Marcus put the brakes on his galloping mind. The California address was outdated, but it was still an address. Alumni associations kept information on everybody! His mind made the leap. If they had one for Charlie, then they probably had one for Mac, too. It might be just as old, but at least it was a place to start.
He turned back to the keyboard and typed a careful reply to Doris Brennan Vanderboom:
Dori,
Good to hear from the old crowd. The Syracuse reunions sound great. Hope to get to one soon. I’ve been trying to track down my old friend James McTavish. Do you guys happen to have an address for him? Maybe Mac and I could come together.
With mixed feelings, he signed it Charlie.
Marcus had his answer within a couple of hours. Charlie was a real celebrity among his former classmates, so Dori was beside herself with joy at the possibility of hosting the King of Pop in Syracuse. He had the feeling that Dori nurtured a crush on Charlie that dated back long before he’d ever picked up an NFL football.
She provided hideously boring details about her three lovely children and her husband, a gastroenterologist and weekend fly fisherman. But Marcus only had eyes for the bottom paragraph:
We haven’t heard much from Mac. It’s sad how people lose touch. The last address we have is 85 the Colonnade Way, Coltrane, NY.
Good luck finding him. Hope to see you both soon.
D.
Coltrane, New York. He knew from his rides with Mom that Coltrane wasn’t that far—about halfway between Kennesaw and the foothills of the Gunks. It was maybe half an hour’s drive, depending on how hard you pushed your Vespa.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Eighty-five the Colonnade Way in Coltrane wasn’t a house at all. It was an old brick warehouse that had been converted to trendy shops, with offices on the second floor.
Marcus parked the bike and entered the building. Could this warehouse have been built on the site of Mac’s house? He doubted it. The brick was ancient. But why would the alumni association have Mac living in Candle World or Hiker Heaven?
He checked the directory on a sign outside the door. It was under the professional listings:
206—McTavish, James, CPA
This wasn’t Mac’s home. It was his office.
He climbed the stairs, holding his breath in anticipation. This was Mac, the person Charlie thought Marcus was. It was hard to get his head around that.
As he stood in front of 206, working up his courage, he could not escape the feeling that this door was a time warp, with an older version of himself waiting on the other side.
He knocked on the door and entered. A young secretary looked up from her computer screen and smiled a welcome. “Can I help you?”
“Is Mr. McTavish in?”
“Yes, he is. Do you have an appointment?”
Marcus’s face fell. “No. No appointment. But I really need to see him.”
She frowned. “Well, could I tell him what this is about?”
“I need to talk to him about an old friend of his.”
“What old friend?” came a voice from the back of the room.
Marcus turned. The door to the inner office was open, and there stood a stout balding man in his mid-fifties.
“Charlie Popovich,” he said aloud.
The man looked surprised. “Now, there’s someone I haven’t seen in ages!” He sized Marcus up. “Are you Charlie’s son?”
Marcus shook his head. “Just—a friend.”
“Well, come on in,” the man invited, “and let’s talk about Charlie.”
They seated themselves in the inner office.
“Mr. McTavish—”
“Mac,” his host corrected him. “Everybody calls me Mac. Charlie started that, back when we ran together. What a couple of hell-raisers we used to be!”
Marcus couldn’t hide an answering smile. “I’ll bet Old Man Dingley thought so, too.”
Mac let out a hoot of laughter. “In spades! He owned this hardware store, but he thought he owned the world. We passed by on the street—he called the cops. We made noise in the park across the way—he called the cops. It was like he had a direct line to the police station. But I guess Charlie already told you all that.”
“Not exactly,” Marcus tried to explain. “It’s a little complicated.”
Mac frowned. “Well, how could you know about all that if you didn’t get it from Charlie?”
“You’re right,” Marcus confirmed. “It is from Charlie. But he’s not telling me tales from the past. He’s living it all now, still torturing Old Man Dingley.”
“Dingley died years ago!” Mac exclaimed sharply. “What are you trying to pull?”
