Damage

by A. M. Jenkins

  It’s five whole days till Saturday. You do not want to leave this porch. You can almost smell her perfume lingering in the air, and you’re not ready to stop floating on it.

  You step off the porch and walk down that long sidewalk all by yourself. Getting into your truck is like slowly letting out a deep breath. You drive away, and everything inside you slowly deflates, till you’re bumping along the road like a day-old balloon that wasn’t quite ready to leave the ceiling.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The first game is an away game.

  In the locker room at the stadium, Cody Billings, the center, takes the offensive line off into a corner the way he always does; Coach wants the linemen to keep to themselves, like a family. A few of the other guys are still messing around, but most are starting to get serious. Brett Stargill bangs his head rhythmically against the wall the way he always does to get himself pumped. Jason Cox leans against the same wall, helmet under his arm, eyes shut, oblivious to the crash and thunder next to him. Dobie edges past both of them with a roll of white tape, not wanting to disturb their rituals.

  You do what you always do: walk around and around, more from habit than anything else. You don’t have those butterflies that always take flight in your stomach just before a game. You can’t feel a single one fluttering inside. It’s as if they’re all dead, and all that’s left is their weight in the pit of your stomach.

  Curtis sits on a bench next to the water fountain. He’s already off in whatever world he goes to before a game. On the bus and in the locker room, he likes to keep himself apart, likes to build his concentration to a pinpoint that’ll knock anybody to their knees if they happen to get in its way. Right now he has his helmet on, chin strap in place, and he’s leaning forward as if praying, elbows on knees as he stares at the floor between his feet.

  You walk along the benches, around the freestanding lockers, and back. Placing each foot precisely on the floor—because that’s what you always do, because you’re always careful to keep the lid on, to keep all that energy trapped inside, ready to be unleashed at the right place and the right time. You can’t feel it tonight, but surely it’s there. Isn’t it? Way underneath?

  On your third trip around the room, you stop to get a drink of water. Curtis is still sitting next to the fountain, but he doesn’t look up. You’re not sure he even knows you’re there. You straighten to wipe your mouth on your sleeve.

  It’s scary, to feel nothing. What if you never feel anything again?

  There Curtis sits, steady and calm as always. It makes you feel better for a moment just to be in the same room with him.

  “A long time ago,” Curtis says to the floor, “when a guy was about to become a knight, he spent the whole night before getting purified. You know, like baths and prayer and getting dressed in ceremonial clothes. And the next morning, when they were about to have the ceremony itself, he’d have all his friends around, helping him to get armed. It was like a ritual.”

  He raises his head then, and looks at you.

  “Everything,” he says, “had to be done exactly right. First, the guy had to be one of the chosen. He had to have the ability, and the desire. He had to be ready on the outside—and then he had get ready on the inside.” Curtis pauses. “He’d use the time before the ceremony to get ready. You know what I’m saying?”

  You nod. For Curtis, football is a moment of single-minded purity that last four quarters.

  “And then,” he continues, “at the very last, he could put on his clothes and his armor and his weapons. And then he could become a knight.”

  He stops as Coach comes in and calls everyone together. You look around the locker room, at everybody. Ankles taped, some right over the cleats. Wristbands and gloves. Pads strapped on. Snowy white socks and pants, and over them, the bright purple jerseys. Face masks like visors.

  When Coach has everyone’s full attention, he begins.

  “I want everybody playing hard for sixty minutes. Don’t let up on these guys. Don’t even think about stopping till after you hear that whistle. I expect every one of you to play four full quarters of football.

  “Make all your tackles. Make your catches. Follow through on your blocks. Defensive ends, cornerbacks: Don’t let any sweeps get outside of you. Contain, contain, contain!

  “If I catch anybody making any mistakes, they’d better at least be doing it at full speed. You all clear on that?”

  “Yes, sir!” everyone shouts on cue.

  “I have never lost a season opener.” Coach’s voice echoes around the locker room. “Not as a player. Not as a coach. That is not going to change tonight.”

  His words fall, coming to rest in absolute quiet.

  “Now, we’re going to have a moment of silent thought.”

  Coach folds his hands in front of him. Heads bow. You take another slow look around, at the helmets and pads, like armor.

  Even Curtis’s head is down. You bow your head and stare at the floor. You visualize the scene:

  The ball’s sailing right at you. Your hands are up and open, fingers spread. You watch the ball all the way into your hands. Wrap it up. Take off running.

  You play the scene again. And once more. You’ve always had the ability to be the best. Tonight, you’ve got the desire. It’s not like last year—still no butterflies. But you do want to be the best.

  “Amen,” says Coach. The room rustles as everyone prepares to head for the field.

  “Amen,” you agree. For once, you’re feeling downright hopeful.

  The first touchdown of the season is yours.

  First quarter, 0–0, and Stargill’s just picked up a first down—not much pressure, not yet. It’s long and out, just like at practice, and when you turn to look at Cox, the ball’s heading toward the exact spot you’ll be in a second. You don’t think at all, just stretch out till your fingers feel the firm scrape of pigskin. You tuck it in and run twenty-five yards, the final ten free and clear.

