Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  “How is your mother these days?”

  Just as fast, the blood drained from Shane’s face.

  “The same, sir.”

  Webster looked at Shane for several moments with doleful eyes before reaching out and picking up his coffee. “I should be heading in. Only here one day a month, have to make it count. Have a good day Shane.”

  “Thank you Mr. Webster, you too.”

  Shane checked his watch and found it approaching six-thirty, but decided to wait a few extra minutes to let Webster be on his way. The man was nice enough, but if any further awkward conversation could be avoided it would be for the best.

  Older people and employers both had a way of doing that. Webster had the extreme misfortune of being both.

  Shane watched as the last of the cleaning crew filed out before taking the elevator up to the two-six. It was a few minutes later than usual, but the place was still deserted. Faint sunlight drifted in through the windows and the scent of cleaning product hung in the air.

  His mind in several places at once, Shane avoided the latest project that was stacked on the corner of his desk and instead went straight to his laptop. While he waited for it to boot up, he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around the back of his chair, gave a quick rearranging of the books piled high in front him.

  When his desktop loaded into view, Shane went onto the internet and opened the same personal Yahoo Mail account he’d used since he was thirteen years old. He ignored a handful of messages advertising new home interest loans and telling him big beautiful women were looking for him, opting instead to compose a new message.

  For several minutes he stared at the cursor blinking in even rhythm back at him before taking a deep breath and beginning to type.

  Dear Tyler,

  I’m sure you’re getting a great many letters of support from your many well-earned fans, but I wanted to pass along a message as well to express my condolences. I was saddened to hear about the loss of your leg and wish you the very best in your recovery process.

  I know many people try to say they know what you’re going through when in fact they have no idea. I won’t fall victim to doing the same thing myself, but I will encourage you to know you are not alone in this and there are many people out there willing to do whatever they can to help along the way.

  Best Wishes,

  Shane Laszlo

  Shane entered the e-mail address saved into his contacts from teaching Tyler a year before and hit send. Less than a second later, a response landed in his inbox.

  Your last message was not received – account no longer valid.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tyler snatched the pitch midair and swung out around the right end, his feet running the play from pure muscle memory. It was the same play he’d been running since he first put on cleats fourteen years ago, his favorite play for almost the same length of time.

  Whenever the coaches asked him what play to run, whether it was the state championship in high school or the first day of spring practice his freshman year at Ohio Tech, the answer was always the same.

  Pitch right. Just give me the ball and some space.

  He hit the corner at full stride and swung around the end, juked past the first defender and cut hard up field. The cornerback flew in off the edge, his momentum wild and out of control. Tyler gave him an easy shoulder fake and left him hugging air, spinning past him like he wasn’t even there.

  His eyes looked ahead and he saw the linebacker closing and the end swinging free, both converging hard. He never saw the safety. Didn’t even know he was there until he felt a blow slam into his left knee, pirouetting him into the air.

  There, in that exact moment, is where he always woke up. Never before, never after. Just a second after the hit, long enough to remember, to feel, the pain again as it rippled through his body.

  Tyler lay in bed in the darkness of his childhood bedroom and stared at the ceiling, waiting for his heart beat to slow down. He mopped a handful of sweat from his brow and flung heavy droplets to the floor, exhaled and sat up.

  The damned wheelchair he’d grown to despise was parked beside the bed, always waiting for him. With no small amount of disgust he pulled it parallel to his bed, dropped his left leg onto the bare wooden floor and hopped down into it.

  His body landed with a thud and he paused a moment to catch his breath before wheeling himself out and into the hallway. Morning three in the books.

  The clock on the stove said it was not yet seven, but his mother was already gone. He hadn’t heard her leave, but it was no secret what a burden he’d become to her. She would never say a word about it, but between unexpected flights to Ohio and having another person around the house, he knew he was putting her in a real crunch.

  Tyler wheeled himself to the sink and stood up, using both hands to balance himself on the counter. He took down a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, then broke a banana off a bunch and settled back into his chair.

  Rolling across the kitchen, he shoved a desk chair aside and positioned himself in front of their ancient computer. Several years before the Worland Public Library had upgraded their systems and given the remainders to a half dozen people throughout the community.

  The Bentley’s had been one of the lucky recipients.

  The old Acer whirred and clanked as he finished the banana and water, willing itself to life. Tyler opened a web browser and entered the site for the OTU email access and waited for it to open. Once it did he entered his school issued username and password and waited for it to access his account.

  Instead of the traditional interface of his email, a warning popped onto the screen in red letters telling him the combination was incorrect.

  Tyler entered the information a second time, a little slower, careful to input every character perfect. The result was the same, nothing but a stone wall accentuated by red lettering.

  “Son of a bitch,” Tyler muttered, leaning forward and pecking out the information one letter at a time, using only his two index fingers.

  A third warning showed itself.

  Tyler took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose, doing his best to remain patient. After only three days in a wheelchair, it was a task that was proving much harder than anticipated.

