The Crazy Horse Electric Game

by Chris Crutcher

  So tonight Willie lies in bed holding off a few minutes more, a few minutes more, hoping he’ll drop off on his own and not have to face negotiating the icy streets in a borderless haze on his morning run. He and his dad came directly home from the racquetball courts in a miserable silence and Willie went directly to bed. His dad tried to apologize once again, and Willie openly accepted it, but the gap would not be closed tonight. The echo of the hard rubber ball whapping into the wood, the sound of the racquet careening off the side wall, the ghastly uneven cadence of it all ring in Willie’s ears, making sleep impossible. At three he slides out of bed, wraps himself in his bathrobe and carefully feels his way down the stairs to the kitchen for something to eat.

  Warm milk helps sometimes, and he searches through the food cupboard for some instant chocolate to go in it; something to keep it from tasting like it just came out of the cow. As he pours the milk into the pan, he hears voices from his parents’ room and quietly moves to the kitchen door to see if he can hear them better. Unable to make out any specific words, he pads back through the kitchen and turns on the hotplate. Now the voices are louder and he thinks he hears his name, so he creeps back through the kitchen, across the living room to their bedroom door, thinking how strange it is for them to be awake this late. Sandy has been known to get up occasionally through the night, but Will Sr. sleeps like a log from the moment his head hits the pillow until his alarm blasts him loose around five-thirty.

  Willie puts his ear to the door and listens.

  “…to excel at that sport or any other. No right at all. Leave him alone. God, do you know what he must feel like? Let him decide what he wants to play.”

  Big Will sounds low; even embarrassed. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t push him, but sometimes I think if I don’t he won’t do anything. He’ll just hide out.”

  “Then let him hide out,” she says. “He’ll come out of it eventually.”

  “Do you know that?”

  “I know if you keep pushing, when he does come out there won’t be anyone to come to.”

  “Jesus, Sandy. He took drugs. He took acid. Kids start playing around with that stuff and they don’t come out of anything.”

  “He told us what that was about, Will. He’s not going to take drugs again.”

  Willie is uncomfortable listening in; respecting privacy is a family rule. But he needs to know…

  “A lot of parents say that, Sandy,” Will says. “Willie’s got every reason in the world to want to escape.”

  Almost inaudibly, Sandy says, “You mean you do.”

  Big Will is instantly angry. “What do you mean by that?”

  There’s a pause. “I mean sometimes I think this has been harder on you than on Willie. I hate to say this, Will, but there are times you act ashamed of Willie. And he feels it, too; I can sense it. How do you think he felt at the racquetball courts tonight?”

  “I’m not ashamed of him! What the hell’s the matter with you, Sandy?”

  Now their voices are filling the house and Willie backs away from the door, moves over toward the stairs; sits.

  “What’s the matter with me? I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me. I’m so angry at you I could scream. I could leave. When Missy died, you were so righteous. You were so goddam righteous. You sat around telling us all how we shouldn’t blame ourselves; you even got irritated with me when I couldn’t stop saying how guilty I felt. ‘Stick together,’ you said. ‘Look at the good things,’ you said. You were so strong. You were so goddam good. You didn’t have to feel bad. Hell, you weren’t even around. Couldn’t be Will Weaver’s fault. He was at work.”

  Sandy takes a shaky breath, and Willie realizes she’s almost out of control. But she’s not slowing down a second. “So now something happens that puts a crick in your world. Your kid; the one who was supposed to grow up and go to the goddam Rose Bowl; your kid gets put out of commission. I want to know where your strength is now, Will Weaver. How come you’re not so good now?”

  There’s silence, and Willie can’t imagine what’s on his father’s face this minute.

  Sandy continues. “Will, this family is coming apart at the seams. Since the day Willie got hurt, it’s just been coming apart at the seams. And you’re the reason. You don’t talk to anybody, you don’t help out; you don’t give anyone any reason to believe that things will ever be any better. And I’m about full up.”

  “That your solution?” Big Will says, his low voice vibrating with tension. “Things get a little tough and you hit the road.”

