Life Its Ownself (41 page)

"Dumb guys have been robbing smart guys for years," I said. "A crooked zebra told me that."

"I've been a dumb guy," said Barbara Jane. "I've been robbing myself."

Barbara Jane's look was the one I'd been waiting for.

I hate to put it like this, but her look made my poor heart swell up.

I said, "Would a guy assume from your demeanor that he's happily married again?"

"A guy could assume that."

I glanced at Uncle Kenneth. He had the confident smile of a man who had shoved it all in on a mortal lock.

"Does your director approve of you being here?" I asked.

"He didn't get a vote."

"I've been thinking about the bicoastal life," I said. "It might not be so bad. I like Fatburger."

"I miss football," said Barb. "Can I go to some of the games with you? Would there be room for me in the booth?"

"I love you, Barb," I said with as much persuasion as I ever had.

"I love you," she said. "I never stopped, you know."

Before I could grab her up in my arms, we were suddenly marched onto the field by the chancellor and the gentleman from the alumni association.

The voice on the P.A. system said something about the awards. We were handed plaques. There were handshakes. I don't know that either of us heard any of the words that were spoken. We just kept looking at each other.

And now we walked away, slowly, over to the sideline, and then toward the south end zone where we could see Shake Tiller in the distance. Shake was leaning against the goal post.

"So Biff," said Barb. "Did you make it with that time bandit from Berkeley?"

Time bandit.

Barbara Jane's review of Kathy Montgomery had finally come in.

I gave the question some serious thought.

"Barb, I know you don't want me to lie to you again," I said. "I...yes, I did."

"Ha!"

Barbara Jane threw her head back and laughed raucously. It was honest laughter, a sound that was so much a part of her—and our past.

"You macho bastard," she said, still smiling, "you would say that, wouldn't you?"

"Do you like Shake's book? I hate it."

"He told me about Kathy, but that's not why I'm back, Biff."

"Who do you want to play in the movie? I'd like to play me.

"Kathy's a neat role."

I pulled Barbara Jane to me. We kissed as if we were all alone on the field. And then we kept walking. And in the stadium where I'd heard so many cheers, where the scent of winning was in the air again, it occurred to me that I'd scored the greatest victory of my life. Barbara Jane had come back.

We met Shake Tiller at the south end of the field. Nobody said anything. We just looked around in the stadium, and back at each other, and the three of us started to laugh.

I guess you could say we were laughing at life its ownself as we stood there in an old familiar huddle under a spray of Texas stars.

Life Its Ownself
is Dan Jenkins' fifth novel, his eighth book. His published fiction includes
Semi-Tough
(1972),
Dead Solid Perfect
(1974),
Limo
(1976), and
Baja Oklahoma
(1981). Mr. Jenkins is a native of Fort Worth, Texas, who has lived in New York City for the past 22 years. As a Senior Writer for
Sports Illustrated
, he has written more than 500 articles on the subjects of football and golf.

Mr. Jenkins is married to the former June Burrage of Fort Worth, the co-owner of two highly acclaimed restaurants in Manhattan (Juanita's and Summerhouse). Their daughter, Sally, is a sportswriter for the
San Francisco Chronicle
, and their sons, Marty and Danny, are working in television and photography in Texas and New York.