Last in a Long Line of Rebels (17 page)

Tired of thinking about my encounter with George Neely and all the words that rhyme with Havilah (for the record—none), I turned around to talk to Isaac. He caught me eyeing his bruise and took off his headphones. I could hear Metallica coming from the speakers. “It's not a big deal. I'm not hurt.”

Benzer looked up from his book. “Was it Drew Canton?”

“No, of course not. It was a couple of guys in my neighborhood. You don't know them.”

“In your neighborhood? But why would they hit you?” I asked.

“Because I hit them first?”

“Isaac gets it from everybody.” Daniella was leaning her head against his shoulder with her eyes closed. “Either he's in trouble for confronting the coach at the fair, or someone's calling him a chicken for not doing more.” She looked like she might cry.

Isaac picked up her hand and held it. “It's okay, baby.”

“Tell me who they were. I've got a slingshot at home, and I'm not afraid to use it!” The thought of somebody jumping Isaac made me want to scream.

“I appreciate you having my back, Lou.”

“I don't want to make you mad, Isaac,” Benzer said, “but I heard Drew Canton is getting a lot of grief too.”

“I know. And that makes it worse. I'm not happy; he's not happy. A whole lot of people think it's unfair, and so what? There's nothing that can be done about it.”

“Are you nervous about today?” I asked.

He answered in a quiet voice. “A little. I want to do really well. It might be the only time I set foot on the grass at Neyland Stadium.”

“You'll do great,” Daniella said, grabbing Isaac's hand.

“Yeah, you will,” Benzer said. “You're the best player to ever come out of Grey County.”

Every time I see the big gold globe, left over from the 1982 World's Fair, that signals our arrival in Knoxville, I get a tingle in my stomach. And nothing compares with going to a UT football game. I've only been a handful of times, but there's nothing I love more than sitting in Neyland Stadium in a sea of orange, screaming alongside 100,000 crazy people.

Since fall classes weren't starting for another month, we had no trouble finding a parking spot in front of the sports center.

“Where do we go first?” Daddy asked.

Daniella pulled a piece of paper from her purse. It looked like it had been folded and refolded so often it was practically see-through. “This says to report to Office 215 to fill out paperwork, and then the tryout will start at one o'clock.”

Daddy started up the stairs, followed by Isaac and Daniella.

“Mr. Mayhew?” Benzer said.

“Yes?”

“Since we've got about an hour until it starts, would it be all right if Lou and I walked around campus for a little while?”

I stared at Benzer. I couldn't believe he'd miss a minute of anything that Isaac did.

“I guess so,” Daddy said. “Just be sure and be back in time.”

“Yes, sir. We'll meet you in the stadium by one o'clock.”

Benzer motioned for me to follow him, and we took off at a fast clip toward Volunteer Boulevard.

“What's up?” I asked.

“I can't believe you don't remember,” he said, smirking.

“Remember what?”

“That day at the library. The book you wanted to look at, the one that George Neely had in his room.”

Benzer was walking so fast, I practically had to run to keep up.

“
History of Grey County in Photographs
,” I said. “I remember the book; I was holding it last night when George Neely almost found me. What about it?”

He rounded the corner, still speed-walking. Looking back over his shoulder, he smiled.

“You really should pay more attention to your friendly librarian. Mrs. Hall, remember? She said there was one other copy.”

I put both hands on top of my head. “Oh, man! I forgot.”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you,” he said, pointing to the building looming over us.

“John C. Hodges Library,” I read out loud, amazed.

He grabbed my hand. “C'mon!”

Hodges Library looked massive from the outside, and was just as impressive inside.

“We're going to find something,” I whispered. “I just know it.”

After filling out a registration form at the front desk, we were pointed to the second floor. It only took a moment to find the book.

We laid the book across a large wooden table, and I checked the index. “No Havilah.”

Benzer leaned his elbows on the table. “That'd be too easy.”

Side by side, we flipped through the pictures.

“Check out the Square,” Benzer said. “It's dirt!”

The caption read, Main Street, Zollicoffer, Grey County, but there wasn't much to it. A sign hung from a weathered-looking wooden building identifying it as a restaurant. Across the dirt street were two structures—a brick building that I thought might possibly be the Five and Dime and a small house surrounded by a picket fence. Standing around in the dirt was a handful of horses.

“This is barely recognizable,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” Benzer agreed. “There sure wasn't much around back then.”

I flipped through the pages. Pictures of cattle, sour-looking men, and the first car to drive through the county were displayed. “No wonder George Neely kept this book. I could look at it all day!”

I turned another page, and my heart skipped a beat. “Benzer! Is that what I think it is?” Staring up at us, looking pristine and white, complete with a young oak sapling in the front yard, was my house.