  Last year, you scored fifteen touchdowns. After each you were so pumped you almost danced off the ground, raising your arms and yelling with the crowd. Last year, every little success sent you spiraling into the night air, high above the stadium.

  Tonight, your feet cross the line and you feel nothing.

  Smack! Brett Stargill has hurled himself at you. Helmet meets shoulder pads and you find yourself being hugged, faceless, into purple cloth. Brett pounds your back in a wordless frenzy. You can hear the shouts of joy from the field, the cheers from the stands.

  You suppose you might be smiling. Then again, you might not be. Hard to tell, when you’re not feeling anything at all.

  You drop the ball onto the turf and start walking back.

  This was supposed to be the very best moment of the game. The first of a long line of best moments—the best of the season, maybe even your life.

  When you get to the sidelines, Coach gives you a friendly slap across the helmet. “That’s it, Reid,” he says, “that’s the way.”

  Coach seldom gives compliments, so you should be pleased. But his words skitter on the surface and float away, meaningless.

  As soon as the extra point clears the uprights, the fight song comes blasting out of the band, too fast, as if somebody spiked the concession stand Cokes with adrenaline.

  You barely hear it. You keep your helmet on. Keep your back to the stands. Watch the kickoff like it’s something that’s happening on TV.

  The Panthers win, 21–17. But at the team meeting the next morning, Coach doesn’t seem to have noticed that fact.

  “I couldn’t hardly sleep last night,” he says, plopping the game tape into the VCR. “Burlington’s got the worst offense in the district, and we gave ’em seventeen points. We come up against a real team, we’re going to get plowed.”

  You’re sitting there, attacked by the usual day-after-a-game soreness. Your muscles are stiff; your shoulders ache, and the backs of your thighs. Every once in a while your left ankle gets one of those twinges that feels l
ike somebody’s tightening a screw in it.

  “Looky there how high Billings comes out,” Coach says as he points to the screen. “See how he gets brushed off? Billings, you know better than that. I know you know better. Palmer, you got to pay attention to where that marker is. We should’ve had a first down right here.”

  Inside you’re still feeling nothing, but it doesn’t seem so important now. Your body will keep doing what it’s supposed to do, at the time it’s supposed to do it. And everything will just keep moving around you, no matter what.

  “Kemp, you have too much coffee before the game? That’s twice you let that guy draw you offsides. Twice! All he had to do was twitch his nose, and there you go.”

  It’s impossible to get interested in game films.

  All there is of Curtis are his long legs stretched out on the other side of Stargill. He’s sprawled in his chair, his attention on last night’s game.

  “You guys on the offensive line have to give Cox more time,” Coach is saying. “Hernandez, you’re giving up too soon—keep driving till you hear the whistle. Nice run there, Reid,” Coach adds, and sure enough, there’s number 83 on the screen. That’s you.

  The tape rolls on. Every once in awhile Coach pauses it, hits rewind. Your eyes stay on the screen now, on number 83. He’s physical proof that you were there last night. And it’s good to have the aches and pains pinning you into your body. Otherwise you feel you might just disappear, sink through the floor with the air closing over your head as you dropped. All the chairs would come together to fill the space where you once had been.

  “Now, what the hell was this, Rhinehart?” Freeze frame on Rhinehart of the saggy pants, caught in bewildered mid-lope, yards behind a guy he can never catch up with. “You look like you’re playing flag football at the Y! I’ve never seen so many mental errors in my life,” Coach announces. “When I was in high school, I would’ve rather died than made some of the screwups you guys pulled last night. It didn’t take a whole staff of coaches barking at us to keep us in gear. We took care of our own business.”

  “Dogpile,” Brett Stargill says under his breath. His eyes are lit up; words are one thing, but pounding is something Brett understands.

  “We kept our own heads in the game,” Coach says.

  “Dogpile,” Brett says again, a little louder.

  Coach gives him a sharp look. “You coaching this team, Stargill?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then shut up.” Coach stands in the middle of the room, staring at nothing with furrowed brow. He sighs and rubs his forehead as if there’s too much going on in his head to even attempt to explain.

  Then he looks across the room at Stargill, who wears his feelings on his face. At Cody Billings, who talks trash on the field then holds his own in a fight. At Ryan Hernandez, who explodes with each snap of the ball. “All right,” he says, almost to himself, and then he announces loud and clear: “Come Monday morning, we’re going to have a new drill. It’s time to get serious, gentlemen.”

  Rhinehart sits with his eyes straight ahead, his pudgy cheeks splotched red and white. Curtis is sitting up straight now; Curtis who has been serious about football from the first time he put on a uniform back in third grade, in the recreational league.

  You started playing football at the same time as Curtis. But number 83 is not on the screen right now, because he wasn’t on the field at this point last night. And right now you don’t feel that you’re anywhere at all.

  “It’s going to be a good year.” Coach adds firmly, like he’s going to make it be a good year by sheer force of will.

  It’s going to be a good year.

  Something flickers inside you. The last time you heard those words was on Heather’s front porch.

  You are going out with Heather tonight.

  The thought has lain there since Monday afternoon, like a seed. Now it’s Saturday, and while everybody else is getting serious about football, that seed flutters to life.

