Good Buddy

by Dori Ann Dupré

  “I guess you’re right,” Molly agreed. “You know…I get it if you feel like I shouldn’t start all the time. Because of favoritism or something.”

  “You’re the best player on the team, Molly. I don’t think the other parents would look at you starting the game as favoritism. They’d look at it as smart. Plus, judging from some of the comments I’ve heard in practice, they want to win more than most of the girls even care to.”

  “But they might get mad. I don’t want any of the parents to yell at you.”

  Buddy smiled, put his hand around her neck, and pushed her forehead to his forehead. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle the parents. You just do what you do best, and it won’t matter if we only have one sub today,” he said encouragingly, and then kissed her freckled nose.

  Julie walked in with Gabby. Gabby was dressed all snug inside of a full teal colored onesie with small white bows adorning her Michelin man legs. It was a warm day, so she probably didn’t need anything more than that. She fixed Gabby inside of the car seat carrier as Gabby batted at the small plastic toys hanging from the top, alternating swings with a baby smile that melted everyone’s heart.

  “We’re ready to go!” Julie declared, outright giddy to be getting out of the house and into the sunshine for an entire afternoon. This was exactly the kind of thing she always saw herself doing one day: going to a soccer game with a man she loves to watch her kid play a game she knew absolutely nothing about. Normal mom. The simplicity of that.

  To Julie, it was the unremarkable stuff of everyday life which formed the glue running into the cracks of her heart, forcing together all the jagged pieces, which consisted of the otherwise remarkable stuff of life meant to break you. It’s the unremarkable moments that made you whole again. Buddy’s tighty-whiteys left on the floor was her glue. Bo’s golden hair all over the furniture was her glue. The formula stains Gabby would leave on her left shoulder while trying to burp after a feeding her was her glue. Washing the grass stains out of Molly’s uniform was her glue. Running with Gabe’s ghost along the side of the street was her glue.

  Julie knew she’d never need another thing in her life to make her feel as whole and at peace as she did in this one single moment. And to think there were many days that she couldn’t even get out of bed. To think there were days when she couldn’t stop crying. To think there were moments where she believed she’d be better off dead than living another day on this earth.

  They loaded up into the Pontiac and headed over to the designated parks and recreation field. When they arrived, it was difficult to find parking, but soon enough, Buddy squeezed into a spot next to a minivan with its hatch open. Five small boys sat inside the back, wearing gray and black soccer uniforms, sipping on Capri Sun juice boxes.

  Walking over to the field, Buddy carried the team kit and tried desperately to look like someone who knew what the hell he was doing. His mother and Joe were waiting for them next to a large tree in their red and white striped beach chairs. When Loretta saw them approaching, she got up, hugged Molly, and immediately asked to hold her grandbaby. Knowing better than to mess with Loretta when she was intent on something, Julie gladly unclipped Gabby from her seat and handed her over like a baked loaf of bread. As Loretta gazed down at her precious baby girl, her dark curls fell into Gabby’s face just a smidge. Gabby squealed at the light and tickling feeling on her cheek.

  When the game started, the Cordova-Horton clan sat unified in a straight line along the sideline across from the teams. The Stars’ parents were across the field from the Stars’ team and the Hurricanes’ parents across from the Hurricanes’ team.

  Molly scored her first goal for the Hurricanes within the first three minutes of the match. Buddy stood quietly on the sideline, trying not to allow himself to get too worked up about anything that happened on the field. Normally, sports were the only thing that managed to get him worked up. But he kept whispering to himself these are little girls…this is just a rec league…don’t be that guy… to be sure that he did not turn into that psycho alter ego who took over his body during an Atlanta Braves or a Carolina Panthers game.

  “Why can’t Molly just stay up by the goal and that big girl in the back kick it over everyone’s heads to her?” Joe asked out loud. Observant. Realistic.

  One of the fathers, a short and fat stubby looking man in a Yankees ball cap and a white golf shirt with the Pinehurst Putterboy logo answered, “They can’t do that because it’s off sides.”

  “What’s off sides?” Loretta asked.

  “It’s when the first player on offense gets past the last defender without having the ball or being in receipt of the ball,” he explained.

  “But you can’t…unless you somehow go past the goalie,” Joe said.

  “The goalie don’t count,” the man replied, and then assumed a posture of authority on all matters of soccer. “See, Number Seven on our team can’t go past their last defender unless she beats her with the ball. The only way Number Seven cannot be off sides on a pass is if she’s running – and not yet past the last defender – when the player on her team is kicking it to her.”

  Joe looked around and then grunted. Loretta laughed. “Well, I reckon I’m too old or too simple minded for this sport. That’s awful confusing,” he opined.

  Yankees Hat agreed with Joe.

  After Molly scored three more goals, and the Hurricanes were winning four to nothing, Buddy pulled her from the game. But then the Stars finally got a break and scored…and then another break and scored again. So, Buddy decided to put Molly back in the game.

  “Listen, I need you to score one more for cushion, and then I’m gonna put you on defense for the rest of the game, okay?” Buddy explained to her.

  “Can I score from defense?” she asked.

  “Well, don’t try to. Just don’t let them score anymore.”