“There’s a new guy—an exterminator—in the same store,” Marcus explained. “Charlie thinks that guy is Dingley.” He swallowed hard. “He thinks he’s still sixteen years old. And—he thinks I’m you.”
“Kid, you’re not making any sense.”
Marcus had known that he could never pull this off without betraying Charlie’s secret. And while he’d promised Chelsea he wouldn’t spread it all over town—well, this was Coltrane, not Kennesaw. It was a hairsplitting distinction, but it didn’t matter anyway. Marcus had to get himself out of trouble. He owed it to his future, but mostly he owed it to Mom. The impending court date was weighing heavily on her shoulders, just as the lawyer’s fees were draining her savings. He’d overheard her on the phone, talking about inviting Comrade Stalin up north for a “loving intervention.” Like the good comrade was any more capable of love than he was of interstellar travel. Still, the fact that Barbara Jordan would consider intentionally placing herself in the same room with the guy—the situation screamed for drastic action.
“The thing is, uh, Mac, there’s no easy way to say this.” He took a deep breath. “Charlie has Alzheimer’s disease.”
Mac was dismayed. “He’s only my age!”
“It’s the early-onset form of the disease, which is different,” Marcus explained soberly. “They think it has something to do with football—too many concussions in a short period of time. It’s happened to a few other NFL players.”
Mac looked grave. “I read something about that, but I didn’t think it was the same kind of Alzheimer’s that old people get. I pictured these guys—I don’t know—like Ozzy Osbourne minus the drugs. A little loopy from having their bells rung a few too many times.” He smiled fondly. “Charlie could be pretty loopy all on his own, back in the day.” The smile faded. “How bad is it?”
Marcus shrugged. “If you just hang out with him for a few minutes, you probably won’t notice anything at all. But over time the weirdness comes out. Like, he considers himself my age, and he also knows he has a wife and kids. I’m not sure how much he understands and how much he’s faking it. There are certain things that make sense to him—football, Three Alarm Park, you. Well, you meaning me. I think he might just bounce around until he sees something he recognizes. That’s how we met. I was practicing in the park, and he just—joined in.”
“Three Alarm Park,” Mac said wanly. “The two of us practically lived there. How I survived those afternoons I’ll never know. I used to watch Charlie in the NFL and think I could be dead right now. I knocked heads with that guy—with no pads!”
“How did you and Charlie lose touch?” Marcus asked. “You were so close in high school.”
Mac shrugged. “Football—that’s what brought us together. We both went to college at East Bonaventure—East Bumwipe, we called it. But you know how it is. Charlie had what it takes, and I didn’t—not at the Division One level, anyway. I guess I resented it when he went on and I got cut. But some of it was just time. When you play college ball, that’s your life. I wasn’t in the locker room, or on the bus rides, or in those cheap hotels. We weren’t on the same planet anymore.”
He shook his head. “When he got drafted by the Chargers, I thought I’d give anything for that to be me. But what you’re telling me—wow.”
The phone rang, and
Mac called to his secretary to take a message.
He faced Marcus once again. “No disrespect to Charlie, kid, but why come to me with this? Yeah, I’m the real Mac, but apparently not in Charlie’s eyes. I’m sorry an old friend’s got trouble, but there’s not a heck of a lot I can do about it. He needs a doctor, not a CPA.”
“I’ve got a problem,” Marcus admitted, a little ashamed of pushing his own self-interest. “Charlie has it out for this guy he thinks is Dingley. It’s just pranks, but you know Charlie. He’s relentless. And the cops have decided that I’m the one who’s doing it. Now I’ve got a court date and vandalism charges on my record, and I can’t defend myself without siccing the cops on a poor guy with Alzheimer’s.”
“Well, there you go,” Mac told him readily. “Charlie’s got a perfect excuse. He’s not liable because of his condition.”
“Great,” Marcus said bitterly. “So I’m not just ratting him out for who TP’ed the store. I’m telling the whole world that he’s losing his mind.”
