Bookmaker, The (9 page)

We got onto University Avenue
; went through the town and into the college, where we came upon a line of cars; and slowly made our way toward Vaught Hemingway Stadium. Even with the traffic, it didn’t take more than twenty minutes to get into the parking lot. Once Matador found his usual parking spot amongst other die-hard Rebel fans, we got out and he opened the back hatch and emptied out all the requirements for a great tailgate party: barbeque, table, chairs, and canopy, all emblazoned with Ole Miss colors and logos. The food was steak, bratwurst, and, of course, enough beer to get all of Mississippi drunk.

The last thing Preston pulled out was a box
; he handed it to me and told me to open it. Unsure of what to expect, I opened an authentic Ole Miss Jersey, number eighteen, with Manning on the back.

“You like it
, son?” Preston said as he and Matador looked on proudly while Corynne giggled at my discomfort.

“Yeah, it’s great, thank you.”

“I’ll tell you what, that there is the real deal—an authentic Arching Manning 1970 jersey. He finished third in the Heisman that year; should’ve won the whole thing if not for southern biases,” Preston said.

“This ain’t
none of that fake K-Mart shit,” Matador added. “Put it on. Let’s see how it looks on ya.”

I wasn’t really the type to wear football jerseys, but I pulled it over my T-shirt—it fit
well on me. Corynne couldn’t stop giggling and said I looked cute. She said it brought out the blue in my eyes. I’d keep it on.

Preston and Matador started on the grill and Corynne began introducing me to some other tailgaters, she seemed to know them all. They all looked like they came in the same car: sporting tight Ole Miss
jerseys from all eras stretched over ample bellies as they pounded beer after beer, expounding on the virtues of Ole Miss football and all agreeing on one thing—this is our year. We walked farther among the growing throngs and came upon a group of similarly dressed black tailgaters. I thought we would walk right past them, but Corynne made a bee-line right for them.

She introduced me to a couple of big guys, maybe ex-players, then stopped on the third man and said, “And this is Darnell, Delotta’s son, he goes to Ole Miss too.”

“Another proud black Confederate Rebel,” he said, shaking my hand. “Mom told me you were staying with them.”

“Oh
, yeah?” I said.

“Don’t worry, she said you were a nice boy, but she also said you and ole Preston were gonna get each other in trouble.”

Corynne made Darnell follow us to our tailgate where he was greeted warmly by Matador and Preston. He had a beer and a brat and started talking football.

Preston’s tailgate formed into a shifting sea of Ole Miss
jerseys—an epicenter of beer drinking, red meat eating, and LSU Tiger bashing. Everyone knew Preston and Matador and were quick to stop by, grab a beer, and yell, “Go Rebels!” More like politicians than tailgaters, Preston and Matador held high court—this truly was their element. Everyone had to shake their hands, give them pats on the back, and rejoice in the greatness that was Rebel football. Corynne and I just sat in our reclining chairs, sipping beer; we let the old guys have the moment.

Then a clarion call disrupted the asphalt party. A succession of bull horns cut through the din and everyone began packing up their gear. Corynne informed me it was a half hour until game time; we had to get inside for the kickoff.

I began my usual sporting event routine of filling up my pockets with beer when Matador stopped me, “What the hell you doing, son? No need for that covert shit, we can bring in whatever we want—ain’t no one gonna fuck with Preston.”

We filled up a couple lined backpacks with beer and ice and started the trek into the stadium. Herded in like sheep, we eventually made it to our seats on the
fifty-yard line. “Best seats in the house,” Preston yelled over the oppressive noise filling the stadium. The air was thick with excitement and hope; everyone’s undefeated and has a chance for a national championship on opening day.

The stadium rocked and shook, moving as though it w
ere a giant living edifice. The 63,000 people becoming one—one mindset, one goal. No one sat down, and you didn’t want to, too much going on. The stadium became the third largest city in Mississippi, and I was overwhelmed by what I saw. The only thing I could compare it to was the forum in old gladiator movies. The collective excitement was palpable, growing louder as kickoff approached. I had to admit, I was as caught up in the furor as much as anyone. You could see how riots and other mass hysteria formed. This was Jonestown in ‘78, and the Kool-Aid was football.

