The Choice

by Robert Whitlow

  Dressler smiled. “I like the sound of that. Bruce can flat read a defense and find a crease. Lonny, on the other hand—”

  “Can create havoc in the blocking scheme even if he doesn’t get to the ball carrier. That enables Scott Nash to come in from his middle linebacker position and clean up the play.”

  Dressler swore under his breath. “Sandy, you are all over it.”

  “I’ve been watching Rutland County football games for over thirty years,” she said. “You can’t help but pick up a bit of knowledge by osmosis.”

  More girls entered the restaurant. Within a few minutes, the entire team had arrived. They stood in a large circle, and Sandy called on Meredith to offer a prayer for the meal. When she said “Amen,” the room erupted in noisy chatter as the girls made their way around the salad bar. Sandy sat at a table with Alita and another Hispanic girl.

  “How do you feel about the routine?” Sandy asked Alita.

  “I’m nervous. I don’t want to mess up.”

  “You won’t. You were perfect during practice yesterday.”

  “Not really. You weren’t watching one time, and I got out of sync. Cindy cornered me later and told me if I wasn’t going to nail it, I shouldn’t be front and center.”

  Sandy glanced over at Cindy Garrett, a smug, talented junior who expected to be named captain the following year. However, if she didn’t improve her ability to encourage, not criticize, that wouldn’t happen. Sandy leaned closer to Alita.

  “Let’s talk you through it.”

  Alita listened and nodded her head as Sandy began to give a step-by-step summary of the routine.

  “I need to remember to really arch my back at that part,” Alita said. “That sets me up for the next move.”

  “Right. Remember to be as beautiful as you are strong.”

  “The word is out among the Hispanic students at school that Alita has a big role tonight,” the other Hispanic girl said. “Everyone is going to be watching and yelling as soon as she starts.”

  “Then feed off that energy,” Sandy said. “It makes me have chill bumps just thinking about it.”

  Sandy always asked one of the girls to prepare a brief talk for the group. Most of the students hated it. Some came up with creative excuses to try to get out of it, but Sandy wouldn’t budge. She knew public speaking was a fear that had to be faced head-on.

  “Candace, please come up,” Sandy said. “We’re ready to hear from you.”

  The slender black girl walked to a wooden podium and faced her peers. Taking out a sheet of paper, she cleared her throat and began speaking in Spanish. Sandy’s mouth dropped open. Candace’s Spanish accent had a north Georgia lilt, but her meaning was clear to those who had taken Spanish III. She was celebrating the participation of the Hispanic girls on the cheerleading squad. Sandy, who was sitting at the front of the room, turned her chair to the side so she could see the reaction of the team. Those who didn’t speak Spanish had puzzled looks on their faces. Two of the Hispanic girls were wiping away tears. Cindy Garrett looked pale. After three minutes, Candace stopped and repeated her message in English with a few additional lines thrown in at the end.

  “I appreciate what Ms. Lincoln has taught us about accepting people from other cultures and encouraging them. The cheerleading squad is a team, not just a group of individuals, and I think what we’ve experienced together is something I’m going to carry with me the rest of my life. Oh, and Coach Lincoln didn’t ask me to talk about this. Now, let’s go out and do our part to beat Butler County!”

  The Hispanic and black girls stood and clapped as Candace left the podium. When they stood up, the rest of the squad followed. Sandy smiled. It was a statement that needed to be made, and Candace was qualified to make it. Sandy went up to the podium. She resisted the urge to emphasize Candace’s remarks. Instead, she went through a few housekeeping details. When she finished, the girls gathered in a circle, put their hands in the middle, and yelled, “RHS!”

  They drove in a caravan to the football stadium. The bleachers on the home side could accommodate almost two thousand people, and the stands would be full. Football on Friday night trumped everything except weddings and funerals. The visitor’s side could hold about five hundred fans. Because Butler County was having a good year, a lot of people would make the hour-long drive to Rutland for the game.

