“Okay, maybe just a little while.” Abby could feel her heart speed up, just thinking about other times, better times at Sugar Point. She wanted him to touch her again, but it made things so complicated. It was the only thing they had ever argued about. Abby felt like she was single-handedly holding back the hour hand on the midnight clock, and it was getting harder and harder every time they were together.
The truck shook up a cloud of pasty dust that clung to each blade of brown grass and the curled up leaves that were still hanging on to tenuous branches. The powder always got caught in the throat, forcing a cleansing sneeze, or two, or three.
The old Ford wheezed and steamed a little, creaking to a stop.
“Abby, we have to talk.” Wills’ voice was low as he turned to face her.
“That sounds so serious. Talk about what? I wasn’t really mad at you for getting me all wet at the park, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I want to talk about us, Abby. We have to get things right between us.”
“What about us? I’m happy, you’re happy. Aren’t you happy?”
“I want more, Ab. I want us to be together, close. I want to make love to you, have kids an’ all, build a life together. I don’t want to wait, I can’t stand to wait two more years until you get out of school. Cripes, we’d see each other less than we do now. I mean, I know you want to be a nurse and all, but I want you to be with me real bad. I can’t wait forever, Abby, it’s killing me to keep away from you.” There it was, all blurted out.
“Are you fixin’ to ask me somethin’, Wills Taylor? What are you sayin’ to me?” Abby was staring right through him.
“I’ve done a lot of thinking about this, Abby.” He put his hand in his pocket, reached for her hand and opened up the tiny black hinged box.
“I been saving up for a while now. I bought this for you. I know it’s not real big, but it’s real. Now, will you marry me and come live on the farm?” He was smiling broadly now, the undeniable little boy look was covering his face.
Home was only a few words away, home in Abby’s arms, home to the farm, home to the life he had planned for them.
Abby’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “You bought a diamond ring? For me?” She seemed afraid to touch it.
“Yep. And I already talked to Jasper. He really likes you, you know. We worked it out so you and me could live with him until I build us a proper house, and I’d be a fifty-percent partner right off if I stay there full time. Abby, will you do it? Marry me and come to the farm?”
“And give up school and nursing and all?” Abby’s forehead wrinkled, her voice was higher.
“I guess so, for now maybe, but you wouldn’t need to go if we were together. I’d take care of everything. You could help out on the farm and take care of our babies. I know you love the farm, Abby. I want you to be the mother of our babies, but I want to be married before. What do you say, Ab? Can you see yourself as Mrs. Wilson Taylor?” He squeezed her hands. They were cold.
“Oh, Wills, I want to, but Mama would kill me, and you know it. She’s drilled it into me since I was little. ‘A man can disappear in a flash, and then what’ve you got?’ I mean what if you got in a car accident or there was a war or what if you didn’t love me anymore?”
“None of that’s gonna happen, and you know it. Anyhow, you’d have the farm.”
“No, you’d have the farm. I couldn’t keep up your end if something terrible happened, and then I’d be out on the street or back home with no way of taking care of anything or anybody.”
“Abby!”
“My family has saved for years so I could go to school, and I studied real hard to get good grades. I just can’t stop now so we can make babies on the farm. I want to marry you; I do. Just not now. Can’t we be engaged until I’m out of school?”
Abby watched his face cool like molten lava. It started in his eyes and moved down to his cheeks, his chin, until his whole body seemed cast in stone. He was retreating into himself, leaving her there alone.
“So that’s it then. I don’t mean enough to you to change your plans?” Wills’ jaw stiffened, and a scowl formed on his brow.
“How can you say that’s it then? What about you? Can’t you wait for me? Can’t we keep it the way it is for a while longer? I thought you loved me? Going all the way is all you want, and a ring is your way of getting it, is that it? Well is it?” she screamed at him.
Wills’ shoulders slumped over the wheel. It was as if he couldn’t hear her. Abby felt the rejection as sure as if he had slapped her face. He was shutting her out. Hurt, anger and frustration welled up inside Abby with the force of a hurricane.
