Broken Field

by Jeff Hull

  Or any. That reality was dousing, although it turned out that if she was only nice to him, only sweet and seemingly interested in what he was talking about, he could find enough lift to refuel his ravenous needs. Mikie tried DMing her to see if she was online, but then remembered the game and that afterward Josie cleaned the church on Saturdays. She would be around, somewhere. He tried texting her, a simple ’Sup?

  Cleaning 4 god, she texted back, within a few seconds.

  L8ter?

  Party @ Martin’s. U going?

  Doubt, he texted back. The truth was he hadn’t known about it. Mikie went to keggers in the boonies, parties where anybody was welcome, but Martins’ was the territory of a specific clique.

  Next, Mikie texted Arlen Alderdice, who had already known about the party and was planning to head over with his cousin Wyatt Aarstad. Mikie begged a ride and was told to be ready in forty-five minutes. He headed for the shower.

  * * *

  Caroline Jensen was not accustomed to her son showering on Saturday afternoons. It was piker’s work to get him interested in showering most mornings before school. So many things were happening with this boy, new and unusual behaviors that only served to clog up her sense of how their little family operated in the open, and that made her inexplicably sad. He should be growing into new social situations, and, as his mother, she should love that, feel excited for him, thrill in his expansion of the boundaries of himself. But she didn’t. Because now she was pretty sure she knew who the girl was.

  Because she was not Mikie’s girl and would not be. Caroline knew how these things worked. Josie Frehse was a darling, a flower of the community. She belonged to Dumont, not to the characters on its fringes, not to half-breed boys that nobody knew. She was athletic and smart, not just polite but genuinely sweet. She would, in all likelihood, not stay here, because the pressure of belonging to the town would grow overbearing, and the bigger world was meant to draw girls like Josie from them, take her to huge anonymous cities, where excitement and opportunities were stacked and waiting for girls with a pretty smile and sharp mind and men who knew how to get what they wanted out of that.

  If she did stay, Josie’s life was so bound and wound in the lives of Brunners and Martins—and Danreuthers and Woleslagels and Alderdices and Aarstads—that she could not, Caroline knew, break from the perfectly normal expectations created by the lives of those families to form an existence with someone like Mikie. Even if she wanted to, even if she was aware enough of the way life worked, the way love lurked and lurched and the way everybody’s high school romance eventually became dinner in front of the TV, even if Josie could step outside the inward-peering view of her teenaged world, and that of her friends, to lay eyes on an outsider like Mikie, Josie would never let them be happy, not in any enduring sense, not if they stayed here.

  Caroline believed, too, that Mikie was in no way prepared to have a girl like Josie in his life. He fixated too sharply on things, extended too quickly and broadly his sense of ownership over those elements of his life over which he exerted some control. He would never be able to withstand the constant attention from outsiders that a girl like Josie generated wherever she went. He was, simply, too petty and jealous.

  And lazy. Had she made him that way? She had to admit that sometimes when she thought about mopping the bathroom floor she thought, Why bother, I own socks. A defining characteristic of human behavior is imitating other humans. That’s how life got done. Her role modeling must have had something to do with it—another in the thousand cuts on her heart. Mikie would always feel that he didn’t measure up to a girl like Josie.

  Well, he wasn’t mature enough, was what Caroline came to. He was petty and jealous and controlling because he hadn’t experienced enough of the world to know that those tactics would always fail him, and that, of course, was Caroline’s fault, too. She hadn’t exposed him to situations in which he could learn about the shortcomings of possessiveness and the undesirability of even minor rage.

  He was still confusing intensity for intimacy. The night they had seen Tom Warner in Pep’s, starting on the drive home, Mikie had gone into a sulk from which he’d still not emerged, not for Caroline’s benefit at least. Caroline had been feeling good from the two cocktails she’d had, her eyes stimulated by the blinking of the Keno machines, her mind awhirl from talking to people who almost never talked to her. The smell of the pizza like a hot, sloppy promise had billowed from the back seat. Mikie, slunk behind the wheel while she sat intoxicated in the passenger seat, had said, “You’re so stupid.”