  I’ve always liked you, Austin.

  The tape rolls on. The screen becomes a blur of swaying lines and battling bodies again. Faceless, like ants. Not one of them is as real as the tickle of Heather’s breath in your ear.

  CHAPTER SIX

  You pick Heather up early in the evening. You’ll take her to dinner first, then a movie.

  While you’re waiting for her to answer the doorbell, you look around Heather’s neighborhood with its neat streets, its tidy yards shoved tight together. It makes your neighborhood seem downright shabby, with yards and pastures patched together not by concrete driveways, but by barbed-wire fences or white plank fences or no fences at all; brick houses neighboring wood houses neighboring trailers.

  Then Heather opens the door, and you forget all about feeling shabby. When she walks down the sidewalk next to you, her perfume brushes against you like light, teasing fingers. It’s not flowers or spices, but the kind of thing you’d expect from a girl who went to the prom last year in a short little black strapless dress that made every guy there wish it’d ride up just a few more inches. Or else fall down just half an inch.

  You breathe a little deeper to catch the scent again.

  Once the truck’s moving, you guess you wouldn't would mind putting your arm around her—she’s sitting in the center of the seat, right next to you—but you know from experience you’ll have to move your arm every time you shift gears. And once when you did that, you conked your date in the back of her head with your elbow.

  So you let your right hand rest on your thigh, though it’s it’s actually sort of wanting to move over to hold Heather’s hand, fine boned and delicate, with its pale silvery polish.

  “I heard you guys had a great game last night,” she's saying. “I was sorry I couldn’t be there. But still. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. You coming next Friday?”

  “Mm-hmm. Even got a new top for it. A black knit shell—it’ll look good with jeans. I haven’t decided about the matching cardigan—it’s got short sleeves and all, I don’t want to get too hot. And of course I’ll wear my new sandals.”

  She’s not asking for your opinion, but you nod, anyway. She smiles at you. There’s a love song playing on the radio. You really like having her here next to you, but you can’t think of anything to say. It doesn’t seem to matter. Heather radiates contentment, satisfaction, self-esteem. It’s almost as if you’re huddled next to a campfire, enjoying its warmth.

  And that trickle of interest is flowing, the one that’s always pulled you to Heather. Even though you don’t even know the small stuff about her, like whether she goes to church or what kind of music she likes. Or what her favorite color is. Or whether she can tell a zone defense from man-to-man. The only thing you know is that she doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. And you know where her house is and what it looks like.

  And you know about her dad.

  “You live with your mom, don’t you?” you ask.

  “Yeah.” She glances at the radio. “Hey. Do you mind if we listen to some real music?” She doesn’t wait for you to answer, just reaches for the buttons and starts clicking her way down the dial. You almost admire her. Heather doesn’t need anybody’s approval.

  “Put on anything you like,” you tell her.

  Dance music blares from the speakers. Heather’s finger hovers over the button for a second, then she sits up; the dance music must meet with her favor. “What about your parents? Are they still together?”

  “No.” It’s been awhile since you’ve said this next part “My dad’s dead,” you tell her, ready for Heather to catch your words up and carry them forward. Maybe she’ll turn to you in complete understanding, and say: “Really? My dad’s dead, too.”

  The only sound is the drone of rubber on asphalt. When you glance over, she’s staring out the window—only there’s not much scenery on this stretch of 171.

  “What did he die from?” she asks after a moment.

  “Cancer,” you say, glancing at her again.


  “What kind?”

  Okay. She wants you to share first. Well, you’ve been through this part before. It’s always kind of awkward; this is the part where you’re supposed to tell your story. You try to oblige. “It was cancer of the esophagus,” you begin. “He died when I was three,” you finish.

  There’s no middle to the story, because you don’t remember him. There’s nothing else to tell.

  When you glance over to check Heather’s reaction, she’s watching you, her gaze straight and unwavering as she waits for the middle of your story.

  You have to look away, clear your throat. Reach to turn the radio up. “This’s a good song,” you mention, careful to keep your eyes on the road.

  You can’t tell her how you used to play at shaving, because that’s stupid. No way you could tell her about sitting on the bathroom counter in your pajamas. Or that your father was the one who taught you to shave, even though he was long gone at the time.

  When you were fourteen, you had a few whiskers that you thought needed to come off, so you went and bought a can of gel foam. When you got home you locked yourself in the bathroom and pulled out the wooden box that held your dad’s old-fashioned safety razor, the one you’d found tucked away in the back of the medicine cabinet, gathering dust. Mom, never one to be sentimental, had forgotten about it. She said you could have it if you wanted, that it’d been a gift from somebody—she couldn’t remember who—to your father a long time ago. It looked like a gift; gold plated, lying on red velvet.

  Then you pulled the can out of the sack. On the back were the directions: Leave skin wet. Put gel on fingertips. Gently rub over skin to lather and shave.

  It didn’t say anything about what to do with the sink—but you already knew. You remembered very clearly how the sink was filled with warm water. You could almost hear the dabble-dabble-shake of the razor. You could almost see your dad’s hand holding it, strong and big and forever.