From the diary of Louise Duncan Mayhew
July 1863

With so many of our able-bodied men gone, the burden of the rebuilding of the courthouse has fallen to the women. With Walter under suspicion, I am given many strong looks, I refuse to be cowed, and do my work along side them. Penance? Perhaps.

“H
oly cow!” Benzer whispered.

“You got that right,” I whispered back.

We were staring at the picture, so close we were practically in the same chair.

“Your house looks really different,” Benzer said.

It was true. I'd never seen any photographs of the house before all of the additions. It looked so much smaller, and clean. The front porch wasn't sagging, and no paint was peeling, but there was no mistaking it. There was my bedroom window and the gingerbread woodwork.

“What's it say underneath it?” Benzer asked.

“Just
Flint Street, 1800s
.”

“What are those things in the background, oxen?”

“I guess. Or really big cows. Dad said our property used to be much bigger. It was a farm, remember?”

Benzer turned the page, but there was nothing else. He glanced at his watch. “We've got to hurry.” He looked around the library and then picked up the book. “Follow me.”

I scooted back my chair, and followed him through the shelves. “Are you thinking about stealing the book?” I whispered. “Don't they put something in them that causes alarm bells to ring when you leave?”

“Shh.” Benzer stopped in front of a copier. “Do you have any money?”

I fished out some change from my pocket, but it didn't help. The copy machine didn't take coins.

“Great. Now what?”

Benzer was saved from answering when a boy wearing skinny jeans and sporting a couple of rings in his lip and nose walked up and began making copies.

I nudged Benzer with my elbow. I knew we were gawking, but I couldn't help it. I had barely got permission from my parents to pierce my ears!

Pierced Boy grabbed his copies and was about to leave when I finally had the sense to speak. “Hey,” I said. “Where can we get one of those cards?”

“How many copies do you need?”

Benzer held up the book. “Just one.”

He motioned for Benzer to put it on the machine, then ran his card and made the copy for us.

We said a quick thanks, and I stuffed the copy in my back pocket. Benzer put the book away, then we ran for the exit.

We made it to the stadium just in time to see Isaac take the field. Daddy and Daniella waved us over to a spot in the bleachers. I tried to pay attention to what was happening below, but too much was happening in my brain. From George Neely, to the diary, Havilah, and now the picture of my house. All the pieces were there; I could feel it. But I couldn't quite figure it out.

We watched for a couple of hours as Isaac lined up against boys that seemed as wide as Dumpsters. But while they were bigger, Isaac was faster on his feet.

Benzer flew to his feet and punched a fist in the air.

“Way to go, Isaac!”

I leaned over to Daniella. “How do you think he's doing?”

She put her sunglasses on top of her head and smiled. “I think it's going really well. He's made three tackles against this guy already.”

“So maybe he'll get a scholarship here after all and we can tell Coach Peeler to stuff it!”

Daddy put an arm around me. “Don't get your hopes up, Lou. Isaac is doing great, but the best kids from all across the country want to play for UT.”

“But Isaac needs this! I don't get it. What was the point of coming here if we don't think it will work?”

“It's a chance to be seen, and to find out for himself if he's got what it takes. But Isaac knows getting a scholarship is a long shot. He's got realistic expectations. You should too.”

I leaned back against the bleachers. It seemed like every time we took one step forward, we were pushed back three.

A group of cameramen were gathered on the field, filming the action. I could read the letters WBIR-TV2 on the side of a white van parked nearby; a tall antenna extended from the roof.

I looked to where Isaac stood. He had taken off his helmet to get some water, and I could see his bruise clearly. What the heck? I was tired of sitting around and doing nothing. And Pastor Brian had said “faith without action is dead.”

“Hey, Daniella, can I have Isaac's stats for a second?” I asked her.

She fished the worn piece of paper out of her purse and passed it to me. “I'm going for a soda,” I said, weaving my way past Daddy to the aisle. The three of them were so busy watching Isaac, they barely noticed.

A cameraman with headphones draped over his shoulder was leaning against the stadium wall smoking. He was a faded gray, like the smoke had embedded itself into his skin. A handsome black man with perfect teeth was standing off to the side, arguing with a large woman in a tight red dress. I recognized him as Trevor Bently, the sportscaster on WBIR. I'd never seen the woman before, but she was definitely the one in charge.

“You're getting the same old stuff, Trevor. For God's sake, do something!”

Trevor Bently threw his hands up in the air.

“What can I tell you, Felicia? It's kids playing football. We've seen it!”

The lady glared. “Then do something we haven't seen!”

I was standing, trying to find a way to begin, when Trevor noticed me.