I had Corynne to my left, Preston to my right
, and Matador next to him. Preston and Matador tried to tell me about the stadium and past Ole Miss glory, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I just nodded and took in the scene. At kickoff, the crowd noise hit a zenith both painful and unsustainable. It wasn’t until about ten minutes after kickoff that we finally sat down, but we would be up and down all day in this thriller. Ole Miss got up 14-0 after the first quarter and they were up 28-10 at halftime, the crowd was going nuts. And not once, but twice, Corynne felt compelled to hug and kiss me after a Rebel touchdown. Star running back Deuce McAllister already had over one hundred yards and seemed unstoppable. So much for LSU being favored in this one—I was already counting my money as no one bet Ole Miss with me, it was all LSU action. Preston and Matador were almost hoarse from cheering and yelling.

At the end of the
third quarter, it was 31-10 Ole Miss; victory was one quarter away. But in the fourth quarter, disaster struck: Rebel turnovers and an opportunistic LSU offense came alive and scored twenty-one unanswered points, knotting the game at 31-31 as regulation ended. We were going to overtime. Unlike California sporting events, no one left early; the stadium was just as raucous as it ever was. And by now, everyone was drunk and exhausted, and sure, Ole Miss blew a big lead, but it wasn’t over yet; everyone stayed put for overtime.

Ole Miss won the toss and let LSU go first—which is always the right choice
, that way you can react to whatever score the other team manages. The Ole Miss defense, while porous in the
fourth quarter, was on a mission and stopped LSU from even gaining a yard. The crowd noise probably helped the situation, as I doubted the players could hear anything down there. LSU lined up for the field goal. Ole Miss blocked the kick!            You would have thought the place was about to collapse into itself, I’d never heard such noise. All Ole Miss needed to do was kick a field goal and they’d win. The problem was that their kicker wasn’t the most reliable—already having missed two on the day. The plan was to use three downs to get closer and move to the right hash mark. On first down, the hand-off was to Deuce and he wouldn’t be denied, powering his way through the LSU defense and all the way for the touchdown. Before the play was even over the crowd started rushing the field. In seconds, the entire field was filled with delirious fans, hugging the Ole Miss players, taunting LSU’s. The field goal posts were now covered with climbing fans and fell onto the field, and the mass of humanity began carrying them around the field like ants carrying away a large kill.

We decided to stay put. Watching the festivities was enough for us. Corynne was jumping and hugging us all. I even got a hug from Preston and Matador too, but they’d never admit to it; in that pandemonium
, anything went. Preston was right, SEC football was different. Things eventually died down and we all filed out of the stadium to the parking lot for the post-game tailgate party. The same people who stopped by during the pre-game party were there for the post, and they all congratulated each other like they played in the game themselves, using terms like “we” and “us” when referring to the team—as if they had contributed more to the victory than drinking beer and yelling expletives. We hung around for another couple hours as no one wanted to leave. Finally, it started getting dark and the parking lot began to clear out, so we packed up our gear, said our good-byes to friends old and new, and Matador drove us home as it was decided he was the least drunk.

We managed to get home all right, thanks to Matador’s expert drunke
n driving, and we took our traveling party out to the back porch as no one was ready to call it an evening just yet. Preston and Matador started in on the scotch, while Corynne and I stayed with the beer. Delotta came out and reminded us that Tucker was sleeping and we needed to keep it down, then she came back with some hot wings.

By 10:00
pm, Preston had passed out in the lounge chair and Matador helped get him to bed, leaving Corynne and I alone. We sat on the wicker love seat staring into the darkness and listening to the crickets.

We were both quite drunk and feeling tired from the long day. I was about to say goodnight when
she cut the silence, “Trent, do you think I’m pretty?”

This caught me off guard and I wasn’t sure how to answer,
but my intoxication helped me go with the truth. “Are you kidding? You’re beautiful.”

She shook her head and looked away
. “No I’m not, I’m damaged goods.”

