Hometown Favorite: A Novel (13 page)

Jake's thoughts turned to the former Tiger all-star linebacker.
True to his word, Jesse had annihilated his opponents, giving
them no more than a couple of shots apiece after the opening
break. The Rebel Rouser had grown to love Jesse. His fun-loving
antics always drew a crowd-Jesse's trick shots and victory
dances were hits with the locals-and it never hurt his standing
to buy his fans a round of drinks from time to time. But it was
discomforting for Jake to watch the former Tiger linebacker put
on his show, and those nights when Jesse had drunk himself
into a stupor, Jake drove the boy home and put him to bed.
On those nights, Jake stayed close to sober.

When Jesse returned from the bar, fresh drink in hand, his
entourage, anxious to see the master in action, followed him.
At the same time, Dewayne's last game as a Trojan was about
to begin. No one begrudged the pauses between shots to watch
Dewayne play on the wide screen mounted above them, and
when Dewayne took it into the end zone after seven plays, the
boisterous reaction resulted in Jesse's missing his first shot.

The commentators were quick to bring up Miami's conquest
earlier that day and the relationship between Sly and Dewayne.
When they mentioned the boys were former teammates in
Springdale, Mississippi, the reaction in the bar was deafening. For a second time Jesse missed his shot, but his opponent
had also missed his two opening shots, so the game was still
even.

Jake noticed the negative effects of the commotion on Jesse's
concentration as the game progressed. When his opponent was
up by two balls, Jesse called a time-out to go to the bathroom.
He blamed it on the level of alcohol he had consumed. When he
exited the bathroom, Jesse responded with more hyped energy,
which Jake took as an attempt to psych out his competitor and
get his own wandering attentiveness back in tune with the game
at hand. With each deliberate step around the table, he huffed
and grunted, holding his pool stick above his head like some
primitive warrior. It appeared the Rebel Rouser's court jester
had returned in full possession of his charms.

Jesse had just enough time to sink one shot, a dazzling combination netting two balls at once, evening the score and extracting from the crowd a vocal counter that rivaled the cheers
for the hometown boy on the screen. Then someone shouted
that the network was showing film clips of Dewayne playing
for the Springdale Tigers. The commentators gushed that Dewayne's raw talent for catching passes and scoring touchdowns
in high school was being perfected in his college career, and
now the wide receiver was establishing his position as a rival for
the Heisman and a contender for overall pick of the draft.

Once again, Jesse lost his audience. Each quick shot of a pass
thrown from Sly to Dewayne brought eruptions, and Jake saw
the frustration spread over Jesse's face, replacing the renewed
buoyancy that had been there seconds before.

Like a blind Cyclops, the sports commentators had no comprehension of the power they wielded. In their enthusiasm to
establish Sly and Dewayne as phoenixes rising from the ashes
of defeat, the commentators showed the video clip of the Tigers' heartbreaking loss to the Devils four years ago when the
Devils' running back had scored the winning touchdown. The
commentator added, "Springdale anticipated the play based on the running backs' alignment, but the linebacker failed to
pick up on it."

No one in the Rebel Rouser shooting gallery heard anything
else after that statement. The sporadic boos that popped into
the stale air could not push back the tide of humiliation. The
telecast and commentary bordered on torture, and no one was
more tortured than the one who had absorbed all the blame
for the defeat. It seemed to Jake that Jesse began to shrink, as
though Jesse's spirit had fled from his body like a ghost fleeing
dawn and leaving behind a debilitated corpse. Jesse finished off
the contents of his glass in loud gulps, drinking to replenish
himself, drinking to quench a desperate thirst, drinking to fill
the darkest hole that was his tomb.

The Rebel Rouser crowd had made a silent pact not to watch
the television but to pay deliberate attention to the hometown
boy who walked among them and had not forsaken Springdale
for the lure of fame and glory in the world beyond. The infinite
dark inside Jesse's skull shattered his ability. He scratched his
next shot, something no one had ever seen him do. As though he
were suffering from shell shock, Jesse rubbed the tip of his stick
with more chalk and watched the bartender sink three balls in
a row. When Jesse shot again, he knocked the cue ball into the
pocket, another historical moment never before witnessed.

The bystanders were cowed as they watched the steady disintegration of their friend. They felt no animosity toward the
bartender who was now running the table. They worshiped him
for his skill of mixing the perfect drink, but even the bartender
knew this harsh victory would be bitter. When lining up his last
shot before moving on to the eight ball, he purposely added
too much English to the cue, and ball number six bounced
from rail to rail, coming to rest dead center of the table. He wanted to give Jesse one more chance, and everyone in the
room, including Jesse, recognized his generosity.