  This alone would not have bothered her. But this time his tone was rinsed in acid, and he seemed to feel that her stupidity had somehow insulted him.

  She remembered even now how the ominous sound of him had pinched a deep tug in her belly, the bruise from which she still felt. She had gone ahead and asked, “Why this time?”

  “You think he likes you?” her son practically spat. “You’re old and ugly and fat.”

  “What are you talking about?” Caroline had asked, feeling sharp fingers grasping a vital organ and digging in. “And watch your language.”

  “He doesn’t like you. You go in there and throw yourself all over him like some slut …”

  “What?”

  “You’re a mother, for christ’s sakes,” he said. “My mother, although I wish as much as you do that you weren’t.”

  “Mike LaValle, you shut your mouth right now and think before you say any next thing.”

  “Then you could go out and slut it up all you want,” Mikie said.

  “Just shut up,” she said. “Shut. The fuck. Up.”

  He turned his face to her as if he were going to say something even more vicious, and the expression she saw on him, the bared teeth of a beaten and terrified dog lashing out at its tormentors, chilled her. But it also rallied her self-defense mechanisms, and she reached across the seat and dug her fingers into her son’s cheeks, clutching with all her strength. Then she threw his face away from her. “Not another word,” she said. “You’ve said enough.”

  The violence of her reaction had seemed to impress a silence on him, letting him know both that he’d stabbed deep into her, and that he wasn’t going to be allowed to get farther. Mikie sneered and stared through the windshield for the rest of the ride home. Caroline’s own anger had risen, pitched and blown away quickly, leaving her again—this seemed to happen so often—sick with the knowledge that she had deeply embarrassed her son, a boy who seemed so deeply and easily embarrassed, and she wanted to know how she could avoid doing it over and over. A man like Tom Warner, she thought, would actually do wonders in the life of a boy like Mikie.

  A stalwart man who could make ethical decisions and stand by them even when those decisions proved unpopular? She had wanted Mikie to understand that Tom Warner was an example—and it wouldn’t hurt one bit if they had some personal interaction, to boot. Instead Mikie had chosen to cast the coach as the worst kind of threat. And, sitting in her kitchen, listening to the sound of the water pump filling the pipes to rinse her son’s greasy hair, she felt another sadness that she realized she could no longer deny. Part of her had hoped that Tom Warner might notice her.

  Part of her had let herself listen to Pearl Aarstad. What was she going to do about that? She was going to light another cigarette. And listen to the wind cuff the side of the trailer house.

  * * *

  By the time Josie Frehse arrived at the party, a half moon had risen, pale and rocked back, just above the horizon. A cadre of four kids, mostly wearing black Carhartt hoodies, huddled outside the Martins’ back door, huffing cigarettes. The cold built steam onto their smoky exhalations, clouding their faces. Inside, the party had moved out of the rec room and spilled upstairs into the kitchen, where Ainsley and Britnee were watching Waylon Edwards rifle through the refrigerator.

  Britnee had had at least one beer, which meant her smile became permanent, her shirt rode up to reveal more belly, and her butt was a little loose
on its rack. Her voice accelerated in both velocity and amplitude. Josie said hello and exchanged chitchat. Downstairs she found a girl named Kelsey Aarstad sitting on Alex Martin’s lap like she intended to keep him in his chair by sprawl. Steve Dodd and Carson Hovland had taken over the Xbox and shouted insults at each other. Two rodeo boys, who eschewed football for tests of masculinity versus large farm animals, shot a game of pool and sipped from brown bottles.

  Several girls from the junior class stood together on one side of the room and watched the pool game, occasionally adding commentary. Josie saw that Matt was busy talking to a group of sophomore girls who were standing with their heads hung stupidly from the ends of their necks like cows in a tight-shirted knot.

