The Sacrifice (15 page)

Scott was wearing blue jeans, but the chain-link fence crowd was not in his plans for the evening. He climbed the metal steps of the bleachers. A female voice called his name.

“Scott!”

He looked down the row of bleachers to his left. It was Kay. She was in the middle of the row, standing up and waving her arm.

“Are you with some friends?” she yelled.

“No.”

“There's a seat here.” She pointed beside her.

Scott gingerly made his way past a dozen spectators. He was almost to the vacant place beside Kay when an overweight man hit him in the leg. Scott lurched forward and watched in slow motion as his drink tipped over and slipped out of his hand. At the last instant, Kay reached up and grabbed the cup before it turned upside down and the lid popped off.

“Good reflexes,” Scott said with relief. “I didn't want to give you a soft-drink shower.”

Her hair in a ponytail, Kay was wearing tan slacks and a long-sleeve, green, knit shirt. She moved a lightweight coat so that Scott could sit down. It was warm now, but the air would cool quickly once the sun set.

“Have you come to other games?” she asked.

“First one since I moved back. Dustin Rawlings mentioned it the other night.”

Kay picked up her game program and ran her finger down the list of players. “He's number 81. Senior. Wide receiver. 6'1" and 185 pounds.”

Scott opened his sack, took out a hamburger, unwrapped it, and took a big bite.

“That smells good,” Kay said.

Still chewing, Scott mumbled, “It is.”

“What's on it?”

He swallowed. “Cheese, ketchup, pickles, and plenty of onions.”

“Sounds good,” Kay answered.

Scott took another bite and turned his attention toward the field. The opposing team, dressed in white jerseys, red pants, and white helmets, was assembling in the end zone before running onto the field.

“Could I borrow your program?” he asked.

Kay handed him the booklet, and Scott flipped it open to the team roster. Dustin's picture and bio were printed on the right side of the two pages devoted to Catawba's seniors.

“Do you want me to help myself?” Kay asked.

“To what?” Scott turned toward her.

“A hamburger.”

“You want one?”

Kay smiled. “Is that a possibility?”

Scott reached into the bag. “Are you sure you like onions? They're pretty strong.”

Kay took off the wrapper. “I eat more than cantaloupe. Besides, I'd better eat a few onions in self-defense if we're going to be sitting next to one another.”

“I can exhale in the opposite direction,” Scott offered.

Kay took a bite. “No, this is a better solution.”

Scott opened his small bag of potato chips and reluctantly held it toward Kay. If the quarter had landed tails on the third try in his office, someone would be feeding him right now. “Potato chips?”

“No, thanks,” she said. “I don't like barbeque chips.”

Scott finished the second burger and the chips at the same time Kay put the last bite of hamburger in her mouth.

“Onions make you thirsty, don't they?” she asked.

Scott didn't wait for further hints. He handed her his drink. “I only have one straw.”

“I can avoid that.” Kay took off the lid and took a long swallow directly from the cup, waited, and took another drink. “That should hold me until halftime, then I'll treat you to a bag of peanuts and buy a drink of my own.”

Scott put the lid back on the cup, sucked on the straw, and drew air. He tilted the cup and found just enough liquid for one good sip. He took off the lid and shook some ice into his mouth.

The coaches were already along the sideline. The Catawba players were massed behind the goalpost in one end zone preparing to run through a huge paper banner held by several members of the cheerleading squad. The crowd rose to its feet as the team burst through the paper barricade and ran full speed toward the home field bleachers.

After the crowd quieted down, Kay said, “I know you played football but don't remember the position. You were on defense, weren't you?”

“Right side linebacker. It was a lot of fun.” Scott remembered days wearing heavy pads in the blazing heat of August and added, “At least the games were fun. Practice was terrible. Nobody likes football practice.”

The game quickly settled down to a defensive struggle. Neither team seemed capable of getting a first down, much less a touchdown. Dustin caught one pass for eight yards before being pushed out of bounds. On running plays, he usually had to block the opposing team's cornerback, a muscular young man who hit Dustin so hard on two plays that Scott winced in sympathy. But the Catawba player also got in some licks, including a flying block that freed the home team's running back for a fifteen-yard run. It was the Catamounts' longest play of a first half that ended in a scoreless tie.

“Ready for peanuts?” Kay asked.

“And a drink. Chewing ice makes me thirsty.”

“Two drinks and peanuts. Do you want to go with me?”

“Sure.”

Scott followed Kay down the steps. They passed Yvette Fisher who saw them together and quickly reported to her friends that Mrs. Wilson was getting a divorce and had a date with Mr. Ellis to the game.

“Do you want another hamburger to replace the one I ate?” Kay asked.

“No. Peanuts are fine.”

There was a long line at the concession stand. When they returned to their seats, the second half was about to begin. Catawba had the ball on offense. Kay held the bag toward Scott who took out a few peanuts and cracked one open.

“I stopped for a few minutes at Lake Norman on my way back from Charlotte today,” he said. “Do you remember the time we went skiing?”

Kay nodded. “It was freezing. I had goose bumps the size of marbles.”

“Was that your first time on water skis? I couldn't remember.”

“Second. But it was the first time under arctic conditions.”

Kay broke open a shell and put a fat peanut in Scott's right hand. “Here, this is a good one.” The peanut rolled into the indention created by a long scar that stretched across Scott's palm from his thumb to his little finger. Kay stared hard for a full two seconds. “Scott, what in the world happened to your hand?”

Scott glanced down and put the peanut in his mouth. “It happened in the army.” He pointed to the field. “Look, the quarterback is going to throw it to Dustin.”