“Well, that’s just fine then, you’re right! That’s it. Take me home right now.” He didn’t respond. She kicked him with her foot. “Did you hear me? I want to go home...now!”
Abby was so mad she couldn’t cry. She bit her lip and moved as far away from him as possible, waiting for the moment when she could tell him to go to hell and slam the door in his face. If she could have, she would have walked home.
They drove back to her house in silence. The line had been drawn, and neither of them moved to erase it. It was midnight when he pulled up to the curb.
The next evening, Jasper watched Wills throw hay over his shoulder, as though he was possessed. The old farmer’s ratty, red handkerchief was within easy reach. He pulled it from the pocket of his faded coveralls and wiped the sweat and hay dust from his leathery face.
“Hey there, Wills.” He shouted up at his partner from the floor below. “I want to talk to you about this thing with Abby.”
“Nothin’ to talk about. It’s over. Toss up the twine, will ya?”
Jasper rummaged around, found the twine and obliged his partner. “Ya see, I was married forty-one years to a mighty fine woman. They’s damn hard to come by, boy. Trust me. It ain’t right about you and Abby, and you know it. If you give her up now, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. She’s too far under your skin; I kin see it plain as day. Now get off your high horse and find a way to make it work.”
Wills stopped working and stared down at the old man.
“Jasper, if we’re gonna be partners, we gotta get one thing straight. I won’t tell you what to do with your women, and you won’t tell me what to do with mine. Fair enough?”
“My women? Ha. Okay, fair enough. But I’m tellin’ you one last time, and then I’ll keep my trap shut. You’re making one hell of a damn mistake, and I hope you wake up before that filly leaves the barn for good. ‘Nuf said. See you for supper.”
Jasper shuffled out of the barn, picking up fresh eggs on his way and shaking his head. “Stubborn as a mule, that boy,” he muttered to himself. “Damn.”
Wills collapsed on the hay, groaned like an injured bear, and slammed his fist into the rough pine floor over and over until his knuckles were raw and bleeding. Physical pain was preferable to this unseen fiery wound. He knew his old friend was right; he just couldn’t see how to fix it. The man-boy ached for her; it was a hunger that couldn’t be satisfied. He stood up, looked at his wretched hands, and descended the ladder. Some good, ol’ sour mash would take the pain away for a while.
That night, Wills dreamed wild, disjointed illusions. He saw Abby drowning in a lake somewhere. There were tall mountains. She was choking, screaming for him. “Wills...Wills..!” It was his name! He tried to reach her, scraping and crawling, but he couldn’t speak. She didn’t even know he was trying to reach her. Her screams woke him suddenly. He was drenched and shaking. He had to throw up. The sour mash hit its mark. “Goddam it, Abby. Why did you do this to me?” Wills gagged and heaved until there was nothing left inside.
CHAPTER 18
The sweet smell of bourbon filled the air. There was no mistaking the energy that rose from the masses, rising to crescendo, building and building until the faceless throng literally vibrated. Thousands of crushed-together fans dripped with lust for the win. Every play was replayed by the spectato
rs who jumped at every opportunity, madly waving their fists and arms, swaying to the right and to the left like an undulating snake. Abby and Emmy had to move with the crowd or be crushed by them.
Zach Trudeau, a senior, was the tallest quarterback in the conference, and some folks said his arm was actually insured by his daddy, the oil baron from Hammond, strawberry capital of the world.
The game was nearly over, but no one left their seats. Tension grew geometrically as they waited for the official’s whistle signaling for play to begin. There were fifty-four seconds left on the clock, and LSU was down 17-21. It was the last time they would have the ball. But anything can happen in fifty-four seconds.
Alabama’s defense expected a pass, the ‘Hail Mary’ variety. What else could the home team do from their own forty-eight yard line? The crowd grew strangely silent. The sideline was calm, too calm. Something was up, but what? The defense lined up for a forward pass, and the offense let it stand.
