Authors: Edward Bloor
Erik held him in place with the hand and said, as casually as he could, "I don't think we'll be needing that today, Arthur." Then Erik turned his full attention back to Tino, standing insolently before him. The casual snake smile started to slip from his face.
Tino stared up at him and spoke as he had before. "A funny guy, yeah. I see you on the TV, and I laugh all the time."
Erik's face started to contort. The snake smile was gone now, replaced by something else.
But Tino kept it up: "Yeah. I really like that thing you do, Funny Guy, when you pretend to kick a football and then you go flyin' up in the air and then you land right on your ass."
Immediately, faster than I thought he could, faster than Tino thought he could, Erik lashed out, smashing the back of his hand across Tino's face, smashing him so hard that Tino spun halfway around in the air and landed on the grass.
Was it hard enough to knock him out? Was it hard enough to kill him? I didn't know. Tino just lay there flat on the grass. Erik stood over him, his face a mask of rage. Then, like a genie sucking back into a bottle, he regained control. He took a deep breath and motioned with his hand toward the gate. Arthur quickly gathered up their stuff and started back out.
But Erik didn't follow immediately. He stopped in the gateway and stared at me, unmoving, until I dared to return his gaze. When I finally did, when I finally looked right into his eyes, I was surprised by what I saw. It was not hatred, or even anger. It was more like sorrow. Or fear. He gave me that look, then he spun around and left.
Henry and I reached Tino as he was struggling to his knees, his hands cupped over his head. I saw a trickle of blood coming down from where Erik's ring had struck him beneath the ear. I was panicked. I wondered if I should call Dad. Or an ambulance. Or the police. I looked up at the patio door, and I saw something move. Something white. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a white shirt move. Dad? Dad's white shirt walking out of the kitchen? Could he have seen it? Could he have seen what Erik did?
I turned back to Tino and tried to help him up. He pushed me roughly away. He looked around for Theresa. She was still standing by the wall; she had never moved. I heard the sound of Arthur's Land Cruiser revving up in the driveway and pulling away. They were gone.
I tried to get Tino to come inside, but he wouldn't. He wouldn't talk to me, or even look at me. Theresa came over to where we were standing. She walked Tino out through the gate without saying a word. Henry D. and I exchanged one pained look, and then he followed.
I walked as far as the gate and watched them. They stood motionless out at the curb. Then I heard the rumbling sound of the mosquito sprayer approaching. I saw Wayne stop in front of the house, the cloud of poison still five yards behind him. He pulled off his ant mask, hopped out, and turned off the spray of white fog. Henry got into the cab, but Theresa and Tino climbed back onto the truck bed. They all pulled away quickly, just ahead of the cloud of insecticide.
I wandered back into the yard, sick to my soul. I stood in front of the wall and replayed the scene in my head. I tried to slow the scene down, to relive it frame by frame. What could I have done? What should I have done?
I stared at that gray wall, waiting. Waiting for some long-dead, long-forgotten scene to come back to life. But none did. Nothing came—no answers, no remembrances, no insights—only the choking white waves of the fog.
We woke up this morning to unusually cold weather. I ate breakfast across from Dad at the round table. He was reading the sports section of the
Times.
I was on the verge of asking him, "Dad? Did you see Erik hit Tino in the face so hard that he nearly knocked him out?" But I didn't. I couldn't. I had the words all picked out, but I couldn't say them.
I sat there agonizing about it. Why couldn't I tell? I'd ratted out Tino at the carnival. Why couldn't I tell my own parents about Erik? What was wrong with me? What was wrong with all of us?
Anyway, I didn't say a word to Dad. I didn't say anything to Mom on the ride in, either. Tino and Theresa were both absent from school, so I didn't have to face them. Henry D. was there, but he and I managed to avoid each other all day.
While I was waiting for Mom to pick me up, I thought briefly about asking her to help me. But try as I might, I couldn't think of any good that could come from it. Even if she believed me completely, what could she do? Get Erik to issue a phony apology to Tino? That stuff doesn't play in Tangerine. Anyway, who's to say she would do anything about Erik? She's never done anything about him before.
So Mom and I rode out of Tangerine the same way we rode in, in silence. Mom has a lot on her mind these days, worrying about not only our home but every other home in Lake Windsor Downs. Now that soccer season is over, I'm back to accompanying her on her endless errands. This afternoon's first stop was out at our climate-controlled storage bin on Route 22.
When we reached the storage place, Mom finally said, "Hey, why doesn't Joey Costello come over anymore? Did you two have a fight?"
"Yeah. I guess so."
"What was it about? A girl?"
"No."
"Then what was it?"
I thought about that one for a long time. I thought about Joey's attitude on that first day. I remembered what he said about Theresa. I finally said, "You're right. It was about a girl."
Mom unlocked the garage-type door and waited for me to hoist it up for her. She went over to some boxes marked
WINTER,
put her key down, and scanned the labels on them until she found one marked
SWEATERS, ETC.
She said, "Here. Give me a hand."
I went over to the stack and lifted the top two boxes so she could remove the third one. As Mom handed it over to me, she said, "Do you smell that? There's insecticide in here, too."
"Yeah. That's life in Florida."
Mom quickly headed back out, into the fresh air. "Tell me about it. I hate that smell."
I lifted the
SWEATERS, ETC.
box onto my shoulder, stepped outside, and pulled the bin door down. It clicked and locked.
Mom patted the pockets of her jeans. "Oh no!"
"What?"
"My key. My key is inside!"
"They must have some way to let people in. Do they have a master key in the office?"
Mom looked shocked. "I hope not. This is supposed to be our private space. They're never supposed to come in here."
