Tight End (7 page)

She paused, and Jim found that the heaviness that had lain in his stomach like a chunk of lead was almost gone.

He turned to his mother and smiled. “Did I ever tell you that you are one terrific mom?”

Her eyes glistened. “I don’t need compliments. But I’ll accept them, gratefully.” She leaned forward and kissed him.

Suddenly he remembered that his father had attended his first class the night before.

“How did Dad make out last night, Mom?” he asked.

Her eyes shone. “I guess all right. He said that the lessons were all a review to him.” She winked. “I think he’ll make out
all right.”

I
n spite of what his mother had told him, Jim found that trying to ignore the harassing phone calls and the drawing was impossible.
He caught himself staring at the backs of several students in the classrooms throughout the morning, students who were members
of the football team, wondering if one of them was guilty.

Twice a student turned and met his gaze squarely. The first time it was Steve Newton, the team’s center. The second time it
was Ben Culligan, the team’s nose guard. Jim didn’t know any reason why either of them might dislike him enough to torment
him. They were good players. They were regulars. But if neither Pat Simmons nor Ed Terragano was the guilty one, maybe one
of these good, regular players was.

Jim found Ben waiting for him in the corridor after class. A hundred-eighty-five-pound senior, Ben had led the team in tackles
last year.

“Hey, man, what’s with you?” he said to Jim, his brown eyes snapping. “You on dope or something?”

Jim frowned. “Are you crazy? What are you talking about?”

“Why did you keep staring at me? Your eyes looked like one of those creeps you see in a monster movie.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jim. “I didn’t mean to stare. I was just thinking, that’s all.”

“Well, think with your eyes stuck on someone else. Okay?” He glared at Jim and walked away, swaggering.

Count him innocent, Jim reflected, a smile crossing his lips.

He turned down the next corridor to head to his chemistry class when he heard the sharp click of heels approaching from behind
him. Suddenly he felt a small, cool hand grab his wrist.

He turned. It was Margo.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi. What was that all about?”

His eyebrows arched. “What was what all about? Oh. With Ben? Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing when I know it’s something. I’m not blind, and I’m no dummy. I know something’s been bothering you. I’ve
noticed it ever since your father came home.”

“Okay Mother. You’re right. But I don’t want to talk about it,” said Jim stiffly.

“Can we talk about it over lunch?”

“It doesn’t concern you, Margo,” Jim said seriously. “I don’t want you to get mixed up in this.”

He felt her fingers tighten on his wrist. “So it is something serious,” she said. “Something more than your father coming
home from prison.”

He nodded. “It has something to do with that, yes,” he admitted. “But —” He lowered his voice. “Margo,” he said irritably,
“this is my business. Okay? I’m going to handle it alone. My way.”

She looked at him, unflinching. “I’d like to help you if I can, Jim.”

His lips pursed. She was getting to be a pain.

He was ready to walk away from her when he suddenly thought of something.

“Wait a minute. You’re in art class. Maybe you can
help me.” He was flushed with new hope all of a sudden.

Her eyes flashed. “Good!”

“I’ll tell you about it at lunch.”

A sparkle flickered in her eyes. “I can’t wait!” she murmured excitedly.

He got to chemistry class and twice faced embarrassment when the teacher, Miss Lee, called on him to cite a couple of formulas
that he didn’t know. His penalty: to learn those two, plus two more he had to have for tomorrow.

His showing in math was no better. Miss Delray looked tired throughout class, but seemed fully awake when she ordered students
to go up to the blackboard and write answers to problems. Jim feared he would be called, and he was. He wasn’t able to complete
the answer to the first problem he was asked to solve, and was saved by the bell on the second.

“I suppose if the problem pertained to a football situation — say the ball is on the enemy’s ten-yard line, and it’s third
down — you wouldn’t have any trouble at all working out the answer.” Miss Delray’s terse words drilled through the quiet classroom.
“Or would you?”

“I’d run,” Jim said.

The class roared.

“Class dismissed,” Miss Delray ordered impassively.

Smiling, Jim went back to his desk, gathered up his books, and headed out of the room.

