The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story

  “You ready to talk to us?” she asked Jack.

  “Not today,” he said.

  “You may want to,” she said. “Before long.” She gave him a look he could not decipher, and then was gone.

  James watched them exit, then he looked across at Jack with undisguised disapproval. Carlene was likewise unhappy at Jack’s presence, although her disapproval came off as a smirk.

  “Thanks for saving Randy a trip,” James said.

  “What are you talking about?” Jack said.

  “I trust you saw Randy at your little enterprise yesterday.”

  Randy had been sitting in his cruiser down the street from Mrs. Gutierrez’s house. Jack remembered that every time he looked that way, Randy was glowering and shaking his head.

  But Jack hadn’t had much time to spare for Randy. Dozens of people had showed up. They had run a ramp from the sidewalk to the front porch—sunk posts, built rails, the whole thing. It was beautiful. Mr. Rodriguez had been their leader, but Jack supervised the unloading of cement, the mixing, the sawing, and did his share of hammering. Boys from various youth groups came—including Cameron Taylor, who had dug postholes. Men came from each of the churches—and some from no church at all. Mary’s boyfriend, Dennis, had pushed a wheelbarrow. Warren Koenig had brought two ranch hands—and smoked lamb chops.

  Again, a block party of generous proportions grew—larger than the week before with more food, more drink, more people—and at the center of it sat Mrs. Gutierrez in her new wheelchair, nodding happily and talking nonstop to anyone who would listen.

  “They are good boys,” she kept saying. “Such good boys.”

  Randy apparently didn’t think so.

  Nor, clearly, did James.

  “Carlene,” James was saying, “are you finished with it?”

  She smiled up at him, pulled something off the desk in front of her. She handed him an envelope. “All done, Mr. Mayor.”

  He took it, extended it to Jack with a smile growing into malevolent glee.

  “What is it?” Jack said without accepting it.

  James’s hand did not waver.

  “Mr. Mayor?” Jack said.

  “Jack,” James said, “please find enclosed a cease and desist order from the city of Mayfield.”

  Jack snatched it out of his hand, tore open the envelope. His eyes ran across the phrases: “Contractor operating without a license—without proper permits—disturbing the peace—health and safety issue—endangering the community.”

  “What is this?” Jack said.

  “I would think that even a person who didn’t finish college should be capable of reading a letter,” James said.

  Carlene snickered, put her head down so she didn’t have to meet Jack’s eyes.

  “I’m not a contractor,” Jack said. “Wait. Are you trying to shut down—”

  “I am ordering you,” James said, “on behalf of the City of Mayfield, to stop your unlawful construction enterprise.”

  Jack had never punched someone in City Hall. He paused to reflect on whether the proximity to the city jail should deter him, decided that maybe it should.

  “That enterprise is a spontaneous attempt by the people of your town to help each other,” Jack said in a low voice. “A spontaneous eruption of charity.”

  “It is anarchy,” James said. “It is unlawful.”

  “It is the best thing that’s happened to this town in twenty years,” Jack said. “And you didn’t think of it. That’s what you hate about it.”

  “Carlene,” James said, turning to go, “send my next appointment back.”

  “We won’t stop,” Jack said.

  “You have been warned,” James said without even looking at him. “Go ahead. See what happens if you continue.” He turned to go back to his office, but Jack stood stock still, looking after him. “Was there something else?” he said, without turning.

  “I came to talk to you about Cameron,” Jack said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  James turned back around, faced him, took two strides forward. “What on earth could we—you and me—possibly have to say about my son?”

  Two feet. That was the physical distance separating them.

  The metaphysical distance was something more.

  Jack let it fly. “I thought maybe I could help Cameron a little bit with his accuracy. His footwork. Maybe talk to him about reading defenses.”

  Each word spoken seemed to heighten James’s shade of red. His hands formed into fists.

  “Stay away from my boy,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

  “I—” Jack began.

