Muckers
Page 12
I can’t believe what Coach is saying.
“You’ll still play defense, of course,” he says. “Your drawbacks are those wobbly legs and your fear.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Am I?”
I don’t answer and slide over to reach for the post. Then I hop onto the hood of the bus, thinking, I’m up two-nothing, Coach has to be wrong. But I’m not entirely certain that he is.
“If you need to be living somewhere else, just let me know,” he says. “I can’t have my quarterback going hungry.”
“I already have a home.” I spill out the words, not bothering to turn around and look at him or anything. “And I don’t need help.”
“Then find the kitchen,” Coach says firmly. “And get yourself something to eat.”
My ears feel singed, like I’m way too close to a campfire. I start jogging, but the air’s moist and stale and there’s no wind to move it.
The door of the school bus slams shut and I know he’ll overtake me in a second. “Then come back and throw that football like you own it,” Coach hollers. He maneuvers the bus past me, and I can’t see the Peaks anymore. Just two red taillights blinking back at me.
Chapter 12
ANGRY EVER SINCE
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
7:22 A.M.
I’M ON MY OWN BEHIND the school, throwing the football through a tire hung from the old cottonwood by the baseball diamond. It’s first thing in the morning and I’m waiting for Mr. Mackenzie to walk by. Rabbit’s been gone for a week and that’s hard to believe, though I’m reminded of it every time I look at his empty desk.
The benching hasn’t sunk in yet either, even though it’s been three days since Coach told me I wouldn’t be playing quarterback against Coldbrook.
I keep throwing until I hear Mr. Mackenzie saying good morning to someone before rounding the corner. I exhale and start breathing normal again. Mr. Mackenzie will look at me like it doesn’t matter how I play, or if I play at all. He’ll look at me like I matter just because I’m Red.
“Getting a little practice in early, are we, Felix?” he says, leaning his leather satchel against some ivy and resting his cane on top of it.
“This is the only practice I’ll get when it comes to throwing today, Mr. Mac. I’m benched.”
He goes over to the tire and stretches it out to a forty-five-degree angle and stands clear so I can volley the football through it.
“Nothing wrong with some good old-fashioned solitaire to build acuity and acumen,” he says. “It’ll serve you well on the gridiron.”
“It’ll be almost two weeks till I get to play quarterback. If I do at all.”
“Everyone gets benched at least once in his football career,” Mr. Mackenzie says, tossing the football back to me. “Thank goodness it isn’t a life sentence. And there are as many different reasons for being told to sit out a game as there are teams in this state.” He smiles. “Remember when Bobby got benched?”
I didn’t know Bobby got benched. “When was that?” I ask him.
“October of 1941—you must have been eight years old then. We’d had a freak October snowstorm, remember?”
I cradle the football under my chin and nod.
“Bobby went sledding down Nefertiti Hill with Faye Miller. He thought it would please the kids at the matinee, seeing him start his shift at the theater arriving by sled like Santa Claus. Faye wanted to come along and be the elf. But the mountain had other ideas and sent those two kids and the sled veering left, down into the slag field. The bleachers prevented them from ending up in Cottonville and they escaped with only a few minor bumps and bruises, but the sled took out the first row. That’s why Coach Hansen benched your brother.”
“So Bobby got benched for ramming into a bench?” I can’t help but smile, and start tossing the football up in the air a few times, just for fun.
“That’s about the size of it.” Mr. Mackenzie laughs. “And they still made it all the way to the state. Now, my benching was different.”
I stop throwing because I find it hard to believe Mr. Mac could do anything that would get him benched.
“It happened two games before the state championship.” He nods, seeing how surprised I am. “We were playing Prescott and a referee made what I considered to be a poor call. He’d done it twice so I thought it best to tell him about it, but I was ejected from the game. Then Coach Kerr benched me.”
“Even though the call was unfair and you were right?”
