The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story (16 page)

“Yessir,” Jack said.

“You here to watch the boy, I understand,” Coach Miller said.

“Yessir,” Jack repeated. “To see if I can—”

“I know what you’re here to see,” Coach Miller said. “I’m glad of the help. That loser James brought in from Houston—” He shook his head, rubbed his hands together. “Well, I like to killed him.”

“It’s a brave new world, Coach.”

“Ain’t that the truth, Twelve.” He looked down at his clipboard. “Quarterback coaches and no-huddle offenses.” He sighed. “We put in a modified Oregon offense last fall,” he said. “Spread offense is perfect for this boy, though. I swear, he is almost as good as you.”

Jack smiled, but his brain was working overtime. A spread offense spreads out the offense—but also spreads the defense, makes it declare what it is doing so that the blockers—and the QB—can see it. It opens up passes, but also rushing plays, since defenders are no longer jammed in the middle of the field. If the safeties drop back into deep coverage, it actually means the rush is the smartest play, five blockers against five defenders. A good QB has to read that defense, see where the percentages lie, pass, run, or hand off. A rifle for an arm doesn’t make a quarterback—it’s what’s above the shoulders.

“How are his reads?” Jack asked.

“Good. Not great. If the defense changes things on him, he’s still learning how to adjust at the line.”

“You running mostly out of the shotgun? I watched him doing drop-backs the other day.”

“We mixed up some zone read options with the shotgun, some traditional play action, some deep drops.”

“Seven steps would let him see things a little better on pass plays.”

Coach Miller nodded. “He could be an inch or two taller, I think he’d have the world by the tail. But he’s got all the tools.” He looked back at the field. “Good to see you, Twelve. You’re welcome on my field anytime.”

“Thank you, Coach.” Jack went back up to his seat and watched.

Just watched.

A couple of other locals dropped in. Nothing was bigger in Mayfield than Wildcat football. Even before formal spring practice people were already interested in next fall.

On Tuesday afternoon, Jack again sat and watched. Cameron had plenty of gifts—he threw well and accurately, if not always in the tiny window that would be required. Sometimes he threw behind his receivers. Sometimes he didn’t lead them enough on deep routes. All of that could be fixed with time and practice. He had good mechanics.

Jack’s phone buzzed during practice. He didn’t answer it. Later, when he checked messages, he saw that it was from Martin Fox.

He didn’t listen to it.

On Wednesday afternoon, Jack was sitting in the stands at the end of practice making some notes to share with Coach Miller. Down on the field, the players were running their last sprints before heading into the field house.

“What are you doing here, Chisholm?” came a voice he knew too well.

Two shoes stopped in the aisle next to him.

Somehow James had pulled a reverse-Batman on him.

Jack finished his note. The worst that could happen was James would get the opening punch in. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I told you to stay away from my boy,” James said. His voice was uneven, his breathing shallow. Jack wondered if someone had told James that Jack was watching practice. He must have sprinted over from downtown.

“They look good,” Jack said without looking up. “Especially that QB 1. I think they could win a few this fall.”

“I want you out of here!” James was yelling now, and Jack could hear in his voice that he was readying himself for something besides words. “I want you out of here right now!”

“Taylor!” That voice still sent a chill through Jack, and probably through every other young man who had gone to Mayfield High. Jack looked down, and Coach Miller was poised at the edge of the stands pointing a finger up at them. “What is your damage?”

James looked down at the coach and back at Jack. “Coach, I told him—”

“Chisholm has my express permission to be at my practice in my stands,” Coach Miller said, marching up the stairs, red-faced. “He is trying to help me turn your boy into a quarterback.”

Even though Coach Miller stopped three steps below them, it was clear where the power was.

“I don’t want him near my boy,” James said, his voice low. He refused to even look at the coach.

“That ain’t your call in this place, Taylor,” Coach Miller said. “Why don’t you walk away before I have to ban you from my practices?”

James dared a glare at Coach Miller, couldn’t sustain it, shifted it to Jack.

“I’ll get you,” he said. “Don’t you doubt it for a minute. This is not over.”

“Sweet Baby James,” Jack said. “I’ll see you around.”