  “Number Four is the only one who has wheels,” Molly stated glancing out over the field, observing every little thing that a seasoned adult fan of soccer would see.

  Buddy laughed. “Wheels, huh?”

  Molly was a marvel. Everything she did on the soccer field seemed to be at a different level than everyone else. She worked hard, played hard and thought hard. She was the player who was also the strategist. Buddy almost felt like he could leave her in charge of the entire game, and it would still turn out just fine for the Hurricanes.

  After the game ended, they headed over to the Dairy Queen for some ice cream to celebrate the McDaid’s Gravel Hurricanes sound butt whoopin’ of the Dr. Horrace Orthodontics’ Stars.

  Chapter 9

  September - October 1982

  First Case

  Buddy drove up to the County Courthouse in Joe’s rust orange Chevy pickup, parked it across the street and walked inside. His best friend, James White, was sitting outside of the room holding Traffic Court, wondering what to do next. He was biting his fingernails, which were no doubt disgusting since he got out of auto shop class early to get to Court in time. Buddy was sure that James did not wash his hands before leaving.

  “Man, I’m glad you’re here,” James uttered, watching Buddy walk toward him.

  “Why are you sitting out here? You need to go inside because if they call your case, and you’re not there to answer, you can get in all kinds of trouble,” Buddy explained.

  James handed him the summons and Buddy looked it over. “The State of North Carolina versus James T. White,” he read aloud. If Buddy didn’t know this was a speeding ticket, he would’ve thought that James murdered some family in the dead of night…right in their beds. He handed it back.

  The boys walked inside of Courtroom One. It was the only courtroom in the whole place, so the fact that it had a number made Buddy chuckle to himself.

  James held his summons tightly in the palm of his hands. It was only a speeding ticket, but if James’ father found out about it, he would be in
more trouble than he cared to think about. Mr. White was the Pastor of the First Baptist Church of Welby, and his children – all seven of them: Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, James, Paul and Lee Ann - were not allowed to get tickets or summonses or citations or anything indicating that they were…indeed…average American human teenagers. If they did any law-breaking whatsoever, then the Lord Himself would show up and strike them dead. Or, at least that’s what Pastor White told them, and that’s what they believed – even at sixteen years old.

  While Buddy was not under the impression that the Lord cared to strike dead mostly well behaved teenagers over minor traffic tickets, he was afraid his good friend was going to suffer from a panic attack. So, he got excused from class early to help him out. Buddy was known for being resourceful and having a keen way of handling the kinds of situations that got anyone else worked up into a tizzy.

  Judge Hauser, who won his sixth term last year, and who doubled as a fireman part time, sat on the bench. He watched Buddy and James, through his coke bottle thick glasses, walk inside and sit down. James was not represented because he could not afford a lawyer on his own, and the last thing he wanted to do was have his father find out about it if he tried to pay for representation. Word got around in a small town. Buddy informed him that he didn’t need a lawyer for something like this. All he needed to do was ask for a Prayer for Judgment Continued. Since this was his first offense, and he had no driving record to speak of, maybe Judge Hauser would give him a mulligan. After all, being a Preacher’s Kid must come in handy sometimes, especially among the God-fearing judges in this county. Of course, being the Preacher’s Kid could also backfire.

  After twenty minutes, the Clerk called James’ case, and James stood with Buddy behind him.

  “Mr. White, do you have representation?” Judge Hauser asked.

  “No sir,” he answered, too quietly.

  “Have you spoken with the DA?”

  James felt confused, so he turned his head and looked at Buddy. The District Attorney, who was just an assistant and appeared to be about a day out of law school, stood at the other table.

  “Uh, no? I don’t think so,” he stammered.

  “No, you haven’t spoken with the DA,” Buddy whispered.

  “No,” James stated more confidently.

  “Your Honor, the State has not had the opportunity to talk with Mr. White about his options yet,” the Assistant DA said.

  “Okay, I’ll allow you to confer briefly,” he said.

  The Assistant DA walked over to James, who was shaking at this point. Buddy couldn’t imagine how bad off James would be if he had been charged with a real crime.

  “I’ll offer you a PJC,” the young lawyer said to James, whose eyes started to bug out. “It’s the best deal you’ll get for a first-time speeding ticket. We won’t dismiss it, not even for the Preacher’s Kid. Otherwise, we’ll go to trial and you’ll lose and then face all penalties for losing your speeding ticket case. Which can be pretty harsh.”

  Buddy walked in between them and looked at James. “It’s a Prayer for Judgment Continued,” he started, “like I told you. You should take it and then drive like your Memaw for the next five years.”

  “Who are you?” the Assistant DA asked.

  “Sorry, sir, I’m James’ friend. He was just real nervous to come in alone and so I told him I’d come with him.”

  “Are you trying to advise him?”

  “Well, yeah, I’m his friend. That’s what friends do.”

  “How old are you?”

  Judge Hauser interrupted. “What’s going on? Did you give your offer, Mr. Stiles?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Mr. White is still deciding.”

  “But it’s not fair. I wasn’t speeding, and I don’t see how the cop can say that I was when I wasn’t,” James whispered, starting to get upset.

