The Bravos clump about her in a loose bundle, murmuring their thanks. “Listen,” she tells them, “that stage crew? We’ve had problems with those guys before, it’s like they think they own the place. They almost beat up Lyle Lovett a couple of weeks ago, they were like, Get off the stage! Get off the stage right NOW! And Lyle and his guys had all their equipment up there, it’s not like they were gonna just walk off and leave it. Lucky security was right there or we mighta had a situation.”
“I think they’re tweekin’,” says Mango.
“They sure act like it, don’t they, they act like they’re on something. Somebody ought to speak to management about those guys.”
More cheerleaders are coming out to meet them, and it dawns on Bravo that this might turn out all right. A kind of mixer develops there along the home sideline, Bravos and cheerleaders chatting it up while calls are made upstairs on the soldiers’ behalf. The fracas gives them something to talk about; the cheerleaders are shocked at first, then indignant as the story gets around, the flip side of which is a bonus serving of sympathy for Bravo. Ice is fetched for Crack’s eye and Lodis’s lip. A couple of cheerleaders tenderly probe Mango’s rug-burned ear.
“What’s wrong with him?” Faison asks, nodding at Sykes. She and Billy are standing somewhat apart from the others.
“Oh, that’s Sykes.”
“Is he hurt?”
Billy considers Sykes, who’s squatting in the lee of a portable equipment locker, quietly weeping.
“He misses his wife.”
“Wow.” Faison seems impressed. “Really?”
“He’s kind of an emotional guy.”
She keeps glancing over at Sykes. She’s fascinated, or perhaps just troubled that nothing’s being done about him.
“Does he have kids?”
“One on the ground, one on the way.”
“Oh my God, I can’t imagine. Do you think I should go over and talk to him?”
“I think he just wants to be alone right now.”
“You’re probably right. Sheesh, the sacrifices you guys make! How long did you say you’re gonna be over there?”
“Through next October, unless we get stop-lossed again.”
“Oh Lord.” It comes out as a kind of rattling moan, oh Lord, like she’s rollerblading on a gravel road. “And you’ve been there how long already?”
“We infilled August twelfth.”
“Oh me. Oh my God. You must dread going back.”
“I guess. In a way.” Somehow their faces have ended up mere inches apart, and this seems like the most natural thing in the world, as basic as wind, tides, the magnetic north. “It is what it is, I guess. But we’ll all be together, that’s something. That counts for a lot, actually.”
“I think I know what you mean. There’s that whole bonding thing when you’re challenged as a group.” While she talks Billy is trying to memorize her face, the supreme excellence, for example, of the delicate butterfly clasp of the bridge of her nose, or the smattering of freckles high on her forehead, the way their gingery carotene tint matches her hair exactly. The desire comes over him to stretch his mouth wide open, as wide as a lion’s, say, and tenderly hold her perfect face between his lips for a while.
“Sometimes I wonder if the whole thing might be a mistake. I mean, I think we ought to be fighting terrorism and everything, but it’s like, okay, we got rid of Saddam, maybe we should just bring our guys home and let the Iraqis work it out for themselves.”
“Sometimes we think that too,” Billy says, remembering something Shroom once said: Maybe the light’s at the other end of the tunnel.
“Ha ha, no doubt.” She peers past his shoulder. “The second half’s gonna start in a minute,” she says, then pulls back and looks Billy in the eye. “Listen, can I ask you something personal?”
“Sure.”
“Are you seeing anybody?”
“Not me,” he allows bravely, with breezy resignation. He doesn’t care if she knows he’s not a player.
“Me either. So how about if we stay in touch.”
“Ye-uh,” he says, half choking on it, then “yes. Yes, I think we should.”
“Good.” She’s suddenly very brisk and businesslike. “You’ve got your phone? Get out your phone and I’ll give you my information, then call me and leave a message so I’ll have yours. Because, frankly, I don’t wanna lose you.”
She says it just like that, a casually earthshaking statement of stupendous fact. Him, Billy, a person not to be wanted lost! His life has become miraculous to him. Maybe he should just go ahead and ask her to marry him.
“What’s your last name?” He’s got his phone out.
“Zorn.”
Billy clears his throat.
“I know, everybody thinks it’s funny.”
Billy says nothing.
“It means ‘anger’ in German.”
“Roger that,” he deadpans.
“Stop it! You’re so funny.”
She’s at his side, their heads practically touching as she watches him key in her information. The phone gives them socially acceptable cover for standing so close, good thing because it’s happening in front of thousands of people. Billy breathes deep, pulling in her clean outdoors smell, the sharp vanilla tang of snow and winter wind. It’s as if she’s absorbed the sweetest essence that the season has to offer.
“Who’s Kathryn?”
Billy is scrolling through his contact list. “My sister.”
“You’ve got a call from her.”
“I know.” He highlights the next name. “That’s my other sister.”
“They older, younger?”
“I’m the youngest. There’s ol’ Mom.”
“Denise? Not ‘Mom’?”
“Well, that’s her name.”
Faison laughs. “Where’s your Dad?”
“My Dad’s disabled. He doesn’t have his own phone.”
“Oh!”
“He had a double stroke a couple of years ago, impaired his speech.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. It’s life.”
She’s holding his arm just above the elbow, her grip concealed by the bush of her pom-poms. “Are you going to see them before you leave?”
Billy gets a sudden clutch in his throat. “Ah, no.” He swallows. It’s fine. “We all said our good-byes yesterday.”
“That sucks.” She snugs a few millimeters closer.
“There’s you.” He’s scrolled all the way to the end.
“Zorn. I’m always last on everybody’s list.”
“I’ll change you to Anger, that way you’ll be first.”
She laughs, looks over her shoulder. The cheerleaders are moving toward the tunnel to welcome the players onto the field. “Sweetie, I gotta go,” she says, and gives his arm a squeeze. Her hand recoils as if electrically shocked, then she’s squeezing again, then palpating his entire upper arm.
“My God, what a great body you’ve got. Do you have even an ounce of fat on you?”
“Not so much, I guess.”
“Not so much I guess,” she echoes in a gruff voice, and laughs. She’s still feeling up his arm. “You don’t even know how good you are, do you? That makes it even better!” she declares with lip-smacking enthusiasm, then gives him a fierce fast hug, as if grasping a buoy before the storm tears her away. Billy practically keels over in a delirium of bliss. How wonderful, how absolutely holy to be appreciated for yourself, to be handled, petted, groped, pawed, and generally hungered over. “Okay, I gotta scoot,” she says, releasing him. “Come see me at the twenty, same place.”
Billy says he will, and she goes trotting down the sideline after the rest of the cheerleaders. Bravo turns as she jogs past, their eyes helplessly drawn to the bounce of her bottom inside those teeny tiny cup holders that pass for shorts. Billy punches up her number and waits through six rings while watching her take position at the mouth of the tunnel. The first players come jogging onto the field like rhinos on the plod. The Jumbotron cranks up a Guns N’ Roses riff, the cheerleaders rise on their toes and wave their pom-poms high, and a swell of applause rolls through the stands like thunder rumbling down the mountainside.