“What do you mean
, ‘damaged goods?’”

She answered quickly, counting down on her fingers: “I have a kid, I’m not married
, and the father of my child walked out on us.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Any guy’d be lucky to have you,” I said
, trying to stop the tears, but also telling the truth.

She wiped he eyes and turned to me, “Would you?”

I stammered for a response, unsure if this was aimed directly at me or if I represented all guys to her. I decided it was the prior, and I was about to tell her how I felt, when luckily she said, “It doesn’t matter anyways, I’m through with men. I’m just gonna die an old maid and that’s all there is to it.” And with that remark, she closed her eyes and fell asleep in the chair; making me the last one standing, lonely, drunk, and confused. It felt right.

Wailing sirens had invaded my dream. When the dream gave way to reality
, the sirens were still blaring. I dressed and ran out to the main house; Delotta, Matador, and Corynne holding Tucker were standing on the front porch looking concerned as Preston was being lifted into the back of the ambulance. By the time I reached them, I saw Preston give a weak thumbs up as the doors slammed behind him. Matador informed me that Preston had fallen out of bed sometime last night and he wasn’t able to move. By the time Matador found him, he’d been there for hours.

“Why didn’t he yell for one of us?” Corynne asked.

“Even the muscles in his voice box froze up—he was basically paralyzed from the neck down. I just hope to God it’s only temporary,” Matador said.

“He’s moving a little now,” I added.

“The doctors shot him with some heavy muscle relaxers,” Matador said, pacing the porch.

“My Lord, this is terrible. I’m going to church right now and pray
ing for him,” Delotta said, rushing into the house.

“Goddam
nit, I should have known better,” Matador cursed to himself. “Yesterday was too much for him. All that walking, drinking, all that excitement, it was just too goddamn much. I just wanted to give him one last season, but I’m afraid that was his last game and that’s gonna kill him. Now get dressed, I’m leaving for the hospital in ten minutes.”

Family only
was the greeting we got from the hospital receptionist. I planned on hanging back and letting everyone else go in to see Preston. Corynne informed her that we were all family and we needed to see him right away. He was in the biggest recovery room in the hospital. He sat alone under a closed window, covered in tubes with wires connected to beeping machinery. He looked like shit, but as soon as we walked into his room, he perked up, and to my surprise, he addressed me.

“Hey
, Trent, how about that game yesterday, good stuff, huh?” I assured him it was, but he saw the look on my face. “Ahh don’t worry about all this shit. I’m fine, just too much fun yesterday is all; they say I’ll be out of here by tonight.”

“That’s good to hear,” was all I could think to say.

Corynne practically jumped on him and began crying, asking him if he was okay and telling him how much he scared her. Matador grabbed his hand and told him everything would be fine, that we’d get him out of there as soon as possible, and then he changed to a sterner tone. “I told you we should bring your chair, that it would be too much walking, too much everything.”

Preston
struggled in his bed, but was still too weak to rise—which angered him even more. From his prone position he shouted, “Look, goddamnit, I told you, there is no way in hell I’m gonna bring my chair to the stadium. I’d rather be caught dead!”

“Yeah
, and you almost were,” Matador seethed. “No more acting like there is nothing wrong Pres. We have to do everything the doctor tells us, or we’re gonna end up right back in here!”

Corynne jumped in to stop the yelling, “All right…all right, you’re okay now, that’s all that matters. We’ll talk more about this once we get you home. Now, we’re gonna leave you alone and let you get a little rest, and don’t you worry
, we’ll be back to pick you up later today.”

As we walked out
, Preston yelled, “Hey, Trent, how about them Rebels? I tell you what, I think you are a lucky charm—a fuckin’ rabbit’s foot!”

“Just happy to be along for the ride,” I said
, walking out the door.

As we headed out through the hallway
, we were stopped by an older man dressed in a grey suit. Matador was pleased to see him and addressed him as Dr. Farris. He introduced himself to me as Preston’s doctor and told us he had come to the hospital as soon as Matador called.

He turned to Matador and said, “Is everyone here privy to hear about Preston’s condition?”

