Snapper (2 page)

“Ready, Isaac?” he’d ask as Isaac plopped into the front seat.

“Dad, do we really have to?” Isaac pleaded.

“Yes, Isaac, we do,” answered his father. “And someday you’ll be glad we did. Someday you’ll have something no one can ever take away from you.”

*

“This is how America was made,” said Owen.

He and Isaac were sitting in the flickering light of a campfire, eating baked beans straight from the can.

“We’re like the early settlers who went west into lands unknown and used whatever they found to build shelter for themselves,” waxed Owen. “We’re following in the footsteps of our forefathers.”

“But Nana and Papa settled in Brooklyn,” said Isaac. “They never moved west of the East River.”

Owen sighed.

Why was it that his son always got bogged down in literal details when it was the big picture he was trying to give him?

“That’s not the point, Isaac,” explained Owen. “The point is they had the courage to start new lives in a new land. It’s the imperative to move forward that brought them here to these shores.”

Owen made a sweeping gesture – as if the “shores” they had come to were the shores of Turtleback Lake itself.

“What does ‘imperative’ mean?” asked Isaac.

Owen peered through the trunks of the dark trees. The lake beyond was plated in silvery moonlight. Out in the middle, Owen could see the small white rock island whose domed surface always made him think of a human skull. It was glowing now in the moonlight.

“An imperative is something you must do,” explained Owen. “It’s something that has more control over you than you have over it.”

“I think I have an imperative, Dad.”

Isaac rose from the tree stump he’d been sitting on.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.

Isaac made his way through the trees down to the lake. Recently, he had made up a game to amuse himself. He was trying to write his name in pee. His goal was to pee his whole name – Isaac Christian Andersen. But now, even in the light of the moon, it was too dark for that. So Isaac made up a new game. He’d see how many rocks he could pee on before his urine ran out. He started with the furthest rock he could reach and worked his way inward.

Isaac had just splashed his twelfth stone and was squirting the thirteenth when it happened. The rock moved.

At first, Isaac just blinked. It had to be an illusion, a trick of the moonlight and the gentle breeze that was rippling the water. But blinking changed nothing. The rock was definitely moving. It was coming closer and getting bigger. Now it was just a few feet from shore and it had grown to the size of an overturned wheelbarrow.

Isaac’s eyes widened in amazement, and then in horror: a large reptilian head suddenly reared up. Two sunburst yellow eyes fixed on Isaac.

The creature opened its hooked, beaked mouth and let out a long, low hiss. Isaac stood frozen. Then the creature lunged. Isaac spun around and started crashing back through the woods to the clearing where his father was bent over a basin of sudsy dishwater, washing spoons.

Chapter 3

TURTLEBACK LAKE SEPTEMBER 2006

Judd Clayton stood before the school board.

“Look,” he said. “Let’s not mince words. My concern here tonight is property values. Any and all negative perceptions of our town must be addressed and eliminated. And I believe the name of our football team has become a problem.”

Judd’s position was hardly devoid of self-interest. As the owner of Clayton Realty,
“Turtleback Lake’s Leading Home Seller For Over A Quarter Century,”
Judd wanted every home to sell for top dollar.

Still, the members of the board looked stunned by the audacity of Judd’s suggestion.

Silence lingered until Dr. Deena Goode, the town’s high school principal, spoke.

“Really, Mr. Clayton,” she began, affecting her most reasonable tone. “You’re not seriously suggesting that the name of the high school football team is adversely effecting property values?”

Judd Clayton stared into Deena’s brown eyes.

Dr. Goode had been principal for less than a month. She wouldn’t even
be
the principal if it weren’t for Judd. Yet, now, here the two of them were – at odds.

“Without a doubt there’s an effect,” said Judd.

“Perhaps then,” said Deena, “perhaps you could provide us with some unbiased statistical data to support your thesis?”

Judd was livid. This was just the kind of supercilious, pseudo-academic mumbo jumbo that Dr. Goode – Deena – used to make her every utterance seem indisputably correct.

“Well, Doctor,” began Judd, barely able to conceal his anger. “I forgot to bring along my graphs and bar charts, but I can tell you this: That recent article in The Turtleback Gazette has been mentioned by three of the last four people I’ve shown homes to.”

The article in the local paper was about the increased number of bathers who had been bitten –
‘attacked’
was the reporter’s unfortunate choice of words – by snapping turtles that summer. None had been serious, nothing more than little nips really, but still – it was statistically irrefutable – there definitely had been an increase over previous summers. Then again, snapping turtles were in every lake in the mountains of North Jersey. It was a lot better than having water moccasins.

“So let me clarify your position,” said Dr. Goode. “You’re saying that the name “Snappers” might cause prospective homebuyers to think twice about buying in Turtleback Lake?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Judd.

Dr. Goode shook her head. She was not the only one ready to dismiss Judd’s proposal without further discussion.

Head coach Bill Lupo was silently seething in his seat. Bill had been the center – the snapper – for the high school football team back in the sixties. In Bill’s opinion, the Snapper name was an institution. It was something carved in stone, an inseparable part of the town’s identity.

Though she wasn’t ready to admit it here and now, Dr. Goode wasn’t particularly fond of the team’s moniker. “The Snappers” struck her as hostile and aggressive. But an odd dynamic had sprung up between Judd and her. She felt an almost irresistible compulsion to disagree with him.

“And let me remind everyone of one more thing,” said Judd. “The more homes sell for, the higher they’ll be appraised. And the higher they’re appraised, the higher they’ll be taxed.”

Judd paused and looked around at the members of the board.

“And where do you think the money for our teachers’ salaries comes from?” he said. “And what do you think pays for our athletic programs?”