Barry caught up with him in the hall. “Jim, would you really have run?” he asked, frowning.

“Sure,” said Jim. “For a pass.”

He grinned, leaving Barry staring in puzzlement after him.

He took his books to his locker, went to the cafeteria, and found Margo waiting for him. They got in line, bought their lunch
— macaroni and cheese, and milk — and went to sit at one of the tables.

“Okay, maestro, how can I help?” Margo asked before she even started to eat.

Jim downed a couple of forkfuls of macaroni and cheese first, wondering if he was doing the right thing by getting her involved.
Well, he had gone this far, he reflected. He might as well go all the way, particularly since she might be in a position to
really help him.

“Did you know that I’ve been getting some crank phone calls?” he asked her.

Her eyes widened. “No. From whom?”

“That’s the point. I don’t know. From the sound of the voice I’m sure it’s a male. But he muffles his voice so I can’t identify
it.”

“So it’s possible that you know him.”

“Right.”

She stabbed a few pieces of macaroni with her fork. “You don’t have any idea who it is?”

“No. I thought it was Pat Simmons when I found a drawing stuck on our garage door and a drawing pencil with his name engraved
on it near the pavement beside it. I think he felt like slugging me when I accused him of drawing the picture.”

“What was the drawing?”

He explained it to her.

“Oh, for pete’s sake,” she exclaimed. “That is dirty. You think someone planted the pencil there to make you think Pat drew
the picture?”

“That’s what it looks like,” said Jim. “Hey, you better start eating. You haven’t even tasted your lunch yet.”

“I’ve suddenly lost my appetite,” she said. Nevertheless, she started to eat. “You still haven’t told me how I could help,”
she said between bites.

“I’d like you to look at the drawing and tell me, if you can, who drew it. I showed it to Jerry when I thought it was Pat
who had done it, but he said something about the lines being too strong, and the shading’s different from Pat’s work. Anyway,
he was sure Pat didn’t draw the picture. I thought maybe you might be able to tell.”

“Where is it?”

“Home.”

“Great. Now I’ll be thinking all afternoon about whether or not I’ll be able to figure out whose drawing it is. When can I
see it?”

“Come over after school.”

“Okay.”

They ate for a while without talking. Jim soon had his plate cleaned, and finished drinking his milk.

“You know, Chick does a lot of extra drawing in class, I’ve noticed,” Margo cut into the silence finally. “Would he have any
reason to harass you?”

Jim picked up the napkin and wiped his mouth with it. “That’s the point. I can’t think of one lousy reason why anyone would
want to harass me. But since my father’s gotten out of prison, this person, whoever he is, has been driving me up a wall.
It could be Chick. It could be anybody. But why, I don’t know. I tell you, I can’t sleep. When I do, I have nightmares. I’m
unable to concentrate on my studies. I forget football plays. I’m going to be so tired tonight I might fall asleep on the
field.”

Margo placed her fork on her empty plate, wiped her mouth with her napkin, then leaned her elbows on the table. “One thing
I gather from this,” she said. “Someone wants you to quit the team.”

Jim laughed. “You win a cigar.”

“Someone who is pretending he’s a friend of yours, but really and truly hates your guts.”

Jim nodded. “That’s the size of it.”

The bell rang.

Margo looked at him. “Know what? I’m beginning to enjoy this. I’ve thought of being an airline pilot after I graduate from
high school, but I think that being a detective could be a lot of fun, too!”

He frowned at her. “An airline pilot? You mean a stewardess, don’t you?”

“A
pilot.
I know what I’m saying.”

She came over to the house about four-thirty, took a look at the drawing, and her face paled.

“You think you know who drew it?” Jim asked, hope making his heart pound faster.

“I — I’m not sure. But some of it looks like Chick Benson’s style. Those strong lines. The lips and the eyes. It’s
definitely
his style.”

“Then Chick’s the guy!”

She raised her hand. “Maybe. Somebody else might have his style, too. It isn’t that rare.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know.”

He took the drawing from her and refolded it. “My hunch is that you’re on to something, Margo,” he said. “Chick plays a roving
backfield man on defense, but I think he’d like to play offense, too. Maybe Chick figures that he can worry me out of playing
quicker than anybody else on the team.”

