by BILL BARTON
"Did you kill him?" Dewayne asked as Hathaway drove him away from his nightmare.
"He's locked up with his buddies in a prison in Costa Rica;" Hathaway said.
"His buddies?"
"Rogan was building a drug ring with a gang out of LA and local suppliers. It was a major bust."
Dewayne was silent for a while, listening to the vehicles whiz past them headed for the hospital in hopes of capturing images and recording words of a man just resurrected. But he felt like Lazarus when Jesus had brought him back from the dead. He was just going to have to go through the whole process of dying all over again, and for Dewayne it would be sooner rather than later.
"Was he hurt? Did he get shot, bleed, get bruised, anything?" Dewayne asked.
"None of the above, unfortunately."
"That's not good enough," Dewayne said.
"I understand what you're feeling;" Hathaway said.
"I don't believe you do," Dewayne said, and Hathaway conceded the point with a nod. "He needs to die:"
"He'll get his chance once we get him back here. It will take some time to work through the extradition process with Costa Rica, but-"
"In the meantime he just sits in a cell with his homeboys"
"Trust me, the place you've been in is like a Ritz-Carlton compared to the prison system in Costa Rica"
"Still not good enough;" Dewayne said, and he fell silent.
Hathaway knew he was fighting a losing battle trying to satisfy Dewayne's desire for revenge. He decided it was best to let Dewayne rest as they covered the miles back toward Houston.
Once they were back in civilization, Hathaway pulled into an alley behind a deserted strip mall and helped Dewayne out of his car. Dewayne put his arms on Hathaway's shoulders as much for support as a show of affection.
"What can I do for you?" Dewayne asked.
Hathaway looked over at Jake, who sat in his car waiting for the two men to say farewell. Jake nodded for him to answer Dewayne's question.
"See you play in a Stars game one day" was the first thing that came to Hathaway's mind for some unexplainable reason.
"Don't know if I can pull that one off."
"I'm counting on it," Hathaway said, and he helped Dewayne get into Jake's car.
"I can never repay you" Dewayne extended his hand to Hathaway one last time through the window of the car. "In another life I'd like to get to know you."
Hathaway squeezed Dewayne's hand. "I hope we get that chance"
"One good thing I can see in all this," Dewayne said, pull ing his hand back inside the car. "At least I can die a free man. Things are looking up."
As Jake eased the car back onto the street, Hathaway looked at his watch. He had no idea what he would do with the rest of his day.
Jake nudged Dewayne awake when they arrived. He was opposed to the idea, but Dewayne insisted. Dewayne gave Jake directions and then fell asleep, exhausted by the dramatic turn of events. He hoped Rosella had not remembered to tell the Realtor about the key in a glass jar underneath the back deck. The FOR SALE sign was in the front yard, but given the circumstances, the house had not seen much activity. The two men sat in the front seat staring at the house, a house very much like every other house in this upscale neighborhood, and the exterior did not reveal in any way the horrible crimes that had occurred inside its structure.
Dewayne had never owned anything in his life until he and Rosella bought this house, their first home together, the first home for his first child, the home that had sheltered his niece and nephew from the cruelties of the outside world. But the outside world had wormed its way inside, turned malevolent, and he had done nothing to stop it.
He had been such a blind fool. He had opened the front door to his home, opened his heart, to the outside world, and it had turned on him with a viciousness he never could have imagined. No security system could have alerted him to the danger. Even God, who was supposed to have parted the Red Sea and raised his Son from the dead, could not or did not prevent the outside world from acting out this bloody micro-apocalypse inside his home, inside his heart. And what about his son? Why was there no power to raise him from the dead? God was on the opposite side of the universe, silent, and dare he believe it, pitiless.
"One last walk-through and then we can leave," Dewayne said.
Once it was no longer a crime scene, professional cleaners had come in the house, scrubbed away the aftereffects of the crimes, and restored order. Dewayne limped from room to room, using an umbrella as a cane for support. It was just as he remembered it a few minutes ago, a few hours ago, a few centuries ago.