Judd paused again to let the logic of his argument sink in.

“Property taxes,” he said, “are the life blood of this town.”

Dr. Goode gave Judd a look she had perfected during her years as a vice-principal. The look had withered even the biggest, most unruly troublemakers. But Judd didn’t wither – he simply glared back.

“Mr. Clayton,” she said finally, tiring of the showdown. “I can assure you that all of us here appreciate your concern for the security of our positions. So it will no doubt please you to know that the rejection of your proposal is in no way influenced by a desire for professional gain or financial advancement. The name of our football team will remain what it has always been – The Snappers.”

“Here, here,” muttered Bill Lupo. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

* * * *

Judd’s son – Judd Junior – was walking into the locker room when Coach Lupo called him into his office.

“Get in here, JJ,” he said. “And take a seat.”

“What is it, coach?” said JJ. Coach Lupo had never before called him into his office.

“That was some performance your daddy put on last night,” said Coach Lupo.

JJ looked puzzled.

“Don’t just sit there looking dumbfounded!” said Coach Lupo.

“But I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

“Well,” said Coach Lupo. “Maybe you and your daddy can have a little heart to heart and he can fill you in.”

Then Coach Lupo turned to his assistant, George Jenkins.

“What do you think, Georgie?” he said. “You got any names you think might improve local property values for JJ’s dad?”

“Gee, Bill, I don’t know,” said George. “How about the Tadpoles? Or the Pollywogs? Or wait – hold on – how about the Lily Pads?”

“What do you think, JJ?” said Coach Lupo. “Think your daddy would like it if we changed the team’s name to the Turtleback Lake Lily Pads?”

JJ didn’t know where to look, let alone what to say. He stared down at his hands.

“Get out of here,” said Coach Lupo. “And put on your pads – your lily pads!”

“We’ll have full contact today,” Bill said to George as soon as JJ left. “It’s time these kids learned why you need a hard shell in life.”

*

The confrontation with Coach Lupo was just the beginning. When JJ got to his locker, most of the varsity football team was waiting for him.

“I need something,” said Bobby Savarese. “Something in your locker.”

Bobby Savarese was the fiercest player ever to roam Snapper Field. To freshmen, he was a legend – and a terror.

“Open it,” he said.

JJ dialed his combination in plain sight of everyone. There didn’t seem any point in trying to hide it. Then he swung open his locker’s vented metal door. His jersey, pants, and jock strap were hanging from hooks up top. His cleats, socks, and pads were jumbled in a pile at the bottom.

Savarese elbowed JJ aside and thrust his arm into the locker. When he withdrew his hand, he was clutching JJ’s jock strap.

“Do you know what happens to softies?” said Savarese, bringing the tip of his flattened nose to within an inch of JJ’s.

JJ didn’t answer.

“I said, ‘Do you know what happens to softies?’”

“No,” stammered JJ. He could barely get the word out.

“Give me the hammer!” spat Savarese.

A large rubber mallet was passed through the crowd till it reached Savarese. He gripped its long wooden handle in his right hand.

He placed the jock on the wooden bench in front of JJ’s locker.

“Softies,” he said, his voice now barely a whisper. “Get smashed!”

Savarese brought the head of the hammer down onto JJ’s jock. The hard plastic cup, encased in a snapped pouch, split in half.

“They get smashed,” he said, “into little tiny pieces.”

Savarese raised the hammer back up above his head and brought it down again, and again, and again. When he finally stopped pounding, he glared at JJ with eyes that bulged from their sockets.

JJ stood silent, stunned.

Savarese looked down at JJ’s feet and spat on the ground. A gob of spit clung to the toe of JJ’s sneaker.

“Show’s over,” he said, turning to the players gathered behind him. “Let’s get on with practice.”

As the locker room emptied, JJ sat down on the bench in front of his locker and unsnapped his jock strap. He dumped the shattered bits into the trash bin. Today he’d have to practice without proper protection.

JJ tried to suit up as fast as he could, but his trembling fingers wouldn’t cooperate. It took forever to strap on his shoulder pads, pull on his jersey, and tie the laces of his cleats.

Then he squeezed his head into his helmet and snapped the chinstrap. JJ looked fully padded, but he knew how vulnerable he really was.

*

JJ finally emerged from the locker room and stepped into the bright September sun. The rest of the team was already running drills out on the practice field.

JJ ran down the locker room steps, his metal cleats clattering on the concrete stairs. He broke into a run that took him directly past a cluster of cheerleaders gathered beneath a goal post.

The cheerleaders were all good-looking – it seemed to be a prerequisite of the job – but one was absolutely, unbelievably beautiful.

Mary Robinson.

JJ had never seen anyone who even compared. When he saw her for the first time on the first day of school, it was love at first sight. She was almost too beautiful to look at.

But now, sprinting past the cheerleaders, JJ risked a glance in her direction.

JJ was jolted. It was like being hit by lightning. Mary Robinson was looking right back at him! The gaze of her beautiful blue eyes came straight through the bars of his facemask and met his.

JJ fell to the ground like he’d been shot.

“Oh, God!” he muttered. “What a clod!”

His cleats had snagged on the turf. When he hit the ground, his helmet twisted to the side. A tuft of grass poked through the ear hole.

Looking out from within the shell of his helmet, JJ had a turtle’s eye view of a dozen pairs of black and white saddle shoes. One pair broke away from the pack. They came pattering toward him then stopped less than a foot from his face.

Starting at the shoes, JJ’s eyes began to climb: Up past the short white ankle socks, up the tanned, slender calves, up over the knees and thighs to the pleated black skirt, up over the white knit sweater with the bright yellow-and-black snapping turtle emblem, up to the rounded white collar opened at the throat.