  Sandy explodes. “A little tough! A little tough! Don’t you put this back on me, Will Weaver. I don’t bury my head in the newspaper night after night and pretend my family doesn’t exist! I don’t treat our son like a leper; or worse yet, like he’s invisible. He’s not some possession, you know. He’s not a car you can take back to the dealer because it doesn’t run right. He’s our son. And you’re the one he’s closest to and you better learn to be decent. You drove the boat, Will. Just like I chattered away across the street when Missy died.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re off the hook!” Big Will yells, his restraint crumbled. “You don’t have to sit around and look at your screw-up every day. Missy’s six feet under. She’s a memory. Willie’s stumbling around in front of me from before sunrise to long after sunset, just reminding me. You know why he was without air so long? Because I panicked. Because I almost smothered him trying to get that damn jacket off. If it hadn’t been for Jenny, I’d have drowned him. And I’m not so sure that wouldn’t have been better. Let the little shit off the hook!”

  “Let you off the hook, you mean! Grow up, Will. Just grow the hell up. Get real. Life isn’t just the Rose Bowl.”

  Willie’s eyes are glued to the closed bedroom door. Smoke from the scalded milk drifts off the stove, bringing him back. He slips into the kitchen to switch off the hot plate, pour the milk into the sink; then slinks back upstairs to the strains of his parents’ relentless accusations. He’s never heard them fight before, much less aim every shot below the belt. Devastated, he crawls back into bed and pulls the covers over his head.

  He just wants out.

  Willie limps down the center of the hall, staring at a spot above the archway leading to the stairwell, letting the other students dodge him for a change. He’s taking stock, like Cyril taught him. Counting the positives, over and over. There aren’t many, after last night. There’s Jenny; in a session with Cyril, she promised she’d hang in there with him; promised she’d stay. And there’s Johnny; he’s a good friend sometimes, though he can be a pain in the butt trying to help. His speech is getting better and lately he’s been feeling like maybe he’s going to get it under control. That’s it, though. His parents…no, not supposed to think about that. Just the positives. His mind moves back to Jenny, then Johnny, his speech…

  “Got a new sport for you.” Johnny’s voice breaks his concentration as Johnny rushes to catch him, then slows to match Willie’s pace. “It’s perfect. Racquetball,” he says, pulling a shiny new racquet from behind his back. “You only need one hand. Small court. Perfect for you. My dad took me over to play the other night. We can give it a try any time you’re ready.”

  Willie looks at him and can only smile. “Don’t…think so,” he says. “Don’t…think I…could…get…into it.”

  Just before noon, Willie follows the enclosed walkway connecting the main building to the gymnasium. He’s on his way to tell Coach Williams he doesn’t think it’s working out too well for him managing the girls’ basketball team. He’s spent the whole morning concentrating, and the positive aspects of his life are worn thin. His parents’ fight rings in his ears and he can’t force the feelings out any longer. He just feels too awful to pretend he can be around athletes of any kind when he can’t be one, too. Let the little shit off the hook. Let you off the hook, you mean. The voices are real. He’s not some car you can take back to the dealer because it doesn’t run right…doesn’t run right…doesn’t run right. />
  “Oh, hi, Willie.” He looks up, startled, to see Jenny and Jeff Rhodes entering the walkway through the side door, from outside.

  “Hi,” he says quickly, realizing instantly something’s wrong. He looks into Jenny’s eyes, then Jeff’s. Jeff darts a look at him, then to the wall behind his head. “Hi…Jeff.”

  “Hey, Willie. How you doin’?” Jeff says. He glances quickly at Jenny, then back to the wall. “Look,” he says, “I gotta get to class. I’ll see you guys later.”

  Jenny’s recovered. “Okay, Jeff. Take it easy. Tell Debbie I’ll catch up with her in Algebra.”

  Debbie is Jeff’s girlfriend.

  Supposedly.

  Jenny turns to Willie; touches his arm. “Where’re you headed?” she asks.

  “Out…to see…Coach Williams.”

  “How come?”

  “Just gotta…talk to her…for…a minute.”

  “Want some company?”

  Willie shakes his head. “No. That’s…okay. Got some…other stuff…to do.”

  Jenny smiles and pecks his cheek. “Okay. I’ll see you at lunch.”

