A Life Intercepted

by Charles Martin

  He said, “You like po’ boys?”

  I handed him twenty dollars. “Absolutely.”

  He pointed to a set of benches set off to one side of the courthouse, shadowed beneath the oaks. A good spot. “Meet you over there.”

  I heeled down the kickstand and carried the duffel over to the bench. A few minutes later, Dee joined me. The sandwiches were fantastic. I ate mine in about five bites, as did he, so he ordered two more and we ate those as the mayonnaise dripped down our chins. We made a glorious mess.

  He eyed my black-and-blue and swollen hand. “Want to talk about it?”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “I think it was you who told me that quarterbacks need to see what others miss. It’s what makes us good at our jobs.”

  “That I did.” I glanced at it. “Just because they unlock the cell and open the gates doesn’t make you free.”

  He nodded and didn’t ask any more questions. We sat in the quiet a few minutes. I asked him. “Birthday today, huh?”

  He smiled. “Seventeen.”

  I handed him the duffel. “I own very few things of value. I thought maybe you’d like to have that. It’s… special to me.”

  “Can I open it?”

  “Yep.”

  He smiled. “You wrap this yourself?”

  A chuckle.

  He unzipped the bag, held the present, and unwrapped the towel. He looked at me in disbelief, in astonishment. “I can’t accept this.”

  “You deserve it. And after the summer I’ve put you through, you’ve more than earned it. I want you to know that you’re that good. And I wouldn’t tell you that if you weren’t.”

  He held the first of my two Heisman trophies in his hand. “But—”

  “Dee, I want to tell you something.” A tractor trailer passed on the road next to us, and a couple eating ice cream walked by on the sidewalk. I looked away until they passed. “I want you to know that I didn’t expect this… you… this summer. It’s been… it’s been one of the greatest joys of my life. I mean that. Being with you has reminded me of the game I once loved and why I loved it. I want to thank you for that.” I paused. “Technically, I’m old enough to be your dad, but I feel more like an older brother or uncle or… anyway, what I’m saying is, I’m proud of you.”

  “But?”

  I didn’t like saying good-bye, and I could tell he didn’t like the thought of me saying it. “I’ll be leaving when you go to camp.”

  He nodded and looked away. We sat beneath the slight rattle of the oak leaves. He broke the silence. “I was kind of hoping you might stay and watch my games. Help me—” A forced laugh. “Navigate my coach.”

  “I’ll check on you.”

  He didn’t respond. He zipped up the duffel. “Thank you for this. It means a lot.”

  We stood, eye to eye. He was heavy. Only then did I realize I hadn’t given him much of a present. Certainly not the present he wanted. He asked, “Can you tell me why you’re leaving?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  He stood tall and straight. Eye to eye with me. Hurt and anger covered his face. He spoke through tight lips. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked me this summer and never once uttered a complaint. So why don’t you try?”

  “My being here is painful to Audrey. And to me.”

  He lifted the duffel over his shoulder, took a step, then turned back. The first tear had already slid down his cheek. “You ever stop to think that maybe your leaving is painful to me?” He shook his head, set the duffel on the bench, and began walking to his van. Halfway there, he turned. “I been left all my life.”

  I watched him climb into his van and then returned to my bike. But not before dumping the duffel in the nearest trash can.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  It was dark when I returned home. Wood was standing on my front porch, accompanied by two sheriff’s deputies along with a woman wearing a suit and another man in plain clothes wearing a badge and a holstered pistol. Wood shook his head as I walked up the porch steps. “Rocket, I had nothing to do with this, and as your attorney I’m instructing you to keep your mouth shut.” As he said that, I noticed two other people were unloading the contents of my pantry and freezer into coolers in the back of one of the deputy’s cars.

  The woman approached me and said, “Mr. Rising?”

  I didn’t respond.

  She was nearly a foot shorter than me. She continued. “Does the name Dalton Rogers ring a bell?”

  I studied her as a crew of people gathered around her. I noticed Wood glancing at my hand. “I’m sorry. And you are?”

  “Deborah Cunning. District Attorney.” She proffered to the man wearing plain clothes to her right. “And this is Zane Adams, Assistant District Attorney.”

  I took Wood’s advice and kept my mouth shut.

  She handed me a piece of paper. “This is a search warrant for your premises. Mr. Mason informed us that he was missing some groceries. A lot of groceries. Now I can’t prove that you took them, but I’m pretty sure I can prove that Dalton Rogers did. And I’m curious how it is that you came to possess them. Given that their retail value exceeds a thousand dollars, that is grand theft. And while I’m at it, just what is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Rogers?” She slid on her glasses, propped her hand on her hip, and waited.

  I spoke slowly. “Am I under arrest?”

  She smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.” When she reached the bottom step, she stopped but didn’t turn to look at me. “Wood, please inform your client that he’s not allowed to leave this county.”

  Wood didn’t respond.

  She turned and slid her glasses down on her nose. “Dunwoody, I want verbal confirmation in front of witnesses that I have served you notice and that you are to inform your client. Do you understand?”