He climbed the stairs, praying that one day his wife, his niece and nephew, would no longer blame him. He went into Robert Dewayne Jobe III's room and picked up little Robert's pillow off the bed and brought it to his face. It still smelled of the wonderful combination of a baby's life, but it was the faint whiff of Rosella's favorite perfume that brought him to his knees, bellowing like a mortally wounded beast, for he knew she had performed this same ritual. No more laughter. No more tears of a child demanding his father's attention. No more cooing and gibberish. No more son.
He prayed his son, his only son, did not blame him. He prayed God did not blame him, for he blamed himself. He blamed himself for all that had happened. He blamed himself for every wicked act ever done in the world now and forever. He blamed himself for God turning his back on him, for forsaking him, and the pit of his gut did not go deep enough to contain all the torment blistering inside his soul. It rose, expelled a glut of grief, and pierced his heart again in vindictive strikes of lightning.
He crumbled to the floor, and his soaked eyes caught sight of a blue teddy bear lying beneath the bed. He had brought it home for Robert from one of his trips. He reached out and drew it to him, pressing it against his heaving chest.
Jake backed his car out of the driveway and drove along the avenue past the homes of happy families in the midst of their routines. Dewayne tried to think of routines. What was the routine of his family before all hell had broken loose? What were those mundane activities that are established early in the life of a family, giving them definition and character and certitude? He could not remember as he ran his finger over the furry eyes and ears of the teddy bear, hoping for recall.
"How much money have you got, Jake?" he asked.
"I've got some savings, should be enough to get us through, buy your medicines. The hospital gave us enough pills for a few weeks till we set something up back home'
"You got enough money to get us to Costa Rica?"
Jake came to a stop sign. Turning east would head them in the direction of Mississippi. West would take them to the airport.
"Just a slight detour is all I'm talking about;" Dewayne said.
"Don't you think the law should have time to run its course?" Jake asked.
"It's time I don't have, and I don't trust the system to do the right thing."
"What is the right thing, Dewayne?"
"I'm dying, Jake. Why am I dying and Tyler Rogan is living? Is that the right thing? Is there justice in that? So drug me up, Jake, and let's go kill him'
A car pulled up behind them and the driver blew the horn. Jake rolled down his window and waved the vehicle around. In Springdale, most people would have stopped to ask if they needed assistance when they passed. Houston was not Springdale.
"Killing is what he deserves, but given your condition, I'm afraid I'd be the one to have to do it, which I wouldn't mind. It might drive me back to the bottle, which some days I wouldn't mind either, but I'm kind of getting used to being sober. I might enjoy it again if I can keep my wits about me and can stay with it, but I need you to help me do that ... help me keep my wits about me"
Dewayne's large hands gripped the teddy bear. "Drive;" he said, and Jake eased the car onto the highway.
Dewayne did not want to go home until he had paid a visit to his mother. Jake helped him out of the car, and they ambled along the path in a predawn shroud of m
ist until they came upon the modest headstone with Cherie Jobe's name inscribed upon it. She lay next to her husband of less than one year.
"I didn't know what you might want to say, so I just put her name and dates," Jake said. "There's plenty of room to write something if you want"
"Thank you, Jake," Dewayne said, and he knelt beside the headstone and began a slow, easy polish across the granite top with his fingers.
The memories of his mother began to rise and dissolve at random. There was so much to remember, and he straggled behind each image flash, unable to convince it to remain. He wanted to soak each memory of its emotional warmth, but the scenes would not cooperate. The reminiscences insisted on teasing him, taking advantage of his dull wits made slow by the exhaustion of grief, and disappeared unrepentant of their sting to his heart.
"It's done, Mama. I'm a free man, and God forgive me, I'm so sorry ... sorry." Dewayne held his breath every few words as though he were underwater and releasing just enough air to say a few more.
