He stood on the porch and locked the door; he left the light on in case his mother needed it.
At the end of the drive he looked toward the park, thinking maybe he should go there first and calm himself down before he showed up at the school. His hands were jittery, and he couldn't breathe without panting, and no matter how many times he wiped his face, it was still masked in perspiration.
Maybe his friend would come and let him touch him again.
A car stopped, and a woman he didn't know leaned out her window. "Are you Donald Boyd?" She giggled and turned to someone sitting beside her. "I sound like a jerk, don't I? God, I sound like a real jerk." Back to Don. "So. Are you that boy I saw on television, the one that killed the killer?"
He nodded dumbly.
"Thought so," she said with a sharp nod. "Told you it was him," she said to her companion. "The minute I saw him I knew it was him."
She drove away with an I-told-you-so, nearly sides wiping another car that was trying to get around her. Horns blared angrily, curses were passed, and someone from the second car yelled at Don to hurry or he'd missed the opening kickoff, or was he too big to care? Leave me alone, he told them with a glare he knew they couldn't see, leave me the hell alone.
He stopped in front of Chris's house and traced with his eyes the way she had picked up his father, followed with his mind the way they had driven off, sitting so far apart they might have been strangers. His palm itched where it had been pressed against her breast, and he rubbed it hard against his jacket until it started to burn.
Delfield's dog started barking.
Shut up, he thought.
In his chest there was a tension that constricted his lungs; in his spine there was a rod that refused to let him bend; in his arms there were cramps that kept his fists closed.
A police siren wailed; leave me alone; a gang of teenagers raced by on School Street, jeering at passing cars and shrieking at pedestrians on the other side of the road; someone exploded a string of firecrackers; leave me alone; tires squealed; leave me; Tar's body sprawled in the middle of the street, more blood than flesh, the blood running to the gutter.
His head ached.
A trio of school buses sped past, turning him in their wake as North supporters taunted him from open windows, blowing air horns and bugles, a beer can rolled into the gutter.
Jesus, leave
From the last bus someone tossed a beer can that landed on his shoes, spilling half its contents over the bottoms of his slacks. "Christ!" he bellowed. "Christ, leave me alone!"
Five steps later he heard all the screams pouring over the stadium walls and he started to run, saying "I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it" until he reached the entrance gate and the screams grew even louder.
Chapter Eighteen
Don almost leapt over the turnstile in his panic to get in and see what he had done, what the stallion was doing to the spectators and the team.
But there was a cop, and he was staring glum-faced at the latecomers, and Don fumbled for the ticket in his shirt, handed it to a red-faced woman in the cubbyhole that passed for a ticket booth at the games, and pushed the metal arm until it clicked.
And he was in, watching the stands filled with faces, with open mouths, with hands in the air waving and voices shrieking on both sides of the field, the lights glaring and turning the grass a rich green, giving a luster to the uniforms that chased each other down the gridiron after the opening kickoff.
That's what it was, he thought in relief, and sagged against the brick wall; that's all it was, I didn't do a thing.
He slumped to the ground and sat there for ten minutes, seeing little more than legs hustling by, hearing nothing but the continuous screaming that merged into a roar that didn't stop, didn't end, made him groan and cover his ears and wonder why so many were getting so excited by a lousy high school football game. Didn't they know Tar was dead? Didn't they know that the guy running patterns with Brian was a lousy substitute, not the real thing?
He breathed deeply and fast until his head cleared and his hands stopped shaking.
Sure they knew. But this wasn't murder. This was a tragic accident and no classes would be canceled and no concert would be dedicated to Tar Boston's memory.
When the ground became too damp to sit on, he groaned to his feet and made his way toward the stands. Amazingly they were filled, and as he followed the iron railing, he couldn't see a single space large enough for him to squeeze into, save for the open section where the band was filing in now after playing the national anthem. He tried to catch Tracey's eye when he saw her, but she was chatting with her neighbors and trying to keep the wind from taking off her beret.
A strong wind that snapped at the pennants flying from the goal posts that took more than a few hats and sailed them over the far wall to the houses behind. There were no stars when he looked up, only a solid shifting black, and he realized that most of the people there had brought umbrellas and ponchos and blankets for cover when the rains finally came and turned the game into a mud show.
He circled the field slowly, avoiding loud roving gangs of youngsters who were showing off for their girls, seeing Jeff on the bench and giving him a victory fist, not seeing his father but seeing Chris on the field, cheering and dancing through a dozen routines.
When he reached the main gate again, it was well into the second quarter. There was no score, and the fans on both sides were getting a little restless.
Jostled, sworn at, he stood in the middle of the track and watched the game from behind the snow fence that followed the edge of the field from one end of the goal line to the other. There were cops there, and a few photographers, and a bunch of little kids trying to see through the red slats.
North's quarterback fumbled. His own team's center fumbled it right back.
The electronic Scoreboard at the far end counted the time in amber lights and kept the scores at zero.
