No thank you, said Max. But the cards drew his gaze down. Their paper looked worn thin. The plaid pattern on the back flaked off in patches.
These were my grandmother’s, said Glory. She taught me to read them.
And all I ask is one question, said Max. He couldn’t help himself.
If you want. Or I can just pull a card of the day and you can use it as a guide.
Later perhaps, said Max.
Whatever you want, said Glory. She shuffled the cards. They purred.
I should go in, he said. Before it’s later.
He turned to open the door and then paused.
Remember when you said I can ask you things and you have the answers, said Max.
I do indeed, said Glory. She stopped shuffling and spread ten cards facedown in front of her crossed legs. She bent over them. She arranged them in a curious pattern.
I can now ask something? he said.
That’s right.
To you and not to the cards, said Max.
Sure. Whatever you want, said Glory.
What do you know about, um, rat magic?
Glory stopped arranging her cards. Her hand hovered over one. She remained still and didn’t speak.
I don’t know much about it except that it’s crazy, she said. And a rumor.
A what?
It’s like a rumor people made up about drinking poison. If you drink rat poison and it doesn’t kill you, then you got the soul of Jesus in you or something. The nickname for the poison is rat magic. Like a pet term. People in the country used to drink it and then they all died. People still talk about it to sound radical, but no one is dumb enough to do it.
The Judge he has done it, said Max.
Nah, she said. Nah. He hasn’t. That man’s just real good at storytelling.
Okay, thank you for so much information, said Max.
He pulled the door open to a blast of cool air. Goose bumps jumped onto his arms. Before he went inside, he looked down at Glory’s cards. She turned one over. A woman tied and blindfolded. Ropes encircled her torso and bound her arms to her sides. Surrounding her were eight swords. They sung up from the ground and closed her in, trapping her, it seemed. Behind her, far away, a castle looked on.
AFTER THE PEP RALLY the players headed to the field for practice.
Davis said, Get a load of Graham. The boy’s a freaking nutball.
Max was only half paying attention as they walked through the parking lot. He was thinking about the last text Pan had sent him: a black heart. A heart. It wasn’t until they reached Graham, the beefy defensive lineman with a nose so smashed you could practically look into his brain, that he realized what Graham was doing. Graham held a dead squirrel and was skewering it, mouth first, through the radio antenna on his truck.
Max wanted to reach out and wrench the squirrel from Graham’s hands, but he cast his eyes to his cleats. His thighs were not thick, and they trembled, tender and sore, under his padded football tights. Davis began to chuckle, low and mean, then it pitched higher and turned inviting—a big, whooping laugh. How Graham got the squirrel, Max didn’t know. Found it dead or made it dead, did it matter?
Pan tore across the blacktop with a black cape bellowing behind him, cinched at the neck above his God’s Way polo. He let out a howl that mimicked how the inside of Max felt. The girls who had gathered around Graham’s truck, smacking gum in cheerleading skirts, also howled, but theirs was the howl of girls mesmerized by the meanness of their boys.
Jesus, said Davis. Here comes the High Priestess of Weird to rain on our parade.
Graham cocked his hip to the side, so comfortable in his body. The squirrel was fully impaled now. The antenna protruded from its butthole.
Little Miss Crybaby, said Graham. What do you want?
Pan was out of air and shaky.
Don’t cry, crybaby, said Graham. I’ll give you the squirrel when I’m done with it, and you can use it for one of your little voo-doo-doo’s.
You can go all The Craft with it or raise it from the fucking dead.
You’re not worth the shit in your asshole, Pan said.
Graham smirked. He approved of the insult.
You’re a bunch of soulless cowboys, said Pan. He swirled to take them in, as if he were tallying them, counting roll. Max closed his eyes, hoping Pan wouldn’t see him and think he’d been involved.
A violent mob, Pan muttered.
The whole scene reminded Max of something he’d recently witnessed on another of the school’s playing fields after a practice. A bunch of senior boys had lured a swallow into the batting cage and swung their clubs at it. They had stomped their feet and climbed up the sides of the cage. They had stuck their hands through the links and shaken the fencing, trying to scare the swallow closer to the ground so they could beat its body to death.
