A Life Intercepted

by Charles Martin

  The look on her face told me she did not trust me, nor did she trust men like me, nor men in general, which probably explained why she was doing laundry at this time of night. But she needed clean clothes, and my detergent was her answer. She attempted a smile, set down her daughter, and palmed the hair out of her face. “You sure it’s no trouble?”

  “I’m sure.”

  She gathered her composure. “But only if you let me pay you for it. With money.”

  Sometimes, it’s tough living in a world where we wound each other so deeply. Maybe I was growing more raw. Maybe things were getting to me. Maybe the reality of my life was starting to set in. Maybe my own anger was bubbling back up. I wanted to grab her, hug her, tell her life isn’t supposed to be this way. That things will get better. That I was sorry for whatever had brought her here. And for whoever had done it.

  I set the detergent on the table in front of her. “If you insist, but I’ll never use it all. You’re welcome to whatever you need.”

  She approached the table much like Tux the first time he’d walked into my yard. She nodded, said “Thank you,” and began filling the machines. She then muffled something to her son and sent him over with five dollars.

  He held out his hand. “Mister?”

  I took the money from his hand. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and returned to SportsCenter, the man of the house.

  After she got her kids settled and machines running, she walked over and pointed at a chair. “May I?”

  I scooted over.

  She sat and extended her hand. “Chelsey.” I shook her hand. She attempted a smile. “Sorry for being short. Been a long day.”

  On the screen, the announcer said, “And in NFL news today—” Roddy’s picture flashed onto the screen. “A certain Hall-of-Famer, the great Roderick Penzell, spent some time this week throwing with disgraced quarterback Matthew Rising.” I turned away and tuned it out. “No worries.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Got your hands full.”

  Oblivious to the TV or my picture that filled the screen, she let out a deep breath and something sweet spread across her composure. “Yeah. If my mom had taken me here this time of night, I’d have been sprawled on the floor, kicking, screaming, and letting her know what I thought about it.”

  I laughed. “Me too.”

  “They’re good kids.”

  Behind me, Roddy spoke with reporters. The camera angle accentuated his diamond stud and chiseled jaw. “Yes, I spent time today throwing with the Rocket.”

  My machine finished, and I began quickly folding my clothes and stuffing them in the plastic bag. She probed. “You new around here?”

  I considered lying. “Actually, I grew up here. Just… just moved back.”

  She nodded. “Where’d you go to school?”

  The interviewer pressed Roddy, “Did he express any interest in playing in the NFL?”

  I tried to fold loudly to drown out Roddy. “St. Bernard’s.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “Rich kid.”

  Roddy responded, “He was pretty clear that he had no intention of trying to play professional football.”

  I waved across the interior of the Laundromat and my plastic laundry bag. “Yep. Silver spoon.”

  She laughed. It was a beautiful and easy laugh, and I imagined she’d had to use it a lot to survive this far in life. Having packed my bag, I dropped a T-shirt, and when I knelt to pick it up, I noticed she glanced at my ankle. Above me, the interviewer continued to question Roddy. It was also at this point that I noticed the young boy staring at me. “Roddy, how’d he throw?”

  All three of us watched the screen. The only person in the room not trained on me was Cinderella, who was quietly engrossed in her coloring book. Roddy smiled that ten-million-dollar smile. “He threw well.”

  Reporters fired multiple questions at Roddy about my arm strength, release, speed, velocity, my perceived level of fitness. One reporter simply asked, “Does he still have it?”

  Roddy paused. Thoughtful. Contemplative. Finally, he looked squarely into the camera. “Yes. Maybe more.”

  The interviewer chuckled, sounded doubtful, and pressed the microphone closer to Roddy’s face. “Come on, Rod, we know you two are friends and you caught his last pass. You’d like to help him now that he’s out, but tell the truth.”