  The home team was at the far end of the field going through their pregame drills. Rutland High’s squad had been mediocre for years, but Sandy didn’t blame the coaching. Some of the best athletes at the school opted to play soccer, and the soccer team was always at the top of the conference.

  As she watched the players loosen up, Sandy wondered what sports Jeremy Lane had played in school. The lawyer had a compact muscular build. She felt a pang of loss that she’d never seen him in action.

  Sandy placed a folding chair on the track surface in front of where the girls would line up. The cheerleaders were still in the girls’ locker room using every spare second to fine-tune makeup that couldn’t be seen beyond the first few rows of the bleachers. Elementary-school-age children ran up and down the track, chasing one another and playing catch with miniature footballs. More and more people began filing into the stadium. Several people stopped to chat with Sandy on the way to their seats.

  One couple that came over to her was Barb and Bob Dortch. Two of their daughters had been on the varsity cheerleading squad. The girls were grown and gone from Rutland, but the Dortchs still came to all the home football games. Bob owned a local car dealership. Barb was wearing a sweater identical to Sandy’s.

  “Don’t tell me where you got that!” Barb laughed, holding her sleeve next to Sandy’s arm. “Just don’t say you bought it on sale. I paid full price at Neal’s.”

  “John Neal doubled his money with us,” Sandy replied. “But it looks better on you than it does on me.”

  “Shut up,” Barb replied. “What do you think, Bob?”

  Bob Dortch, a blond-haired man with a slightly red face, pretended to inspect them.

  “Both of you look better than ninety percent of the women in their thirties coming to this game.”

  Barb patted her husband on the arm.

  “You can have peanuts and popcorn during the game.”

  Sandy suddenly had a thought.

  “Bob, do you rent cars?”

  “I sure do. I can put you in a sweet lease. The trade-in on your car would cover the down payment, and I could finagle a great rate.”

  “No, I meant rent a car for a day.”

  “Oh, we have a few loaners for regular customers to the service department.”

  “Could I rent one of those tomorrow? I need to run over to Tryon.”

  Bob hesitated. “Saturday is a very busy time for service. I’m not sure—”

  Barb punched him in the arm. “Honey, let her drive one of the demos you keep complaining about. You told me at supper that you have four or five of them sitting on the lot begging for someone to take them off your hands.”

  “It would only be for part of a day,” Sandy said. “I’d be glad to pay whatever you think is fair as a daily rate.”

  “Fair is nothing,” Barb said emphatically before her husband could speak. “I can’t count the number of times you brought the girls home from practice when Bob and I were working late at the dealership. And you’d never let me pay you a penny.”

  “She’s right,” Bob said. “Come by anytime after seven-thirty in the morning, and I’ll set you up. Putting another fifty miles on one of those vehicles isn’t going to affect the value.”

  “Are you sure?” Sandy asked.

  “He’s sure,” Barb answered. “Come on, Bob. What do you want first, popcorn or peanuts? I’m buying, with your money, of course.”

  Sandy watched the Dortchs move toward the concession stand. It had been a spur-of-the-moment idea. Jeremy had seen Sandy’s car when she took Maria to his office, and if she wanted to catch a glimpse of her grandchildren, she’d need another
vehicle to do so. She felt a mixture of fear and excitement. She looked toward the south end zone as the cheerleading squad came onto the field holding a giant paper banner. A few seconds later, the football team came tearing through it.

  It proved to be a long night for fans of Rutland High football. The running back from Butler County had the strength of a Hereford bull. On most plays it took three defenders to bring him down. On the bright side, Bruce Lowell caught a touchdown pass in the fourth quarter, but that only made the score 48–12.

  The cheerleaders’ performance went off without a hitch. Because the game was so lousy, the fans gave the girls their undivided attention. Alita popped off her part of the routine perfectly, and the Hispanic contingent in the stands went wild. Sandy rewarded her with a big smile and hand clap. Toward the end of the fourth quarter, Candace trotted over to Sandy.

