by Jeff Hull
Jenny walked away from the mic and out one of the side doors as if she was leaving the building. Maybe she did. She left a sudden chill behind her. All along Josie had been able to frame the question in terms of boys and what boys expected. She knew boys did things she would never understand. But what if it had been Britnee Mattoon taped to the rack, with her pants down … what if it had been herself?
Was it so different, the way boys could horse around with each other—always a big joke, according to them—and the way they could approach girls with the same stuff? Josie had to recall the first time she had had sex with Matt—her first time—and was reminded that only the loosest definition of approval would apply to what had happened. Matt was so much stronger than her, and he took what he wanted. She had known it would be coming, had even thought of him as the boy who it would happen with, but it was not at all the way she wanted it to happen. She had said no—though she had said no to a number of things along the way and never complained after—and had told him very clearly the way she wanted it to happen. But he had done what he wanted in the end.
Which made it hard to hold Matt’s hand anymore. She wanted to. Yes, Matt had not been perfect, but he was what she had so far. He was not what she would have forever. She knew that now. She would leave, go off to college, become someone different, a woman who wore professional clothes. A woman who could wade into a gym full of hostility and ask people if they would talk for the camera.
She believed that more than she had believed anything in her life. Josie counted on her life to change, prayed for her life to change, for the world to be different than everything she had known so far, different from the wind-driven dust in her teeth, different from driving trucks during harvest, different than watching boys shoot rattlesnakes and gophers and whoop when one of them dissolved in a pink mist.
But Matt seemed pretty determined to stay who he was. On the floor in front of her, things started happening quickly. Brad Martin said her boyfriend’s name. The school board voted. By a count of 3–2, Matt Brunner was suspended from extracurricular activities for the remainder of the school year. Waylon Edwards was suspended from school activities for the year.
Then Brad said, “Somebody else is going to have to do the next part. I’m a parent,” and he left the mic and walked into the audience and sat down beside his wife and son and daughter.
Nobody seemed to know what to do. The board members looked at each other. Nathan Merrill leaned forward and looked down the row at Dotty Lantner. Dotty twirled her hand as if to say, “I guess …” and went to the mic.
“Our last order of business tonight concerns Alex Martin.”
In the audience, Brad Martin stood and said, “Just so you know, I’ve talked to some parents.” He looked up toward the Brunners and Frehses. “We’re prepared to file a suit for damages over this.”
“That’s interesting, Brad,” Dotty said. “Thank you for sharing.”
Some laughs tittered through the audience, many met by scowls. Dotty Lantner tallied the votes. “With board chair Brad Martin abstaining, the vote is 3–1 to suspend Alex Martin from school-sanctioned extracurricular activities for the rest of the school year.”
Matt had pulled himself away from Josie without really making a move. She knew what was next, how quickly he would grow isolate and inviolate, and then how he would come back to her—hurt that she hadn’t cared enough to puncture his insular bubble. It was her job to stand aside for a while, until he was ready.
So she let him pull away from her and stand up with his parents and leave. She couldn’t believe how quietly the full gymnasium emptied. The reporters chattered animatedly at their cameras, but everybody else just shuffled out the door.
So that was that.
* * *
Tom had stood in one of the doorways and watched the proceedings. Jenny had talked about getting a sitter and coming to his house tonight, but he had put her off, telling her he wanted to come to this meeting. He hadn’t wanted to call attention to his presence, so lurked a bit in the shadows. He wasn’t sure why he had come—to find out what happened to his players, or because he wondered what Marlo Stark would do afterward, or to avoid the talk with Jenny.
He’d been surprised when Jenny arrived at the meeting, stood up, and spoke. He’d liked what she said, and wanted to tell her so, but she walked right out and left afterward. He didn’t even know if she’d seen him. Tom was less surprised that the boys were suspended.
Or he thought that was the right thing, but was mildly surprised that a board made up of Dumont residents had actually done it. All along Tom had felt like, with this one, a line had been crossed. He suddenly felt aware of lines all around him, crossed or waiting to be.