He moved to the fragile fence and crossed his arms over the top. One minute to go before the first half was over. The screaming was subdued, the cheering half-hearted. Nobody liked a good defensive battle when they had to sit in the cold and wait for the rain.
Suddenly he was watching Brian racing toward him, looking back, following the spiraled flight of an impossibly high pass as it arced over the tops of the secondary and seemed to hesitate before settling perfectly into his arms.
The screams began again, but Don only watched Brian, watched the way he dodged a potential tackle and stiff-armed another and trotted across the goal line five yards ahead of the nearest Rebel pursuit.
The stands erupted, the band blared discordantly, and Brian was grinning when he came up against the fence and saw him.
"Hey, quacker, you wanna see it again?" he said, and was immediately swarmed under by the rest of the team, practically carried away to the bench, where the coach shook his hand.
Don was pushed aside by the photographers, by the little kids, and was warned by a cop to find a seat and sit down before he was told to leave.
He almost argued as he felt the tension rise again, felt a sheen of warmth begin to spread over his cheeks. But he swallowed it down and turned away, a part of him thinking, they don't know who I am anymore, a part of him realizing that leave me alone was not a plea now, it was a threat.
That for all his aching, that might be the only Rule there was.
He found a place, a narrow place, at the end of the first row at the near end of the stands. He couldn't see much, not during half time when the home team band went out to strut its stuff, and not when the Braves' defense scored the second touchdown with a run from the second half kickoff. He didn't much care. If he went home, he might see his mother; but if he stayed, he'd be able to talk to Tracey after the game. Maybe she'd be able to tell him what to do next.
By the middle of the third quarter he was unable to contain his restlessness. He jumped down to the track and started walking again, passed by the band and this time saw Tracey. She grinned and wav
ed; he pointed to the Scoreboard clock, to his watchless wrist, and then to his chest. She frowned puzzlement, then brightened and nodded quickly. His smile was only a small part of his relief, and it clung there when his gaze drifted to the spectators behind and caught his father sitting with the mayor and the mayor's wife. Joyce was beside Mrs. Garziana, the kerchief still around her hair, the dark glasses gone.
Don looked to Norman, back to his mother, who saw him and waved—a weak and apologetic wave in front of a smile so forced he thought her face would shatter with the effort. A polite smile. A public smile, not for him but for those around her.
He waved back and moved on, for the first time realizing that sooner or later he was going to have to make a choice; stay with his father, stay with his mother, either way losing out on a dream to help heal his friends.
The crowd roared to its feet.
Ignoring the field, he looked up to the Scoreboard and saw another touchdown recorded and Brian's number flash. Before he reached the far end zone it happened again; and as he passed in front of the Rebels' wooden bleachers he felt the antagonism and defeat, the growing rowdiness that comes with losing frustration.
He walked around a second time and the Rebels made their first score.
The third time, he stopped in front of the band, bracing himself against the people who were crowding around the Braves' bench, spilling onto the track, paying no attention to the police and security guards who were trying to keep a semblance of order and still watch the game.
He stared at Tracey, and felt his father staring back, in peripheral vision saw his mother laughing at something the mayor's wife said. His eyes narrowed, but she seemed not to understand that this wasn't a time for laughing, for football; it was a time for her son who wasn't named Sam.
He stayed there until, dimly, he heard the final gun and had to press against the low wall as the fans spilled over the railing and onto the field. His shoulder was punched, his back was slapped, and he did his best to keep from going down, to smile as if he were delirious at the victory they'd won, until he saw Tracey and she was pointing to the nearest steps.
"God," she said breathlessly when he finally reached her and she fell against him. "You'd think it was the stupid Super Bowl, for crying out loud."
Her uniform was rough to the touch, but his arm slipped naturally around her waist, the rest of him turning to form a shield while she put her instrument away and shoved her music into whatever pockets she could reach.
"You see your folks?"
He nodded stiffly.
"You have to wait or anything?"
"Do you?"
"Nope."
With a "let's go, then" he held her close to his hip and moved toward the gates. It would take a while; there were kids running impromptu races, football players trying to get away so they could change and return to join the celebration, and a handful of band members playing music their teacher never let them try in practice.
"Don," Tracey said then, "what's wrong?"
Joyce applauded and cheered when the final gun sounded, and didn't hear a word Jean Garziana said to her as they headed up the steps toward the exit. Donald was gone, lost in the swirling bodies that spilled over the field, and she hated herself for feeling relieved. Norm was behind her and when she looked back, he gave the lifeless stare he reserved for people he did not know. Jean touched her arm, and she smiled automatically, gestured toward her ears and then at the milling crowd.
The woman nodded, and they concentrated on leaving the stadium and heading up for School Street. At the corner it wasn't quiet, but it was considerably less mobbed.
"We're going for a drink," the woman said then. "Would you like to join us?" When Joyce balked, she opened her raincoat to expose a nurse's uniform. "It won't be for long, I promise. I have to go on shift at midnight."