“It wasn’t for me to decide or to let the referee know what I thought. I was very troubled about the whole thing after and spent the rest of the weekend holed up in my room.” Mr. Mackenzie lowers the tire, gesturing for me to come over.
“I knew we had more than a good shot at making it to the state and I wanted to be there,” he continues. “Then I realized I could, but that it was up to me. And that the only way to do it was by not worrying about calls and playing better than I ever had.”
“And then the officials went and did it again when you got to Phoenix.”
“Yes, they did,” he says. “But the Coyotes were a great team—give them credit—and to be truthful, the game could have gone either way. It would have been better if it had been a draw, though it doesn’t work that way in football, does it now, Felix?”
“I guess that wouldn’t seem fair either,” I figure.
“But we knew we played our best,” Mr. Mac says. “The home-field advantage went their way that year. Pete Zolnich and the rest of us knew who really won. I’m not sure Peter ever got over what happened, though—he’s been angry ever since—but I did.”
I think about Pete and his sawed-off pipe. How he’s sitting in the temporary jail at the Sacred Heart of Mary—likely stewing.
“I know you think you’re not as good as you need to be, Felix, but you’re wrong.” Mr. Mac stops the tire from rocking and looks straight at me. “You’ve got a lot to carry on your shoulders to begin with. Don’t add anything that shouldn’t be there by judging yourself too harshly. There’s already enough of that going on around here, don’t you think?”
“You mean the commie box?”
“Is that what they’re calling it? Good Lord. I suppose you’d know all about that box Luther Sims has been keeping, since he unveiled it in your class.” Mr. Mac shakes his head. “If Luther senior were still here, he’d have a long talk with his son—I can tell you that,” he says, reaching for his cane. But I get it for him and dust off his satchel, too.
“I’m putting a stop to all this nonsense,” he says. “I have a meeting with Mr. Menary this week to plead that sanity prevail and that differing points of view or nationalities won’t be lumped into the convenient label of communism.” He takes his satchel and we start walking toward the school. “But the superintendent and I have always approached things differently. And we’re all foreigners for that matter. Except the Indians. But if I say that too loudly, I just might be deemed a communist spy, so keep that close to your vest, all right?”
“You could never be a communist spy.”
“And you could never disappoint Bobby.”
I repeat in my head what Mr. Mackenzie just told me—I could never disappoint Bobby. And I hope that it’s true.
“He’d be the last person wanting you to be feeling this way,” Mr. Mackenzie whispers.
We reach the front steps and he gets out the keys—it’s too early for Charlie to have unlocked the school yet.
“Thanks,” I tell Mr. Mac.
“For what?” he says, keeping the door open with his cane.
“For remembering. And letting me know.”
“Which reminds me,” he says.
“Oh no,” I say, teasing, but wondering if I’ve opened the door for a lecture on homework.
“Remember how I said Phoenix had home-team advantage back in twenty-four? Well, this year the pendulum’s moving our way. The championship game gets played on the field of the team that wins the Northern Cr
own. And even though I believe we won that day in Phoenix no matter what the scoreboard showed, what I forgot to mention is that I’m not entirely opposed to a little revenge when it’s warranted. And getting even in our final year seems like the right time to do it, don’t you think?”
I go back and throw awhile longer and it feels different this time—solid. I work up a sweat and then head to my locker for a towel. There’s a note sticking out of the vent.
Dear Mr. Sad Eyes:
So what if you don’t play quarterback on Friday? I know you’ll still get a win for us. You’ll wriggle your way through their line somehow just like that trout.
Angie
* * *
6:12 P.M.
We’ve gone from pushing to pulling since Coach saw those old snapshots of the fire boys hauling hoses attached to a carriage. Coach had a bulldozer dump boulders near the field and now we’re pulling them with fire hoses, too. Across a line Coach drew in the slag. You’d think Tony would’ve been over the line first or Cushman, the big freshman, but I was right there with them, with Cruz behind me yelling, “Don’t hurt that shoulder. You need it for Cottonville,” and Quesada saying he didn’t need to be quarterback against Coldbrook on Friday with the way I’m looking. But I know you can’t take a thing like that back. Coach already made up his mind.
