The Last Harvest(17)

I rub my neck, thinking about the explosives in the shed. Did Mr. Neely know about that?

I take another shot. It goes down easier this time.

“I loved him like a brother. Sure, we fought and argued, like brothers do. We had a competitive rivalry, like you and my boy, but that’s what makes a man rise to the occasion. Hell, he even gave me power of attorney if something were to happen to your mom. I’d be responsible for taking care of you and your sisters.”

I grip the edge of the bar, forcing myself to listen.

“What I’m trying to say is the founding families have stuck together through thick and thin. We’d never turn our backs on your family. Not then. Not now. Not ever. But it’s a two-way street. This is quite a stunt you pulled tonight, breaking in here.”

I think about Noodle and Jess and Mom and my throat gets so tight I can hardly swallow. This was just another stupid move on top of a dozen other stupid moves. I see that now.

“What are you going to do?”

“The real question is what are you going to do?” He takes a deep breath and stares into my eyes, like he’s pondering my fate.

“I don’t understand.”

“We’ve tried to give you your space, but now it’s time for a little tough love. So, I’m offering you a choice. I can press charges, leave your fate in the hands of Judge Miller, or you can stop this nonsense and join the council. Start playing ball again. Let the Preservation Society take care of you and your family. You’ve done an admirable job. Your dad would be proud. Hell, I’m proud. You put up quite a fight, but this is getting you nowhere. What do you say?”

“I … I can’t just pick up where I left off … pretend like none of this happened.”

“Why? Give me one good reason.”

“Because … everything’s different now.”

“Are you talking about Ali? Because she was under strict instructions to let you be. All of them were. I thought you’d come around on your own, but you’re stubborn, just like your daddy was.”

I wonder if that’s the reason Ali hasn’t talked to me all this time. Maybe that’s why she was so on edge when she came over that night after my dad’s funeral, because she wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Don’t you miss playing ball?” He stares off in the distance all misty-eyed. “I’d give my left nut to play again.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“No one blames you for what happened out there during your last game. You were just doing your job. It’s a violent sport. A man’s sport.”

I watch him twisting his ring and I can’t help wondering if this is all about getting me to play … bringing home the W’s for Midland.

I think about trying to explain myself, but someone like Ian Neely would never understand what I went through. For twelve straight hours not knowing if I killed that kid or if he’d ever wake up from his coma. And I had to deal with all that on my own. No friends, no family, no coach telling me it was going to be okay. Having to bury my dad and come to terms with being the man of the family. Giving up football. Giving up my dreams. Giving up college. Giving up Ali. And the fact is, I’m a different person now.

“I just don’t think I belong here anymore.”

“You belong here more than anyone I can think of, son.”

I wish he’d stop calling me that. Son.

“Like it or not, you’re a pillar of this community. The Preservation Society needs you. The town needs you. Stop fighting so hard—look where that’s gotten you.”

He pours another shot, but I don’t take it. My sweaty palm print clings to the thick glass long after I pull away.

“I’ll make you a deal.” He throws another one back. “You come to the Harvest Festival on Saturday night, bring your family, stand on the council, rejoin the team, and I won’t mention this to anyone. It’ll be our little secret.” He’s starting to slur his words. This could get real ugly, real fast.

“I’ll think about it.” I stand, thinking he’s going to tell me to sit back down, demand an answer, but he lets me go. For now.

“Oh, and Clay?” he calls after me. “You know why Ali’s hanging around my son, don’t you? You know why he’s quarterback now? Because he took it from you. I’m offering you an opportunity to take it back—all of it.”





10

I WALK out of the Preservation Society a free man, but more confused than ever. I can’t believe Mr. Neely was talking about his own son like that. Talking about my dad like that. I’d heard the rumors about him hanging out at the Wiggins trailer, but I never wanted to believe it. Whether it was meth or schizophrenia, or whatever else, it still didn’t change the fact that he massacred a barn full of pregnant cows … and that didn’t change the fact that he was a great dad. He was a complicated man and I may never know what happened to him, but he’s gone now and I have to figure out how to live with this. How to live with myself … on my own terms.

As I ease down Main Street to make a U-turn, I find myself turning down Ash Street toward the historic district. I haven’t let myself do this for months.

I park under a huge magnolia tree a few houses down from Ali’s, a big white colonial with black shutters. Her room’s the last one on the left. I wonder if our initials are still carved into the leg of her four-poster bed. I wonder if she ever thinks of me.