” Coach says to me.

  “How’s that?”

  “Usually you beat me to the field. Now it’s the second time you’re only slightly early.” He takes the football from under his arm and tosses it, catching me off guard. It clips my elbow but I snatch it, and he smiles.

  “You’ve always liked the heat, haven’t you?” he says, taking out a handkerchief to wipe his brow.

  “It’s what we got,” I tell him. “I don’t mind it most days. Especially when I’m playing.”

  Coach shakes his head and I’m not sure what he’s disagreeing with: what I just said or the heat.

  “Me, I’m from Missouri. I can’t wait for the sun to go down and cool things off.” He looks up to face it and closes his eyes for a second. “Not this year. I want it to take her time because we might never see it again, at least not this way, when we have a season and the chance to take it all.”

  Coach rubs his forehead, then adjusts his cap. He wears it all the time now, even when the sun’s dipped below the mountain. And I’m pissed that I’m not so pissed at him anymore, watching him rub on that scar.

  “Look, I know I caught you by surprise today, but I wanted to shake things up,” he says. “Get your mind back on football. And winning.”

  “No one wants to win more than me.”

  “But you’re afraid to. And it’s slowing you down.”

  “Who’s afraid?” I throw the ball hard, past Coach’s shoulder. I think it might have nicked his ear but he won’t duck. He just stumbles a bit, letting the ball wobble around in the slag.

  “You know, they tell me I shouldn’t do this anymore. That another blow to the head and it could be my last.” Coach taps the side of his forehead. “Something about not having enough skin between that steel plate and me.”

  “Sorry … I didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t expect you to.” Coach picks up the ball and tosses it to me. “Now throw it back,” he commands. “Harder. Come on. Don’t hesitate,” he says, squinting at me. “That’s right. Good. Now aim for the shoulder again.”

  I wing it even harder this time and Coach catches it about an inch above his shoulder, the force making him lose his cap.

  “See? You were afraid to hurt me but you threw it hard anyhow.” He raises the football in the air. “You didn’t hold back. If you were scared, you would have.”

  Coach motions for me to come over, and we start walking toward the school bus parked under the goalpost.

  “I remember when I got this scar,” he says. “The moment it happened. June twenty-sixth, 1944, thirteen hundred hours. The date’s etched in my brain and not even a tank of gasoline could blow it out of me.” He pauses for a moment, and I try not to stare at that scar. “People were talking all around me right after the explosion, but it felt like I wasn’t really there. Just watching it all.”

  “You snapped out of it, though,” I say. “You survived.”

  “Things felt different in the hospital.” He nods. “When they told me I couldn’t work out with the kids, to stop coaching, all of a sudden I came to. It’s like I shook loose. And I knew I couldn’t be cautious. How do you hold back on living? Not doing things because you remember the pain from what happened before.”

  Coach looks up at the goalpost, and I finally take a look at that scar. It’s fleshy and red, like somebody ran the fruit of a prickly pear across it, staining the whole thing raspberry. It cuts a deep gully along the side of the temple, dividing his forehead the way the Gulch does to our town.

  He must have lost a lot inside, the scar’s so deep. And I wonder if some of the pain’s still there but he fights it. Like at the game, when the lights were burning down on us. It must have set that scar ablazing. Only maybe when that happens Coach taunts it—the way he does with us at practice—until the pain finally goes away.

  “Climb up,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Go ’head. Climb up on the hood like this,” Coach says, catching the rim of the tire with his sneaker, then pulling himself up on the bus. “You haven’t forgotten how to climb, have you?”

  “Course not.”

  “Then follow me and you’ll get the second-best view in the Valley.” Coach grips the side of the goalpost and I don’t know if I should stop him or let him keep going. Then he’s up there sitting on the crossbar. “There’s enough room for you, too,” he says, sliding over.

  The last time I was up there was on Cruz’s shoulders—we couldn’t have been more than thirteen. He was standing on Kissy, which was stupid. Cruz had made some stirrups out of binder twine, but it got botched up when the burro walked away and we just hung there. Me clinging to the crossbar, and Cruz holding on to my ankles until our hands slipped away and we fell, rolling onto the slag, laughing but feeling like idiots and hoping nobody saw.

  “The best view is up there on the hill,” Coach says when I reach him. “Where the H is.�
�

  “I like this better.”

  “It’s not bad, is it?” He points to the mountain range across from the H. The one we wake up to every morning, a hundred miles away.

  “Flagstaff doesn’t seem so far away from up here,” Coach says.

  The Peaks are tinged with pink and orange and blue like girls’ dresses. And even then, it’s still too pretty to be real. Mr. Mackenzie says that if you don’t have the money to get to the Grand Canyon not to bother, we’ve got the same view right here.

  “Somehow, it seems almost attainable,” Coach says. “Like you can reach out and snatch those peaks.” He lets out a sigh. “If only it were that easy.”

  “We’ve got five weeks to get tough,” I tell him.

  “That was the first game I ever coached,” he says. “The lowly Muckers against the mighty Flagstaff Warriors, the most decorated team in the North. Bobby was the quarterback and folks thought the T formation I brought in was just about as bad as sin itself. But Bobby, he just took to it, without question. You knew he was fast, even as a freshman. But now he could really show them.” Coach looks sideways at me. “You can be even better, Red.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Coach keeps looking at me and I don’t want him to. I want to keep thinking about Bobby without having to think about me.

  “You’ve got a feel for this field like no player I’ve coached. You’d think you’re made of slag and mud, knowing where the good patches are and how that can change. But for the first time you looked scared out there.”

  “We won both games,” I say. “Isn’t that what matters?” But I focus on the skyline instead, where puffer clouds have stalled halfway down the peaks, making them all blotchy.

  “You’re afraid right now. And that’s a whole lot different than being nervous,” Coach says. “It’s okay to be nervous. But being afraid only leads to regret. You’re second-guessing, which spoils the gut instincts you have and everything you’ve learned. You never make the right moves then. I know you’ll get over it, Red, but I’m taking you out of the quarterback spot against Coldbrook, until you settle down.”