Now the crowd flowed out of the gym and Tom couldn’t stay where he had been, in the doorway, without attracting notice, so he dropped back into the parking lot. He saw Marlo’s vehicle and lingered near it, trying not to meet anybody coming from the meeting, though plenty of people moved past him and nodded. One man even grasped Tom’s shoulder and upper arm as he walked by and said, “Sorry it turned out this way.”
He stood in the night seeing far in the distance the low line of mountains, polished a cold white under the moon. He watched his breath float away in frosty patches, lifting toward the stars, and then Marlo walked out of the building, by herself. She carried her briefcase and walked straight to her rig, not slowing when she saw him standing there. She opened the door and swung her briefcase onto the passenger seat, then backed out and turned to face Tom.
“Tough night,” she said.
Tom looked at her, trying to see what was there for him.
“I’m heading back to Great Falls,” she said.
“Tonight? That sounds like an unsafe idea.”
“It’s just time.” She stepped forward, put a hand on his shoulder, touching him but at the same time creating a barrier against his coming any closer. “It was really great getting to know you. I wish the circumstances were different …” She waved a hand vaguely at the school building she had just walked out of. “I wish you a lot of luck, sorting everything out.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I liked getting to know you, too.”
“I’m sure I’ll be back,” she said. “I need to go now.”
Marlo ducked into the vehicle and closed the door. She looked at him through the window as she backed out, smiling, but offered no finger wave this time. She seemed, he thought, very happy to be getting on the road.
* * *
Tom went to the field on Saturday because he wanted his players to know that he cared about them. He wanted to support Slab Rideg. He did not want to pout. He didn’t need to be noble, but he didn’t think he could deal with his own petulance. Just a week ago, he thought while he walked among the people already gathering at the field, the boys’ red helmets shining in the sunlight.
The day was bright, a problem in that the snow from the blizzard had begun to melt in earnest. The front had been a fast moving storm, and behind it came chinook winds. Jimmy Krock had driven an ATV-mounted snow blower to clear the field early in the morning, while the snow was still light enough to move, but what he missed melted to mud. That late in the fall, hardly any grass remained in the middle of the field.
By game time, the sidelines were slop pits. The girls taking money at the gate were confused about whether to charge Tom or not, but he handed them a five and didn’t wait for his dollar change. He had arrived a little early, watched the team warming up. Tom strode to the border of yellow twine staked around the sidelines and waited until he caught Slab Rideg’s eye. Slab said something to his last remaining team captain, Jared Frehse—telling him, probably, to run the calisthenics—and then walked on a beeline to where Tom stood. Tom thrust out his hand. When Slab grabbed it, Tom could feel the new dynamic in his grip.
“Coach,” Tom said. He meant to smile broadly.
“Coach,” Slab said.
Standing there, Tom realized he hadn’t talked to Slab much
while everything unwound. Now he felt badly about that.
“I’m sorry this got to where it is the way it did,” Tom said.
“We gotta play out the string,” Slab said.
“I wish I could be with you.”
“I do, too, Coach. I really do.” Tom felt Slab’s hand grip his more tightly. “Means a lot, you coming.”
“Paste their asses,” Tom said.
He swatted Slab on the shoulder, let go of his hand, turned and walked down the sidelines. Behind him he heard Slab say, “Glad you came, Coach. Hope you enjoy the show.”
The Absarokee team had driven eight hours to make the game, starting some time the night before and spending the night in Lewistown on the way. They played like it at first. On Dumont’s opening play from scrimmage, a toss sweep, Jared Frehse outran everyone to the corner, then to the goal line. Cheerleaders chanted and leapt. The crowd, larger and more vociferous than Tom had ever seen in this town, erupted in a sustained and somewhat savage bout of satisfaction.