  He frowned. “Debbie, I heard you the first time. So, with all due respect, go pull your panties out of a wad.”

  The deputy behind Debbie smirked and then quickly erased it off his face. They loaded up and created a dust storm driving out. When the dust cleared, Tux crawled out from beneath the cabin and stood next to me, sniffing the air.

  I scratched my head. “That’s one blitz I did not see coming.”

  Wood shook his head. “Me neither.” He turned to me. “Where’d you get all that food? I mean, if you were hungry—”

  I waved him off. “Dee was taking it to the food bank. Showed up with a van full. Offered it. I was ’bout to gnaw my own arm off. He said it was all expired, couldn’t be sold, so I loaded up.”

  Wood looked at me. “Something’s fishy here.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He glanced at my hand and raised his eyebrows.

  I shook my head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  When I finished telling him the story, he spat. “That woman has bigger gonads than ten men put together.” He pulled his car keys from his pocket and said, “I better get to the office. No telling what Debbie is cooking up. I’ll be in touch.”

  I picked up Tux, and the two of us lay in my hammock on the porch. I had lots of questions and few, if any, answers. Seconds later, Ray appeared at the edge of the yard. Hands in his pockets. I don’t know how long he’d been standing there, so I asked. “How long you been there?”

  “Long enough.”

  He walked across the yard, climbed the porch, sat next to me, and stared out across the yard. Content to sit in the quiet, he did. Finally, I asked, “You heard?”

  He nodded. “Word spreads pretty quick ’round here when it comes to you.”

  “I don’t suppose you walked all the way over here in the dark to tell me that.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I did not.” A pause. He put his hand on my shoulder. “You know I been at that school a long time?”

  His tone of voice caught my attention. “Yeah.”

  “And that means I have keys to every do
or.”

  I nodded.

  He pulled a toothpick from his shirt pocket and began picking at his teeth. “And when the Sisters need a lock changed, they bring me in ’cause they trust an old man with arthritic hands.”

  “Okay.”

  “The records room is hidden in one of the back offices. It’s got three locks on it. I got keys to all of them. Yesterday, I got to thinking about Dalton Rogers and what might be in his file. Just wondering if anything in there could help him. A starting place. So I rummage through the file and there’s no file. As in, there was one, but it’s gone. His name is on the file, but most of the contents are missing. Then I got a call yesterday afternoon from Miss Audrey ’cause she had this weird feeling like somebody had been in her place. Rummaging around. Said she’d thought it many times.” He looked at me. “I didn’t have the courage to tell her it was you.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Matthew, I’m old, not dumb.”

  “You tell her?”

  “ ’Course not.” He kept picking at his teeth. “But then I went over to change her lock. She was out in her garden. I walked over to her bedroom window looking out across the incredible world she’s created and I just stood there marveling at what she’s done and there she is out there toiling in that sun. Just working away and then I turned to go and when I did, I noticed a file folder sticking out from underneath the edge of the bed.” He scratched his head and turned toward me. “So, given what I know about her and given what I know about Dalton and given what I know about how she’s poured her life into him and given that I knew that file was missing, I let my curiosity get the best of me, and I slid it out. Sure enough, it was his file.”

  If I was mildly interested when he first started talking, he had my full attention now.

  He stood, pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket, and wiped both eyes. He then pulled a single key from his shirt pocket and set it on the steps next to me. Without another word, he turned and disappeared in the woods.

  It was after dinner when I crept up to Audrey’s window. The last couple of weeks, she’d been skipping dinner and going to bed earlier. Sleeping twelve to fourteen hours a day had become her medication. A single light in the bathroom cast a dim light across the room. Audrey lay in bed, mouth open, body limp. Her self-induced coma. I used Ray’s key, let myself in, and tiptoed to the edge of the bed. She never moved. I slid my hand beneath the mattress and the box spring and found the folder where Ray had left it. The name read DALTON ROGERS. I carried it to the bathroom and opened it. Midway through, I found the birth certificate. There, in black and white, the words jumped off the page.

  The blindside was more than I’d expected.

  I sat on the edge of the tub and closed my eyes. I could not believe it. Refused to. My mind raced. How? Then I read the date, backed into the calendar, and the light clicked on. I closed my eyes and sat rubbing my temples. How long had she known?

  I set the folder on her table, the birth certificate lying on top. I locked the door behind me and started walking. I wanted her to know that I knew.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I walked back to the cabin in the darkness. Halfway there, I stared down the road and saw a man running toward me. The motion was Dee’s. He approached, breathing heavy, and he’d been crying. Still was. He had lost all control of his emotions. He screamed in anger. “They cut me.”

  “Wait. What? Who cut you?”

  “Coach.”

  “Why?”

  “Some guys with badges showed up, told him they’ve got me on video stealing food, and now they’ve got the food as evidence. Told my coach they intend to charge me with grand theft unless I tell them what really happened.”

  He walked in circles around me as the pieces fell into place. Clever, I thought to myself. Very clever. “And they want you to tell them I stole it.”