  Roddy stepped forward, staring directly at the reporter. “If he did what he was convicted of doing, he is no friend of mine. He knows that, and I’ve told him so. But—” He turned back to the camera. “Regarding his ability, I’ve played over a decade as a professional football player. He was, and based on what I saw today, still is the best I’ve ever played with or against. Period.”

  Roddy flicked the microphone out of his face and walked off. The announcer regained his composure and said, “There you have it. Matthew Rising, former Heisman trophy winner, first round draft pick, and convicted felon, who just finished serving twelve years of a twenty-year sentence, recently paroled, spent time throwing today with All-Pro receiver Roderick…”

  The woman turned to me, and her face turned white. Quickly, she turned to her daughter and held out her hand. “Sweetie, come here.”

  “But, Mama, I’m—”

  She snapped her fingers. “Get over here right now.”

  “But—” The woman stood and scooped Cinderella off her feet, hanging her on one hip.

  Time to go. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked out. I buckled my helmet, started the bike, and was easing off on the clutch when the boy walked out. The football was tucked under his arm. He was holding a ball-point pen and a page torn from his sister’s coloring book. “Mister?”

  I turned off the bike. The mother stood at the door, ready to pounce, the daughter shielded behind her. The look on her face was not one of approval.

  I took off the helmet. “Yes, son.”

  He extended the paper. “Did you really win the Heisman?”

  I glanced at the mom, who was shaking her head. Then back at the boy. The mother took a step closer, then stopped. I looked down at the boy. “No, son. I didn’t.”

  He pointed at the screen. “But—”

  “We just look alike. That’s all.”

  The mother exhaled and tilted her head back slightly. The boy said, “Oh. Okay.”

  He turned to go.

  My voice stopped him. “But—” The mother’s laser-beam focus returned to me. “That man was once a kid just like you. With a ball beneath his arm. He was probably about your—” I sized him up. “How old are you?”

  “Ten.”

  “Well, I think you’re maybe a bit bigger than he was. You keep growing and you could make one pretty good quarterback.”

  He smiled, tossed the ball, and said, “I know. That’s what my mama says.”

  I looked at the mother, then back at the boy. “Well, you listen to her. She may be right.”

  When I got three blocks down the street, I had to stop. Couldn’t see.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I walked into my cabin and stood in the shower a long time, letting the hot water rain down my neck. I stepped out and was toweling off my hair when I heard, “Hello, Matthew.” The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I pulled the towel off my head and found Ginger standing in the corner.

  This was not unexpected.

  She was wearing a long trench coat. High heels. Makeup. Life had been kind to her, as had her plastic surgeon, and to say she was beautiful and attractive would have been an understatement. “Hi.” She sauntered around me while not necessarily toward me. She did this while unbuckling her trench coat.

  I wrapped my towel around me and felt my fists tighten. She circled closer, tracing my shoulders with her index finger. When she got in front of me, she walked off a step or two, her back to me, then turned, facing me and slowly let the coat slide off her shoulders, hips, and calves.

  I guess I don’t need to paint you a picture.

  Her voice dripped. “Miss me?”

 
I didn’t want her in my cabin. Didn’t want her within three states of me, but I did want to know one thing and I’d been wanting to know it a long time. I tried not to look where she was wanting me to look. Admittedly, I’d been in prison a long time. She continued circling. I’d seen sharks do the same thing on TV. She stood behind me when I spoke, “Why do you hate me?”

  She smiled and traced the lines of my chin with her finger, mindful of how her hair, her body, barely brushed against mine. Her voice was sultry. Inviting. “It didn’t start that way.”

  “What then?”

  She moved back. “You had something I wanted.”

  “What?”

  She stopped in front of me, looking up. Aware of how the light above showered her. Her hand rested on my dripping chest. “You.” She patted my butt and started to circle again. “Your charisma. Others’ allegiance.” She stopped, her eyes locked on mine. “The power you wielded.”