  He glanced again at the clock, the green digits reporting that it was a quarter past seven. “It’s after nine in Ohio already.”

  Tyler closed the webpage and opened a second one, this time navigating to the OTU IT department. As it loaded he wheeled himself to the sink and dropped off his glass, then on to his room to fetch his cell phone. He arrived back in front of the computer just in time to find the IT page ready and waiting.

  He thumbed in the number he was looking for and held the phone to his ear. It was answered on the third ring.

  “Hello, IT help desk, how may I help you?” a thin and nasal female voice asked.

  “Hi, I’m trying to log into my OTU e-mail and keep getting booted for having an invalid username/password combo.”

  “Alright, your name please.”

  “Tyler Bentley.”

  “Just one second,” she said, a cacophony of keys echoing in the background. “Our records here show your e-mail was disabled yesterday as the registrar’s office informed us you had withdrawn for the university.”

  Tyler’s eyes snapped open wide, his pulse picking up a tick. “Wait, it says that I withdrew for the remainder of the semester, or that I withdrew from the university?”

  “Let’s see,” the girl said, her voice trailing off a bit. “Yeah, here it is. The records show you have withdrawn permanently from the university. All accounts invalid, all outstanding bills turned over to collections.”

  Tyler’s tongue felt like it swelled several times too large for his mouth as his breathing picked up, one breath after another pushed out through his nose. “You wouldn’t happen to have the registrar’s number there would you?”

  “Certainly,” the girl responded and rat
tled off a string of digits. Tyler jotted them down and thanked her for her time, doing his best to keep his voice even. She didn’t have a chance to respond before he thumbed his phone off and back on again and input the new number.

  “Good morning, registrar’s office, how may I help you?” an older woman asked.

  “Yes ma’am, I was speaking to the IT department earlier about a problem with my e-mail account when I was informed that I have been listed as withdrawn from the university. Is there anybody I can speak to about this?”

  “Um, one moment please,” the receptionist said and put Tyler on hold.

  A full five minutes of bad elevator music passed before a man with a thick voice said, “Brent Sargus here.”

  “Mr. Sargus, my name is Tyler Bentley—“

  “The Tyler Bentley,” Sargus asked, astonishment in his voice.

  “Feels more like the former Tyler Bentley these days.” The words were out of him before he even had a chance to think about what he was saying.

  “I was awful sorry to hear about your leg son, you were a damn fine ball player,” Sargus said.

  Despite the fact that the statement sounded genuine, Tyler couldn’t get past his use of the past tense.

  He opted to ignore it anyway.

  “That’s why I’m calling. As you know, I lost my leg a few days ago and withdrew for the remainder of the semester to recover and rehab it at home here in Wyoming. I was told when I left I would still be considered a member of the university and would have full e-mail access, etc. in the meantime.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, as of this morning, that’s all been stripped away on orders of your office. I’ve been listed as permanently withdrawn, all accounts inactive immediately.”

  Tyler could hear papers shuffling on the other end of the line.

  “Yes,” Sargus said, “that’s also true. So what can I do for you?”

  “Um, can you start by telling me why?” Tyler asked, the ability to hide his annoyance fading.

  “I’m sorry son, but e-mail privileges, loan deferments, things like that are reserved for university students.”

  “Which I am. I’m just taking a semester off due to injury.”

  “No son, you withdrew. There’s a difference.”

  The situation itself was starting to wear thin on Tyler’s nerves. Sargus’s insistence on referring to him as son was not helping things any.

  “I did not withdraw. I informed Coach Valentine that I was going home for the summer to recover and would be back in the fall to finish my degree and be around the team as much as possible. He said that was fine and he’d take care of everything.”

  By the time he was done, Tyler realized his voice had risen to a decibel just below yelling. At the moment, he was unable to even pretend to feel bad about it.

  The other side of the line went silent for several long seconds before Sargus sighed long and loud. “Son, I think you need to have a talk with your coach.”

  “I think I do. He’ll straighten this out.”

  Again Sargus paused. “That’s not what I meant.”

  Tyler started to respond, but stopped short. “Meaning?”

  “Son, I think you better give your coach a call. If after you talk to him you still need to talk to me, I’ll tell Helen at the front desk to patch you straight through. Just give her your name, alright?”

  “Um, okay?” Tyler said and signed off the call without another word, a dozen different thoughts running through his mind. Frustrated and confused, he scrolled through his call log, found the athletics office and pressed ‘Send.’

  A familiar voice answered after two rings. “Good morning, OTU Athletics Office.”

  “Hey Mindy, is Coach Valentine in?”

  “Tyler!” Mindy gushed, her mother hen tendencies pulsating through the word. “How are you feeling?”

  Mindy was in her 37th year as receptionist for the athletics office and served as surrogate mother for at least half of the players that came through. She loved doing it and the players loved her for it.

  “I’m...I’m getting there,” Tyler responded, hoping to stem a flood of questions from her. “It’s going to take a while, but I’ll get there. Is Coach V around?”

  The answer was far more confident than Tyler felt, but he wasn’t about to say it.