Max had stood with the players from the football team as they held their helmets in their hands and watched. They had jumped a little. One of the football boys had chucked his helmet toward the cage and made a woop noise, edging them on. Their bodies had tensed, and their knuckles struck the air like Get it dead. Max’s lips had widened until his mouth was a perfect oh. Oh, as in Oh shit or Oh no or Oh dear. Max’s Literature teacher, a man with a concerned acne-riddled face, had come running out of the school and yelled at the seniors torturing the bird.
He said, YOU ARE PSYCHOTIC. What the hell is wrong with you? Are you serial killers?
This made them double over with laugher. Hahaha. They had to hold their guts in their hands. The laughing did not relent. Their laughing made Max laugh, too. It got its claws in him.
Now, Graham’s mob of boys disbanded, leaving the squirrel bayoneted, and Pan defeated at its feet. And Max, now one of them, left, too. On the field, the boys ran into one another at high speeds. They ran faster, energized, maybe, by the spectacle they made of the squirrel. Max couldn’t concentrate. He kept thinking: violent mob. The squirrel flashed in his mind: dead, dead, dead.
In the next drill, a boy pummeled Max to the ground. Impact ripped the worry from his head and snatched his breath from his chest. Max and the boy collapsed in a pile together, their bodies glistening raw and torn for two golden seconds as they lay on their backs in the grass. Coach blew his whistle, like get up, and they obeyed.
Max hobbled the sideline.
Forgot something inside, he told Coach.
Max trudged up toward the locker rooms, then veered right in the parking lot, toward Graham’s truck. His mouthguard dangled from the metal cage in front of his face like a piece of his own mouth. He took off his helmet and placed it on the truck hood. The paint burned him when he tried to steady his hand on it. On the other side of the windshield, Graham’s stuff was mounded into heaping piles. His rumpled school polo, a folded pair of aviators, a party-size bag of chocolate peanuts, gray sneakers. A wooden cross was suspended from the rearview mirror. Max wrested the squirrel from the place it was impaled. He laid it on the asphalt. The parking lot held no one but him. Max massaged the squirrel and kneaded it slowly along the spine. He blew against its fur. The small thing raised its head. It ran away fast, a dash, a living thing again.
Holy Mother of God, called a voice behind him.
Max turned to see Pan. His face open and questioning. He looked at Max like he was a riddle.
He thinks he’s a princess.
Lorne lets him be a princess.
Calves roasting in the flames.
How long are you there, said Max.
You just brought the squirrel back to life, said Pan. I saw it.
It’s different than what it looks like, Max said.
How did you do that? asked Pan.
Max shrugged, the truth. It happens sometimes.
Pan nodded. His face scrunched as if he were seeing Max materialize before him for the first time.
I never have shown a person, said Max.
You’re scared, said Pan.
Max didn’t know if this was a question or an answer. He
looked at his hands. He wanted to hide them in his pockets. He wanted Graham’s truck to run them over.
Max was not alone with his secret. Fear blurred the eyes. Fear lived in the ears. Fear tunneled through the holes in his nose. He had let another human see him. Pan lifted a corner of his mouth. A smile means he’s not angry. A dimple dug into his cheek.
Don’t tell, Max said. Please don’t tell.
Strangeness was what Max saw when he looked at Pan. Strangeness sat in Pan’s throat and waited. Strangeness recognized itself and called more strangeness to it.
You look sad, said Pan. Why are you sad? Why would you be sad?
Pan’s voice was edged in tender tones. His lipstick, which had dried into the cracks of his mouth, chipped off in red flecks. Pan came to Max, knelt beside him. He placed a hand on Max’s back.
What I am is not sad, said Max, though he was. What I am is scared.
Don’t be scared, my little witch, said Pan. He rubbed Max’s back in circles. Don’t be a Sad Sarah. This is like a miracle. You might be a miracle. I think you are.
DON’T LOOK NOW, said Max’s mother, as she drove toward their house. We have company.