Offsides. Penalty, Alabama. Ten ticks of the clock later and five yards closer, LSU’s star senior quarterback nodded to his coach, signaled his team, grabbed his crotch, and stood, large hands steady, waiting to receive from the center. Action. He lobbed a picture-perfect lateral left pass to the fullback and ran ahead as the action converged on the ball carrier.
He stopped for a split second and waited for the well-calculated miracle to happen. It did. He caught the reverse lateral, shooting forward through the eye of the needle with most of the defense going left—in the wrong direction after the wrong man. When they understood, a throng of frothing defensemen converged on his flank, the fastest of them running for their lives and Zachary Trudeau’s jersey, or any body part that might fall free.
His head was down as he careened forward; his arms clung to the leather trophy like it was gold. He evaded two tackles by sidestepping and sprinting a lightning fast forty-yard dash just beyond the wave of the Crimson Tide. Seven angry and desperate thugs were chasing one fast Tiger. He ran more like a gazelle, never looking back, his eyes totally focused on the uprights and that narrow patch of grass beyond the last smudged white line.
They were grunting behind him, the grassy turf ripping under the ravage of their lethal cleats. He could smell the sweat. Zach’s own heart began to drown them out. In the last ten yards all he could hear was the pounding in his ears and the echo from the sold out crowd. GOOOOOOOOO!
The roar was deafening. A giant mass, delirious fans were on their feet, yelling GO ZACH... GO ZACH...GO ZACH...GO. Zach Trudeau would have to win it in the end zone or permit the disgrace of a loss. There was no greater high, no turning back. They fed him more and more of the drug of success as they went crazy screaming ZT... ZT...ZT.
If anyone could handle the pressure, it was Zach. They called it the “Zach Attack,” a quarterback who could run, twist, turn, keep his head. He’d brought them so far, a winning streak since last year of ten games without a loss, a streak everybody but Alabama could taste. And the more they got, the more they wanted.
He felt the tug, shook and jumped. Only five yards to home. He was on the way down, the grass laughing at him, pulling him by the roots. Inches. The home team’s number 88 flew through the air, growling, spitting. Zach forced his right foot into the soil as hard as he could, and leaped in the air dragging his attacker with him. Together they hit the ground in a painful crack, tangled in a heap of flesh and jerseys. The crowd was silent for a split second, not knowing the outcome. Did he make it? Was he hurt? There were tears, people wet their underwear from jumping and screaming, and then, suddenly there was calm, fear of disappointment rippled through the anxious masses.
Black and white-striped shirts unwrapped the two bodies on the ground. Zach didn’t move. He was curled around his prize. A tremor filled the stadium. The reaction might have been the same at a public funeral.
Four arms, the same striped arms rose in the air. Touchdown! 23-21. Behind the mask, under the painted, snarling cat, Zach Trudeau smiled. He jumped up, limping slightly and lifted his trophy high in the air to the frenzied home crowd. The whole stadium rocked as though a mild earthquake had passed through.
It was time for celebration. Well-heeled alumni were pouring out of their box seats for various postgame glows, the band was playing When the Saints Come Marching In, and the cheerleaders were bouncing to the music with their pom-poms, bobby socks and pigtails.
Abby just watched the show, her cheeks flushed with the excitement and her voice hoarse from screaming with the crowd. She and Emmy edged their way down the steep steps, hanging on to each other in a desperate attempt to keep their balance. They were almost at the bottom when Emmy looked up and stopped cold.
“Cripes, don’t stop now! What are you doing, Em?” Abby asked.
“Look,” Emmy said as she pointed to their right.
“Look at what?” And then she saw him. Wills was standing with his arm around a girl, a very pretty girl. Abby’s stomach lurched, and her knees began to give way. People were pushing by her as Emmy grabbed her arm. He looked up just in time to meet Abby’s stricken eyes. She looked away.
“I want to get out of here,” Abby hissed at Emmy. “Now!”
“Don’t go jumping to conclusions, Ab. She could be a friend or a relative or somebody,” Emmy said.
“Now, Emmy, let’s go!”