  That was her fella. All hulked up and driving under the influence of his own body language. Josie didn’t love the fact that her boyfriend seemed to be volunteering as a focus for these girls, but she knew Matt’s need to be at the center for what it was, and was working on her reactions to it. She liked the sophomore girls. The Merrill girl could be sloppy, and the Danreuther girl rarely said a word out loud, but they were nice. Josie remembered how she felt when she had been a sophomore and the senior boys had flirted with her, the possibilities she let herself believe then—still did sometimes when she met boys from other towns, or thought about the boys she would meet in college.

  She knew those girls were looking at her fella and thinking he was all kinds of right. And everybody knew sophomore girls couldn’t handle beer, which could become dramatic later. When Matt saw her, he did not step away from his adoring satellites, but rather threw his head back in greeting, said, “JF. You are far behind, girlfriend.”

  Josie said hello to the girls, saying each of their names. She forced a laugh and said, “Better start catching up,” and walked away, over toward the cooler where the beer was iced. Josie twisted open a top and took a swig, cringing at the half-cooled hoppy flavor that flooded her mouth. She didn’t like beer to start with, and these fancy beers only accentuated its drawbacks—the yeasty smell, the bitter tang.

  But she knew she was going to have to drink a couple if she was going to enjoy herself with this crowd. She knew, too, from Matt’s cool greeting that they were going to play a little game tonight. Matt was going to be hurt by some imperceptible slight that she had either already committed or would commit at some point during the early part of the party, and she would have to guess what it was, then make it up to him. She was sick of that game, but found herself already trying to figure out what had upset him—that she was late?

  That could be it. Or maybe she was failing to understand how hard the public humiliation or the loss of football was on him, failing to be consolatory enough. And, she thought, truth be told, there might be something to that. It was a huge part of his life, and she could display a bit more sympathy than she had so far.

  She could cut him some slack on that score. This was a hard day, for Matt and for her brother. For all the guys. They all seemed to be taking it well enough, but it scared her, the momentum that had built so early in the outing—it wasn’t seven-thirty yet and everybody was drunk. The boys seemed to be burning energy they’d stored up for a different end to the season.

  They were staying on the safe side of shits and giggles for the moment, but Josie had a sense that somebody would be crying before this night was over. Then Josie’s brother arrived and an uproar commenced. Somebody yelled, “Mr. Freeze in da house!” and everybody cheered, whether they knew what they were cheering about or not. The seniors and Waylon surrounded Jared in a swarm of ritual bro-hugs and drunken assertions about how awesome Jared had been.

  He had been awesome, Josie thought. She was proud to be his sister at this moment. She watched him, appreciative but humble, his natural smile making people want to tell him more about how much they appreciated what he’d just done. Josie slid away from Jared’s big moment, swallowed a beer, and spent time talking to several schoolmates before she tried approaching Matt again. He’d grown bored of the sophomore girls and seemed to want to focus his attention on attracting more of hers. She sidled up to him and slid an arm around his waist, earning one of his looped over her shoulder.

  “JF,” he said. “Your brother was so fucking hero today.”

  “Frehse genes,” she said, and shrugged. Then she whispered into his ear, “I’m really sorry about the season.”

  “Sucks,” he said, in a chipper sort of manner.

  “Well,” she said, and kissed his cheek. “I’m really sorry about it. We can talk about it later if you want.”

  “Nothing to talk about,” Matt said, then flipped to cocky. “And later I don’t want to be doing much talking, if you know what I mean.”

  She knew what he meant, but didn’t put much stock in it. She had a feeling that later she’d be lucky to get him home without assistance.

  “People just take shit from you,” Matt said, another sudden switch in tone. He seemed bitter now, but equally puzzled. “Like it’s theirs to take. Just take away everything. Just like that. They can just take it.”

  “You still have a lot,” she said, trying to be cheerful.

  “That’s a big old fat load of crap,” he said. “I just got you.”

  “You still have a lot,” she reemphasized.

  He drew her to him in a jerking squeeze, and said. “Don’t ever let them take you from me.”

