A Time to Dance

  John laughed out loud before he looked at her again and answered her question. “I guess I’m different.”

  Abby’s eyes grew wide in mock amazement. “What? John Reynolds has no girlfriend?”

  He reached for the football—one was seldom more than an arm’s length away that entire summer—and tossed it lightly in the air a few times. “This is my girlfriend.”

  Abby nodded, eyes twinkling. “She’ll make a great prom date, I’m sure.”

  He pushed her foot again and lowered his eyes with a wink. “Shhh. You’ll offend her.”

  John blinked, and the memory disappeared.

  After that summer, John was certain he would marry Abby Chapman one day. It wasn’t something he made a conscious decision about, like deciding what college to attend or what discipline to major in. Rather it was something that grew from his heart, a truth that simply was.

  But since that had been a long way off, John had poured his heart and soul into his first love—football. Especially the following year when he accepted a scholarship to the University of Michigan.

  John lifted his chin a bit and scanned the tops of the trees. How far could he throw the ball back then? Sixty yards? Seventy? He closed his eyes and remembered the feel of the earth beneath his feet, the explosive push with every step, as he flew out of the pocket, looking for a receiver downfield.

  His parents never missed a game, but one contest would always stand out in his mind. It was at the end of his junior season, a game against Michigan’s chief rival, Ohio State. Michigan won by three touchdowns that afternoon, and after the game John and his father had walked through one of the neighborhoods and found an old bench at Allmendinger Park.

  “It feels so good seeing you out there, son. Watching you lead that team the way I did all those years ago.”

  John’s father was rarely in a pensive mood, but that afternoon was different. John kept quiet and let his father talk.

  “Sometimes watching you is like watching myself, every step, every throw . . . as though I’m down there doing it all over again, living it all over again.”

  “There’s nothing like it.”

  “No.” His father had teared up then, something John had seen only a handful of times in his life. “Definitely not. Out there on the field . . . it’s you and your team and the ball, living out a drama, a battle, so rich and powerful that only another player could understand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And time’s a thief, son. You only get so many downs, so many whistles. So many games. Before you know it, you’ll be grown up and watching your own son play. Then you’ll know what I mean.”

  Of course in the end, his father had been right. John’s years of Michigan football flew by, and late in his last game as a senior, he snapped the ligaments in his knee. Though he’d had pro scouts calling earlier that year, they disappeared after his injury and no one had to tell him to look at the clock. The truth was as real as his impending graduation.

  His football playing days were over.

  John kept the tape of his last game handy in the file cabinet of his mind. He remembered suiting up in the locker room, bantering back and forth with his teammates and swapping barbs as though they had forever.

  Four quarters later, John was huddled on the bench, his knee swathed in three rolls of Ace bandaging, when the final whistle blew. Even now he remembered how strange it felt. How right up until that whistle, he and his teammates had just one thought in mind: beat Illinois.

  They’d needed a victory in order to get a bowl bid that year. But after John’s injury, Illinois ran a punt back for a touchdown and Michigan never regained the lead. Only then, in the sad silence that followed, did the reality sink in.

  It was over. The game, the season . . . and John Reynolds’s career.

  John had glanced up at the stands, at the people filing out, and wondered what they were thinking. Better luck next year, maybe? Or what’s wrong with the Wolverines? Whatever their thoughts, only one man knew how John was feeling that afternoon . . . how it felt to play a game for sixteen straight seasons and then have it be over in as much time as it took a referee to blow a whistle. Only one man knew how John’s heart had ached that day, the man who hugged him an hour later after he’d turned in his uniform and showered and changed. A man who said nothing while he quietly grieved the fact that it was all finally and suddenly over.

  His father.

  John swallowed and remembered how proud his dad had been when he called him that afternoon in 1985 and told him the news.

  “They hired me, Dad! I’m the head coach at Marion High.”

  “Marion, huh?”

  “Yep. It’s a brand-new school, and I’ve got a truckload of ideas. I’m going to build a program here, Dad. Something new and different and better than anything in the state.”

  “New programs are hard, son. Have you talked to Abby’s father?”

  “Not yet. And you’re right.” John had been barely able to contain his enthusiasm. “I know it’ll be hard. But I can’t let that bother me. We have good kids in this town, good teachers. A good administration. We’ll start at the bottom, and in a few years we’ll be league contenders. After that, who knows?”

  “Is Abby excited?”

  “She’s happier than I am. She said she’ll write press releases about the team for the paper and start a booster club. And when Kade’s old enough, I’ll take him with me to practice.”

  His father had chuckled. “Kade’s only two, son.”

  “But he’s already walking. I’ll let him come to practice with Abby even this year.”

  “Okay, but don’t forget what I told you.”

  “About what?”

  “About how it feels to watch your son play. I hope I’m there to see it happen.” His dad laughed again. “Your day’s coming.”

  And so it had . . . but not in time for his father to see it. Four years after John took the job at Marion, his father died of a heart attack. Only Abby knew the extent of John’s loss—how he’d lost not just a father, but a mentor and coach. And most of all, a friend.