“Okay, okay. We’re going. Does this mean you’ll go to the frat party after all?”
“Yeah, good idea. I don’t need him. To hell with him!” Abby pulled in her bottom lip and bit it until it bled; her anger barely camouflaged the hurt that left her feeling raw.
Football players were not Abby’s type. It seemed clear they majored in three things— football, drinking and sex, all spectator sports for Abby. Tonight there was a party. Tonight she would go. She called the boy who’d been bugging her all week and accepted his offer.
Tommy Hall was in Abby’s chem class. They were lab partners, and he had asked her out at least four times. Tommy hated it that Abby was smarter, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to reach first base. She didn’t seem to realize how pretty she was, which made her all the more desirable. He was a baseball player, but he got along fine with the majority of his brothers on the football team, including his roommate. They both came from Old South families with Old South points of view. It made for harmony in their room.
He came by her house at seven-thirty sharp, just like he said he would, and behaved like a gentleman, introducing himself and promising to get her home by midnight.
Beta House rose up from the grassy knoll overlooking University Lake. The house was a mansion befitting the most important young men on campus—the jocks. They walked up the wide brick steps to an enormous veranda supported by massive columns and guarded by growling granite lions. They seemed more dangerous than Mike the Tiger, who paced safely behind the bars of his elaborate cage outside Tiger Stadium.
Beta housed forty boys and the house parents on three stories. Abby’s mouth dropped open as they entered the foyer. Thick, hand-carved wood railings led to the next floor; oil paintings of illustrious Beta alumni hung on all the walls, as did several composites of recent members. The ballroom was on the left. A huge living room littered with worn leather couches and chairs was on the right.
Abby and Tommy walked into the ballroom, converted for the evening into a dance floor and bar. The ceilings were at least fifteen feet tall, and the walls were paneled with rich, dark walnut. Tables full of food and liquor filled out the rear area. At least fifty people had poured in the front doors ahead of them. Some were wandering the veranda; the rest were inside waiting for the band to start, passing the time with mugs of beer and vodka punch.
There was an enormous purple punch bowl in the center of the biggest table, and a dozen or so Betas and their dates were hovering over it. Abby was fascinated by the grandeur and fixings. She was glad she came, a nice change of pace.
And then she saw him.
Standing behind the punch bowl, with a beer in his
hand and at least three girls vying for his attention was easily one of the best-looking guys she had ever seen. He belonged on a magazine cover. That’s where she’d seen him, on the football program, holding his helmet, smiling so broadly that it looked like he’d jump off the page. His eyes were so light; she remembered thinking they looked almost haunted. He looked up when Tommy and Abby approached. He saw her and smiled the kind of hypnotizing smile that made girls want to rip off their dresses and wait to be noticed.
“Hey, Zach. What’s up? Where’s your date?” Tommy asked the towering quarterback.
“Who we got here, Tommy boy? I don’t remember ever seeing you before?” He looked directly at Abby.
“Oh, yeah. This here’s Abby O’Malley. You remember, chem class?”
“Finally said yes, huh?” Zach had, in less time than it takes to blink, sized her up.
Abby didn’t know what to say. She could feel the heat of his stare, feel him next to her skin melting the clothes off her body. He scared her a little. Suddenly, she felt very self-conscious; blood rose up her neck to her ears until she was sure she would glow in the dark. She hated that her feelings were always so visible.
“Say, Tommy, gonna let me dance with the little lady once tonight?” Zach was eager to taste a new conquest; virginal territory always excited him. He was willing to bet a touchdown that she was still waiting for that big moment. She wasn’t his type—too short and not a brunette— but her eyes intrigued him and her well-scrubbed Irish good looks were appealing. While most girls wore their hair teased and sticky, hers glowed like a candle flame, going on forever down her back.
Zach’s roommate hesitated. The choices he was weighing were easily read on his face—risk his date to Casanova or risk losing part of his face.
“Well, sure, Zach, as long as it’s an even trade. After all, we are brothers.” Tommy winked.
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