Max was zoning out in the passenger seat beside her. His glazed eyes affixed to nothing. His mind replayed the scene from the parking lot. The squirrel ran away. Then died. Then ran away. Pan had called him a Sad Sarah. He felt like a Sad Sarah. He would like to be a Sarah. Unremarkable. Just like everyone. Sarah, the name of girls who dated football boys. Sarahs were like Katies. Sarahs and Katies roamed the halls of God’s Way in droves. Sarahs and Katies came in such quantity no one could ever think they were wrong.
Hello to Max, she said.
Sorry, he said. What?
What’s gotten into you these days? You feeling okay? Are you getting those headaches again? You napped all day on Sunday.
No, he said. I’m fine.
If you weren’t fine you wouldn’t tell me. That’s why I have to pry.
Mom, said Max, I’d tell you.
The back of his thighs stuck to the leather seat. He crossed his legs like a Sarah would do. He placed his hands on his knees and sat straight and proper.
I’m really fine, he said.
His mother pulled their car onto the driveway. Next door Miss Jean tended to the hibiscus bush near her yard trellis. His mother cut the ignition.
Another text in his pocket. A buzz against his hip. Pan’s name on the screen.
I am n service to ur power.
Don’t tell any people, Max typed out again. Please.
Duh, Pan texted. DUH. Don’t be Sad . . . Sarah.
Promise?
Duh!
Duh didn’t reassure Max at all.
Pan texted him a picture of Mr. Sprinkles the cat.
Mr. Sprinkles, the text said, haz a crush on u!
Mr. Sprinkles keeps good secrets? Max texted back.
Well, hey there! said Miss Jean when Max and his mother stepped from the car.
Y’all defrosted yet? she asked.
Excuse me? said his mother. She opened the trunk and picked up one of the grocery bags and handed it to Max. He had convinced her to buy him Hot Pockets, a small, ham-filled victory. He stared at them nested on the top of the bag. The Hot Pocket freezer ice melted into the paper. Defrosting.
Max beamed at the neighbor and shifted the bag higher onto his hip. A headache stretched from Max’s neck to his temples, but Miss Jean loosened it. Her lightness distracted him. An ointment to his mind.
Miss Jean left her garden and strolled into their driveway as they unloaded. Max sensed his mother’s dread with each inch that closed between them. She slammed the trunk door.
I said defrosting because y’all got yourselves a tan. And y’all about to be defrosted right in time for winter, too.
Oh, said his mother. I suppose we do have a tan. She raised a browned arm and stared at it.
I mean you’re vibrant, said Miss Jean. The both of you. Practically vibrant. How’s that for vitamin D?
I am enjoying, said Max. The heat is nice.
I know, it feels good doesn’t it? said Miss Jean. That’s cause it’s a vitamin. All you got to do to get it is sit yourself outside while it’s sunny. I don’t know how people live in that place Seattle. My goddaughter lives out there and she tells me it rains three hundred days out of the year.
Well, said Max’s mother, not every place is Alabama.
That sure is right, said Miss Jean. That is the truth if I’ve ever heard it.
Miss Jean waved her garden shears in her right hand while she spoke. With her left hand, she clenched a dead hibiscus head. Max’s mother slammed the driver’s door shut. Miss Jean took a step back, as if just noticing Max in all his glory.
Oh my! Look at our future football star, she said. He’s transforming into a star athlete before our very eyes. I do believe his jaw has become even more prominent overnight.
He was already an athlete, said Max’s mother. A runner on the track team—
Oh, sweetie, I don’t mean to offend you none, but I was talking about a real sport. You must be beside yourself with pride. First game’s Friday, isn’t that right?
Yes, said Max. I will not probably play.
Well now, honey, that’s not a thing to be ashamed about. These boys are seasoned. You’re just learning.
His mother rolled her eyes with her body. She carried her bag up the front steps and disappeared into the house. The screen door clattered behind her.
Sorry, said Max. My mother is, how do you say, shy.
Oh, honey, said Miss Jean. Everyone goes at their own pace, has their own way. Don’t you worry about it. I am not one bit offended. You just be yourself and let your mother be however she needs to be.