“Yeah, you can tell us anything,” Matador said. “What’s the latest, Doc?”

Dr. Farris pointed to some chairs and had us all sit down
. “Now, as you know, ALS is different with everyone—some people don’t make it six months, some last twenty years. Preston was diagnosed a year ago and he most likely had it a year, maybe two, before we caught it. Unfortunately, with his age and lack of physical activity, his muscle degeneration and atrophy are progressing faster than we’d like to see. And worse yet, his muscle weakness is spreading rapidly to other parts of the body that were previously unaffected. Frankly, we were hoping they would hold out longer.”

“So cut to the chase
, Doc, what are you getting at? What does all this mean?” Matador said while clutching Corynne’s hand.

“If symptoms keep progressing at their current rate
, being confined to a wheel chair will be the least of his problems. Most likely, he’ll lose his ability to speak and swallow, and he’ll require a ventilator to breath. These are inevitabilities; our only question is how long we can hold them off.”

Dr
. Farris’s face grew dimmer as he went on. “The most insidious aspect of ALS is while he loses all his facilities, his mind remains unaffected, and he has to endure all this with a clear head. I have to tell you, sometimes I think dementia would be a welcome relief in ALS cases. I am so sorry to lay all this on you right now, but I know you want the truth no matter how awful.”

“Jesus Christ,” Matador whispered.

Corynne began sobbing and hugged me. “What can we do?”

“Other than not letting him overdo it like yesterday, just be there for him; make things as comfortable as possible. You may consider physical therapy and that may help with the atrophy, but it only delays the inevitable. Again, I am sorry for the grim report. I wish I had better news, but we need to prepare for Preston’s future. I’ll be doing all I can and I know you will too; he has
a great support group.” Dr. Farris shook our hands and headed toward Preston’s room. We all just sat there, stunned.

We turned to leave
as Corynne needed to get home to relieve Delotta from watching Tucker so she could go to church and get to praying. As we headed to the door, Dr. Farris yelled for us and we hurried back, fearing the worse.

Once we got to the room
, Preston said, “Hey, Trent, why don’t you stick around. I’m going to be bored as hell until you guys can pick me up later. I figure we can kill two birds.”

“Yeah
, sure, we can do that,” I said, dreading the idea of spending the day in a hospital.

“Then it’s settled, Corynne and I will come back for both of you tonight,” Matador said
, looking relieved that nothing else was wrong, and then they left us alone.

Dr
. Farris left as well, said he had to get back to the office but not before chastising Preston about yesterday.

I had my mini-tape recorder on me—I made it a point to always have it on me.

Preston stopped me before I could turn it on. “Dr. Farris tell you anything?”

“No, nothing, why?”

He pulled one of the tubes out of his arm, I waited for some bell to go off or some liquid to spray everywhere, but nothing happened. “He won’t tell me exactly what’s in store for me; he tries to protect me because we’ve been friends for over thirty years.”

“I doubt he would keep anything from you.”

“Ah bullshit, he knows I’m fucked, I know I’m fucked, and now you know I’m fucked. I probably don’t have another year until I’m a complete vegetable, but I’ll tell you this right now, I ain’t going out that easy.”

I didn’t know what to say. In a foolish attempt to cheer him up I said, “Well
, look at Stephen Hawking, doesn’t he have ALS? He’s had it going on twenty or thirty years and he’s the smartest guy on the planet.”

“Exactly, look at that sorry motherfucker—strapped to a chair talking like a robot, breathing through a machine, a complete invalid. And the worst part is his genius mind is fully aware of his body giving up on him. Not me man, not me, I ain’t going out like that!”

“I’m sorry, bad example,” I said. “Maybe we can get back to work, that might take your mind off the fact that you’re stuck in this room.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll tell you about what I did after the war and my next project; that might cheer me up.”

A hell of a thing to cheer someone up, I thought as I pushed record, but I’ll take what I can get right now.