Mac shook his head. “You can’t take all that on your shoulders. It isn’t fair. You’ve done nothing to this exterminator fellow, and you shouldn’t be blamed for it. You don’t even know that you’re doing Charlie a favor. You help keep his illness a secret, and maybe the next time he visits Dingley’s old store, he falls down the stairs and breaks his neck. Is that going to be your fault, too?”
Marcus nodded sadly. “I don’t even know if anyone’ll believe me. It’s a lot to swallow—that Charlie is living in the past, and he thinks I’m you.”
Mac’s face lit with understanding. “So that’s why you’re here. You need me to back you up about Charlie’s old life. Why didn’t you say so?”
“I’m not proud of it,” Marcus mumbled. “I’ve only known him a few weeks, but when we were together, I was Mac. He made me you, complete with all the years you guys were friends. That must sound strange—”
The CPA shook his head. “Makes perfect sense. That’s Charlie. He pulls you in. The power of his will shapes everything and everybody around him. Even more than his football skill, that’s what got him to the pros. Nice to hear he’s still got it. Especially considering the circumstances.”
Marcus studied his sneakers. “I feel like I’m stabbing him in the back.”
Mac handed over his business card. “If you have any problems, send the cops to me. I’ll do whatever I can to set the record straight.”
“Thanks,” said Marcus gratefully. “Just from the way Charlie talks to me as Mac, I knew you’d be a good guy.” He pocketed the card and stood.
Mac walked him to the door. “Funny you should show up now of all times. I’ve been thinking about Charlie lately. I just got the notice about the hall of fame thing.”
Marcus goggled. “Charlie’s going to the Hall of Fame?”
Mac laughed. “Not the NFL one. The one at our old college. Hey, don’t knock it. They had a real good football program back then. Every year they induct a few people to their sports hall of fame, and this time Charlie’s on the list.”
“Awesome!” Marcus exclaimed. “Charlie’ll love that.”
Mac looked dubious. “Are you sure he’ll understand what’s going on?”
“You know, I really am. The two things that make the most sense to him are football and the past. Anyway, even if he doesn’t get all the details, you can’t misunderstand a crowd of people cheering for you.”
Mac nodded. “Well, I’ll be there. I haven’t gone to homecoming in decades, but this one I won’t miss.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The stands rocked with the roar of fans who smelled blood. The Raiders clung to a seven-point lead, and the Rhinebeck home crowd howled for their Giants to put an end to Kennesaw’s unprecedented winning streak.
As the offense clattered off the field, the players were greeted by an enraged Coach Barker. “Who called that time-out? I’ll kill him! In case you haven’t noticed, this is a close game!”
Troy flopped onto the bench. “I called it. Didn’t you see that hit? Helmet to helmet! Where’s the personal foul?”
Barker handed him a water bottle. “Incidental contact, Popovich. No harm done.”
“Maybe not to you!” The quarterback’s voice was rising. “He nearly took my head off! I’ve got ringing in my ears!”
“We’ve all got ringing,” the coach soothed him. “If these people would shut up, it would go away—and we’d have half a chance to hear our own signals!”
“I was right there,” Marcus told Troy. “He barely touched you.”
“If you’re such a great blocker, how come he touched me at all?” Troy rasped. “Something’s definitely wrong. I think my vision’s blurred.”
Barker called for Dr. Prossky, who served as team physician. He was actually an oral surgeon, but he was such a huge Raiders fan that he traveled with the team to all the away games. As the doctor examined Troy, shining a penlight into his eyes, Marcus watched the time-out clock. Their thirty seconds ticked down.
He pulled his helmet on. “I’ll finish the series—”
“Not so fast.” Barker cast him a look that would have melted steel. “Applegate—take over at QB.”
“But I’m the backup!” Marcus blurted.
“I need you to block! Now get in there before we lose yards for delay of game!”
You had to pity the poor linebacker who tried to get at Calvin on the next play. Marcus hit him so hard that his helmet rolled to the far sidelines. By that time, Troy had been pronounced healthy, and even he was willing to admit it.