  “No!” James shouted. “Do you think I don’t know you? Don’t know what you’re doing?” He stepped even closer, and his voice dropped. “You’re doing what you always do. Well, it won’t work. If you come near my son, I’ll see that you’re run out of this town.” He shook his head. “You’re not going to alienate my son from me. Or my wife.”

  He took one step back without dropping his gaze. Are we understood?

  Jack smiled, although it was not a happy one. “It doesn’t take a college degree,” he said steadily, “to know you don’t need my help doing that.”

  James closed the difference between them in a fraction of a second. He grabbed Jack’s collar—he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt beneath his jacket—and it’s unclear what may have happened had the front door not opened at that precise moment.

  James released Jack and took a step backward. A subtle smile snaked onto his face.

  “Kathy,” he said.

  Jack turned. Kathy Branstetter.

  “Mr. Mayor,” she said. “Jack. Were you summoned too?”

  “I was,” Jack said, taking a step away from James. “And now I’m leaving. Jamie.” Jack nodded to him. Are we understood?

  Then he stepped through the front door, let it close behind him. His heart was pounding. He looked down. The letter was still in his hand.

  He walked the three blocks back to the store, breezed past the media on the sidewalk—four more people than last week, he noted with dismay—and into the store, where his father sat talking with Charlie Gobel.

  “Jack,” he said, “you remember Mr. Gobel.”

  “Yessir,” he said. “How’s Molly?”

  “All right, son. Bless you for asking.”

  Tom turned to Jack. “Mr. Gobel was wondering if our contracting unit had any interest in carports.”

  Jack looked blankly at his father. “What?”

  “Could you get a team together to tear down his old carport, build one that would stand up straight?”

  “A team?”

  “Yes, son. A team of workers.” Tom looked at his son with his brow slightly furrowed.

  Jack looked down at the letter in his hand.

  He looked out the window at the media, who didn’t know it, but who were sitting on a much bigger story than they had ever imagined.

  Jack looked back at his father.

  And he decided.

  “I believe we could work on it this Sunday after church,” he said. “If that works for you, Mr. Gobel.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Gobel said to Jack. He shook his hand. His grip was feeble, like a child’s.

  “Thanks, Tom.” Mr. Gobel turned and inched his way toward the door.

  “It’s our pleasure,” Tom said. Jack nodded after him.

  “I thought it was about time someone from First Baptist got a little help,” Tom explained after the door closed. “I don’t want anyone accusing you of favoritism.”

  “No,” Jack said. “That is the last thing we want.” He looked down at the letter in his hand.

  “What’s that?” Tom asked.

  “Nothing,” Jack said. He stuffed it in his coat. “Not a thing.”

  “I’ve—we’ve—got good news,” Tom said. He stepped forward and hugged Jack.

  The action was so strange—so out of character—that Jack almost stepped away before catching himself. He raised one arm, p
atted his father gently on the back. “Hey. What good news is that?”

  “Alison is coming to visit.”

  Jack pushed his father back and looked him in the face. “Really?”

  His father was beaming, nodding. Jack knew that he was too. “I just heard from the lawyers.”

  “The lawyers? Not—not Tracy?” That seemed—clinical. Distant.

  His father didn’t take his meaning. “Her lawyers called our lawyers in Seattle. Alison is flying in on January 18.”

  “Next Friday,” Jack breathed. “Really?”

  His father nodded. “Just for the weekend. She starts her new school on Monday. But, Jack—” He couldn’t go on. He raised a hand to cover his eyes.

  “I know,” Jack said. He stepped forward and hugged his father again. “Thank you. Oh, and I’ll pay you back—”

  Tom’s expression said that this was the stupidest thing he had heard all day. Jack put his hand in his pocket and found the letter. “Listen—”

  He decided against it.

  “That’s great. Everything’s great.”

  Jack sat down behind the counter and got out the phone book, looked up James’s home number, dialed it.

  He was not going to live in fear.

  He was going to do the right thing. Whatever it cost.