  Coaching football was the cure for John’s grief. It turned out to be almost as great a thrill as playing the game. But there was one very wonderful difference. A player’s days were numbered. A few years in high school, a few years in college for the talented ones.

  Not so for a coach.

  Every year a group of teary-eyed seniors would play their last football game for Marion High. Then, come fall, John and his staff would be back, welcoming in a new crop of freshmen and making plans for another season. John planned to coach until he retired. At least.

  That was true even through the hard years at Marion, the years when parents grumbled that he wasn’t winning games fast enough and that maybe a different man should have been hired for the job. But those seasons led to John’s first state title in 1989.

  By then everyone in Marion loved John. And in 1997, Kade joined the team. Only then did John get a true sense of what his father had been talking about that day at Allmendinger Park.

  Watching Kade play football left John just one regret—that his father hadn’t lived to see it. Kade was everything his father and grandfather had been, and then some. He was taller, quicker, and lightning fast on his release of the ball. John couldn’t count the times he’d stopped in his tracks as he watched Kade line up, watched him bark out an audible and then speed to the back of the pocket, his arm ready to fire the ball at a receiver.

  His father had been right.

  Watching Kade, he could almost feel the pads sliding against his shoulders, smell the rich grass beneath his feet. It was a heady experience, one that was second only to being out there and playing the game himself.

  The current problems at Marion hadn’t started until that past summer, a few months after Kade’s graduation.

  John shifted his gaze back to the water.

  What would his father have thought about the attitudes among his players and parents this
year? Would it have jaded him? Made the game seem less somehow? And then there was the thing John liked to think about least of all.

  How would his father have handled John’s resignation?

  The man would have been crushed to see John in a wheelchair, to know that John would never walk or run again. And certainly he would have been saddened to know that parents were trying to get John fired. But how would he have felt knowing John was going to step down as varsity coach? Walk away without looking back?

  John drew a deep breath and let his eyes fall to the computer keyboard once more. His father would have understood. Because he would have known John would have given up coaching only for one reason: if the game had changed.

  And it had.

  Yes, his father would’ve supported him completely. In fact, somewhere in heaven, his dad would most certainly know how hard the letter of resignation was to write. And as John returned his fingers to the keyboard, as he found the strength to do what he never thought he’d do, he felt convinced of one thing.

  His father must be aware of all that had happened and even now, in the most difficult moment of John’s football career, his dad was sitting on the fifty-yard line of heaven, cheering for him the way he’d done as far back as John could remember.

  Twenty-three

  JOHN WAS JUST FINISHING UP THE LETTER WHEN ABBY joined him on the pier.

  Her eyes were bloodshot and pensive, like she’d been crying. She sauntered out toward him and pulled a bench up next to his wheelchair. “Finished?”

  “Yep.” He typed his name. “Just now.”

  She stared out at the lake. “It’s the end of a chapter.”

  “It is.” He reached for her hand and laced his fingers between hers. “You okay?”

  Her teeth stayed clenched, but a tired sigh eased through her lips anyway. She turned to him, and he saw something that hadn’t been there for months: sheer, undeniable anger. Her mouth opened, and for a while, nothing came out. Then she narrowed her eyes. “No, I’m not okay.”

  For a long time he’d suspected things weren’t as well with Abby as she tried to make it seem. He asked her about her feelings now and then, but always she said the same thing. She was fine . . . she was grateful . . . she was happier than ever. So glad that he’d lived . . . so glad their marriage was back to what it had been when they were younger.

  All of it sounded good, just not exactly real. Not that John didn’t believe her. Somewhere in her soul, Abby meant every positive thing she said. But she had always been intense, and it had seemed strange to John that in this—their greatest physical challenge as a couple—she would be passive and accepting. He waited for her to continue.

  “John, I’ve done everything I can to make this easy for you and the kids and . . . well, easy for everyone we know.” She shrugged and leaned forward, digging her elbows into her thighs. “But I’m not sure I can do it anymore.”

  Panic flashed across the horizon of John’s heart. She couldn’t do it anymore? Where was this going? “Okay. You wanna explain?”

  Abby clenched her fists and gritted her teeth as she continued. “I’m so mad, John! I’m so mad I can’t even stand it.” She opened her hands and made circles with them. “It’s like a tornado building up inside of me. Every day I’m madder than the day before.”

  John chose his words carefully. “Who are you mad at?”

  “I don’t know!” Abby’s tone was loud, seething. “I’m mad at you for staying at school that night when you should’ve been home.” She stood and paced to the end of the pier and back, her arms crossed tight in front of her. “I’m mad at Jake for hitting you, and at the doctors for not being able to make you better. I’m mad that no one thinks I might be mad about this whole thing.” She let her hands fall to her sides. “And I’m mad at God for letting it happen.”

  John bit his lip. “You’re mad at me?”

  Something in his question caught her off guard, and though she tried to contain it, a single ripple of laughter spilled through her teeth. Immediately, she regained her composure. “John, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “You’re supposed to ask me about the last part . . . about being mad at God.”