If Coach Miller hadn’t been present, blood would have been spilled.

James walked away.

Jack sat back down.

Coach Miller settled next to him.

“I’d watch my step off this field, Twelve,” the coach told him. “That man would as soon kill you as look at you.”

“He won’t kill me,” Jack said. “That’s not his style. He’d rather humiliate me. And how can he humiliate me any worse than I’ve already done to myself?”

“All the same, son,” Coach Miller said. “You take care.” He looked meaningfully at him. “That man hates you. Always has. Always will.”

Jack sighed. “I know, Coach. If you’d just made him QB 1—”

“Then we would never have made State.” Coach Miller shook his head. “And don’t think he doesn’t think about that every day of his life. Anyway. What’s done is done.”

“Truer words were never spoken, Coach,” Jack said. He opened his journal. “Here’s what I saw this week.”

H
e did what?” Mary asked that night at Tom’s. Dennis had grilled sirloins, Mary brought baked potatoes and brussels sprouts, and Jack and Tom provided dessert—a Sara Lee cheesecake from the freezer section of the supermart. “Bachelors!” Mary sniffed.

“Coach ordered Jamie out of the stadium,” Tom said. Jack glared at him. “I’m not violating your confidence, if that’s what you’re thinking, son. I got three calls at the store before you’d even left practice.”

“Glad you’re helping out, Twelve,” Dennis said. “But that’s a big steaming pile of crap to step in.”

“I didn’t step in anything I didn’t already have on my shoes,” Jack said, handing Dennis a Shiner.

“True enough,” Dennis said. “How do they look this year?”

Jack nodded. “I see a lot of talent. And Cam Taylor is the real thing. He’s got an arm, and if he can develop a head to go with it, they can go all the way.”

Dennis pumped his fist as though the championship was already won.

“What are we going to do when Alison gets here?” Mary asked.

“Whatever she wants,” Tom said, unboxing the cheesecake and taking a good look at it. “Is this supposed to still be frozen?”

“You all!” Mary grunted. “I’m not going to have my only niece starve to death while she’s here.”

“She likes pizza,” Jack said. “And hamburgers.”

“I’ll grill for her,” Dennis said.

“And something green,” Mary said. “She’s not going to eat like you three if I can help it.”

“How did you get her here?” Dennis asked.

“The lawyers in Seattle made the arrangements,” Tom said.

“Seattle,” Jack said. That set off a nagging thought. What was it about Seattle?

“Jack?” Mary said. “Are you okay?”

Jack dropped the hand that had been cupping his chin. “I got a message from Seattle,” he said. “I didn’t listen to it.”

“Well, are you going to?” Tom asked.

“Nah,” he said. The room went silent.

Jack looked around the group. “I can’t just erase it?” he said.

“Do you run from things now?” Mary asked. “I thought we were past that.”

“What a pain,” Jack muttered, but he took his phone out, slid it on, flipped to his voicemail. It was still there.

Martin Fox. 57 seconds.

“Do it already,” Mary said.

“Okay,” Jack said. “Unbelievable.”

Jack had not heard Martin’s voice since the day he lost his job. And it certainly had not sounded so … breezy. Cheery, even.

“Jack,” Martin said, “I’m calling with good news. The board of elders met and it was almost unanimous to invite you to come back.”

Jack almost hung up then, but the others were watching him, so he made himself listen to the rest of the message.

“I won’t lie to you, Jack. We have some work that needs to be done. On you. On the church. But our attendance is down a third. Giving is down by half. You know we can’t move forward with those figures. So come back. We’ll make it work. I think we can match what you’re getting in Mayfield, don’t you?”

He chuckled. Then hung up.

Jack blinked a couple of times, rapidly.

“What is it?” Tom asked. “What did they say?”

Jack dropped his hand, put his phone in his pocket, turned away from them all. “They want me to come back.”

“Oh,” Mary said. “Grace?”

“That’s–that’s good, right, Twelve?” Dennis said. “I knew they’d come around.”

“They think I’m the best person to fix the problem I left them,” Jack said, without turning around. “I’m not sure that’s true. What do— Dad, what do you think?”