"Then how would they get in to spray for bugs?"
Mom thought about that. "They wouldn't." She snapped her fingers. "Erik! Erik has a key. He can stop in here and get mine."
We climbed back into the car. I said, "Why does Erik have a key?"
"I don't know, honey. Because he asked for one. You can have one, too, if you want."
I said, "I don't need one. Where are we going now?"
"I have to be at the high school at four o'clock. I have a meeting. I figured you could watch the football team practice. OK?"
"What's the meeting about?"
"It's about Erik. I'm meeting with his guidance counselor."
"Yeah? Why? What did he do?"
"Do? Nothing, Paul. I mean, there's no
incident
that they called me about. Is that what you mean?"
"Yes."
"Why? Why would you say that?"
I thought,
Because Erik is a psycho, Mom. Do you really not know that?
But I didn't say it. Mom and Dad don't like it when I say things like that.
Mom asked again, "Has Erik done something that I need to know about?"
I thought to myself,
That you need to know about?
And I answered honestly, "No."
Mom nodded, then she explained, "This is more of an academic conference. Erik's grades have slipped." Mom looked at me and added, "It's not unusual for an athlete, during the season, to slack off a little."
"I didn't."
"What, dear?"
"I'm an athlete. A champion athlete, in fact. And I didn't slack off during the season."
We turned at Seagull Way and drove to the south entrance of the high school. Mom parked in the shadow of the steel gray bleachers and turned off the car. She finally said, "I know you had a good season, Paul. A great season. Remember me? I'm the one who drives you back and forth to that place every day."
I looked at her, but I didn't say anything. She got angry. "Give some credit where credit is due. Who do you think makes all of this possible? Who do you think holds this whole thing together? Your father?"
I had the answer to that one. "No."
She got out and walked inside. I sat in the car for a minute, then moved cautiously toward the sounds of football practice. I was determined to avoid Erik and Arthur, so I ducked under the bleachers. I picked my way over the steel bars, getting closer and closer to the front, until a row of seats was resting on top of my head. To the right I could see Antoine Thomas and another black guy with huge muscles practicing center snaps. To my left I could see Erik and Arthur. They were at the center of a group of admirers that included Tina, Paige, and a couple of skinny football guys. Just about everyone else was trudging toward the western exit of the field. Practice was over.
I watched as the first group of players passed through the opening at the far end of the bleachers, heading toward their cars. Suddenly a familiar color caught my eye.
A green Ford pickup rolled into view and parked in a space near the gate. The old Ford looked odd, out of place among the expensive imports, sports cars, and 4 × 4s. What was it doing here?
Luis Cruz got out and stared intently at the people who were leaving. He stopped one player and spoke to him. The player listened and then pointed down toward Erik's group. Luis started walking, in his limping style, through the gate and down the sideline. He continued on past Antoine and the muscle man, who were now sitting on the bleachers, watching him. What was he doing here? He stopped right in front of my hiding place, and he waited.
Erik and his group had gathered up their gear and were preparing to leave. Luis stood in their path, like the brave sheriff of a town full of cowards. When Erik's group got close enough, Luis called out, "Which one is Erik Fisher?" He looked right at Erik. "Is that you?"
Erik opened his eyes wide in mock terror. He turned to Arthur and said, "We may have a situation here, Bauer." The others in the group seemed amused.
Arthur started to walk slowly west. His hand fumbled inside his gym bag.
Luis continued in a loud voice, "I think you are. But I think you are not man enough to say so."
An "Ooohhh" sound rose up from the group. Erik just smiled and met Luis's stare.
Luis held his long arms out and extended his palms. "You would smack a little kid in the face, right? Why don't you come over here and try to smack me?"
The "Ooohhh" grew louder.
Arthur Bauer was still walking forward, with his head down, but Luis was paying no attention to him. He called out again, "Come on! Why don't you try to smack me!"
Arthur reached Luis, turned, and whipped the blackjack around with a loud
whack
against the side of Luis's head. Luis's arms shot up to cover his head as he staggered to the right and fell on one knee. Arthur stuck the blackjack back into his gym bag and continued walking, as if nothing had happened.
Erik walked quickly past Luis. He explained, for the benefit of his group, "Arthur takes care of all my light work." Erik and the rest of them caught up with Arthur at the gate. I could see that they were laughing.
Antoine and the muscle man were not. They stood up. They walked out to Luis and examined his injury. From where I was, I couldn't see any blood. They helped Luis to his feet and talked to him for a few minutes. Then they walked with him to his truck. Luis seemed pretty steady. I remained frozen in my spot as he got back in the Ford and drove off.
I don't know how much later it was when Mom came out from her conference and found me there. She called out, "Paul? Are you playing under there? What are you doing, hiding?"
I pulled myself together and picked my way back over the steel bars. We drove all the way home in silence, except for one remark. Mom said, "The conference went very well. The guidance counselor thinks this football stardom business has gone to Erik's head. She thinks he'll be better off once football season is over. And it
is
nearly over."
Nearly over? In our family, it's never over. The Dream lives twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, twelve months a year. The Dream has four years at a big-time college ahead of it. And then who knows? Maybe the NFL.
Yesterday morning I dug out my old Houston Oilers hooded sweatshirt, a thick pair of corduroy pants, and a wool shirt that has always been too large for me to wear. The weather has turned very cold and very windy. The guy on my clock radio called it a Thanksgiving freeze. Down in the kitchen the TV weather girl called it a fall freeze.
I answered the phone on the kitchen wall and heard my grandmother's voice. "Paul? You're on CNN again. You're having record cold temperatures down there."