  Mindy seemed to sense it, but let it pass without comment. “Alright hon, well know I’m thinking about you and praying for you. You come in and see me the second you get back alright?”

  “Yes ma’am, I will.”

  “Alright then, I’ll put you through to Coach V.”

  “Thank you,” Tyler said and waited as the line clicked over and rang twice.

  “Valentine,” a gruff and harried voice responded. It always made Tyler smirk as it couldn’t have been more out of place on Valentine. Medium height, painfully skinny and without a single hair on his head, he was anything but gruff and harried.

  “Coach, it’s Tyler.”

  Valentine paused a split second before saying, “Hey Ty, how’s the leg?”

  “Leg’s fine coach,” Tyler said, his tone relaying that their lack of communication had been noticed, “but that’s not why I’m calling. I talked to a guy named Sargus over at the registrar’s office today and he told me to give you a call.”

  Valentine let out a long sigh, his voice lowering a bit. “I was going to call you this morning Tyler, I swear I was. I was just waiting for it to be a reasonable hour out there in Wyoming.”

  “Well I’m up and here now, so what’s going on?”

  Valentine paused again. “There’s no easy way to say this and I wouldn’t begin to sugarcoat it for you even if I wanted to...And I want you to know I did everything in my power to fight this...”

  “Just tell me what’s going on,” Tyler snapped, exasperation in his voice.

  “Tyler, the board has decided that due to the nature and severity of your injury, they are rescinding your scholarship.”

  Every bit of the wind sucked out of the room. Sweat again beaded on Tyler’s forehead as he tried to suck in a deep breath of air. “They, what?”

  “The overseers felt that since there’s no way you’ll ever play football again, those funds should be kept with the team, used to bring in another freshman with this year’s class.”

  Tyler continued gulping in deep breaths. “Coach, you know my family’s situation. Without that scholarship, there’s no chance in hell I can finish my degree.”

  “I know Tyler, and I’m very sorry about that, but there’s nothing I can do. It was out of my hands.”

  Hot tears formed along the underside of Tyler’s eyes as he continued trying to catch his breath. After several minutes Coach Valentine asked, “Tyler? You alright?”

  “I gotta go,” Tyler whispered. He signed off the call and flung the phone across the room, the small projectile skittering on the kitchen floor.

  Bitter tears leaked down onto his cheeks, but Tyler ignored them as he rose from the wheelchair and hopped out through the backdoor and onto the patio. His bare foot registered the cold concrete beneath him as he moved across it to the old stump in the back yard they used as a chopping block.

  An ax handle protruded straight up from the stump, the head buried deep into the ash wood. Tyler dug the head free with his right hand and hefted the ax high above his head, smashing it back down into the stump. Using the handle for balance, he hopped several times to keep himself upright before jerking the ax free and swinging it overhead again.

  And again.

  Each time the blade hit the wood he screamed, his voice carrying out through the crisp morning air. On the fourth swing he mustered every bit of strength he had and drove the ax head clear to the hilt, the momentum throwing him off balance. For a moment he hung suspended in the air before crashing flat onto his back, the air driven from his lungs.

  Upon landing, Tyler made no attempt to get up. Not even an attempt to move. Instead he just laid there, bitter tears spilling sidew
ays down his face, silently cursing everyone and everything he could think of.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Most days, Margie worked through her lunch hour without thinking twice. She’d eat a sandwich one-bite-every-few-minutes style while running the forklift, using the downtime to make sure the next few loads were ready and waiting when the crew got back on. If she already had the conveyors stacked high, she’d jump on the Bobcat and scoop sawdust or maybe even grab a broom.

  It was a lumber yard, Lord knows there’s always something to be done.

  For whatever reason, when lunch rolled around she had the feeling she should go home and check on Tyler. All morning she’d been trying to shake an empty feeling deep within her stomach, a persistent dread that had started to churn within her. Something was not right, even if she had no idea what.

  The moment the lunchtime whistle sounded, she scurried to her truck and made the short drive home, white-knuckling the steering wheel the entire way. She pulled up to the house at half-past eleven to find all the windows dark, not a sign of life anywhere. Leaving the truck parked at a diagonal on the lawn, she burst through the front door and tossed her gaze from side to side.

  “Tyler?” she called a handful of times, each one going unanswered. She pushed through the living room and into the kitchen, coming to a complete stop as she saw the wheelchair sitting empty by the door, Tyler’s cell-phone on the floor beside it.

  “Oh sweet Jesus, no,” she whispered, a band of sweat creasing her brow. She stood rooted in place, unable to move, for several long moments before taking off with renewed vigor, searching every room.

  Starting in the bathroom and moving to the bedrooms, she moved through the small house in record time, throwing open doors and calling for her son as she went. When there was no sign of him, she went to the kitchen and grabbed up the phone, her finger poised to dial the local sheriff.

  Before it got to the number pad of the phone, Margie stared out the window above the sink. She lowered the phone back to the counter and leaned forward, praying her eyes were deceiving her.