  Thoughts of his parents’ fight wash out of his head like water draining out of a bathtub, replaced by the flash across Jeff’s and Jenny’s faces. In the months since the accident Willie has developed radar for hidden meaning; unspoken language. It’s as real to him as anything he can touch or feel. But Jenny wouldn’t do that. She’s a friend. She was a friend before all this; a good one. She said she wouldn’t do that; she’d hang in. Certainly there are times when his intuition is wrong. Cyril said there will be times when he’s particularly paranoid. On the other hand, no one ever tells him anything. Friends are so careful, there’s no way he can trust them. Petey is the only one. Words tumble out of his mouth long before he might even think of censoring them. Everyone else is on guard. Willie feels himself physically pushing his stomach back down where it belongs. Whether he’s right or wrong about Rhodes and Jenny, there’s no way to find out. And Rhodes is a class guy. Pretty good athlete. Great student. Funny. Good-looking. Willie feels the black cloud of his worst fear taking shape.

  With a deep breath he continues out to resign his position as flunky for girls’ roundball.

  He skips lunch because he knows he can’t play it straight with Jenny. If she has been seeing Rhodes, she’ll know he senses something and it will be awful. If she hasn’t, she’ll dig out of Willie what’s bothering him and he’ll feel like a fool. He pulls on his coat and snow boots and wanders aimlessly for the lunch period through the neighborhood surrounding the school. If he could just stop the unraveling; finally get to the last of the awful pain seemingly caused by his mere presence. Hell, he knew Jenny was going to go. He’s been saying it all along; but holding a little back, really; holding on to a small spot deep down that said maybe Jenny was superhuman. But he knows that “uh-oh” look Rhodes gave her in the walkway.

  He slips quietly into his desk minutes after the start of Algebra, purposely late to avoid a conversation with Jenny. He lays his cane on the floor parallel to the desks beside the rest of his books, brings out his notebook and starts his hand-held tape recorder; Cyril’s “equalizer” for Willie’s slowness. Actually he doesn’t need the cane anymore, but he carries it sometimes because some of the guys on the ball team had it made special. The head is a gold baseball inscribed: WILLIE WEAVER—1, CRAZY HORSE ELECTRIC—0. Petey’s idea.

  Petey hustles into class five minutes late, apologizing to Mr. Zimmer as he comes through the door about having run an errand for the Journalism class.

  Mr. Zimmer nods patiently as Petey babbles on, then finally says, “Mr. Shropshire, do me a favor, okay? When you come in late, come in mute,” and Petey nods and keeps right on explaining, rounding the corner by Willie’s desk, kicking the cane the length of the aisle, tripping in the process, turning to save himself on Willie’s desk. He catches Willie’s tape recorder with the side of his arm and it crashes to the ground. In an instant Petey retrieves the cane and rushes back to pick up the damaged recorder, apologizing all the while to Willie, whose hands cover his ears, and whose eyes are closed.

  “God, Willie,” Petey says, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up your stuff.” He tries to hand him the cane and, when Willie doesn’t respond, leans it against his desk, placing the recorder carefully on Willie’s book. “Really, Willie. It was an accident.” He reads Willie’s pulling away as anger at his clumsiness when all Willie really wants is for the attention to shift elsewhere. “Is it okay, man?” Petey says. “I don’t think your tape recorder’s broken…”

  “Stop…it!” Willie screams. “Stop it! Get…away from me. Everybody get…away…from me! The…next…person apologizes…to me…for…anything…I’ll…hit ’em in the head!” He picks up the cane in his right hand and swings it in front of him. “I’ll…hit ’em. I…will. I’ll…hit ’em…right…in the head!”

  Petey is struck dumb, staring at Willie from his seat on the floor two feet away from the end of the cane. “I’m sorry…” he starts, and Willie swings. “Shut up!” he screams; Petey is silent.

  Mr. Zimmer is standing at his desk, but hasn’t spoken, nor moved.

  Willie points the baseball end of the cane at Jeff Rhodes, starts to speak, then turns to Jenny. “You lied…Jenny. I…saw it…today. I know,” though he didn’t really, not until this moment when Jenny glances to Jeff, back to Willie, then drops her gaze to the floor.