"You don't have to do this all at once, son," Jake said, resting a hand on Dewayne's shoulder.
It was as if Jake had been able to see the jumble in Dewayne's head and gave him permission to release the sorrow reserved for his mother.
Dewayne would die in his home in Springdale. He had taken nothing with him from the house in Houston except his son's blue teddy bear and a couple of suitcases of clothes; everything else was meaningless possessions.
Before he left Houston, he had made one phone call: to Coach Gyra. He told him his plans and wished him well before the preseason began. Dewayne was still under contract, and Gyra stated without reservation that he wanted him back. Gyra believed Dewayne's presence with the Stars would be a real inspiration to the team. Dewayne appreciated the sentiment but did not think his teammates seeing him in a wheelchair, his body plugged into IVs and looking scrawny as a starving dog, would be much inspiration. Neither man mentioned what both were thinking ... Dewayne's time on this earth was ending. Before signing off, Gyra told Dewayne that the Stars' insurance would cover all medical expenses as long as needed.
"There shouldn't be much required from now on," Dewayne said. "I'm refusing further treatment. They'll keep me comfortable, and I've got good help. Thank you for this blessing."
When they entered the front door of Dewayne's childhood home, Jake repeated the story of how he had found Cherie, peaceful and still as though curled up for a nap, so Dewayne might feel another layer of closure. Then Jake carried the bags into his bedroom. Dewayne followed behind him, holding the apron he, Sly, and Jesse had ordered for Cherie and then decorated with their crude paintings of football players. It looked the same as the day Cherie had opened it-no stain or sign of use. The only blemishes of age were the flecks of paint that had crumbled off the picture each young man had painted.
Jake unzipped the suitcases on the bed and opened the top dresser drawer.
"Thanks, Jake. I'll take it from here;" Dewayne said.
"I'll go to the switch box and turn on the power. Need some air circulating;" Jake said. "Then I'll hustle some food from the store and cook us up some breakfast."
"Hang this back up in the kitchen for me, please." Dewayne handed him Cherie's apron. "I don't think she ever used it'
"I don't think that was the intention," Jake said and left the room with the apron.
The room had never changed. Cherie never moved an object except to clean around or under it and then put it back in the exact spot. He shuffled through the room, cradling the teddy bear in his arm, and handled each object. He opened the closet, taking visual inventory of the first eighteen years of his life that had become ancient history in a short time. He set the bear on top of the dresser, gathered a wad of socks and T-shirts from the opened suitcase, and tossed them inside the top drawer, disregarding any order.
He caught a glimpse of a present half the size of the drawer, pulled it out, and sat on the bed. The cheap wrapping paper had faded with age, and the red ribbon tied at the top like a shoelace was disintegrating. He snapped the ribbon off the box with his finger and ripped off the paper. There was a card taped to the top of the box, "To Dewayne, From Coach Hopper." When had he received this gift? He called out to Jake, but he had left for the store.
Dewayne opened the box and removed a tarnished silverplated football mounted on a black wooden stand with an inscription written in Old English just below the frets on the football: "Without adversity you have no character. Without character, you have no hope. Never lose hope. To the best receiver a coach could ever have, Jake Hopper." The date inscribed on the stand was the date of his departure for college. He stuck the box back inside the drawer, and then closed his eyes, trying to remember when he received this gift until the effort exhausted him.
When Dewayne opened his eyes again, he lay curled around the suitcases, smelling bacon and eggs, and listening to Jake whistling. He could not remember the last time he had felt hungry, and his mouth began to flood with moisture. Jake entered the room with a glass of orange juice.
"I didn't want to wake you, but we're almost ready. I figured you hadn't had a decent meal in weeks," he said, handing Dewayne the glass.
Dewayne rubbed his eyes and accepted the glass of cold orange juice. After drinking the juice, he handed the empty glass back to Jake and raised the metal football resting in his lap. At first he thought he might tell him he had just now opened it, but thought better of it.