  It didn’t take a dummy to see she was playing me. She’d orchestrated this, and my history with Ginger told me we were just getting warmed up. I didn’t trust her as far as I could throw her, so I kept an eye on her. But that was also problematic in that totally naked Ginger was, well, totally naked. She was also making me dizzy so I stepped off to the side, forcing her to swim in another direction. “Ginger, did it ever occur to you that maybe I was just a kid playing a game? And I happened to love a girl other than you.”

  She nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes.”

  “Then why not sink your teeth in someone else and leave me alone.”

  “Because I blamed you.” Half a smile. “Still do.”

  “For what?”

  She paused, weighing her words. “Things.”

  “Does the irony of your life ever bother you?”

  “Irony?”

  My internal radar sounded like a gong going off in my head. I had two competing emotions. One half wanted to turn and run. Fast. In the other direction. To get as far away from her as possible in the shortest amount of time. The other half wanted to break her in half, hurting her badly. There was also a third emotion, but I was trying desperately not to listen to it. I also had a pretty strong feeling that she knew all of this. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that putting one finger on her would violate the conditions of my parole and land me back in prison. She’d scripted everything about this moment, and it was heavily weighted in her favor. “You’ve made a career, a life, off comforting women who’ve actually been raped when you don’t know the first thing about it.”

  She tried to stuff her reaction but the look on her face told me I’d just dented her armor. I continued, “You’re not really qualified to speak on it.” She recovered quickly. I was in the process of slipping one leg into a pair of jeans when she seized on the opportunity, crossed the floor, stood me upright, and pressed herself against me. “Aren’t you just the least bit interested?” She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Twelve years is a long time.”

  I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I was tempted. I was. The touch of her skin, the softness, the invitation, the warmth of her body pressed to mine. There was a voice inside my head screaming at the top of his lungs, saying, “Dude… you deserve this. Trust me, you’ve earned it. Dive in.” But as intoxicating as all that was, it suffered one major defect. One fault from which it could never recover.

  Ginger’s body could never do for me what Audrey’s love had.

  So while my lustful friend screamed at the top of his lungs, the memory of my precious and magnificent wife stood silently inside my heart. Beckoning. Prison didn’t erase that. Couldn’t.

  Unaware that her spell had been broken, Ginger hung her arms around my neck and kissed me on the cheek. Moist, warm, lipstick lips stemming from a cold heart makes for tepid love. In all her conquering, Ginger failed to realize that Audrey and I had known one another. Shared our love. Our laughter. Our tears. Our best and worst. What Audrey and I had known was far more than just sex. I’m afraid that’s all Ginger had ever known. Ginger had known the act of conquering, while emotively and physically, my wife had offered herself to me, given unselfishly, and pursued me—wanting nothing but my love in return. Despite her best attempts, Ginger with her A-game and her perfectly sculpted body, fueled by an insatiable desire for power, couldn’t compete with that tender girl who’d given me her heart in high school. Ginger had been outclassed and was too dumb to know it.

  I whispered, “Ginger, you don’t hold a candle to my wife.”

  It was only then that I noticed someone standing at the front door. Someone looking in.

  Instinctively, Ginger pressed tighter against me as we turned our heads in unison to find Audrey staring through the glass at the two of us. Disbelief and disgust blanketed Audrey.

  Reality set in. Audrey and I were little more than game pieces, and Ginger was the giant hand moving us around the board.

  Checkmate.

  Ginger smiled—smugly, triumphantly—then separated just slightly, touching the tip of my nose with her finger and whispering, “Who holds the candle now?”

  For the first time in a long time I felt rage. Rage because I knew no matter what I did, Ginger would never be satisfied. Never stop.

  Ever.

  And that meant Audrey would continue to suffer.

  I pulled on my jeans only to look up and find that Audrey had disappeared from the window. When I put an unaffectionate hand on Ginger’s shoulder in an attempt to lead her out of my cabin, the first of her two bodyguards walked through the door.

  Goon number one was freakishly big. He was a tank. He stepped toward me and lifted his hand to wrap it around my neck, but I was in no mood for jousting so I sidestepped him and kicked at his knee. My heel kicked through his ACL, his knee snapped, he crumpled and hit the floor grunting.