But Dumont’s problem was the missing players. No Matt Brunner and Alex Martin in the defensive backfield, no Waylon Edwards to blow up the line and bring pressure up front. Jared was able to cover Absarokee’s best receiver. Carson Hovland was athletic enough to range around, but he was nervous in his first start as a defensive back. Absarokee had not made the playoffs by being shabby. They were well-coached, had a smart quarterback, and knew how to pick on the youngsters. They marched down the field and scored on their first possession.
Tom stood along the field, behind the yellow rope, and watched as the teams traded punches. Dumont’s second possession lasted six plays before Jared Frehse scampered through a hole, cut against the grain, and sprinted down the left sideline for a score.
On the third series it became clear that Absarokee didn’t believe Dumont’s new quarterback, a sophomore named Johnny Baken, could throw the ball. They crowded the line and blitzed and blitzed. They followed Jared Frehse wherever he went on offense. Jared found angles and corners, made cuts, broke tackles. He scored on their third and fourth possessions, but it was wearing on him.
He was doing hard work. And Absarokee answered, throwing and running, matching Dumont touchdown for touchdown. Tom had never watched a game he cared so much about without being involved in the outcome. Knowing so much about the players, watching the linemen, the Hansen kid, knowing their flaws and vulnerabilities—he thought this must be what punishment that fit the crime felt like.
And then Tom saw something that made a broad, genuine smile spread across his lips, a subtle thing he understood before the rest of the crowd did. Slab had been thinking. Slab knew that Absarokee was going to load up on Jared and Slab had schemed for it. On Dumont’s fifth possession, Slab had his new young quarterback, Johnny Baken, fake an off-tackle handoff to Frehse, keep the ball and sprint around the end. The defense collapsed on Jared. Tom and Slab knew Baken could run. He wasn’t Jared Frehse.
But he could hoof it, and with so much green in front of him, he rolled easily for the score. That was the half, and Dumont went into the locker room leading 35–28. Tom watched the crowd after the kids left the field. He’d never been around for this part of it, the cheerleaders, the eight-person marching band. The trumpet player wore gloves. All of their breaths steamed around their instruments. Tom couldn’t imagine putting his lips to a cold brass mouthpiece today. He strolled along the sideline, not sure where he was headed.
He spotted Brad Martin standing in a tight group with three other men. Brad stood with both hands shoved deep in his pockets. The other two seemed to take turns staring at everyone and kicking the ground. The cheerleaders wore jeans under their skirts against the cold. People moved about, momentary groups forming as neighbors said hellos and discussed what they were seeing and which of them understood the weather forecast better. Tom nearly walked up on Dotty Lantner, wearing a Dumont cap under a Carhartt hoodie, before he recognized her.
“Tom,” she said.
“Dotty,” he said.
“I’m supporting these boys,” she said, like he’d accused her of not doing it.
“See that.”
“Slab’s making chicken shit into chicken salad.”
“He’s doing good.”
“I hope we win,” she said. “I hope you know that.”
“I do,” he said. “I hope we win, too.”
He kept strolling. A skein of five young boys threw a football around, chasing whichever of them caught it and tackling him in the muddy snow. One rose from the ground, his front smeared with mud, clenched his fists, and raised them to the sky. They’d apparently not got the memo about football, Tom thought. He had turned and started back to his post at the far end zone when he saw Krock O’ step out toward him.
“Slab’s got ’em going,” Krock O’ said.
“Helluva job,” Tom said.
“Killing ya?”
“Honestly? Yeah.”
“Helluva thing.” Krock O’ looked up at the sky, then around the field. Tom did too, the field and empty hole in the circle of people, now that the cheerleaders and band were gone. He looked beyond, to the fields racing away to the horizon. This place was so full of noise—the asynchronous and off-key band with its tuba farting loudly every time the player caught his breath, the hum and brabble of jazzed-up folks. Out there, beyond their thin ring, the land circled for miles, soundless in the horrible silence of beautiful places. Then Cal Frehse moseyed over to where they stood.
“Tom,” he said, like it was nothing.
“Jared’s doing great,” Tom said.
“He’s trying.”
“How’s you?” Krock O’ asked.