  “Look. Unfortunately, in Traffic Court, it’s your word against the cop’s and, well, the Court tends to side with the cops,” Buddy explained. “Am I right?” he asked the lawyer, whose suit was a size too small around his middle and the bottoms of his pants rose about an inch above his dress shoes.

  The Assistant DA nodded. “He’s right.”

  “Just take it. It’s a gift. Otherwise, you’ll be back here fighting a losing battle and then your father will find out,” Buddy whispered, trying to convince his friend.

  “Mr. White, who is that with you?” Judge Hauser called from the bench.

  Buddy felt his stomach twitch and straightened himself up tall. “Your Honor, my name is Jonathan Cordova, and I’m James’ friend.”

  “Are you advising him?” Judge Hauser asked pointedly.

  “Yes sir, I am, but just as his friend. I’m not a lawyer or anything.”

  “Mr. White, where is your father? Did he not want to come to Court with you today?”

  “No sir, he don’t know about all of this. I’m trying to deal with this matter myself – like a man,” James answered, his knees about to give out – like a girl.

  “Have you made a decision concerning the DA’s offer? We don’t have all day.”

  James looked at Buddy and then back at the Judge.

  Buddy whispered, “Just take the PJC and be done with it. I’m tellin’ ya, if you go to trial, you’ll lose and then it will be so much worse.”

  James nodded. “Okay,” he said to the Assistant DA.

  Several minutes later, as Buddy slid back into Joe’s truck to drive home and get started on his research paper on President Teddy Roosevelt for his American History class, the lawyer from inside the courtroom approached him.

  “Are you a law student?” he asked.

  Buddy peered out the crack in his window. “No. I’m still in high school.”

  The young man ran his hand through his thick light brown hair, moving his poorly cut bangs to one side, trying to make himself look older and more professional. “Well, you should really think about going to law school someday,” he added and then walked away with his black leather briefcase bouncing off his leg, headed toward the DA’s office, which sat just a block away from the Courthouse.

  Right to Die

  Kenny Bellinger’s emaciated body, now at one hundred and twenty-six pounds, remained in a persistent vegetative state and lay dormant in a state-run long term health care facility in Bell County, Texas. He had no brain activity. He was fed through a tube. He was kept alive by machines.

  No one ever came to lay claim to Kenny’s care after he had been found shot and in a coma on his kitchen floor. His wife Retta and stepson Daniel vanished off the face of the earth. No one who knew them: Retta’s best friend and co-workers, neighbors, young Daniel’s friends, or Retta’s family members had any clue what happened to them. Retta’s brother and wife were never contacted by either of them. Retta’s mother sat in New Jersey, waiting and hoping that one day her daughter would call her on the phone. But she never did. And neither did anyone else. The police talked with everybody they could find about Retta, her son, and the Bellinger marriage.

  Kenny’s sister never responded to correspondence or phone calls to her house, or what authorities thought was her house. No one knew the names of his parents or whether they were alive. His family was odd - scattered to the wind like a dead dandelion, as if his whole childhood had been nothing but an All-American blur. But that was the way it was with poor nobodies from no place. His younger brother had been killed in Vietnam – that had been verified by the Army. There was no human alive who cared one lick about the current state of being that was Kenny Bellinger. Except for one.

  Hollis Foster was once Kenny’s supervisor at a warehouse in Killeen. He liked Kenny a lot, both as a worker and as a friend, even when he could tell that he had a bad case of shell shock on a count of the war. He knew Kenny’s drinking and poor behavior, which had escalated into violence and deteriorated over a long period of time, was a
result of something that was beyond his control. He needed some help. Lots of the boys who came back from Vietnam needed some help.

  Hollis was a devout Christian who believed that every earthly problem had a spiritual answer. He found that his Reverend was very encouraging and helpful to him during his trials, which included some shell shock of his own in World War II, the death of his lovely wife, and then the never-ending battle with the bottle. He wanted to get Kenny into the local AA, which was made up of a small group of men who met at his church and confronted their drinking head on through twelve steps and a lifetime of accountability. It strengthened his faith in God and the power of friendship and his resolve to conquer the demon drink. It was bad enough Hollis had to fire the young man when he crossed the line one too many times, but he had no choice. At the time, it became his mission to help Kenny not lose his family, too.

  Since he convinced Kenny to go talk with his Reverend a few times, he was certain he’d be able to get him to start coming to the meetings as well. When he went to talk with Kenny about how things were going in his meetings and to invite him to AA, he found the front door unlocked and partially open, and Kenny lying near death on the floor.

  Hollis ran through the small home and yelled for Kenny’s tiny wife, Retta, and the young boy, Daniel, but they were nowhere to be found. He called the ambulance and the police, and ever since that day, he operated on a theory: Retta Bellinger got sick of her husband being drunk and unemployed and then beating on her and being a low life son of a bitch, so she took matters into her own hands and disappeared. While he understood that it must’ve been hard getting beat on, she shouldn’t have shot him and left him for dead. That was just plain wrong. He deserved to go to jail, maybe, or he deserved to have her divorce him…but killing him? Hollis did not think that was right. Thou shall not kill.