  Goon number two was more wiry, quicker. He flew through the air, took me off my feet, and hit me two or three times in the face before my left hook crushed his nose. His face exploded like a balloon, his eyes rolled back and he hit the floor, arms out, stiff, like a cockroach.

  Amused, Ginger pulled on her coat and walked out, stopping just feet from Audrey, who stood paralyzed on the porch surrounded by the shattered pieces of what once made up her soul. Ginger took her time tying the belt of her coat and smoothing the smeared edge of her lipstick with her right index finger. She turned slightly, said, “Audrey,” and walked to her Mercedes parked beneath the trees just beyond the cabin. Cranking the engine, she whistled for her dogs, punched the button that automatically folded the soft top into the trunk, and drove slowly out the drive.

  I stood frozen beneath the shadow of suspicion. Audrey stood in the shadows of the porch, steadying herself with the railing.

  I had just gotten “Audrey, I can—” out of my mouth when she bent at the waist, vomited, and then vomited again. I stepped toward her, but she held out a hand as the dry heaves wrenched her off her feet and sent her to her knees. This continued for several minutes as the veins rose on her neck and Audrey sought to catch her breath. I sat on the porch and hung my head in my hands, listening to Audrey vomit me out of her life. When she finally stood, she reached inside her collar, broke the chain around her neck, and dropped the dove on the porch. Wrapping her arms around her, as if holding herself, she was walking off when I spoke. “Please… let me.”

  She never turned.

  An hour later, I stood staring through her window when Audrey twisted off the cap to the sleeping pills. She didn’t shower, and she didn’t change into her pajamas. She just sat on her bed and stared at the pills a long time. On the bedside table sat a picture of Dee and her following a game. He was sweaty, smiling, she was wearing his jersey, her face was painted, her cheek pressed to his. She stared at it a long time. After several minutes, she poured one, and then a second, and finally a third into her hand. She tossed them into her mouth, drank from a glass of water, and then sat there staring at the bottle. Finally, she lay back and pulled her knees into her chest. No remote. No TV. I didn’t leave
until her shoulders relaxed beneath the sheets and her head fell limp. Only then did the pain in my left hand register. When I looked down, I found the bone broken, pressing up against the underside of the skin, and my hand was swelling pretty good.

  I soaked my hand in ice off and on throughout the night, which brought the swelling down and helped pull out the tenderness. It was pretty good and numb when I set it, but the second time around was easier. Staring at my hand, the acrid taste of anger returned.

  In my mind, Gage’s voice echoed, Tell me… I sunk my hand elbow-deep into the ice, silencing the playback. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I didn’t have much with which to buy Dee a present, but I wanted to give him something that mattered. Something of value. He’d earned it and more. I rode down to the shade barn, pulled what I wanted off the wall, wrapped it in a towel, zipped it into an old duffel, and rode the bike to town. I parked down the street from the grocery and sat wearing my helmet until he walked out the front door, untying his apron. He waved at me, pointed at the van, and mouthed the words, “Follow me.”

  I should have been concerned about eating in a public place, but I found myself caring less and less about the restrictions placed upon my release. A good sign that I needed to take Wood’s advice, pack up, and find a home in another state—several states away. But, to be honest, that didn’t really appeal to me either.

  Only one thing did.

  Dee’s camp started in a week, which meant my commitment to him was winding down. A part of me wanted to stick around and see him play—a strong part—but my presence here was causing Audrey, and me, a lot of pain.

  I had a week to go.

  Dee drove to the courthouse and parked in one of those angled spaces alongside. I glanced at the people mingling around. You’ve got to be kidding me.

  He exited the van, trotted back to me, and pointed to the opposite end of the block and Mama’s Po’ Boys. It was a sidewalk sandwich shop where folks in a hurry bought sandwiches and either ate standing up, on benches in the park, or walking back to work. The smell was intoxicating.