“But you’re still not sure, Jim,” Margo argued seriously.
“Making annoying phone calls and sticking a drawing on your garage that is supposed to symbolize your father’s being an ex-con
is quite a strong accusation to make against a guy who just wants to play offense on a football team.”

Jim said sternly, “Nonetheless, its a clue. Its something I can sink my teeth into.”

She sighed. “What’re you going to do? Show the drawing to Chick?”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Wait awhile. Try to find more proof that it’s him.”

He hesitated and finally agreed with her. “Okay. Maybe you’re right.”

He thanked her for her help, and she left. A thin smile fluttered across his lips. Chick, huh? he thought. I’ll dig up more
proof somewhere.

Jim was quiet as a dormouse at the dinner table. He had the eerie feeling that the phone would ring at any minute, that the
same muffled voice was going to call him. Was it Chick?

At a quarter to six, just as he started to head upstairs to get ready to leave for the football field, the
phone rang. Peg and his father seemed to freeze in their chairs in the living room. They watched him; he watched them.

Finally Peg got up. “I’ll answer it,” she said.

She got to the phone and said something into the receiver. Then, in a louder voice, she demanded, “Who is this? Who wants
to speak to him?”

She held the receiver a moment longer, then lowered it to its cradle. Her hand was trembling.

“He hung up,” she said.

Jim turned and continued up the stairs. Was that Chick? he thought bitterly. Could it be he who was trying to force him off
the team, and drive him out of his mind in the process?

It was only because Jim wasn’t going to let the caller feel that he was winning his dirty game that he got dressed and went
to the football game. No matter what, he was going to keep on playing.

T
he game got underway at eight o’clock under the lights. The stands were packed. The night was warm. Too warm, Jim thought.
He was sweating even before the team went out on the field for their pre-game warm-up exercises.

The Coral Town Indians won the toss and chose to receive. Mark’s kick off the tee was an end-over-ender to the Indians’ six-yard
line. Their left halfback caught it and carried it back to their twenty-eight.

“Remember that Slate guy,” Chick reminded Jim in the huddle. “Cover him like a tent.”

Sure, I will, Chick, ol’ boy, Jim thought, looking Chick straight in the eye. If Chick noticed any implication in the look,
he didn’t show it.

“If he gets by Jim, you take him, Randy,” Chick said.

“Right.”

“Lets go.”

The Indians ran the ball for a two-yard gain through right tackle, then picked up four more on a rush through the line’s other
side.

Third and four.

“Okay, keep your eyes open,” Chick said, looking at Jim.

The Indians changed from a T formation to a spread: the quarterback was behind the center, the left halfback and fullback
spaced about five yards apart behind him, the right halfback about two yards behind and to the left of the left end. Roy Slate
was the left halfback.

Nick Enders, the Indians’ tall, wiry quarterback, called signals.

“Down!”

Jim, crouched at the line of scrimmage, kept his gaze straight ahead. But within his peripheral vision he could easily see
the Indians’ left halfback.

“Set!”

Jim dug his toes into the turf.

“Hut one! Hut —!”

Instinctively, Jim moved forward. A fraction of a
second later both lines moved. A flag dropped. A whistle blew.

The players looked at the referee. The man in the striped shirt pointed at Jim, then spun his hands to indicate the infraction.

“Offside!” he yelled. “Number eighty-eight! Five yards!”

Jim couldn’t believe it. Dumbfounded, he watched the ref pace off five yards from the line of scrimmage against the Rams,
and spot the ball on the Indians’ thirty-nine.

“First down!”

“Nice going, Cort,” said a disgusted voice at Jim’s elbow.

It was Pat.

Jim felt a pair of eyes probing him from the other side. “I said to watch Slate,” Chick said indignantly, “not red dog him
before the ball is snapped.”

Jim said nothing. He had no excuse for doing what he had done.

The Indians tried two running plays, and gained a total of two yards. There was no doubt now in Jim’s mind that their next
play would be a pass. He prepared thoroughly for it, listening to the signals,
waiting to move the instant he saw the opponents move.