But Jesse was no longer with them. His body was going
through the motions. Whether or not it was intentional, no
one would say, but when Jesse hit ball thirteen, it careened off
a rail, glancing the eight ball and knocking it into a side pocket,
ending the communal angst.

The bartender was obsequious, saying his win was the dumbest of luck, but Jesse shrugged it off with a fragile smile, saying
everybody has an off night. The crowd congratulated the bartender but saved the heartiest backslaps for Jesse and consoled
him with offered drinks as they broke ranks to watch a little
more of the football game. Jesse unscrewed his pool stick and
placed it inside the case Jake held open for him.

"I don't think I'm gonna stick around and watch you play,
Coach;' Jesse said, tucking his trembling hands in his jean
pockets. "Hope you don't mind"

"Jesse, a man is not defined by one event in his life;" Jake
said.

"That's your favorite line, Coach; best to use it now on somebody else"

"Let me drive you home"

"You got a game to play."

"I never expected to get this far;' Jake said. "No way can I
beat Tiger Mart"

Jake placed his hand on Jesse's shoulder, but Jesse deflected
it as if it was an incoming punch, and then pretended it was
an accident by scratching the back of his head.

"Sorry, Coach, but I don't need your pity," Jesse said.

"It's just an offer of a ride home. No harm meant"

"No harm done" Jesse's hand had gone from alleviating a pretend itch to rubbing the back of his neck. "You play your
game. I'm good."
"

When the owner of the Rebel Rouser decided the crowd had
ordered a sufficient number of drinks to keep them going for
the next game in the competition, he called for a return to the
tournament table.

"Rack 'em up," the owner shouted. "It's Tiger Mart vs. Barbecue Man in the second round of the final four."

"I got to go to the john;' Jesse said and slapped Jake on the
arm. "I may get to feeling better and stick around."

I wish you would,' Jake said. "I need your support."

The bar's congregants took their places around the table, and
Jesse slipped through the circle toward the men's room.

When the last man left the lavatory with an encouraging
word to the Rouser's favorite son, the favored son locked the
restroom door, set down his case, turned on the faucet, and
splashed some water on his face. After wiping the excess off the
metal counter above the sink, he pulled a plastic bag from his
pocket and sprinkled the powdery contents on the dry metal
tray. He cut the cocaine into two thin lines, took a straw from
a shirt pocket, and snorted both lines in quick succession, one
through each nostril. He peered into the mirror and saw the
water trickling down his skin like clear blood. He listened to
the sound of his ragged breathing, like new tires on wet asphalt,
and longed for the blessed trap of sleep.

Dewayne opened his Bible as he stood before the grave site
surrounded by family and friends of Jesse Webb. Cherie had
called her son to tell him of Jesse's death. The Hummer had
flipped over an embankment and smashed into a tree, and
the black box in the Hummer had revealed that the vehicle
was traveling at an excessive rate of speed. Jesse had not been
wearing his seat belt.

Cherie also told him about the rumors speculating between
accident and suicide, considering the condition Jesse was in
when he left the Rebel Rouser that night. All Dewayne could
think about as he listened to his mother rattling off the details
through her tears was how his dear friend had died the night
of one of the best games of his life-three hundred twentyseven receiving yards, four touchdowns, two school recordsclenching the conference title and the honor of leading his team
to a bowl game that might win them a national championship.
It was a mystery how life orchestrated those two events on the
same day, at the same time. Why had Death been so near at
hand for Jesse and so far away from Dewayne?

And where is Jesse's spirit floating now, Dewayne wondered
as he stared at the text of the Twenty-third Psalm. In what unnameable white light does my dear friend float?

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want," he began. He
read at a tedious pace, not ready to watch the internment of
Jesse's body. "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he
leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul ..

Couldn't God have restored Jesse's soul... kept him from ending
his life this way? Dewayne almost spoke his thoughts aloud.

"He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's
sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of
death. .

The shadow that devours, the shadow that has no conscience,
the shadow that indiscriminately chose my dear friend and not Sly
or me, who stands behind me, or my wife, who stands beside me,
or my mother, who stands on my other side, or any of the billions
of other people Death could have plucked from the living.

"I will fear no evil..

But there was evil and evil was hungry to suck up another
soul.

"For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort
me...
11

Where were you in Jesse's desperate hour-and, yes, God, where
was I? Where was your rod of protection, your comforting staf?

"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine
enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth
over...

No bountiful table for Jesse to feast upon, no healing oil for
his head, no cup overflowing with joy.

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of
my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever"