At least he hadn’t shot anyone. In fact, by the time Sandra came home on Sunday, the rifle was back in the closet. He didn’t say a thing. At practice and during games he was all snarling intensity, but off the field he couldn’t stand conflict. In eighteen years of marriage, he’d never struck Sandra, never torn into her with hateful words, and never touched another woman. All Sunday he avoided her, sitting in the den with the Chiefs game on, thinking about what to do.
And then on Monday morning, when the teachers’ lounge was empty, he put a bullet in Hinkle’s mailbox on top of a sticky note that said END IT. But the janitor saw it first, and soon all the school employees were gathered in the lounge along with the police, who were saying that whoever put the bullet in the box could be charged with aggravated assault. Hinkle was white as a ghost, and no one would look at Oberman.
That’s where things stood. So far the police hadn’t talked to Oberman. That must mean Hinkle had played dumb when they questioned him. He wasn’t ready to admit the affair. But that could change any moment if his fear began to outweigh his shame. And even if Hinkle kept his mouth shut, Oberman wasn’t out of the woods. He’d written the note in blocky caps, but he hadn’t thought to wipe the bullet before leaving it in the box.
There was also the question of how much other people knew. Had the other teachers really been avoiding Oberman’s gaze when the police came, or was it just his imagination? The timing of DiMarco’s meeting had been suspicious, but the conversation hadn’t strayed from football. Or was that in itself a sign that DiMarco was on to him? Wouldn’t it be natural to bring up the big event from earlier in the week? Oberman’s students were of course aware there’d been a major commotion on Monday, but their jokes and wild speculations made it clear they hadn’t connected anything to him. So it was mainly DiMarco he’d been worried about, and possibly the other teachers, until the call today from Mike Treadwell.
It had only been a small comment at the end of their conversation. “By the way,” Mike had said, “say hi to Sandra for me.”
It could’ve been innocuous. Like everything else Mike had said, the tone had been friendly. But in his two years as assistant coach, he’d had only the briefest of interactions with Sandra. They might’ve exchanged a few pleasantries after a game or during a chance encounter at the grocery store, but certainly not enough to expect Oberman to pass on a greeting. Had a rumor reached Ashland? Had Mike heard about the affair, or maybe even seen Hinkle and Sandra together? There’d been a long pause on the phone before Oberman replied, “Sure thing,” and quickly ended the call.
At the time he’d decided to give Mike the benefit of the doubt, convinced himself he was overthinking things. But now that he’d given the comment time to simmer, Oberman felt that Mike must know something. In fact, maybe that had been the whole point of the call — trying to psych Oberman out, or just rub it in. A little payback for the way Oberman had treated him. But to bring a man’s wife into it over an old grudge — that was too far.
The pep rally had started now. On the field, four beefy linemen were performing a skit dressed in drag. They wore flowery dresses and long blond wigs, and as they sashayed around each other, bursts of laughter sounded from the stands. Out past the end zone to Oberman’s right, the bonfire had been lit and was glowing weakly.
With all the activity across the field, Oberman suddenly realized how strange he must look sitting alone on the visitors’ bleachers. As he stood up, he heard a sharp rustling sound from the shelterbelt behind him. He turned and peered into the dark tangle of trees but couldn’t see anything. Probably a raccoon or a possum. But who knows — maybe Ruth was right and there was a hoard of trolls in the darkness just waiting to swarm out and tear the flesh from his bones. He gave a bitter laugh and then stepped away from the trees and headed back across the field. Although he took a wide angle around the skit, he still noticed several faces from the stands look away from the show and watch him.
Back on the home side of the field, Oberman stood next to the bleachers and watched his linemen wiggle their hips and address each other in falsetto. That was Sanders, Molovski, Banks, and Jackson. Four fat oafs with no talent. They were all going to get pancaked by the Ashland defensive line. The thought made him angry. If his team got steamrolled, he’d have to spend two hours watching Mike Treadwell grinning at him from across the field. Oberman could feel it already, as if it were happening right now.
It felt like the end of everything.
Javi was his only hope. When the kid was locked in, he gave their team a shot against anyone in the league, even Ashland. And there was Javi now, still sitting alone on the front row of the bleachers, a zoned-out look on his face even as everyone around him hooted at the drag show. The two-liter, almost empty, was squeezed between his knees.
Oberman approached the side of the bleachers and quietly called Javi’s name. When Javi looked up, Oberman motioned for him to follow.
“What’s up, Coach?” Javi said once they’d stepped away from the stands. He’d brought the two-liter with him. His face was flushed, eyes bleary.
“Let’s go to my office,” Oberman said. “We need to talk.”
Javi frowned but followed his coach toward the gym. As they walked, Oberman grabbed the two-liter away from Javi. He unscrewed the bottle, sniffed it, took a swig, and grimaced.
“Come on, Coach,” Javi said. “It’s the pep rally.”
“I don’t know how you’re still standing,” Oberman said. They stepped inside the gym, and he tossed the bottle in a trash can by the door.
“It’s the pep rally, Coach,” Javi said again.
“And practice. And the Willow Creek game.”
“Not the Willow Creek game.”
“I sure hope the Willow Creek game. If that’s how you play sober, we might as well flush the season down the toilet.”
They passed through the darkened locker room and came to Oberman’s office. He unlocked the door, and they stepped inside. The walls were covered with old team photos and clippings from newspapers announcing the team’s regional titles. Next to his framed bachelor’s degree was a poster of a football player in a three-point stance, two fingers taped together, face splattered with mud, gritting his teeth. Above the player were the words When you win, nothing hurts. — Joe Namath.
“Have a seat,” Oberman said. When he looked across his desk at Javi, he felt sorry for the kid. At seventeen, Javi already seemed beaten down by the world. But Oberman admired his perseverance, the quiet courage that got him through each day. Seeing Javi sitting there staring down at his hands, his pudgy cheeks flushed and shoulders hunched forward, Oberman felt a sudden tenderness toward him.
“How are things at home, Javi?” he said.
“Ah, you know, Coach.” He glanced up and then quickly back down. “Same old crap.”
“How’s your sister?”
“She’s fine.”
“And your dad?”
Javi shrugged.
“You’re helping out your mom?”
“Yeah.”
Oberman sighed and leaned back in his chair. He looked out the window. The bonfire was blazing now. As a precaution, a fire truck had pulled up twenty yards behind it. On the field, the cheerleaders were performing their routine as a pulsing dance song played from the loudspeakers.
They sat in silence for a minute, and then Javi raised his head.
“How are things with you, Coach?”
The question caught Oberman off guard. No one had asked him that in a while. He looked down at his desk. Next to the playbook, magazines, and grade sheets was a stuffed plush football that had been a birthday gift from Sandra back when they were dating.