  A guttural roar starts in Willie’s gut, spraying out through clenched teeth, as he fires his cane through the closed window out into the snow. He snatches his books and starts for the door as Mr. Zimmer, speaking softly, carefully, tries to bring him down. “Willie…”

  Willie looks him square in the eye and says, “…Don’t. I’m…leaving. I’ll…pay…for…the window.” Then he’s gone.

  Jenny catches him in the hall, headed for the steps. “Wait, Willie. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You…coulda…just…told me…the…truth,” Willie says between clenched teeth. “Just…the truth.”

  “I couldn’t. I just couldn’t say it.”

  “You…said…you’d stay.” Somewhere deep in him, Willie knows he’ll be sorry; that he’s ready to say things that are irreversible, but he can’t stop.

  “Willie…”

  “No…‘Willie.’ Just…stay away…from…me. You…lied. I…hate you…Jenny.”

  And now Jenny is wounded. “You hate me! You hate me! I saved your life, you bastard. You don’t even know that. Your dad was sure a lot of help…And what do you think it’s been like for the last six months with you walking around like a goddam zombie? There’s no sense of humor. There’s no fun. You treat your friends like spit. I’d have stayed with you, Willie, if you’d have made any attempt to be decent. But no! Not Willie Weaver! If he can’t be a hero, then to hell with everyone else…”

  Stunned, Willie stares into her eyes. He just wants to hurt her back. “You…bitch. You…lied.”

  Jenny wheels to go. “To hell with you, Willie. I can’t spend the rest of my life feeling sorry for you. To hell with you.”

  Willie stumbles through his own tears down the stairs to the front door and kicks the panic bar with his good foot, blasting the door open against the outside wall. For a reason he doesn’t understand, he stops to retrieve his cane, leaving his books lying in the deep snow. Then he jerks and lurches for home.

  CHAPTER 10

  The big tires of the Greyhound hum on the cold, dry pavement, headed west. Willie stares out over the shadowy land, cast in an eerie blue by the near-full moon reflecting off the snow. The bus driver could shut down the headlights if he wanted to. Willie switches positions uncomfortably, pulling his coat tighter to his chin, pressing the button on the side of the arm rest, allowing the seat to recline a few inches. Outside, the snowbanks shoot by like walls on a bobsled run, interrupted only by tall, bare willows; markers placed there to signal state crews where to plow when the road and the b
ank and the sky all blend together.

  His ticket is for Spokane, but he’ll get another one at the bus station there and head south. California, maybe. There are distant relatives outside of San Francisco, he thinks, and some kids he met at a West Coast All-Star game when he played Babe Ruth League. Worse comes to worst, he’ll look one of them up. He can’t remember exactly where most of them are from, but it can’t be too hard to find them once he’s there.

  He sure couldn’t stay in Coho.

  Willie stole from his parents before he left; went through every nook and cranny in the house looking for money. He cleaned out his savings account: $479. Told Millie at the teller’s window he was buying a VCR.

  Millie thought that would be a wise purchase.

  At the drugstore, which doubles as the bus station, he told Al Carson he was headed for Spokane to see some kind of specialist. Al didn’t bat an eye.

  Willie didn’t leave a note. If his parents knew he was actually leaving, they’d check the bus station and Amtrak and if they found out which way he headed, they could have him picked up in Spokane. Crippled kid, he hears them describing him. Got a cane with a brass baseball on the handle.

  No way. He’ll write later; a postcard from Spokane maybe, saying he’s headed for Seattle. Gotta do this right. Gotta disappear right; take appropriate evasive action. First thing he’s done right since the accident.

  Willie stares out the window onto the infinite snowfields and the tears stream once again; they just won’t stop. He hopes he can pull it together in Spokane so the ticket man won’t be suspicious; but there are many miles to go before he has to worry about that, so for now he lets them run.

  The woman beside him stinks. She’s old and she stinks. She’s got her wrinkled old self wrapped in a frayed, colorless afghan; her nose whistles incessantly, and Willie tries to block out her fragile, sickly sounds. Still, it’s better than sitting beside someone who wants to talk.