Still, I’m ready. Even if it takes hauling these rocks all the way up to the top of the mountain.
MID-WEEK EDITION
Muckers Host Coldbrook with New QB
The unbeaten Hatley Muckers will take to the field Friday night with a new look on offense. Despite their 2–0 record, Coach Ben Hansen has decided to play Marty Quesada at quarterback this week, opting to give starter Red O’Sullivan a breather. Hansen said O’Sullivan will play a key role as defensive back, but “time away from the pressure of quarterback will do him some good.”
Eureka Copper Miners Win Raise
In an unexpected turn of events for Eureka Copper miners, the company has agreed to the Brotherhood of Hatley-Cottonville Miners & Smelter Workers’ demands for a wage increase. The increase of 40 cents a day will affect approximately 500 employees at the local mine and smelter and goes into effect in 30 days. While the office won’t comment on whether or not this means the mine won’t close, diamond drilling has commenced on the old Buttercup claim, though company geologists fear all veins have been pinched out.
WANT ADS
FOR SALE—Bassinet with hood. Nearly new. Carl Purdyman Ranch. 397-H.
LOST—Black-and-white hound branded T over C on right rump. Last seen at Carsen’s Lumber. Has Casillas on brass plate of collar. REWARD. Phone 186-H.
WANTED—Job cooking, baking, keeping house or what have you. Available after 2 p.m. every day. Weekends anytime. Mrs. Slubetz. Phone 201-H.
Chapter 13
BOWLING UNDER THE STARS
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 13
9:13 P.M.
THE COPPER STAR IS BUSIER tonight than I’ve ever seen it because of the news about the raises. Zefferino Avilar’s singing on top of the bar and who’s gonna stop him? He owns the place. Zeffy’s long apron is tucked below his vest and pretty near grazing the counter as he swoops down to raise a glass of tequila at me with his lanky frame, those brown eyes glinting like it was the old days again. “¡Arriba los Muckers!” he says when I go by looking for Cruz.
I spot him leaning over the pool table. Pretty near lying on it, actually, with a woman hooked around his neck who’s not paying any attention to the shot Cruz is demonstrating.
I have to suck in my breath and walk sideways to get near him. Past a group of tool nippers still with bandannas covering their necks to keep out the dust. They’re throwing marbles onto the roulette wheels, trying to get them to spin, but those games haven’t been played since the Second World War.
Cruz sees me and drains the shot, and the woman lets go. She starts clapping; the gold cross hanging around her neck gets tangled up in all that cleavage when she plants a red kiss on Cruz’s cheek.
“You wanna stay?” I ask him, knowing a night like this must be worth a dozen Saturdays. Cruz shakes his head. “Not with her husband around,” he says, grabbing the money on the table and shoving it in his gym bag. “Besides, you need to throw.”
“Not for this game,” I remind him as we head out of the bar toward the field.
“Yeah, I know. But the way you’re playing in practice, you’ll be back throwing against Cottonville,” he says, handing me a carbide lamp.
“What’s this for?”
“So you won’t have any excuses in the dark,” he says. Cruz is so full of himself he’s about ready to pop. “Told you they needed us,” he keeps saying. “There’s no way they’ll close the mine.”
“It’s only a raise, remember?”
“Same difference. You think Ruffner would give us more money if they were shutting things down? How stupid would that be?”
It’s just like Cruz, believing. Once he’s got his mind bent around something like winning, or the mine going on forever, he’ll keep riding you about it until you finally believe it, too. But if I throw one more time I’ll end up in a sling, so after ten minutes of handoffs I tell Cruz to give it a rest.
