Deadline

  “You’re doin’ this for school? I got a feelin’ your project is gonna be a dissertation on why you couldn’t get a groundswell goin’ for Malcolm. You have a particular street in mind?”

  I point to the heading on the petition.

  “Jackson Street? Jesus, Boomer Cowans lives on Jackson Street.” Rance gets a serious belly laugh out of that. “Mind if I tag along when you knock on ol’ Boomer’s door? I ain’t seen a human being killed since Vietnam.”

  That’s funny. “I thought I’d just go ahead and slip his name into the “no” column.”

  “Well, if you get the signatures, you better slide yourself into the ‘gone’ column.”

  I certainly know the outcome to this academic adventure. Petitioning to make Jackson Street into Malcolm X Avenue is Saturday Night Live—caliber folly. But as I’ve said, you can do what you can do, and as bad as I’m feeling about Dallas it makes sense to court danger. It helps keep my mind off her, if only for fleeting moments. I was so selfish.

  Malcolm X is teaching me so much about baby steps in the universe. Let’s say I follow through and get no signatures and no street gets named after him—duh!—but I write a hell of a paper. I mean a hell of a paper. Lambeer won’t read it, but I could give a copy to Coach and tell him to put it in the archives or the senior time capsule. Let’s say he does, and let’s say some kid picks it up when they start looking at that stuff a generation from now and nobody around this hick town knows Malcolm X from Malcolm in the Middle. But let’s say this kid gets interested. And instead of a Ben Wolf he’s a Cody Wolf and he says, “Listen to me or I won’t throw any more balls for you,” or better, “Name a street after Malcolm X or I’ll tank the state championship.” And he gets something started that stresses a little less hate. I wouldn’t have done anything for the world, but I’d have done something for Trout, Idaho. And maybe somebody else will take it out of Trout to the world and run into the other folks who won’t let Malcolm die. Just because I don’t have lots of time doesn’t mean there isn’t lots of time.

  Today I’m going to get my head back into things. I walk into Lambeer’s class and put my head on my desk, focusing. Lambeer finishes taking roll and says, “So, Mr. Wolf, how many signatures have you gotten on your petition so far?” and I realize Trout is so small he’s heard I’m truly going ahead with this project that is certain to earn me an F.

  “What you should be asking is how many times I’ve heard the word nigger since I’ve been on the campaign trail.”

  “You will not use that language in my class, Mr. Wolf. You know better than that.”

  “Don’t confuse the message with the messenger,” I say back. “And get ready because you’ll see it in my paper.”

  “I won’t see anything in your paper because I’m not going to read your paper. It’s obvious I can’t stop you but I certainly don’t have to be complicit. And I better not hear that word in my classroom again. You’ll call it ‘the n word.’”

  “So it won’t sound as nasty as it is?”

  “You might want to think twice about pushing me, Mr. Wolf. I’ve recalculated the respective weights of the separate course requirements, and it’s possible you could squeak by with a D. But you will be civil to me and others in this classroom or I will expel you from it. My wish to see you graduate aside, I have my limits.”

  “What if I don’t care if I graduate?”

  “If you don’t care whether or not you graduate, just keep it up. You also might think about applying for Rudy McCoy’s old job, because that’s what you’ll be qualified to do.”

  I mumble, “What a dick,” under my breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “If any of us did our jobs half as well as Rudy did his, we might learn the real details worth knowing in here.”

  Sylvia Longley, who I am coming to know and hate, says, “Mr. Lambeer, get rid of him. He’s ruining this class.”

  To which Dallas replies, “Shut up, Sylvia, before I treat myself to something I should have treated myself to a long time ago.”

  Whoa!

  Dolven says, “Go Dallas!”

  Dallas shoots Dolven a look and he sticks his nose back in his book.

  “I think this might be a good time for you to take leave, Mr. Wolf. We’ll talk about your future at a later date.”

  Cody slams his book shut and says, “Okay, but I don’t see what I did.”