The Catawba receiver left his feet and stretched out prone in the air in an effort to reach a ball that sailed a few inches beyond his fingertips.

“That was close,” Scott said.

With less than a minute to play, the visiting team recovered a fumble on the Catawba twenty-five-yard line. The offense was unable to move the ball, and on fourth down with three seconds left, their coach decided to attempt the least likely to succeed play in high-school football—a field goal. The kicker, a defensive tackle, lumbered onto the field in a uniform covered with dirt from the trench warfare of the previous four quarters. He lined up straight behind the ball and kicked a low line drive that barely cleared the lower bar of the goalpost. The final score was 3-0.

“Tough game,” Scott said, as they watched the other team celebrate along the sidelines. The Catawba fans were silent. “Let's find Dustin.”

They made their way through the departing crowd. Several of the battered Catawba players were gathering up their gear. Kay stopped to talk to a student in one of her classes. Scott saw Dustin near the Catamount bench beside an older man with the same blond hair streaked with gray.

Dustin's face was streaked with dirt, and he had a small cut on the bridge of his nose. He saw Scott and motioned for him to come over.

“Dad, this is Mr. Ellis, the lawyer who is coaching the mock trial team.”

Mr. Rawlings shook Scott's hand. “Number 51, wasn't it? Right side linebacker.”

“Uh, yeah,” Scott replied with surprise. “That was a long time ago. How did you remember my number and position?”

“I told you he knows everything about Catawba football,” Dustin said.

“Not exactly,” Mr. Rawlings smiled. “Dustin mentioned you, and I looked you up in a file I have at home.”

“He probably knew anyway,” Dustin added. “Ask him a question.”

Scott thought a moment. “Okay. There was a defensive end who graduated with me. He still lives in Catawba. Do you know—”

“Perry Dixon,” Mr. Rawlings answered. “He was a tough competitor. I remember a game in which he sacked the quarterback five or six times.”

“That's right. We gave him the game ball. He has it on a shelf at his gym.”

Most of the Catawba players were moving across the field.

“I'd better get to the locker room,” Dustin said. “Thanks for coming down to see me.”

Scott watched him trudge toward the locker room. “I dreaded the locker room after we lost a game. It was bad enough losing, but we had a head coach that would yell and throw helmets through the air.”

“I was on the booster club when he was fired,” Mr. Rawlings said. “Things are much better with Coach Butler. He knows how to motivate the boys without degrading them.”

“That's good. I promise not to yell or throw legal pads if we don't win the mock trial competition.”

Mr. Rawlings chuckled. “You've inspired Dustin by coming to this game. The best motivation is based on personal relationship.”

Scott found Kay and they walked together toward the exit.

“Is next week a home game?” he asked.

“No. It's at Lincolnton.”

“Are you going?”

Kay nodded. “Probably.”

“Would you like to ride together?” he asked. “You still owe me a hamburger.”

“Maybe.”

12

The eternal God is your dwelling place,
and underneath are the everlasting arms.

D
EUTERONOMY 33:27 (RSV)

S
unday morning Kay rolled over and turned off the alarm buzzing loudly beside her left ear. The alarm clock was the only thing on her nightstand. The picture of Jake and herself on their honeymoon in St. Thomas was now in the bottom drawer of her dresser. She'd put it under a purple sweater she never wore.

The sun was shining outside the bedroom window of her apartment, and she prepared to force herself out of bed and get ready for school. Then, realizing she had a day of rest, she fell back against her pillow with a sigh of relief and didn't open her eyes for another hour and a half.

When she awoke the second time, she put on a T-shirt and shorts and walked downstairs to the workout room in the basement of her building. Exercising had been one of the bright spots in her marriage to Jake. They had spent many pleasant mornings jogging along the beaches of California and the wooded trails of Virginia, but in the end, Jake had not been willing to go the distance with her. After forty-five minutes going up and down simulated hills on a treadmill, she turned off the machine and sat on a stool in front of a small fan. She was hot and sweaty and lonely. The treadmill was the perfect machine for her. It reflected her marriage— running up and down without going anywhere, sweating without anything enduring to show for it.

Upstairs in her apartment, she poured a glass of water. On her kitchen counter was a stack of papers she'd brought home from her school mailbox. Most of the sheets were administrative announcements and notices about faculty meetings that didn't affect her. She tossed page after page into the trash. In the midst of the stack was a neon orange flyer:

Catawba Community Church is meeting in the gym at the middle school
on Sunday mornings at 10:30
A
.
M
. All are welcome. Casual attire.

There was something familiar about the name of the church. Laying the sheet aside, she put her right foot on a wooden stool and leaned forward until she could touch her toes. She didn't want to tighten up. She looked at the notice again while she stretched her other leg. Then she remembered. Janie Collins had invited her to come to one of the meetings.

Kay looked at the clock and made a decision. It wasn't quite 9:45 A.M. She had time to take a shower and get dressed. The only other demands on her day were some papers in her brown satchel that needed to be graded by Monday. Kay made up her mind. She had to get out of the lonely apartment for a few hours. A church that met in a gym might be interesting.

At 10:28 A.M. she pulled into a parking space in front of the old, redbrick gymnasium. The long, narrow structure was crowned with high, opaque-glass windows that slid open on levers and had served as the main source of ventilation before the introduction of air conditioning. There were about fifteen cars in the parking lot. Opening a heavy, gray metal door, Kay walked through the foyer that formerly housed the trophy case before it was moved to the new high school. Inside the gym a group of forty-five men, women, and children sat in folding chairs set up at one end of the gym floor.