And you are doing just well? he asked.
I’ve been fine, honey, just fine. Mighty kind for you to ask. Now I have this spot here on my face the doctors want to look at. But they can burn it off in a minute if it’s cancerous.
Okay, said Max. Well, that’s good.
Sure, it is, honey, said Miss Jean, who was already headed back to her yard to tend to her luminous hibiscus. Make sure you get you some SPF, she called over her shoulder.
MAX OVERHEARD A FIGHT between his parents. His mother wanted to move back to Germany. His father thought she should give it time. Anger built its way through her. She climbed it like a staircase. She had gone to pick litter in town with a volunteer group and discovered dead puppies in a garbage bag tossed to the curb.
The bag stank, she said. The puppy heads looked like wet tennis balls. It took a minute to realize what I was looking at. Then it clicked, and I will never not see it. The maggots stuffed into their eyes. The fat tongues.
Her fellow volunteer had shrugged, said, Oh, sweetie, it’s not the last of that you’ll see. We find them each week at the river walk.
Football is going to destroy his brain, his mother added. Do you see the force with which they tackle each other? It disturbs me. I saw a program on the television about how the sport caused chronic traumatic encephalopathy in nearly all players.
Okay, let’s move back to Hamburg because you watched a television show, his father said.
She was being dramatic, and he had told her as much. She needed time to adjust.
Max likes it, his father said. Can’t you see?
Max’s mother accused his father of liking the place, too.
You’re getting fat, she hissed. And don’t fake to me that you like this stupid American sport. You don’t want to go back until you get your promotion.
Max’s father suggested something called Taco Tuesdays at the plant that his colleagues’ wives put together. She could go to that.
You want me to eat tacos because you think it’ll make me feel better, she said.
It will make you feel better, he said. And tacos are delicious.
Stop trying to fix this, she said. This isn’t about me. It’s about Max.
I think if you would find a community, i
t would take some of your focus off him. You might relax.
Their voices dimmed, and Max lost the conversation.
FIRST GAME. FRIDAY NIGHT. The football soared into the sky. All eyes watched the ball bounce twice off the bright grass. A player from the opposing team scooped it up and ran. Somewhere in the stands sat Max’s parents. Thinking what, Max wondered—a cultural experience. During halftime, girls tumbled across the field in taut green skirts. They glittered above the anointed grass. Their legs kicked high, panties exposed, pep proliferated. A student hoisted the American flag onto his shoulders and ran it back and forth across the gridiron. Cheers rose from both teams. The flag was a thing that bonded them. Max remained on the sideline for the entire game. Part of things yet separate. The offensive and defensive lines took turns rising up and sitting down. They traded places, sweating, hulking. Their chests heaved with exertion. The field did not need Max. The team demanded someone who could catch what Wes threw. Wes looked divine that night, like a star. The offense from God’s Way united to protect him. They hit other players so Wes might stay safe, might let his arm sing. The football hummed from Wes’s hand like an arrow finding its target. It sailed with accuracy. It had assured velocity. The thrill of the game, Max did not know it until that night. His heart ran even when his legs did not. Coach marched along the sideline. He yelled until his voice changed, rattled in his throat, and retreated into rasps. Max looked on, amazed at the spectacle. He pinched the head of a dead daffodil, hidden in the frayed dirt near the watercooler. He put the bloom between his teeth and kept it there, smiling.
AMONG THE COLLECTED: roadkill, dead neighborhood dogs, a lifeless cat. Pan lined them up along the edge of the gravel. He had amassed a dozen dead animals. Max wondered for a sick moment if Pan had snapped the neck of the cocker spaniel or drowned the tabby cat in the creek himself. How else could he come upon so much death? But the way Pan used his dry, sandy arms to arrange their bodies upright, even as their heads dangled off the end of their limp necks, moved him. Max remembered how Pan had gawked in horror at the dead squirrel. Pan could not have killed these animals. His movements were so full of good. He arranged the dead like a mother bird tended her nest.
Boys of Alabama Page 8