  That gets a laugh. Even Sooner thinks that’s funny.

  “Not you! Ben, go to the library.”

  I’m already loading my books into my backpack. I do need to get out of here. I almost ran over and hugged Dallas when she threatened Sylvia, a move that could have shortened my life expectancy.

  Away from the chaos, I take inventory. I know I shouldn’t lay it on Lambeer, but I think one reason I’m being such a shithead is I have put off telling my mother and father the bad news; told myself they’d be better off not knowing. But there’s no way around it. If I’d been up front with Dallas things would be okay with her and me, I’ll bet, and when I think about it rationally I was never in trouble with my brother and Coach, though it was smart not to tell either of them before I got my hands on a football, so, all things considered, I could make a case for having waited. But all my trouble so far has come from being the little control freak I am, deciding who should hear what when and trying to control other people’s emotions by what I say. It’s become clearer and clearer it’s just disrespectful to not let people deal with things in a straightforward manner. When I’m lying on that bed on my last day, I want a clean slate.

  I’m sitting in my mother’s bedroom with Dad. Mom lies with her back to us, but I checked; her eyes are open. Dad’s in the chair at the end of the bed. He doesn’t know yet, but he knows this is important because no way do I bring him in here with me under normal circumstances.

  “Mom, I know you can hear me, but you don’t have to answer. I just can’t keep what I have to say inside any longer. I want to apologize to both of you for not saying it sooner, but I had this dumb idea it was better not to.”

  Mom doesn’t move, and Dad’s brow is furrowed. Cody’s not home; I wanted to make sure nobody accused him of inaction in the face of crisis.

  “When I went for my cross-country physical this year, I found out I’m sick. Terminal. It’s aggressive and there’s not much chance I’ll live much past this year….”

  An involuntary moan escapes Dad’s lips. He starts to rise but his knees buckle and he sits back down. I don’t detect movement from my mother. “It’s not your fault that I didn’t say anything. I thought I could make my life normal. I threatened Doc Wagner that if he broke confidentiality I’d go after him legally. He did go ahead and pass me on my physical so I could play football, but I begged him and he was just trying to give me a break.”

  “Oh my God, Ben. What…I mean, what are they doing about it?”

  This is the hard part. “I decided against that,” I say. “It was going to make me sick, and I know this sounds really strange, but I just didn’t think it would do any good and I wanted to have as healthy a year as I could.”

  My mother’s shoulders start to shake and I lean over far enough to see her expression is blank but tears soak the sheets. Dad moves to the bed, wraps his arms around her shoulders and holds her while she silently sobs. His voice quivers as he whispers, “Go on, son. I’ll handle this.”

  And I walk out of the room.

  Early February

  Twenty-Two

  At least they know. I’ve said before it’s crazy that I feel guilty about my loved ones feeling bad when I’m the one who’s dying, but I’m hardwired that way. Things are clearer now, though; not easier, but clearer. The truth really does bring freedom. For one thing you don’t have to remember which lie you told.

  This disease is showing itself more regularly. What I felt that night on the run and to a lesser degree in the pickup can’t be ignored. I’ve got no time for denial. I’ve had a couple of days just sitting throu
gh classes trying to build the energy to get to the next one. When that happens I double up on the supplements and catch every nap I can—thank God for math and Spanish. Coach gave me a key to his office in the gym so I can rest there, and he covers for me in the teachers’ lounge. I’ve stayed home a few times, laid in bed and let the day go by while I gathered strength. Doc helps me out with some super boosters so potent I don’t even ask about them, and for the majority of the time I’m okay; I just have these dips. Sometimes when I’m home or just kicking back in Coach’s office, I get on the phone to see if I can drum up some signatures for my Malcolm X petition, but mostly what I get are stats for my paper on the number of times I hear “that word.”