“Oh shit, I’m fine. I don’t think Gary Brunner is, though.”
“Why’s that?” Tom asked.
“He missed the spike pretty good on spring wheat, and he needed to hit it.”
“Did it peak?” Krock O’ asked.
“Christ, it’s falling off a cliff now. I sold lower than I would have liked, but higher than it is now. Some people are gonna lose their ass, and I don’t think he’s got much ass left to lose.”
“That’s a goddamned shame,” Krock O’ said.
Then Greg Hovland appeared and Cal said, “You get that buck?”
“I’m leaving him for Carson.”
“Jared said he’s huge.”
“It’s like he’s carrying a pipe rack on his head. Just enormous goddamned horns. Biggest mulie buck I’ve ever seen around our place.”
Was this, Tom wondered, what people talked about at football games? But why wouldn’t it be? Some of these people, Tom realized, lived on adjacent farms but probably didn’t see each other more than once or twice a week. The ones who lived north of town might not see the ones who lived south of town for a month at a time. The Absarokee fans stood along their sideline, an impressive contingent of sixty to a hundred folks who had made the long drive. Likely they were discussing similar subjects, and maybe comparing this landscape to their mountainous one.
Tom felt surprised by how friendly this all looked. Like a county fairgrounds, or a small outdoor concert. Coaching, during the game, he was always so focused forward, always thinking about hitting and tackling and outrunning, angles and plays and players and ways to make them all work better. He never saw these handshakes and elbow pokes and shoulder claps and small conversations that had nothing to do with football.
But would it kill them to pay a little tribute to the effort their boys were pouring out all over the field? Shortly after the boys came back, it was apparent that halftime hadn’t been enough. Jared Frehse started getting caught from behind. Slab introduced a new wrinkle: he let the new quarterback throw. And there, Tom thought, Slab out-kicked his coverage. Johnny Baken was a sophomore and played like one.
He threw a pick-six on Dumont’s second possession in the third quarter. The next time Dumont had the ball, Baken got sacked on second down and on third tried a long out that he didn’t have the arm for. It bounced.
Dumont managed to capitalize on Absarokee mistakes in the next series. The Hansen kid stuffed a fourth-and-short attempt. Tom knew Slab would have to go back to Jared, but he knew the Absarokee coach knew that, too.
But Slab adjusted. He had Baken fake to Jared up the middle, then ran off tackle for thirty yards. Then Baken dropped back to throw and instead ran a draw—twenty more yards and a first and goal. Three plays later Frehse found enough wiggle room to score. Dumont missed the extra point. They entered the fourth quarter trailing Absarokee 49–48.
During the break between quarters Tom observed the boys he’d taught to play football. He saw the twenty-six-year-old coach he had mentored, his face a knotted red scowl, his chin bouncing as he exhorted his players. Tom saw the Hansen kid, the boy people had given him shit about all year long, saw his uniform mudstained and torn, the blood trickling on his forearms, steam pouring off his unhelmeted head. Carson Hovland had been beaten and beaten and beaten on long passes, but kept at it, kept going, kept trying to finish the job, and had made a couple big defensive plays that affected the game. Jared Frehse—Tom didn’t think he’d ever seen such heart. By the fourth quarter the field was a black mud pit.
There was nothing to do about it. Jared’s speed was dulled by slipping. Absarokee’s passing game suffered from receivers sliding through cuts, and the wet, sloppy ball. Absarokee threw two incomplete passes to open the quarter and then a long touchdown that left Carson Hovland reeling to catch up and Dumont trailed by eight. That’s when Slab surrendered.
He quit trying to outthink anybody and started running the play the boys called “Six.” He ran it three straight times, Jared sprinting around the corner and picking up yards on each play. Then he let Johnny Baken throw it again, but the young quarterback threw it behind a wide-open Carson Hovland. Slab called the Six play again. Jared took the pitch and bolted for the corner. Tom caught the way he high-stepped a bit, the overwrought head bobbing. Jared was selling something.