  Darla answered the phone. “Hey,” he said.

  “Jack?” she said.

  “The same,” he said. “Hey, I—”

  “I know why you’re calling,” she said. “He called just now. I know you can’t—”

  “I’ll be at the practice field this week,” Jack said. “Every afternoon after school.” He smiled. “Just watching. That’s all.”

  Darla didn’t speak.

  “Okay,” she said at last.

  “If it’ll cause you problems—”

  “No,” she said. “Thank you. It’s—very generous. I just—”

  “Cameron is a good boy,” Jack said. He thought back to his work at Mrs. Gutierrez’s house. “And he could be a great quarterback. You tell me if it becomes a problem for you. That’s the last thing I want.”

  “Jack,” she said, “there are things I love about James.” She sighed. “And things I cannot stand. Pease believe me when I tell you I have had to learn to stand up for myself.”

  “You tell me, D,” he repeated. “I’d never want to cause you any pain.”

  “I’ll tell Cam,” she said. “And I’ll let Coach Miller know you’re coming.”

  “Whoa. Nuclear option?” Jack asked. The one person higher on the ladder than the mayor in a small Texas town is the football coach.

  “He’s my only son,” she said. “And you’re right. He could be a great quarterback. A great person. He just needs the right nudge.”

  “All right,” Jack said. “I’ll talk to you, D.”

  “You know it, Twelve,” she said, and she hung up.

  Tom raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m doing a little coaching,” Jack said.

  The eyebrow arched higher.

  “Quarterback coaching.”

  If that eyebrow went any higher, it was going to hit his hairline.

  “Of my archenemy’s son.”

  “Ahh,” Tom said. “If it’s only that.”

  Jack snorted. “You mean Darla? Dad, that train left the station a long time ago.” He shook his head. “No. It’s just—you should see this kid throw. Reminds me of me. He could go all the way. Be something.”

  “Just watch yourself,” Tom said.

  “That, sir, is sage advice.” Jack patted his father’s shoulder. “Let me put a call in to Mr. Rodriguez about Sunday, and I’ll be ready to get to work.”

  That afternoon at the football field, those few members of the team who were not playing basketball showed up for light practice. Cameron Taylor was one of them—and he had two receivers and a running back to throw to. They did calisthenics, some drills, and then Coach Miller set up Cameron at midfield and he and QB 2 began throwing routes.

  Jack was sitting about halfway up the stands, the concrete cold underneath him. It was an overcast day, a little chilly. He had a Dr Pepper on one side, his journal on the other. It was open, whether to take inspiration for Sunday’s sermon or notes on Cameron’s QB play remained to be seen.

  After Coach Miller got his linemen set up with the blocking sled, he walked over to the stands and waved Jack down to talk to him.

  “Sir,” Jack said.

  “You can call me Mark,” Coach Miller said. “You’re a grown man now.” He was in his sixties, iron-gray hair in a Marine Corps crew cut, an old-time football coach in an Internet world.

  “Yessir,” Jack said.

  “You here to watch the boy, I understand,” Coach Miller said.

  “Yessir,” Jack repeated. “To see if I can—”

  “I know what you’re here to see,” Coach Miller said. “I’m glad of the help. That loser James brought in from Houston—” He shook his head, rubbed his hands together. “Well, I like to killed him.”

  “It’s a brave new world, Coach.”

  “Ain’t that the truth, Twelve.” He looked down at his clipboard. “Quarterback coaches and no-huddle offenses.” He sighed. “We put in a modified Oregon offense last fall,” he said. “Spread offense is perfect for this boy, though. I swear, he is almost as good as you.”

  Jack smiled, but his brain was working overtime. A spread offense spreads out the offense—but also spreads the defense, makes it declare what it is doing so that the blockers—and the QB—can see it. It opens up passes, but also rushing plays, since defenders are no longer jammed in the middle of the field. If the safeties drop back into deep coverage, it actually means the rush is the smartest play, five blockers against five defenders. A good QB has to read that defense, see where the percentages lie, pass, run, or hand off. A rifle for an arm doesn’t make a quarterback—it’s what’s above the shoulders.