* * * * *

“Now, I’d been working at the Norfolk Air Force base during the war—the same job Joe Jr. was nice enough to get me. Since I was so young, I was kind of like a mascot to the pilots who came in and out of our base. Some even took to calling me their good luck charm after successful missions, didn’t hear much from them after the unsuccessful ones. Anyway, like I said, I managed to get real friendly with some of the flyboys who spent a lot of time at our base. There was this one fella, an American, who took me under his wing, even took me up in his B-17 once on a supply run. But I can’t remember his name for the life of me. I do remember him telling me he dropped paratroopers at Normandy on D-Day; said he got shot down but parachuted out and landed safely on the beach after we took it. Well, he got his hands on a shitload of German paraphernalia: guns, rifles, ammo, uniforms, iron crosses—everything those Krauts had, he packed up and took back to our base. He used some of the contraband to barter and sell—gave a lot away and kept what he wanted. He gave me a Nazi Mauser K98k sniper rifle with boxes and boxes of ammo. He told me to practice and become an expert marksman, claiming there were never enough around when you needed them. And I did, every chance I got. There was a lot of down time between missions, and I got good, real good. We used to have shooting contests with the other men; no one could beat me. Unfortunately, the man that gave me the rifle didn’t get to see me become the expert marksman he wanted me to be, he was shot down over France about a month later.

“That’s what I did, hell, that’s all I did—work at the air base preparing missions and practicing my shooting. I knew being a good shot would help me achieve what I had to do. When the war ended
, I stayed on at the base; there was still plenty of work to do. But after a year or so, they didn’t need me anymore, so I took my rifle—which, by the way, I still have, I’ll show it to you when we get back, maybe even let you shoot it—and moved in with my brother Phillip, who had a small place in London.”

* * * * *

“So, wait,” I interrupted, “you just stayed at the base? Were you even in the service?”

“Technically
, no. I was too young when I showed up to work, but the ranks were so thin they were desperate for any help they could get. I knew if I could get on at the same base that Joe Jr. was flying from—in any capacity, no matter how menial—I could really cause some damage. And as you’ve already heard, I was right; it was the perfect place to accomplish the first, and what I thought at the time, most devastating blow to Joe Sr.”

I jumped in again
. “And just to be perfectly clear, what
was
your goal? What did you need to accomplish?”

Preston looked up at me disappointed
. “I thought I made this abundantly clear, son. My goal, as you put it, was to destroy Joe Sr.—to take away everything, just as he had taken everything from me.”

“Everything?
So far, I’ve only heard about Audrey.”

“I’ll get into that next; let me get this part out of the way first. There is a method to my madness. I assure you.”

“Okay, now if I may ask, before you return to the story, what was your plan to destroy Joe Sr.? What were you going to do?”

“That’s easy
, son, I was going to hit him where it would hurt the most. I was going to destroy his legacy.”

“And how were you gonna do that?”

Preston lay back down, looked away, and said with quiet calm, “Have you ever heard the phrase that a revolution eats its children?”

“Yeah
, I have. I think it came about during the French Revolution or something.”

“You may be right; well, this was my revolt against the Kennedys.”

* * * * *

“I left the air base with only two things: my beloved rifle and
fifty pounds of Torpex explosive. There was tons of it left over from scratched missions. I figured I could find a use for it eventually and it would never be missed. I hid it in the closet of the room I had at Phillip’s. Now…a little bit about Phillip. He had to leave Oxford and was clerking at a law office, and he had a shitty little flat in the wrong part of town.

“Now, remember when I told you that the Kennedy brothers would beat up on
Phillip and he’d just lay down and take the beating? Well, that’s what he did after everything was taken from us—he just resigned himself to his fate. Don’t get me wrong, he was deeply saddened and very angry like I was, he just had a different way of dealing with it, a classic pacifist I guess. He was my older brother and I loved him, but I couldn’t respect him for his passivity, and our relationship was strained once he found out what I had done and what I had planned.

“I couldn’t be bothered with Phillip’s apathy and inadequacies. I was focused on what I had to do. Hate and anger became my new parents. I wasn’t going to leave England without another Kennedy under my belt, even though they
had all gone back to the states…except one.