by John Grisham
“Jack.”
“Jack who?”
“Jack Seawright.”
“Where’d he come from?”
“I met him in D.C. I went to work there after college.”
“How old are your girls?”
“Five and three.”
“What does Jack do?”
“Bagels.”
“Bagels?”
“Yes, those round things. We didn’t have bagels in Messina.”
“Okay. You mean, like, a bagel shop?”
“Shops.”
“More than one?”
“A hundred and forty-six.”
“So you’re doing well?”
“His company is worth eight million.”
“Ouch. My little company is worth twelve thousand on a good day.”
“You said you had something to say.” She had shown not the slightest hint of thawing. There was no interest in any of the details of his life.
Neely heard faint footsteps on the wooden floor of the foyer. No doubt Mrs. Lane was back there, trying to listen. Some things never changed.
The wind picked up slightly and scattered oak leaves across the brick sidewalk in front of them. Neely rubbed his hands together and said, “Okay, here goes. A long time ago, I did a very bad thing, something I’ve been ashamed of for many years. I was wrong. It was stupid, mean, lousy, selfish, harmful, and the older I get the more I regret it. I’m apologizing, Cameron, and I ask you to forgive me.”
“You’re forgiven. Forget about it.”
“I can’t forget about it. And don’t be so nice.”
“We were just kids, Neely. Sixteen years old. It was another lifetime.”
“We were in love, Cameron. I adored you from the time we were ten years old and holding hands behind the gym so the other boys wouldn’t see me.”
“I really don’t want to hear this.”
“Okay, but can I get it off my chest? And would you try to make it painful?”
“I got over it, Neely, finally.”
“Maybe I haven’t.”
“Oh get a life! And grow up while you’re at it. You’re not the football hero anymore.”
“There you go. That’s what I want to hear. Unload with both barrels.”
“Did you come here to fight, Neely?”
“No. I came to say I’m sorry.”
“You’ve said it. Now why don’t you leave?”
He bit his tongue and let a few seconds pass. Then, “Why do you want me to leave?”
“Because I don’t like you, Neely.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“It took ten years to get you out of my system. When I fell in love with Jack, I was finally able to forget you. I hoped I would never see you again.”
“Do you ever think about me?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Maybe once a year, in a weak moment. Jack was watching a football game once. The quarterback got hurt and left the game on a stretcher. I thought of you then.”
“A pleasant thought.”
“Not unpleasant.”
“I think of you all the time.”
A slight crack in the ice as she exhaled and seemed frustrated. She leaned forward and rested both elbows on her knees. The door opened behind them and Mrs. Lane shuffled out with a tray. “Thought you might like some hot chocolate,” she said, placing it on the edge of the porch, in the large space between them.
“Thank you,” Neely said.
“It’ll keep the chill off,” Mrs. Lane said. “Cameron, you should put on some socks.”
“Yes, Mother.”
The door closed and they ignored the hot chocolate. Neely wanted a long conversation, one that covered several issues and many years. She once had feelings, strong ones, and he wanted to confirm them. He wanted tears and anger, maybe a good fight or two. And he wanted to be truly forgiven.
“You were actually watching a football game?” he said.
“No. Jack was watching the game. I happened to be passing through.”
“He’s a football fan?”
“Not really. If he’d been a fan, I wouldn’t have married him.”
“So you still hate football?”
“You could say that. I went to Hollins, an all-girls school, so I could avoid football. My oldest daughter has started school at a small private academy—no football.”
“Then why are you here now?”
“Miss Lila. She taught me piano for twelve years.”
“Right.”
“I’m certainly not here to honor Eddie Rake.” Cameron picked up a cup and cradled it with both hands. Neely did the same.
When it became apparent he was in no hurry to leave, she opened up a little. “I had a sorority sister at Hollins whose brother played for State. She was watching a game, our sophomore year, and I walked into her room. There was the great Neely Crenshaw, moving Tech up and down the field, fans going wild, the announcers giddy over this great young quarterback. I thought, ‘Well, good. That’s what he always wanted. A big-time hero. Adoring masses. Coeds chasing him all over campus, throwing themselves at him. Constant adulation. Everybody’s all-American. That’s Neely.’ ”
“Two weeks later I was in the hospital.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know. I wasn’t following your great career.”
“Who told you?”
“I was home for Christmas break, and I had lunch with Nat. He told me you’d never play again. It’s such a stupid sport. Boys and young men mangle their bodies for life.”
“It is indeed.”
“So tell me, Neely, what happened to the girls? When you’re no longer the hero, what happens to all those little sluts and groupies?”
“They disappear.”
“That must’ve killed you.”
“Now we’re making progress,” Neely thought. “Let’s get the venom out.”
“There was nothing pleasant about the injury.”
“So you became just a regular person, like the rest of us?”
“I guess, but with a lot of baggage. Being a forgotten hero is not easy.”
“And you’re still adjusting?”
“When you’re famous at eighteen, you spend the rest of your life fading away. You dream of the glory days, but you know they’re gone forever. I wish I’d never seen a football.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I’d be a regular guy with two good legs. And I wouldn’t have made the mistake with you.”
“Oh please, Neely, don’t get sappy. We were only sixteen.”
Another long pause as they sipped from their cups and got ready for the next serve and volley. Neely had been planning the encounter for weeks. Cameron had had no idea she would ever see him again. Still, he knew the element of surprise would not help him. She would have all the answers.
“You’re not saying much,” he said.
“I have nothing to say.”
“Come on, Cameron, this is your chance to unload with both barrels.”
“Why should I? You’re here trying to force me to dig up bad memories that took years to forget. What makes you think I want to go back to high school and get burned again? I’ve dealt with it, Neely. Obviously you haven’t.”
“You want to know about Screamer?”