"But I'm not dressed," Joyce protested, looking down at her thin blouse, her wrinkled slacks, the ballet slippers. "I'd feel embarrassed." A nervous laugh, you know how it is.
Anthony Garziana came up then with Norman in tow. When Jean explained the ensemble situation, he laughed heartily and slapped Norman's arm.
"No problem, ladies, no problem," he said. "Joyce, you go on and change. I want you to have a good time tonight. Norm, you go with her, bring her back, and we'll have a few drinks, we'll talk, what do you say?"
He left no time for an answer. Taking his wife's arm, he turned to the curb just as a limousine pulled up. "The Starlite, okay?" The door opened, and he was gone.
Joyce yanked the kerchief from her head as the limousine pulled away.
"I'm glad you showed," Norman said.
"I'm not that stupid," she told him wearily.
"Funny, I said almost the same thing to Don earlier."
"What?" She grabbed his arm, remembered the people still pressing home, and forced her lips into a meaningless smile. "What the hell do you mean?"
"Don and I had a talk," he said flatly, refusing to look anywhere near her.
"What did you say?"
"That you and I had to have a talk before the night is over." He did look, then, and she would not look away. "We do, Joyce. You know we do, after that stunt you pulled today."
"I—"
"Don saw you."
Something hard and cold settled in her chest. "Oh, shit."
"Yeah."
Blindly she stared at the faces moving rapidly past her, at the cars driving away. "Do we have to go?"
"Yes, we have to."
"Then I'm going home to change."
His fingers curled around her waist, the pads pressing deeply until she tried to pull away. "You'll be there, right?"
"Aren't you walking me home?"
"No," he said. "No. If I do, we'll never catch the mayor."
"I see."
"Do you?"
"Clearly, Norman. More clearly than you give me credit for."
She twisted her wrist free and walked away, feeling the coarse pavement beneath the slippers, gasping once when a group of boys raced by and one stepped on her toes. Tears rose and vanished as she willed the pain away, willed away the limp after only three strides.
Don knows. He knows, and what was she going to do now?
It's stupid, she thought as she waited on the curb and sought a break in the traffic; I'm stupid. Oh, god, what the hell am I going to do now?
She ran across the street and huddled in the shadows, berating herself for reacting to Norman's announcement the way she had. She should have waited until he'd come home and then talked with him calmly; and if not calmly, at least with a certain logic that would show him how foolish he was being. But he kept quoting his goddamn father at her, digging in his heels the moment he sensed her resistance to his running for office, and in her panic at losing what security they had, she'd called Harold. And Harold had responded the way she'd known he would, not with sage advice or calming talk, but by kissing her cheek the minute she'd left the school behind, holding her free hand and kissing the fingers until she'd pulled into his driveway on the other side of town. And once in the apartment, when she tried to explain, he had taken her in his arms and pulled her blouse from her jeans.
The moment his hand spread across her naked back she was lost, it was all lost ... and Jesus, Don had seen!
When she unlocked the front door, her teeth were chattering as much from the cold as from tension, and from the fear that she wouldn't be able to explain to Norman that her foolishness; no, she corrected harshly as she slammed the door behind her. Not foolishness. Idiocy. Weakness. But not foolishness.
She rushed upstairs and stripped off her clothes, was reaching into the closet for something more appropriate for having drinks with the mayor and his wife, when she heard someone knocking on the front door. Don forgot his key was the first thing that came to mind, and she snatched up her bathrobe and struggled into it on the way back down. And she would have to tell him something. He was so frail that anything near the truth would have to be tempered. Your father an
d I are having problems—vague, unsatisfying, and something the boy already knew.
She opened the door and immediately clutched the robe's lapels to her throat. "Harry, for god's sake! What the hell do you want?"
Norman watched his wife rush off toward home, then turned, stopped, and found himself alone. He almost laughed, all that posturing, all the snide joy of letting her know about Don, and it was wasted. His dramatic exit spoiled because he had no way to get to the Starlite unless he walked the ten or twelve blocks.
"Nice going, jerk," he muttered, shoved his hands into his pockets, and started to follow her, grinning at the horns that blared out the victory, waving once in a while when someone called his name, staring at the few faces he passed and wondering what in hell there was about a lousy high school football game that made people think all was right with the world.
He paused to light a cigarette, bending away from the damp wind that promised rain later on. The smoke was warm, and he enjoyed it for a minute, then scowled and tossed the butt into the gutter. He licked his lips; he swallowed. He was working himself into a bad, self-pitying mood, and that was hardly the way he had to be when he faced Garziana.
He straightened his back, let his arms swing, and whistled a silent march as he moved on, thinking to call a cab when he got home and have both of them arrive at the lounge in a flourish. A good entrance, first impressions, the mayor would be pleased.
Think about the game, he ordered; think about all that good feeling, all that cheering, the rush when Pratt caught that first pass, the lucky sonofabitch.
His stride lengthened, the whistle became audible, and when he had to stop at the Snowden driveway to let Chris pull in, he even saluted her and gave her a grin.
And waited.
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