  When Dallas walks into a room I tell myself we’re like ants on an anthill and the loss I feel doesn’t amount to anything in the cosmos. But the emptiness and the longing are so great I can’t hold that thought and I begin to wonder what’s big and what’s little. I have that program in my computer where you look at the Milky Way from such a distance it seems like one small star, then you start clicking and getting closer and closer and pretty soon you’re looking at the solar system and then Earth and then some clump of trees and when you’re finished you’re staring into a single cell and it takes only a little imagination to realize that if the program kept going you’d be inside an atom. The distances across that atom, in relative measure, are the same as the distances across the universe. So there is no big and no little and I’m left to realize that the pain I feel, relative to me, is as big as two galaxies moving apart in the universe, and I can only come to the conclusion that the desperation I feel is huge.

  I think about Dallas’s uncle and I hate him; hate the visuals of him creeping into her room, or scaring her into not telling. I think of the betrayal, how tough it would be to trust anything if that happened to you. If you can’t trust the people in your own family to keep you safe, your sense of trust would have to head right down the shitter. But then I think of Dallas with Joe Henry, the result of all that betrayal; how she just loves him and wouldn’t give him up for anything and things get complicated. Rudy betrayed a kid, like, cubed, and that kid is gone and there have to be people everywhere that, if they knew it, would have come after Rudy with torches in the night. But what about Rudy McCoy when he was a little kid, suffering that same betrayal, then betrayal of a God that was supposed to keep him safe? I can’t help but like him and I can’t help but hurt for him and I can’t also help but think if he were alive I’d do whatever I could do to keep him away from kids, and if I couldn’t do that I’d have to turn him in because that is the only way you get this shit stopped.

  Planet Earth is a tough town.

  “This isn’t turning out the way I wanted it to.” My time in this half-awake cocoon of my room has become my greatest sanctuary.

  “Really?”

  “I actually thought Rudy was a guy I could save, thought he could get his redemption from me.”

  He smiles. “He was hardwired, as you put it, to be the way he was. Every time he came out of his stupor, his history was waiting for him. He mistook what he did for who he was. But he faced it and made his decision. You were way too late for Rudy, Ben. But you gave him some days he’d never have had without you.”

  “Yeah, but don’t I get a break here? I mean, look at my mother. Talk about hardwired.”

  “I’d have to agree with you there.”

  “Man, who comes out of this?”

  “Whoever chooses to. Listen, Ben, wise men and women have come here for centuries and left what they knew. In their time. Jesus, Buddha, Muhammad, Gandhi, Aloysius, Martina, Suddahara…”

  “Aloysius? Martina?”

  “Not all of them were famous. At any rate, all of them knew connection is everything and life is risky. They knew the rule of joy and fear. They knew nothing dies. They knew the big bang; that some version of everything is inside you. Life is your practice field. The state playoffs are inside you.

  “Your first therapist, Marla, was right when she said her best advice comes from a flight attendant. Put your own oxygen mask on before you try to help anyone else. There’s only one person you and I can save together, Ben, and when I leave that person will be the only one left in the room.”

  And Hey-Soos turns and walks away. I have a feeling I won’t see him again until the moment I…change.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, Ben.” Dallas stands behind her screen door beside Joe Henry, who wants the hell out to come play with me.

  “Ben! Ben! Hey, Ben! Should I gets my glove?”

  I watch Dallas. She watches me.

  “Can I, Dallas Suzuki? Can I gets my glove and go play catch?”

  “You’d better let him,” I say. “It will make your evening easier.”

  “Go get your glove,” she says. “And put on warm clothes.”

  Joe Henry disappears, while Dallas and I watch each other through the screen door.

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” I say. “It was wrong not telling, but it seemed right at the time. I was selfish. And I know it was seriously messed up not to tell you after you told me everything, but I just got scared, like way more scared than of dying because I wanted it so much. But I don’t think we should spend this time being mad at each other.” It all comes out almost without punctuation, as fast as I can say it.

  Dallas doesn’t move. “I don’t know, Ben. I don’t know if I can….”