“I don’t have to explain my decision to anyone,” Barker told Marcus later on the sidelines. “But you’re a good kid, and I owe you this much: If I put Calvin in, what I’ve got is a couple of wasted downs. I put you in, and I’ve got a quarterback controversy. Take pity on me, Jordan. Too much talent isn’t always a good thing.”
In the end, the Raiders managed to hang on, although the seven-point margin of victory was the slimmest since the beginning of perfection.
As the team celebrated, Coach Barker was not smiling. Neither was Marcus.
Still, a win was a win, so their history-making hopes continued to be on track. The team hadn’t lost since 2007, when Poughkeepsie West, the other local power, had beaten them in overtime. The next meeting with West, two weeks away, was considered the biggest threat to the Raiders’ quest for a place in the record books.
Barker’s strategy was out in the open now. Harmony over everything, keep the peace at all costs. The coach had to see that Troy’s game was falling apart, but he was convinced that pretending nothing had gone wrong was preferable to replacing the guy with somebody better. Last year’s squad had been world-beaters; a similar roster would yield similar results.
By Barker’s unspoken decree, Marcus no longer practiced at quarterback. He was helping the team—his blocking was legendary, his cornerback coverage rock solid. But he took no snaps at the afternoon workouts. Calvin ran the backup QB’s drills, and even those were kept to a minimum. Nothing could be allowed to eat away at Troy’s fragile confidence.
In contrast, Marcus’s other roles were actually expanding. Barker had already recruited his blocking prowess for the kick-return unit. On Wednesday, the coach began to experiment with blitzing Marcus from his cornerback position. He was a natural. On the very first scrimmage, he steamrolled over Ron like his backfield mate was a speed bump, and charged in on the quarterback.
Somewhere in the corner of his mind was the vague feeling that this was going to be a satisfying, revenge-drenched sack. But that was secondary to his football player’s intense singleness of purpose—to make the play.
His eyes locked on Troy. The guy was a sitting duck—no scrambling, no evasive action, a deer in headlights. He was just standing there, waiting to get creamed. And the look on his face—pure terror.
Coach Barker blew the whistle so hard that hands flew to ears to muffle the painful sound. The effort of pulling up practically imposed g-force on M
arcus. But he couldn’t hit the guy. He just couldn’t.
After practice, in the locker room, Marcus was stepping out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his midsection, when he found himself bare toe to bare toe with Troy, similarly attired.
Coming upon one’s adversary armed only with a few square feet of terry cloth had a High Noon feel to it. Their dislike for each other was magnified by the fact that there was nothing but white tile and porcelain to distract them.
For Marcus, the moment was doubly uncomfortable. Any Popovich was a reminder that he still hadn’t amassed the courage to tell Officer Deluca about Charlie. He knew he had to, though, especially now that he had Mac to back him up. It was inevitable—the sooner the better, before Charlie did something else and left Marcus to take the rap again.
Yet standing there in the locker room, Marcus was amazed to feel genuine sympathy. The sack-that-never-was had taken the edge off Troy. It was tough to hate the titan you’d just seen cowering like a helpless child. Minus godhood, Troy wasn’t the enemy. He was just an ordinary jerk—one who deserved a little slack because something pretty damn awful was happening to his father.
With effort, Marcus found something civil to say. “I heard about your dad’s honor. Great news.”
Troy’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“The hall of fame.”
The quarterback shook his head. “You’re some sick bastard to make fun of my father. Considering what you know—which is none of your business—”
“The one at his old college,” Marcus interrupted, flustered. “East Bonaventure.”
“What have I ever done to you?” Troy demanded icily. “My father, my girlfriend, my team. Even my sister—you’re like her new hero for dragging him home from the park! Why don’t you get your own life and stay out of mine?”
Marcus was shocked speechless as Troy stalked away. It wasn’t the hostility that surprised him. It was the fact that Troy seemed so totally blindsided by his father’s upcoming honor. How could he not know? Was it possible that Troy was so affected by his father’s illness that the family wouldn’t even discuss Charlie with his own son? How would they explain it to Troy when they took Charlie to EBU homecoming for the induction ceremony?