  He continued, “That’s just for starters. They want me to tell them the nature of our relationship. Like, how well I know you. How much time we’ve spent together. Have you ever put your hands on me. They said they had an unconfirmed rumor that we’d been working out. Every day.” He threw down his hands. “Who told them that?”

  “What else?”

  He wouldn’t look at me.

  “Dee. What else?”

  “They said you’d be back in jail by tomorrow night. Prison by the middle of next week.”

  I let out a deep breath. I had always thought that I might lose this chess game. I just didn’t think it’d happen this soon. I said, “Dee, go home. There’s something I need to do.”

  He wasn’t really looking at me or waiting for an answer. He was crying out in pain. “What on earth can you possibly do?”

  “Dee?”

  He stomped in a circle around me.

  I put my hands on his shoulders. “Dee?”

  He finally stopped and looked at me. He was cracking from the inside out. “I want you to do one more thing for me.”

  He began crying. “Man—” The reality of our summer and my life was hitting him full force. “You’re going back to prison!”

  His shoulders shook when I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him. I stood there, just hugging him. The sobs shook his shoulders. I whispered, “I’ve always been going back to prison.”

  He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. A bear hug. Afraid to let go. “Why! Why’d you do this?”

  “I need you to do me one more favor.”

  Exasperated, he spoke. “What?”

  “Get some rest. I’ve got a few things to do and I’ll be in touch.”

  “You want me to sleep? What are you talking about?”

  “Dee, I need you to do the one thing that no one wants to do—I need you to trust me.” He looked at me. Searching for hope. “Can you do that? Will you, please?”

  He wiped his face on his shirt sleeve and nodded.

  I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll be in touch. And don’t make any plans for tomorrow evening.”

  “I’ve got to work. Still have my job at school.”

  “Call in sick. And answer your phone if it rings, even if you don’t know the number. It’s probably me.”

  He wanted to ask me a mountain of questions. “Not now. It’ll make sense tomorrow.”

  He nodded, turned, and disappeared through the woods.

  When I returned to my cabin, there was a manila envelope sitting on my front steps. A lone DVD lay inside it. No note. It didn’t need one. I slid the disc into the player and watched a well-edited video of every workout I’d had with Dee. Morning. Evening. Whenever I put a hand on him, the video played through it once, then sliced back in a slow-motion version. Particular attention had been paid to any time I patted him on the butt. Words scrolled up from the bottom of the screen. “This is an edited version of over seventy hours of video. Both the edited and the unedited versions have been sent to the Court.”

  The message was clear.

  When I walked in, a similar-looking manila envelope and DVD lay on Wood’s desk. Wood was digging through a stack of law books, and his face was painted in worry. “Matty—” He began stuttering. “I think she’s got you by the—”

  I cut him off. “Can I use your phone?”

  He slid it across the table without looking at me.

  “What’s Roddy’s cell number?”

  He glanced up, irritated. “What?”

  I spoke slowly to make sure he understood me. I had a feeling his head was spinning. “What is Roderick’s cell number?”

  He dug through a book on his desk, and I dialed the number. I put him on speakerphone, and Roddy answered after the first ring. His voice betrayed his smile. “I wondered when you might be calling me.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Been waiting for you to ask me that.”

  While I told him what I wanted, Wood looked at me like I’d gone loco. And by the time I’d finished the call, he was speechless and shaking his head. “You’ve lost your mind.”
r />   I sat on his desk and crossed my hands. “You still want to be my agent?”

  He shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Good, then I need you to do a few things.” When I finished telling him, he sat at his desk and sunk his head in his hands. “Rocket, I can’t do that for you. To you.”

  “Wood, look at me.”

  He didn’t look up.

  “Dunwoody?”

  He looked up.

  “I don’t have time to argue with you.”

  “I’m not arguing. I’m telling you, emphatically, no.”

  I leaned in closer. My face a foot from his. “Are you my center?”

  He looked away. “Don’t do that.”

  My voice rose. “Are you my center?”

  No answer.

  “Wood, I have one play. The play clock is ticking. Do you want to sit this one out?”

  A long pause. He stood and held eye contact. He blinked and pushed a single tear out of his eye, which trailed down his cheek and spilled onto his shirt. I’d seen blood do the same thing. His voice cracked when he spoke. “I’m your center.”

  I walked to the door. “Then call the huddle.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Before every game, I, along with my coaches and players, would watch film and then piece together a strategy of what we thought would work against the opponent. It’s what we hoped would happen. We called it a game plan. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. When it didn’t, it was up to me to read where the defense was beating us and call an audible. That was my job. And it was something I was good at—at one time.

  The problem with a game plan is that you never knew if it would work until you were in the game.

  Wood would do his part. Roddy his. Now the wait began. Would they show? I had no idea. Needing to clear my head, I shoved my hands in my pockets and struck out on a walk. The night had turned cool, or at least cooler, and it felt good. It smelled like football. Kicking up dust in front of me, I remembered something my dad had told me a long time ago: You can only control what you can control. Don’t worry about what you can’t. Won’t change anything.