“Hey, kid, you need something?”

“Yeah. Are you interviewing people? You know, human interest stuff?” It was a term I'd heard on television. I wasn't exactly sure what it meant, but every time they showed one, Bertie and Mama cried like babies.

“Sure we are, kid,” the lady said. “Whaddya got?”

I pulled the stats from my back pocket. “You see that guy that just blitzed the quarterback? He led the state with tackles. And he was the fastest guy on his team.” I glanced down at the sheet of paper. “He was all-state four years in a row.”

Trevor Bently rolled his eyes. “Half the kids on UT's team have stats like that. So what?”

A buzzing sound went off inside the lady's red dress, and she pulled out a cell phone. After a brief hello, she moved away and began yelling into the receiver.

I stood closer to Trevor. “Sure, there are boys on the team with stats like that; there oughta be. But it makes you wonder why he's here trying out instead of sitting in the locker room by now.”

His eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”

I handed him the sheet of Isaac's stats. On one side was a letter from a college requesting information about Isaac J. Coleman; on the other, Isaac had carefully written the year's statistics.

“Isaac found that in Coach Peeler's trash can. We don't know how many other letters Peeler didn't bother to answer or give Isaac. The only reason Isaac has probably gotten any offers is because he and his daddy worked hard sending out tapes.”

Trevor read the stats carefully. “This wouldn't be Coach Dan Peeler, by chance? Played for Florida?”

I shrugged. “That sounds right. Isaac said he's always bragging about how he used to play college ball. As if anyone should brag about Florida—ugh.”

“That's him. My little brother was on the traveling team with that jerk.” He turned around and motioned to the cameraman. “Frank, get over here. I want to interview this little lady for a second.”

I smiled. “Is this going to help Isaac?”

Trevor Bently flashed his perfect teeth. “Maybe so. And it'll certainly get Coach Peeler's phone ringing.”

We finished the interview just as everyone came walking down from the stands.

“Lou, you missed it!” Benzer said, grinning. “Isaac went through their offensive line like a knife through butter!”

“That quarterback won't forget Isaac anytime soon,” Daniella added. She was so happy she was practically glowing.

“That's awesome!” Their excitement was contagious, and we huddled together by the car, waiting for Daddy and Isaac to come out of the coach's office.

Several minutes later, they walked out, clearly disappointed. Daddy had a grim look on his face, and Isaac refused to meet our eyes. Popping open the trunk, he threw his pads inside and slammed the lid.

Daniella was the first to speak. “Oh, baby, you did so well. How could they not want you?”

Isaac rubbed his face as he leaned against the car door. “Oh, they want me. They just don't have a scholarship for me. They said if I could get here, they'd let me walk on, and we'd see about next year.”

“But that's good, isn't it?” I asked Daddy.

“It's real good, Lou,” he answered, opening the car door, “but tuition, books, and living expenses add up to a small fortune pretty quickly.”

“Maybe you could get a student loan, Isaac?” Benzer suggested.

“We make too much for the Pell Grant, and my dad would have a fit if I went into debt. Plus he's not going to let me pay to come here, especially not when other colleges are offering a free ride.”

“But you've been accepted
and
you've made the team—at UT!” I said. “There's got to be a way.”

Isaac sighed. “To be honest, even if my parents said yes, I wouldn't want to live with that kind of financial strain.”

Daddy started the car, and headed toward I-40. I leaned my head against the window and watched the traffic go by in a blur. Pastor Brian said that the love of money is the root of all evil, and that there are more mentions of money than any other topic in the whole Bible, that money doesn't buy happiness. I should tell him that being poor ain't no big whoop, either.

Daddy dropped Isaac and Daniella off first, then Benzer.

“I'll see you at church tomorrow,” Benzer said. “Thanks for taking me along, Mr. Mayhew.”

“Anytime, Benzini.”

As Daddy and I drove home, I noticed how out of place his large hands looked on the steering wheel of Mama's car.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, ace?”

“I thought you wanted to meet with a scrap buyer while we were in Knoxville. Wasn't that why you were heading there?”

“Originally. But I called him, and he wasn't paying enough to make it worth the trip.”

“But you took Isaac anyway. That's awesome.”

“Isaac is a good kid and a hard worker. I'm just doing what I'd want someone to do for you if circumstances were different.”

“Well, I'm glad you and Mama are good too. It feels like everybody's either racist or crooked.”

Daddy stopped the car in our driveway. Mama had left the porch light on for us, and I could see a sliver of light coming from upstairs.

“Lou, not everyone in town is like Coach Peeler, or Pete Winningham, for that matter. There are still a lot of people in town who believe in doing what's right.”

“If you say so. I'm just glad that you do.”