  “I don’t know.” John lifted one shoulder and leaned back in his chair. “I can understand about being mad at God. I mean, I get mad at God sometimes.” He angled his head, his eyes narrow. “But me? Come on, Abby, what’d I do?”

  She exhaled hard. “You should’ve come home with me, that’s what.” She gave him a light push on his shoulder. “Then none of this would’ve happened.”

  “Oh . . . well . . . I guess that makes sense.”

  “Never mind, you big jerk. This is supposed to be my time to get angry.” Abby made a sound that was more laugh than cry, and she pushed him again. This time he caught her hand and pulled her onto his legs. She slid the laptop computer out from beneath her and set it on the pier. At the same time he released the brake on his wheelchair.

  “John!” She let loose a scream. “What’re you doing? We’ll both fall in the lake.”

  He gripped the wheels and whirled the chair around just before they went over the edge of the pier. “What’s this? No trust from my fair maiden?”

  She grabbed a handful of his shirt and he grinned. “John, stop! You’ve lost your mind.”

  Instead, he wheeled the two of them to the far end of the pier, turned once more and let gravity pull the chair back down the wooden slats toward the water. Abby screamed again and tried to break free, but John held her firmly in place, one hand around her waist, one hand on the wheel of his chair. “Take it back.”

  They were halfway down the pier and moving fast. “What?” Abby’s voice was a shrill mix of terror and exhilaration.

  “Tell me you’re not mad at me.”

  “Fine!” The water was closing in on them. “I’m not mad at you.”

  In a single, fluid motion, as gracefully as he’d once thrown a football, John grabbed both wheels and slowed the chair into a controlled spin. When they’d come full circle, he set the hand brake and wrapped both hands around Abby. Her eyes were wide, her body heaving to catch her breath.

  “That was the craziest thing you’ve ever done, John Reynolds.” She pushed his shoulder once more, this time harder than before. “What if you hadn’t stopped in time?”

  “It was under control, Abby.” His tone was soft, the teasing gone. “Just like your emotions these past few months.”

  She froze and he could see the tears form across the surface of her eyes. “It was that obvious?”

  “Of course.”

  A tired sigh worked its way up from somewhere deep within her. “I was afraid to tell you how I felt.”

  “Why? You’ve never been afraid before. Even when we weren’t getting along.”

  “Because—” she let her head fall against his chest—“I was afraid you’d never recover if you knew how upset I was.”

  “No.” He waited, choosing his words with careful precision. “I’ll never recover if you can’t be yourself, Abby. We can’t pretend everything’s okay, don’t you see? There’ll be days when you can’t take another minute of helping me get dressed . . . days when you want to scream you’re so angry. But there’ll be days when I feel the same way. No matter how upbeat we pretend to be. The only way we’ll survive this is if we’re honest. Do you understand?”

  “John . . .” The tears spilled onto her cheeks. “I’m so mad this happened to you. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.”

  “I know, honey.” He cradled her close, stroking her back. “I know.”

  She brought her face up against his and dried her tears on his cheeks. “I want to dance again. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

  “All the time.” He released the hand brake again and wheeled her once more to the far end of the pier.

  “John . . . what’re you doing?” Her body grew taut in his arms. “Not another trip down! We’ll fall in for sure this time.”

&
nbsp; “No, Abby—” they reached the top of the pier and he turned so the wheelchair was facing the water—“just lean back against me and relax.”

  She hesitated and for a minute he thought she might jump off. “You’re serious?”

  “Yes.” He patted his chest. “Come on, lean back.”

  “What’re we doing?”

  “It’s sort of a tango dance step. Something I’ve been practicing.” He eased Abby back against him so they were both facing forward. “Okay . . . now you’ve gotta let everything go . . . your anger, your frustration . . . all of it. The dance doesn’t work otherwise.”

  She giggled and the sound did wonders for his soul. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  John released the hand brake and the chair began rolling down the pier toward the water. Abby’s laughter grew louder and she pressed her back against him. “It’s kinda fun when you’re not scared.”

  “The tango always is.”

  “Perky Paula would be proud.”

  The chair picked up speed, and their laughter built until, a few yards from the water, John slowed the chair and turned it for one final spin. After that he wove the chair back and forth, his voice a gentle whisper in Abby’s ear. “Do you hear it?”

  “Mmmmm.” Her soft moan sounded deep against his chest. “I think so.”

  “The dance steps might change, Abby—” he kissed her earlobe— “but the music’s still playing.”

  They stayed that way, swaying to the distant breeze and the rustling of still bare branches, until finally Abby shifted herself onto one of his knees and kissed him, long and slow. “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I’m not angry anymore. At least for now.”

  “See . . . the tango, Abby.” He brushed his nose against hers. “Works every time.”

  “No—” their lips met again and again—“your love works every time.”

  John was about to kiss her once more when it happened. It was so brief, so fleeting, John knew it might be nothing. But then . . . he paused, going stone still. What else could cause it to happen?