  “Some of us are going to Pizza Town after the game. Would like to come along?”

  “Sure.”

  Sandy told Ben and Betsy of her plans.

  “We’ll do it again after the Oakboro game,” Ben said. “That should be a celebration. We can always count on Oakboro for a win.”

  The students bounced back from the loss more quickly than the adults. By the time the waitress brought soft drinks to the large round table, the girls were laughing and watching the door for members of the football team to arrive. The boys came in wearing practiced frowns, but in a few minutes they were cutting up and making jokes.

  “Thanks, Ms. Lincoln,” Bruce Lowell said when he came up to the table. “If I hadn’t gotten in some extra speed work this week, I don’t think I could have gotten a step on the Butler County defensive back.”

  “That was the backup DB,” another football player replied. “My brother in eighth grade could have gotten a step on him.”

  “No, number 84 was a starter.”

  “Bruce is right,” Sandy said. “I noticed 84 during the introductions because he was so tall.”

  “He was at least six foot five,” Bruce replied. “And he ran like a Thomson’s gazelle.”

  Bruce moved away.

  “What do you think about Bruce?” Meredith whispered to Sandy. “Do you think he’s phony?”

  “His brain isn’t phony,” Sandy answered. “Are you attracted to him? I thought you liked Billy Wilson.”

  “That didn’t work out,” Meredith said with a shrug. “I told him I just wanted to be friends.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Not too well, but he’ll still want help with chemistry.”

  “Does Bruce know you’re interested in him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s probably not smart enough to figure that out on his own,” Sandy said. “Very few men are able to do that.”

  “I may get Candace to talk to him. They have a couple of classes together. She thinks Bruce is more my type than Billy.”

  Sandy agreed with Candace but didn’t say so. She didn’t stay long at the restaurant. Acceptance of the invitation included a willingness not to overstay her welcome. Several of the girls hugged her when she got up to leave after eating a single piece of pizza. Bruce struck a pose as if catching a pass when she walked by. Sandy laughed. As she unlocked her car, she thought that her life might have been different if Brad Donnelly had been more like Bruce Lowell. A smart, witty football player was the kind of boy Sandy needed. But then she thought about Jeremy Lane—he was the result of a distinct moment in time between two unique people.

  Bad situations can turn out good.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The following morning Sandy arrived at the car dealership shortly after eight o’clock. Bob Dortch was sitting in the glass-walled office he occupied on the showroom floor. He came out to greet her.

  “Could a mechanic change the oil in my car while I’m gone?” she asked.

  “Sure. We’ll run a twenty-one-point inspection.”

  Sandy started to protest but kept her mouth shut. She couldn’t quibble when she was getting a free car.

  “I have a nice ride for you,” Bob said.

  Sandy followed him to the used-car lot on the side of the building.

  “There it is,” he said, pointing to a shiny blue sedan.

  “It looks like my car,” Sandy blurted out.

  “I thought you liked your car,” Bob said, giving her a puzzled look. “At least that’s what you told me when you bought it.”

  “No, it isn’t that,” Sandy replied frantically, trying to find a way to explain her need for a different vehicle. She quickly scanned the lot. “I was hoping to use a pickup truck. You know the big plant nursery in Tryon?”

  “Yeah, Barrett’s.”

  “I may buy some plants to put out in the yard at my house. A truck would be perfect for that.”

  “This time of year?”

  “Fall is a great time to plant certain types of bushes.”

  “Okay,” Bob answered slowly. “Let me show you what I’ve got.”

  They walked to another row of vehicles. Two trucks were parked beside each other, one white, one gray. The white truck had heavily tinted windows.

  “The white one would be perfect,” Sandy said. “I’ll be sure to bring it back clean.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” he said and shrugged. “Wait here, and I’ll get the keys.”

  The truck had been cleaned up, but it’s impossible to wash away the scrapes and dents that are a work truck’s badges of honor.