I can barely see him anyway without the moon up; it’s just the light from the carbide lamps and the heaps of ore burning on the ledges in the open pit behind us, flaring red like cherry Coke. His dad and my pop are somewhere beneath it, wearing carbide lamps, too, one telling the other to shovel more steaming chunks of ore into the pyre.
We pass Husband’s Alley, where the higher-ups in the mine—men more important than Pop—sneak out of the bordellos known as the Cribs. This early, though, it’s just the Heydorn boys running up and down the alley, throwing oranges at Leroy Piggett, who’s lying in the middle of Main Street stone drunk with the sheriff just watching, not wanting to arrest anybody when the town’s feeling this happy.
“Look out for the piano,” the oldest Heydorn kid says, pointing at the sky.
“Would you look at that?” I say. Mrs. Featherhoff’s piano is coming out of the second-floor window, wrapped in a sling and with so many straps around it you can hardly see its black body except for the legs. Mrs. Featherhoff leans out the window, her hands clamped together like she’s praying, and crushing that brooch of silk flowers she wears whenever she’s teaching.
“Guess she won’t be giving lessons anymore,” Cruz says. And I’m hoping he’s wrong. We pass the Hatley Telephone Exchange, where Angie’s gotta be working. But there’s no way I’d look up with Cruz right there.
We get to the sliding jail and Cruz kneels down, scanning the inside. The roof caved in when the whole thing went sliding last month and now you can pretty much see everything that remains. There’s a toilet on its side in the middle of a cell and a few bottles scattered around it.
“We should be bowling,” Cruz says. Which is what we’d be doing right now if this was a year ago. But they closed the alley since it cost more to keep it going than to shut it down.
“I mean it.” Cruz turns on his carbide lamp, then hops along the brick wall and shinnies down a cell door until it swings open and he can jump into jail. “We’ll bowl with these,” he says, picking up two chunky rocks. “And think of all the people whose guts we hate. Same as before.”
The rocks still have some malachite in them, so they’ll be weighty enough, and their edges haven’t been hacked off too badly either, so they should roll. I count four bottles that Cruz is lining up: you need two more to play six-pin.
“Toss me the gym bag,” Cruz says. He unzips it and pulls two beer bottles from inside his helmet, then looks up at me on the sidewalk like he’s waiting for me—no, expecting me—to climb into jail along with him.
“We gotta drink up if we’re gonna play,” he says, “and I ain’t wasting these Acmes.” Cruz holds a bottle in my direction then pauses—he knows I don’t like to drink—still, he keeps the bottle outstretched in his hand and smiles when I take it.
Then I remember about my throwing arm and dangle it in the air. “What about the arm?” I ask.
“We’ll bowl left to keep things even,” he says, taking a swig of the Acme.
Cruz picks up the first rock to start. It goes sliding across the lumpy cement, connecting hard with the first pin—a liniment bottle. “And Sims goes smashing to the floor!” Cruz says when it topples over. The rest of the bottles follow and Cruz yells, “Strike one!”
I get the other rock while Cruz lines up the pins, then I aim the greenest part of the malachite at the whiskey bottle to the right of the liniment bottle, taking out Father Pierre. “There goes the priest!” I say.
Cruz starts clapping. “What’s he got? A silver spoon and a cane for a whip?” he says. “There’s nothing he can use that’s gonna break us.”
One tequila bottle’s still wobbling—the new kid, Rudy Kovacs—and he holds on, the jerk. But I get him the second time, sweeping him clear off the ground.
“We should have outdoor bowling,” Cruz says. He leans against the gym bag and looks out at the stars. “There’s plenty of empty lots around here. I could run it.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I tell him, looking up at the stars, too. They’re blinking and round as peaches, scattered all over as if they just fell off the moon. The more I look at them, the more they seem within reach.
“Damn straight I’m right,” Cruz says. “And don’t think I haven’t thought about it before.” Then he looks over at me. “What about you?” he says.
“What about me?” Cruz catches me by surprise.
“After you get that football scholarship,” he says. “You could coach.”