by Otto Schafer
Obviously, expecting Jack to keep his mouth shut was a big negative. On to plan B, get rid of him. “Not much more really. The darn thing is just so dried out, and we’re afraid we’ll mess it up. Pete’s working on it, though.” Garrett feigned unconcern.
“Cut the shit, Garrett. I know you two figured out more than that – you had plenty of time. Where is that geeky little nutsack anyway?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“Well, you can bet your ass he’s giving me that book today.”
“Whatever, man,” Garrett said. “I got to get to class.”
Jack moved to stand in between Garrett and his locker. “Yeah, you do that, and let that little punk Pete know I’m looking for my book.”
Ignoring Jack, Garrett sighed as he reached around the bully and gave his combo lock a spin.
Jack responded by grabbing Garrett’s arm before he could pull it back.
For a split second, Garrett envisioned himself dropping his books, reaching over to Jack’s hand, grasping it with his fingers around his thumb, while pressing his own thumb just under Jack’s pinky knuckle, then twisting until he heard an audible crunch of bone and cartilage followed by a scream.
“Oh, and Garrett” – Jack placed his nose within an inch of Garrett’s face as he gripped his arm – “I am getting real sick of your attitude, man. You walk around here like you’re big shit. Well, I think it’s about time we put your fake-ass karate bullshit to the test!”
Garrett did not back down, but God he wanted to. He wanted to run away, but he felt like his limbs were frozen with fear, and he wasn’t sure he could get them to respond if he tried. And even if he could run, he would be laughed out of school for it. Jack’s loud mouth had already drawn a crowd of kids, and Garrett could feel their eyes on him – even worse, he could feel Lenny’s. He would never leave Lenny, no matter how scared he was. He would rather take the beating than abandon his friend.
“Yeah, that’s right, Garrett. You just stand there and don’t say shit,” Jack said, as he poked Garrett in the chest. “Don’t… say… shit.”
Each poke to the chest stung, and still he stood, body locked up, eyes falling to the floor. He wanted to look Jack in the eye, but he didn’t. Instead he turned inside to an old memory of his biological father. His sour vodka breath and slow-blinking eyes. He jabbed his finger, too, when Garrett did or didn’t do something to his liking.
Lenny stepped forward, placing himself between Garrett and Jack. Garrett pushed the memory along with the rage deep inside, swallowing hard as if physically forcing it down into his stomach. Finally, Garrett spoke, “It’s okay, Lenny, I got this.”
“Yeah, boy! Know your place,” Jack said, glaring at Lenny.
Something inside Garrett snapped. His limbs came loose, momentarily freed from their paralysis. He lunged forward past Lenny, finding a hold on Jack’s throat with his right hand.
Lenny struggled to hold Garrett back as the crowd of students began to buzz with the excitement of violence to come.
Fight! Fight! Fight! they chanted.
Garrett’s face twitched senselessly as rage boiled up.
Jack’s eyes went wild as he slapped Garrett’s hand from his throat. “That’s it, Garrett! That’s what I want to see! Let him go, Lenny. He ain’t about shit. Oh, yeah. Oh, hell yeah! I’ll be seeing you, Garrett!” Jack pointed. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Garrett had already known in his heart that Jack was racist. Lenny knew it too. They had talked about it. A black kid and his best friend in an all-white town learn how to read people. Lenny had told Garrett long ago, “I look for the little things, and there are dozens and dozens of tells. For instance, like how they shake your hand. Do they shake it like they really don’t want to be touching you? When you enter a room, do they pull their purse close to them, like you might try and steal from them when they’re not looking? When you enter a store, do they follow you around like you are going to shoplift?” Lenny dealt with all these issues and much more, on a regular basis.
But with Jack, he didn’t need a tell. He’d said it all in four little words – and it was enough to make Garrett see red. Know your place, boy.
“Let it go, Garrett,” Lenny said. “Not here, man.”
Garrett eased back, the red rage fading with Lenny’s words, taking with it the momentary bravery.