  I can feel my shoulders sink. “Okay,” I say. “At least let me play catch with Joe Henry.”

  “You can play catch with Joe Henry,” she says, then turns and disappears into the darkness of her living room.

  It is freezing cold and Joe Henry bursts onto the porch so bundled up I don’t worry about hurting him with the ball. He drops every throw, partially because he has mittens under his baseball mitt and partially because when he catches his next ball it will be his first, but he is undeterred. He runs after it and picks it up and throws it back over my head.

  I don’t even see Dallas in the window; I’ve done what I can and hope Joe Henry remembers me and says my name when he’s my age and brings her back in time. Hey-Soos is right. You put yourself out there in the truest way you can and hope others do the same. You’ll connect or you won’t, but you did what you could. It’s like playing ball in some way. There are guys on the team, like Cody, I’d give my life for. But you have to be willing to lay down your body for all of them if you want to put the best you on the field. Every guy on that team has to believe you’ll bring nothing back off the field with you. If you do that, a few others will do the same and those who don’t will go further than they would have. A team is a single thing, just like each of us is our arms and legs and brains and spirits. When one component isn’t working, we’re not at full speed. Same thing with the team of me and Dallas and Joe Henry. Right now one component isn’t working, and if we went into a competition we’d lose. But I’ve left it all on the field.

  Mid February

  “You’ve missed two classes this week, Mr. Wolf,” Lambeer says.

  “Excused absences,” I say back.

  “I thought you might have gone out of town to get your signatures.”

  “No way, man. My project is scientific; works no matter how the electorate responds.”

  “I hope you’re not going to try to put a bigotry label on your hometown.”

  “Good research is like good journalism,” I say. “Just the facts. I’ll let the reader put the label on. And since you’re not reading it, there won’t be any readers. Trout is safe.”

  “I just hope you remember we owe something to the place we’re from.”

  “What do I owe?”

  “Some allegiance, maybe some appreciation. You wouldn’t be who you are if it weren’t for the people you grew up with.”

  “The good and the bad, right?”

  Lambeer stares, waits.

  “I mean if the good stuff rolls downhill, so does the shit, right?”

 
“Watch it.”

  “The bad stuff, then,” I say, but I don’t drop my gaze.

  “I’m telling you, you want to think twice before you turn your back on your own home.”

  “And I’m telling you that if you think I’m turning my back on my own home by doing a survey, then you don’t think much of my home, which if I remember right is your home, too. Look, Mr. Lambeer, we get educated so we can gather information, right? And so we can discriminate between the kinds of information we get. What other reason is there to get educated? Gather information and go out into the world with it. We learn math so we don’t have to guess; we can be exact. Same thing with science. We learn history and literature to know the truth about those times. That is, if the people who are teaching us want us to know the truth.”

  “Young man, are you saying I’m not here to give you a proper education?”

  I wonder if any adult ever called any boy “young man” without ill will. I’m not counting “He’s a nice young man” because that’s a description. I’m talking about, “What was that for, young man?” (my dad); “You get over here right this minute, young man!” (my mother); “What’s gotten into you, young man?” (teachers, parents—mine and others—Sunday school teachers, pretty much anyone over the age of about thirty-five).

  “I’m not saying anything about you, Mr. Lambeer. I’m really not. But I’m talking about education in general. Did you know almost every truly forward thinker in history was ridiculed, if not threatened, if not killed? You know why? For messing with current, uninformed beliefs. Galileo, Newton, Jesus, Darwin, even Einstein. Look at what’s going on in the Middle East. All the fighters there, including us, have some big-time belief system we’re touting and we’re all willing to kill the hell out of the other side to make our point. And I get it. Their bad guys are way worse than our bad guys because they aren’t afraid to die, but they aren’t afraid to die because of some dumb belief that if they get martyred they’re gonna get a bunch of stuff in heaven that most people don’t get, like a whole bunch of virgins and shit….”