  “How are his reads?” Jack asked.

  “Good. Not great. If the defense changes things on him, he’s still learning how to adjust at the line.”

  “You running mostly out of the shotgun? I watched him doing drop-backs the other day.”

  “We mixed up some zone read options with the shotgun, some traditional play action, some deep drops.”

  “Seven steps would let him see things a little better on pass plays.”

  Coach Miller nodded. “He could be an inch or two taller, I think he’d have the world by the tail. But he’s got all the tools.” He looked back at the field. “Good to see you, Twelve. You’re welcome on my field anytime.”

  “Thank you, Coach.” Jack went back up to his seat and watched.

  Just watched.

  A couple of other locals dropped in. Nothing was bigger in Mayfield than Wildcat football. Even before formal spring practice people were already interested in next fall.

  On Tuesday afternoon, Jack again sat and watched. Cameron had plenty of gifts—he threw well and accurately, if not always in the tiny window that would be required. Sometimes he threw behind his receivers. Sometimes he didn’t lead them enough on deep routes. All of that could be fixed with time and practice. He had good mechanics.

  Jack’s phone buzzed during practice. He didn’t answer it. Later, when he checked messages, he saw that it was from Martin Fox.

  He didn’t listen to it.

  On Wednesday afternoon, Jack was sitting in the stands at the end of practice making some notes to share with Coach Miller. Down on the field, the players were running their last sprints before heading into the field house.

  “What are you doing here, Chisholm?” came a voice he knew too well.

  Two shoes stopped in the aisle next to him.

  Somehow James had pulled a reverse-Batman on him.

  Jack finished his note. The worst that could happen was James would get the opening punch in. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “I told you to stay away from my boy,” James said. His voice was uneven, his breathin
g shallow. Jack wondered if someone had told James that Jack was watching practice. He must have sprinted over from downtown.

  “They look good,” Jack said without looking up. “Especially that QB 1. I think they could win a few this fall.”

  “I want you out of here!” James was yelling now, and Jack could hear in his voice that he was readying himself for something besides words. “I want you out of here right now!”

  “Taylor!” That voice still sent a chill through Jack, and probably through every other young man who had gone to Mayfield High. Jack looked down, and Coach Miller was poised at the edge of the stands pointing a finger up at them. “What is your damage?”

  James looked down at the coach and back at Jack. “Coach, I told him—”

  “Chisholm has my express permission to be at my practice in my stands,” Coach Miller said, marching up the stairs, red-faced. “He is trying to help me turn your boy into a quarterback.”

  Even though Coach Miller stopped three steps below them, it was clear where the power was.

  “I don’t want him near my boy,” James said, his voice low. He refused to even look at the coach.

  “That ain’t your call in this place, Taylor,” Coach Miller said. “Why don’t you walk away before I have to ban you from my practices?”

  James dared a glare at Coach Miller, couldn’t sustain it, shifted it to Jack.

  “I’ll get you,” he said. “Don’t you doubt it for a minute. This is not over.”

  “Sweet Baby James,” Jack said. “I’ll see you around.”

  If Coach Miller hadn’t been present, blood would have been spilled.

  James walked away.

  Jack sat back down.

  Coach Miller settled next to him.

  “I’d watch my step off this field, Twelve,” the coach told him. “That man would as soon kill you as look at you.”

  “He won’t kill me,” Jack said. “That’s not his style. He’d rather humiliate me. And how can he humiliate me any worse than I’ve already done to myself?”

  “All the same, son,” Coach Miller said. “You take care.” He looked meaningfully at him. “That man hates you. Always has. Always will.”

  Jack sighed. “I know, Coach. If you’d just made him QB 1—”

  “Then we would never have made State.” Coach Miller shook his head. “And don’t think he doesn’t think about that every day of his life. Anyway. What’s done is done.”