Lenny was calm, cool, and collected. “I tell you what, Jack. Why don’t you poke me in the chest? I’ll rip your finger off and shove it up your ass,” he said evenly.
Jack glared at Lenny, then back to Garrett. “Tell Pete I want the book,” he said, motioning the crowd to get out of his way with a wave of the hand.
The crowd of onlookers started to disperse, but as they melded back into the choked hallway of bodies reluctantly making their way to class like herded cattle to the slaughterhouse, Garrett picked up on the looks some of the kids were shooting him. He even caught a few comments from some of the kids as they were absorbed back into the flowing throng.
“Garrett’s a punk,” one kid said to another.
“I thought that kid is supposed to be a black belt or something,” another passerby said.
Then one kid, an older kid Garrett didn’t even know, said, “Dude, you just got punked! How you going to let some kid get all up in your face like that?” The kid didn’t wait for a response; he just shook his head and disappeared into the army of ants marching towards their classes.
“Goddammit,” Lenny said, punching the locker. “I should have let you light him up right then and there!”
“Yeah, and then what, get kicked out of school? My parents would kill me,” Garrett said, knowing it was a lame reason. “You saved me from getting expelled, Lenny.”
“I don’t know, but you’re going to have to put him in his place. If you don’t, I will. And Pete better stay low. If Jack catches up to him—”
The bell rang.
“Crap, catch you later,” Garrett said, before hurrying down the hallway.
Later in the day, a rumor spread through the school like a wildfire on a dry day. Jack had caught up with Pete in the boy’s bathroom during lunch hour and worked him over. Garrett didn’t share a lunch period with Pete, nor did he have any afternoon classes with him. He didn’t know how bad a beating Pete had taken, if Jack had taken the book, or if anyone was in trouble over the fight. Likely he wouldn’t find out what happened until he got to the library after work.
Garrett’s last period before leaving for work was physical education with Coach Dagrun, who also coached the cross-country team. It was known around school that Coach was a war hero who had received a Silver Star and a Purple Heart, but he never talked about it and no student dared ask him. He was open with his military service and proud to discuss his time in the Marines, but the events of that day were not something he cared to discuss.
However, Pete had uncovered an article about Lieutenant Dagrun and shared it with Garrett and Lenny. Not long after the start of the Iraq War, Dagrun’s patrol convoy was struck by an IED, killing the soldiers in the lead vehicle and trapping the rest of the convoy. Dagrun had courageously maneuvered his own vehicle between the enemy and the trapped vehicles. Injured by the firepower focused on him and with his machine gun jammed, Dagrun had stepped fully into the open and finished off what remained of the enemy with his M4 carbine. The only attackers to live that day were the ones who had fled like cowards from their position of cover. Once the attack was over, Lieutenant Dagrun personally rallied his remaining forces, directed the security of the site, and ensured each of his injured men were cared for before he allowed his own wounds to be treated. After the boys read the article, they made a pact to respect Coach’s privacy and keep their mouths shut.
If you were to ask Garrett to describe a leader, he would describe Coach Dagrun. There was something about the way his coach carried himself – a commanding confidence that made people want to follow him. His style, on the other hand, took a bit of getting used to, mostly because he sti
ll talked like a marine drill sergeant, especially when coaching or when offering wisdom, which turned out to be most of the time. The louder he became, the more the marine came out in his vocabulary. Sometimes, students would have no idea what he was talking about, but usually his unique combination of facial expressions and tone would help them understand what he expected even if they failed to comprehend his marine jargon.
On Garrett’s first day on the junior high school cross-country team, Coach had looked at him and said, “If you’re going to be on this team, you use your dick skinner for operating an ink stick, whereas you WILL be required to achieve a minimum of a C to run on my team. Do not use said dick skinner for stuffing your crumb catcher with the latest sensation from taco hell or the local choke-and-puke or you WILL find yourself duck-walking to the nearest shitter with a failing grade and a severe case of mud butt. Runners who eat poorly lack focus, get poor grades, crap poorly and frequently, and if you crap often, excessive use of moon floss WILL lead to a debilitating case of chap ass. Are we clear?”