"I never thanked you for this," Dewayne said.
"It's as true now as it was then ... all of it;" Jake said.
"Sounds like a quote from the Bible," Dewayne said, running a finger over the inscription.
"Don't know, could be. It's a good source of inspiration last I checked '
"Jake ... Coach ... you don't have to do all this, you know," Dewayne said, holding out his arms to include the totality of all Jake was doing.
"Well, there's where you're wrong;" Jake said, and Dewayne looked at him with a puzzled expression. "I'm an old drunk and you're dying. I thought maybe under the circumstances that might make us a good team. We've been pretty well forgotten ... well, I have anyway, but I saw no need for either of us to be alone right now. I confess I need you more than you need me, but we both need hope. I thought maybe if we stuck it out for as long as it takes, we might find us some hope. And if that doesn't convince you, then I have to do it for your mother. I loved her ... can't deny it."
He'd said it at last. After all those years, he had let someone in on his secret.
Dewayne could not help but smile at Jake's uncommon shyness.
"You ever tell her this?" he asked.
"Came close a time or two, but no, my affections were a oneway street. Her love for you and your father was enough."
Both men gave each other a moment of silent grace to contemplate the what-ifs of a relationship between Jake and Cherie, until Jake ended it.
"Come on. I don't want our eggs to get cold."
Their routine was simple: meals, medication, rest, limited physical therapy to maintain some level of strength-late-night walks were the best so as not to attract attention. Since Dewayne had declined further medical treatment, the local Springdale doctors' group was in charge of attending to his overall care; a home health nurse made routine visits to monitor his vitals and make the necessary adjustments to all the medicines. Jake devoted his time to shielding Dewayne from the public, though the hometown folks were not the problem. In fact, they were protective. After several minutes of concentrated praise for Dewayne and anecdotal stories of his football prowess to any and all reporters who had come to Springdale to interview their hometown hero, they would, with the sincerest of smiles, give convoluted directions to a variety of nonexistent locations where Dewayne could be found. They just did not trust the slant these outsiders would give their boy. He was due proper respect and who best to give it to him. Jake handled those persistent few who slipped through the front lines, hoping for a Jobe sighting.
All
of Dewayne's finances would remain frozen in court until after the trial, but Jake had enough funds to provide for their welfare. However, it was rare that Jake went out into the community to shop that he did not return with sacks of donated supplies, and the goodwill and affections of the community. The incomparable citizens of Springdale would allow this football star to live the rest of his life in peace and assure him that in spite of what the world had done to him and how the media had treated him, they would always remember him with kindness and grace.
The honors only a small town can bestow began to flow in during the following weeks. The high school sent Jake home with a letter, informing Dewayne that the team voted to name the football locker room after him and gave him a framed picture of his retired jersey for his wall. The break room at Webb Furniture would also bear the Jobe name. The head librarian and Winston Garfield of the Springdale Leader had loaded Jake down with a mountain of newspaper and magazine articles written about Dewayne's amazing football career that had been assiduously compiled, dating all the way back to his middle school years. The mayor of Springdale sent Jake home with a plastic model of the new road signs reminding residents and informing strangers this city was proud of the Jobe Highway that cut through the heart of town. Even though the number of voices raised to venerate Dewayne was many and their praise began to restore his shattered faith, it was not enough to probe and console the shadowed land of his empty heart.
He stirred when he felt the coolness on his bare skin from the absence of the teddy bear he had tucked into the crook of his arm at the start of the Stars' first preseason game. Jake had gotten him set up in the easy chair in front of the television so they could watch the game. But it was the quiet weeping that had pulled him from the slumber he had fallen into before the first quarter was over. He opened his eyes and saw a woman sitting near him on the floor with her back to him, holding the teddy bear and rocking back and forth. She did not notice Dewayne had awakened. Neither of them noticed that Jake had slipped out the front door without a sound.