Tom didn’t answer. Jack turned around.

Tom was looking down at the cheesecake as though it held the secrets of the universe.

“Dad?”

Tom shook his head. Mary took his arm, led him over to the table, set him in his chair at the head.

“Let’s eat,” she said. “Who wants brussels sprouts?”

That evening at Buddy’s, Jack told Father Frank about the phone call, about his family’s reaction, about how his father wouldn’t even speak to him.

“How did you feel when you heard the message?” Frank asked.

“I felt—I can’t tell you,” Jack said. “I was excited. Relieved. And angry. Martin acted like they’d never cut me loose.”

“Do you want to go back?”

Jack looked down at his beer. “A part of me does. The part that knows the drill. That could step right back into that place like I never left.”

Frank studied Jack’s face. “But the other part?”

Jack took a drink. “The other part knows it would be the easy way out. And that I’m not the same person I was before.” He shook his head. “But it would be easy. And maybe it would be like erasing—”

“What happened happened,” Frank told him. “You know it. Everyone knows it.” He drank some of his ginger ale, looking as if he wished it was something stronger. “If you go or if you stay, Jack, that’s your decision. But—”

“I know,” Jack said.

Frank looked down at his Bible. They had been studying the passage about the baptism of Christ—the lectionary reading for Sunday. He suddenly looked off at the media sitting in the booths, and he sighed.

“Have they forgiven you?” he asked.

“What?”

“They’re asking you to come home. Grace Cathedral. Like in the blessed story of the Prodigal Son. Have they forgiven you?”

“No,” Jack said. “I seriously doubt it. It’s a financial decision. But it makes sense—”

“When your father asked you to come home,” Frank said, “had he forgiven you?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “You know he had. Before I even asked him.”

“‘When he was still a long way off,’“ Frank quoted, “‘his father saw him and was moved with pity. He ran to the boy and clasped him in his arms and kissed him.’“ Frank closed his Bible and turned to Jack. “His father didn’t cross-examine the prodigal, bully him, lecture him on ingratitude. He was just so overjoyed at the return of his son that he welcomed him home. The father took him back just as he was.”

“I know,” Jack said, “but—”

“But nothing, boyo,” Frank spat. “Either they love you and they forgive you, or they don’t. If you return to them knowing that they don’t, it’s your decision. But it will be a poor decision, mark my words.”

Jack looked at Frank. “You wouldn’t do it? To maybe save your marriage. To get back your self-esteem. To earn a real paycheck?”

Frank refused to look at him. “It’s your decision. But what happened happened. You know it. Everyone knows it. Don’t pretend.” He actually looked in the opposite direction of Jack—in the direction of all the drinking media. “Don’t pretend.”

They didn’t even finish talking about the baptism of Christ. Frank was angry and didn’t have much else to say. Jack got up from the bar a few minutes later. He walked out to Tom’s car, leaned against it, and looked up at the heavens. The stars were clear and bright and close enough to touch.

Jack didn’t call Martin back on Thursday. He went to the store, went down to the creek after lunch, dropped by practice at four o’clock. He wanted to talk to Danny, see what was what. He’d left a half dozen messages. None of them were returned.

On Friday after lunch—a week until Alison came—he drove back to the swimming hole with his Bible and his journal. He
was working through the baptism passage again. What to say? It had been so easy the first week—he had just told the truth.

No. It hadn’t been easy at all. Telling the truth was hard as hell. He hadn’t even been sure what he was going to say until he was standing in the pulpit, and it hadn’t all fallen together until he was already under way.

He couldn’t just stand up in front of them again this week and confess that he was a sinful wretch. That was going to get old fast.

Tell the truth.

Preach the good news.

Where was the good news in someone being immersed in water as a sign of forgiveness?

What’s good about needing forgiveness? Doesn’t that mean you did something wrong?

Jack dipped his hand in the clear green water—still cold, but not quite so frigid as last time.

He let the water trickle out between his fingers. It felt good.

A vehicle drove up behind him, parked, idled for a moment, then turned off. A car door opened and steps moved in his direction.

“What do you want, Kathy?” he said without looking up from his Bible.