  “No, sweetie. They won’t,” she said, being held tight, too close to his face.

  “Don’t let them,” he said, and he seemed to be scolding her, or maybe warning her.

  “Nobody’s taking me from you.”

  “Promise?”

  She had to answer quickly here. “Of course I promise,” she said. That was true. Nobody would take her from him. She’d do that all by herself.

  “What do you promise?”

  “That nobody’s going to take me away from you.”

  “That you’re never going to leave me?”

  “Matty, I’m going to leave you right now,” she said and threw a big grin at him while peeling his arm from her, “and fetch me—and you—another beer. That’s all the leaving I’m doing.”

  Matt’s face pressed into a smile that showed no teeth. He looked at her as if he found her surprisingly more beautiful than he had remembered. “Goddamit, that’s my girl,” he said, and swatted her on the behind as she slipped away toward the cooler.

  Close one, Josie thought. She didn’t like to make promises unless she could make them true. Josie liked to say true things, but promises meant even more to her. She still believed you could keep them all. By the time Josie returned with Matt’s beer, he was done with melancholy and love.

  He had heard that Waylon was upstairs in the kitchen challenging Alex to chug-offs involving various condiments. When Josie and Matt got up there, Alex was guzzling the juice from a jar of pickles. Waylon chugged several gulps of ketchup. Alex tried salsa, but that tripped his trigger and sent him staggering to the sink, vomit spewing in sprung streams from between the fingers he had clapped over his mouth. Whooping applause followed him.

  And then a quiet spot opened up, just a slight hitch in the flow of the party. Most people probably didn’t notice, Josie thought, but she did because at that moment Mikie LaValle and Arlen Alderdice and Wyatt Aarstad walked through the back door and into the kitchen. They stood with their heads stuck forward a little bit, eyes hooded, gazing around, unsure of what to do. Wyatt was able to nod a few hellos, but was clearly unsure about how he’d be received. Mikie stood staring only at her. Josie lifted her hand and wiggled fingers at him. From the moment he arrived, Josie felt Mikie watching her with hungry, wary slices of glance. It was a bad night for that, she thought.

  She stayed close to Matt, even slinging her thumb through his back belt loop for a while because she felt it was important to make sure everybody knew where everybody stood.

  Matt yelled, “Wyatt Aarstad, you little punk. I’m going to tape you to the kitchen cabinets.”

>   Wyatt grinned. “If you don’t get your ass beat trying,” he said.

  This inspired a genuine hoot from Matt, and by the time he was finished laughing, the party was rolling again, people falling back into their enthusiasms and agendas, most of which tilted toward annihilation. Mikie seemed to disappear, which Josie attributed to his propensity for smoking outside. She let her ease slip back in. These were her people, after all, classmates and friends, her boyfriend and her brother. Four girls were dancing in the living room. A couple of boys made hip hops moves close to them, like apes mating. Josie went downstairs, where Matt, Jared, and Alex all had donned irrigating boots and divvied up the darts from the dartboard.

  They were running around the pool table, throwing the darts at each other’s feet. The game should have ended when Matt flicked a dart that dangled for a moment in Jared’s hip, but the boys played on until Matt skewered Alex’s thigh. A crimson rivulet ran down the outside of his jeans. Alex plucked the dart out and stood squeezing his thigh, trying to get more blood to flow, but pulling the dart caused all the blood to flow inside his jeans, so he took them down to his ankles.

  Neither boot-darting nor condiment chugging nor partial nudity were unusual when the boys got wound up, but these things rarely happened within the same hour.

  * * *

  Tom drove home after the game. He toyed with the notion of hitting Pep’s, but couldn’t imagine the mood there. Instead he bought a six-pack of Bud Light at the IGA and drove to his house. It was over, he kept thinking. His mind played the refrain like the hook of a favorite song: it’s all over. He wondered what was next, as if it were the next turn in the highway, not something he planned or had anything to do with, but a feature of the geography he was traversing.