  “This isn’t a fancy demo,” Bob said when he returned. “And it’s a straight shift.”

  “No problem. I drove a VW Beetle in high school and college. I enjoyed shifting gears.”

  “A Beetle had a more forgiving gearbox. Do you want me to back it out for you?”

  “No, no.”

  Sandy got inside. Bob stepped back. Sandy rolled the window down by turning a handle.

  “I haven’t used one of these in a while,” she said.

  “It’s solid with no frills. Reverse is all the way up on the left.”

  “I got it,” Sandy said.

  She pushed in the clutch, pressed on the gas, and started the engine. The truck roared to life. She quickly lifted her foot from the gas pedal.

  “Strong engine,” she said.

  “Remember. All the way up on the left,” Bob repeated. “Ease it out.”

  Sandy grabbed the shifter in the floorboard and pushed it toward the top left. She slowly let out the clutch. Nothing happened.

  “You have to gun it a little bit to shift it into reverse,” Bob said.

  Sandy revved the engine and pushed the shifter up harder. The gears growled in protest but moved into place.

  “Sorry,” she said, smiling weakly.

  “That’s how it works,” Bob said. “Back it out nice and easy.”

  Sandy gently let out the clutch and softly pressed the gas pedal. The truck shuddered for a moment, then started moving. Sandy turned the steering wheel and backed up. She stopped and moved the shifter into first gear. She leaned her head out the window.

  “Thanks, Bob. Pray for me!”

  “I am,” Bob replied. “And I may call Barb and ask her to pray too. Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Sandy let out the clutch and lurched forward. Bob jumped back. She reached the road in front of the car lot without slowing down and shot out into the street. It was early on Saturday morning, and fortunately the roadway was deserted. She pushed in the clutch and revved the engine as she shifted into second gear. The truck shuddered as the gear engaged. Sandy glanced in the rearview mirror as Bob Dortch, his mouth gaping open, watched her.

  By the time she reached the outskirts of Tryon, Sandy was doing a better job of shifting gears. On the seat was her tote bag. Instead of student papers, lesson plans, and her laptop computer, it contained a camera and a notebook. Upon arriving in Tryon, Sandy stopped at the same convenience store where she’d bought water earl
ier in the week and went inside.

  “Do you have a local phone book?” she asked a female clerk.

  The woman reached under the counter and pulled out a thin, tattered book.

  “You’re welcome to look, but it’s a couple of years old.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sandy opened the book to the page where “Lane” would be found. There were two people in Tryon with the last name Lane. “Ronald Lane” lived on Westerly Way, and “Jeremy Lane” lived on Saxony Lane. Sandy wrote down the street number and returned the phone book to the clerk.

  “How do I get to Saxony Lane?” she asked.

  The clerk gave her a puzzled look. “I have no idea. I moved here from Alabama about six weeks ago.”

  “Okay.”

  Sandy was sure someone at Barrett’s Nursery would be familiar with the area. She pulled into the gravel parking lot. The nursery had a broad selection of bushes, and Sandy selected a pair of dwarf yaupon hollies from the open-air display. She put the plastic pots on a little cart and took them into a barnlike structure. A man in blue overalls was checking out another customer. Sandy waited until he finished and then set her hollies on the counter.

  “Those are nice ones,” the man said. “We just got them in.”

  “I’ve bought plants here before and have always been satisfied,” Sandy replied.

  “You look familiar. I’m Danny Barrett.”

  Sandy started to introduce herself but stopped. She smiled instead.

  “Nice to meet you,” Sandy said. “I need to go to Saxony Lane from here. Can you help me?”

  “Sure. Let me ring these up.”

  Sandy paid in cash. Barrett tore a narrow sheet of paper from a large roll beside the cash register and took a pen from behind his left ear. He sketched a quick map. The route involved several turns.

  “Who are you going to see?” he asked. “I may be able to tell you exactly where to go.”

  Barrett looked directly into Sandy’s eyes. She couldn’t think of a way to gracefully avoid the question.