“How did you know it was me?”

He smiled, shook his head. “When is it not?”

“Okay,” she said. “I just thought I might find you here.”

“You knew you would,” he corrected.

“Okay,” she admitted. She came a little closer, was not growled at, so sat nearby on the ledge. She crossed her legs beneath her and took a deep breath. “I have an idea. I think you need to google yourself.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Jack said, taking another palmful of water and letting it run through his fingers. “But didn’t you tell me not to google myself?”

“I think there’s a lot of stuff about you circulating right now you ought to know,” she said.

“How much of this news originated with you?”

“Not the first bit of it,” she said. “Scout’s honor. It looks to me like a whole bunch of people are trying to get you to do what they want.”

“Well, that’s funny then,” Jack said. “Because I haven’t paid a lick of attention to the news.” He looked at her. “Is it that bad?”

“Some of it,” she said. She scrunched her face, shook her head. “You don’t deserve it, that’s for sure.”

Okay, it must be pretty bad. He took out his iPhone. He had two bars—probably enough to browse online.

He looked over at her. “You decided yet?”

“What?”

“About leaving?”

“Oh,” she said. She stared at the ground between them.

“You know—that talk we had last week. About why you were still here? I’d love to know your answer.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” she said, without looking up.

Jack sighed and closed his Bible. “Tell me about honoring your father,” he said. “What does that mean to you?”

She peered out at the water, arms hooked around her knees. “It’s not that we got along,” she said. “One of the reasons I left was because it was so hard being around him.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “Would you have come back if he hadn’t been sick? Would you stay if he hadn’t—you know.”

“Died?” she said. She turned her head, looked over at him, then back out at the water. “You can say it, Jack. It’s not a secret.” She turned back out to the far bank. The wind was blowing downstream, rippling the water. “I know I have to live my own life,” she said. “And I’m considering—I’m considering more than one option. But the truth?”

She raised her hands in front of her face as though she were praying. Maybe she was.

“Everything I am or will ever be is because of my father,” she said. “What I love about myself. What I struggle with. The writer and editor. The perfectionist. The person afraid to love. And then—to come home to him before he died. To know he loved the person I’ve become.” She laughed shakily. “As screwed up as that person may be sometimes.”

She took a deep breath. “You know, Jack, I think there’s nothing as powerful as knowing your father loves you.”

He nodded. “You’re not far wrong there.”

She glanced at him almost shyly, looked away. “Are you preaching this Sunday?”

“Yup.”

“You’re not—going away yet?”

“Ah,” he said. He picked up his phone, typed his name into a search box, was not surprised to find that of the 1,336,000 items, the top news was that he was returning to Grace Cathedral.

“Can Disgraced Seattle Pastor Be Forgiven?” one headline read.

“Cheating Jack to Return to Pulpit?” another wondered.

“A lot of question marks in those headlines,” Jack said. “What’s this piece? I see a video. ‘Christian Charity or Photo Ops?’ Is that Cathy? Cathleen? What is her name?”

“Ah,” she said. “That is a smear job courtesy of our good mayor. It’s the story I refused to run.”

“Do I want to see it?” His thumb hovered over the link.

“Do you enjoy seeing yourself accused of everything short of necrophilia in your bid to return to the national spotlight?”

“Wow.” Jack breathed. He put his phone back in his jacket. “Coach really should have started him at quarterback.”

“Then we would never have gone to State,” she said. She pushed herself to her feet, dusted herself off, watched the water for a few seconds. “What are you preaching Sunday?”

“It’s the First Sunday of Epiphany, the baptism of Christ,” Jack said. “So—no idea.”

“I liked your sermon last week,” she said. “It made me feel—” She paused, kicked at an invisible rock or twig.

“What?” he said.

“Like I wasn’t alone.” She blushed, a slow flush that spread up her neck and all the way across her cheeks.

“That’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said. He checked his watch. “Crap on a hat. I’m late for practice.” He gathered his stuff quickly, patted her on the shoulder as he passed, and dashed to his car.

“Jack,” she called after him. “What are you going to do?”

He laughed and shook his head. “You’ll just have to check the news,” he said.