All Garrett could do was stand there with his mouth hanging open and nod.
Coach Dagrun had looked at Garrett’s long hair and muttered something that sounded like “goddamn hippie” before telling the entire team, “Now all you pukes line up for drills – nut to butt!”
Garrett learned quickly to respond, “Yes, sir,” and figure out the rest later.
Near the end of phys ed class, the students were in a heated game of dodgeball and Garrett had just taken a hit to the shoulder while trying to spin away from an incoming ball.
“Turek!” Coach Dagrun shouted from across the gym. His brow was creased in angry horizontal lines that made his flattop, cut high and tight, look like it was standing at attention.
“Yeah, sir, Coach,” Garrett answered as he sprinted over to him.
“Turek, I’ve noticed you running all over town, even seen you out running as far as New Salem. You know, cross-country practice doesn’t even start until August – how many miles a week are you putting in?”
But before Garrett could answer, Coach turned back to the dodgeball game and began shouting at two boys who had apparently forgone all the rules, deciding instead to just chase each other in circles. “Mills, Watson, knock it off! What kind of goat rope you two trying to pull? How about you stop playing grab-ass and get back to your positions!”
Watson immediately ran back to his position, but Mills hesitated before slowly moving back to his side of the court – much too slowly for the coach’s liking. “Dammit, Mills, are you a rock? Stop lollygagging and get your ass back to position most riki-tik!”
Mills froze, looking like a deer in headlights, then regained his senses and quickly moved back to his side of the court.
“Not sure what’s going on in that kid’s grape.” He shook his head disapprovingly as he turned back to Garrett.
“You’re a freshman now, Turek, and with Johnston graduating, this team needs a new captain. I think you’re that captain,” Coach said, pointing decidedly at Garrett.
Had he just been complimented and promoted? Garrett was unsure because all Coach had ever done was yell orders at him. Hesitantly, he nodded. “Gee thanks, Coach, but I am not the fastest on the team. I think there are probably at least three that are—”
“Dammit, shitbrick, I didn’t say you are the fastest, did I? I said you are a captain. Captains are leaders, and you’re a leader. I need a captain who can rally his men to run drills, run miles, run in the heat, run when no one wants to, dammit. I don’t need a captain who runs fast because he happens to have a natural gift for running and doesn’t have to put in the work.” Coach was shouting now, his hand raised in a tight fist. “I need a captain who is willing to put in the work, willing to lead his team through the work. Dammit, Turek, I need a captain who is willing to sweat! Willing to bleed! Willing to puke with his team!”
The sudden shouting caused Garrett to straighten into a civilian’s version of attention.
Coach pulled a plastic bottle from the front pocket of his warm-up suit, removed the cap, and spit out a mouth full of brown juice collected from the wad of Copenhagen dip stuffed into the fleshy pocket between his cheek and gum. He eyeballed Garrett. “Well, brick?”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir,” was all he managed. After all, what else was there to say? That speech was just another example of why Garrett would follow the man into combat if he asked him to.
“Alright, then,” Coach said, poking at his tobacco wad with his tongue as he shook Garrett’s hand. “Report to my office Wednesday after school, and we will go over the details. Be careful how much running you’re putting in. I don’t want you burnt-out when season kicks into high gear.”
“Wait, um, Coach, I have another obligation on Wednesday. I’m testing for my second-degree black belt,” he said, hoping this wouldn’t trigger more yelling.
“Second degree, huh? Well, that sounds like a big deal. Maybe I will stop down and see you test,” Coach said as the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward.
Garrett was almost sure the facial expression looked like a smile, or at least the makings of one. He couldn’t believe his coach was actually offering to come down to the dojo to watch him test. It was just his luck that, of all the tests he had taken, this one happened to be closed.