“Hell no.”
“She’s a cocktail waitress at a low rent casino in Vegas, fat and ugly, thirty-two and looking fifty, all according to Paul Curry, who saw her there. Apparently she went to Hollywood, tried to sleep her way to the top, got squeezed out by a million other small-town homecoming queens trying to sleep their way to the top.”
“No surprise.”
“Paul said she looked tired.”
“I’m certain of that. She looked tired in high school.”
“Does that make you feel better?”
“I felt great before you got here, Neely. I have no interest in you or your homecoming queen.”
“Come on, Cameron. Be honest. It
must be somewhat satisfying to know that Screamer is closing in on skid row while your life is looking pretty good. You’ve won.”
“I wasn’t competing. I don’t care.”
“You cared back then.”
She placed the cup back on the tray and leaned forward again. “What do you want me to say, Neely? Shall I state the obvious? I loved you madly when I was a young teenage girl. That’s no surprise because I told you every day. And you told me the same. We spent every moment together, had every class together, went everywhere together. But you became this great football hero, and everybody wanted a piece of you. Especially Screamer. She had the long legs and cute butt and short skirts and big chest and blond hair, and somehow she got you in the backseat of her car. You decided you wanted more of the same. I was a nice girl, and I paid a price for it. You broke my heart, humiliated me in front of everybody I knew, and wrecked my life for a long time. I couldn’t wait to leave this town.”
“I still can’t believe I did that.”
“Well, you did.” Her voice was edgy and there was a slight crack. She clenched her teeth, determined to show no emotion. He would not make her cry again.
“I’m so sorry.” Neely slowly got to his feet, careful not to put too much weight on his left knee. He touched her on the arm and said, “Thanks for giving me the chance to say so.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Good-bye.”
He walked down the sidewalk with a slight limp, through the gate. When he was near his car, she called out, “Neely, wait.”
______________
Because of his high-voltage romance with Brandy Skimmel, aka Screamer, now also known, by a very few, as Tessa Canyon, Neely knew all the back alleys and deserted streets of Messina. He circled Karr’s Hill, where they paused for a moment to look down at the football field. The line of well-wishers still ran along the track and out the front gate. The lights on the home side were on. The parking lot was full of cars coming and going.
“They say Rake would sit up here, after they fired him, and watch the games.”
“They should’ve put him in jail,” Cameron said, her first and only words since leaving home.
They parked near a practice field and sneaked through a gate on the visitors’ side. They climbed to the top of the bleachers and sat down, still with a gap between them, though closer than on her front porch. For a long time they watched the scene on the other side of the field.
The white tent rose like a small pyramid in front of the home stands. The casket was barely visible under it. A crowd was gathered around, enjoying the vigil. Miss Lila and the family had left. Racks of flowers were accumulating around the tent and up and down the sideline. A silent parade of mourners inched along the track, patiently waiting for the chance to sign the register, see the casket, perhaps shed a tear, and say farewell to their legend. Up in the stands behind the line of people, Rake’s boys of all ages were grouped in small packs, some talking, some laughing, most just staring at the field and the tent and the casket.
Only two people were in the visitors’ stands, unnoticed.
Cameron spoke first, very softly. “Who are those people up in the bleachers?”
“Players. I was up there last night and the night before, waiting for Rake to die.”
“So they’re all coming home?”
“Most of us. You came home.”
“Of course. We’re burying our most famous citizen.”
“You didn’t like Rake, did you?”
“I was not a fan. Miss Lila is a strong woman, but she was no match for him. He was a dictator on the field, and he had trouble turning it off when he got home. No, I didn’t care for Eddie Rake.”
“You hated football.”
“I hated you, and that made me hate football.”
“Atta girl.”
“It was silly. Grown men crying after a loss. The entire town living and dying with each game. Prayer breakfasts every Friday morning, as if God cares who wins a high school football game. More money spent on the football team than on all other student groups combined. Worshiping seventeen-year-old boys who quickly become convinced they are truly worthy of being worshiped. The double standard—a football player cheats on a test, everybody scrambles to cover it up. A nonathlete cheats, and he gets suspended. The stupid little girls who can’t wait to give it up to a Spartan. All for the good of the team. Messina needs its young virgins to sacrifice everything. Oh, and I almost forgot. The Pep Girls! Each player gets his own little slave who bakes him cookies on Wednesday and puts a spirit sign in his front yard on Thursday and polishes his helmet on Friday and what do you get on Saturday, Neely, a quickie?”
“Only if you want it.”
“It’s a sad scene. Thank you for shoving me out of it.”
Looking back with the clear hindsight of fifteen years, it did indeed seem silly.
“But you came to the games,” Neely said.
“A few of them. You have any idea what this town is like on Friday night away from the field? There’s not a soul anywhere. Phoebe Cox and I would sneak over here, on the visitors’ side and watch the games. We always wanted Messina to lose, but it never happened, not here. We ridiculed the band and the cheerleaders and the Pep Squad and everything else, and we did so because we were not a part of it. I couldn’t wait to get to college.”
“I knew you were up here.”
“No you didn’t.”
“I swear. I knew.”
Faint laughter drifted across the field as another Rake story found its mark among his boys. Neely could barely make out Silo and Paul in a group of ten others just under the press box. The beer was flowing.
“After you took the plunge in the backseat,” she said, “and I was tossed aside, we still had two years left in this place. There were moments when I would see you in the hall, or the library, or even in the classroom, and our eyes would meet, just for a second. Gone was the cocky sneer, the arrogant look of everybody’s hero. Just for a split-second you would look at me like a real person, and I would know that you still cared. I would’ve taken you back in a heartbeat.”
“And I wanted you.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“It’s true.”
“But, of course, the joy of sex.”