“Actually, Coach,” began Garrett, looking down at the polished wood slats of the basketball court, “this is a closed test, so unfortunately no one can watch this time. First time we’ve ever had a closed test.”
Coach Dagrun met his eyes with a bleak stare as Garrett raised his gaze from the hardwood floor. Any hint of a smile on Coach’s face had vanished. “Closed session? When did you find this out?”
“Just last evening. I’m really sorry, Coach. I’d sure love to have you there.” Garrett shifted his weight to his other leg.
Coach lowered his voice and glanced over both shoulders. “He told you it was closed… to everyone? It’s just you and Brockridge?” Coach asked uneasily.
“Well, no, Lenny too, but he is testing with me so he can be there. You know Mr. B?” Garrett asked in surprise.
Coach steeled his eyes as his lips contracted into a tight line. “Well, it’s a small town.”
“I guess,” Garrett said, continuing to observe his coach look uncomfortable, a completely foreign sight to Garrett.
Leaning forward, Coach spoke quietly, as if he suspected someone might be trying to eavesdrop. “Listen to me, Garrett. When you test, it is imperative you focus with every bit of mental clarity you possess inside that brainpan of yours. Copy?”
Garrett nodded, scrambling to find words in his shock. “Coach, what does that mean? You’re not the only person who has told me to focus. What does it mean, Coach?”
Coach looked flustered as he turned away from Garrett, but then glanced back over his shoulder. “You damn well know what focus means, and you’d better do it,” he said, jutting a finger towards Garrett’s face. Then with sudden speed he spun on his heels to face the class and yelled across the gym, “Rain locker… Now!”
Everyone raced off to the showers. But Garrett hesitated, unable to hear the sounds of squeaking sneakers on wood, dodgeballs bouncing across the floor, or the locker room door as it swung wide. His brain was stuck on a single word… focus.
26
Down and Up
Present day
Oak Island, Nova Scotia
Breanne stepped backwards off the slope into the lower chamber. She disconnected the carabiner from her rope and turned to find the altar several feet closer than it had been. She also noticed some chunks of stone, broken boards, and the pulley rigging lying twisted on the ground. “You sure it’s safe?”
“It’s safe. But we’re lucky it didn’t pull the whole damn ceiling down,” Paul said, picking up a piece of the broken hardware.
Her father paid no attention, his eyes fixed beyond the altar, which was now sitting nearly ten feet closer to the archway than its previous p
osition.
“Do you guys feel that?” Breanne asked, following her father around the stone altar.
“Feel what?” Paul asked.
“I don’t know… something,” she said uneasily.
“Look – I knew it!” her father said, as he pointed towards where the altar had been. “There is a void where the stone was!”
They all approached the opening in the floor as if they were stalking prey and wanted to be careful not to spook it.
Her father quickly got down onto all fours to examine the opening, which was a few feet in diameter. “This hole is not natural – it has been excavated with some sort of tool, perhaps a pickaxe.”
Breanne knelt down next to him to peer inside. As she prepared to click on her headlamp, she noticed something strange. “Do you see that?”
Her father flipped on his light.
“No wait, shut it off,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows curiously, nodded, and flicked off the light.
A soft glow emanated from somewhere below.
Her brothers exchanged a glance.
“How… What in the hell?” her father said.
Suddenly all of the Moores found themselves lying on their bellies.
“This hole would have taken some serious time to excavate. It’s several feet deep, but look, it opens up!” Breanne said.
“My God, Pops, there’s another chamber below this!” Edward said, hanging his torso partially inside the opening.
“Dammit, Ed, be careful – I don’t want you falling in. Can you see a way down or how far down it goes?” Charles asked as he shimmied part of the way into the opening, crowding Edward.
Breanne thought for sure her father’s eagerness to see inside was going to result in him falling headfirst into the hole. She quickly dove forward, wrapping her arms around his ankles. “Careful, Dad.”
“I got him,” Paul said, grabbing ahold of her father’s belt.
“Yeah, it looks like it is only about five feet to the water,” Edward said.
