The Last Harvest(53)
The guys huddle around me; I make eye contact with every single one of them, feeling my adrenaline spike, everything coming into sharp focus.
“I think this calls for a Miracle Whip special,” Ben says with a wide grin before he puts in his mouth guard.
Ben and I have been running that play since Pee Wee. He might be Big Ben now, but he can run, too.
I nod. “Let’s show ’em how it’s done.”
“Yeah!” the team hollers in response.
“On four.” I call the play and everything goes from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds. Along with the beat of my heart thrumming in my ears, I hear cleats digging into turf, the shifting of pads, helmets crashing, grunts of determination as guys scramble for ground.
I dodge a tackle and pump my arm, searching for Ben. He’s sailing down the field, hugging the right line. Just like we used to do it.
I let go of the ball. And I swear I can hear it sing as it leaves my hand, reverberate all the way up my arm, through my whole body.
Ben’s already there. Waiting. Watching. We’re in perfect synchronicity when his stance suddenly goes slack. He turns toward the fence. It looks like he’s staring straight at Sheriff Ely and Miss Granger. The ball sails right over his head. Coach’s whistle screams. People are laughing on the sidelines, jeering him, but still, Ben doesn’t move.
I take off my helmet so I can figure out what the hell happened, when Ben slowly turns to me. I swear his eyes are black, pure black. I’m looking around to see if anyone else can see it when Ben starts stalking toward me like a dangerous animal.
Tyler jets out onto the field, trying to hold him back, talk some sense into him, but he seems hell bent on putting the hurt on me. Some of the players try and stop him, but he plows right through them like a freight train. I put my hands out in front of me, bracing myself for impact. “Ben … hey, Ben … I don’t know what’s going on, but let’s talk about this.…”
He pounds into my shoulder. “It could be me,” he screams. “I could be the one!”
I stagger back. He comes at me again and again like a charging bull. It takes six guys to get him off me. Finally Tyler grabs on to his helmet, forcing Ben to look him straight in the eyes. He whispers something and I see Ben’s eyes go back to normal, his muscles start to relax.
Coach starts riding his whistle as he barrels through the crowd. “All right, all right, let’s all cool off. This is football, boys, not a brawl!”
Ben’s calm now. Just sitting on the ground, staring off into the woods as Tyler talks to him. I don’t know what the hell just happened, what made him turn on me like that.
Noodle tromps onto the field, says something to Ben and then kicks him in the shin before running to meet me. “I gave him a piece of my mind.”
“It can get a little heated out here,” I tell her. “Nothing to worry about. Hey, how’d you get here?”
“Bobby Gillman said you were playing, so he walked me over. You’re not mad, are you?”
“’Course not.”
Tyler helps Ben to his feet and they head back in.
I look for Miss Granger. We really need to talk, but she’s walking away with Sheriff.
As the crowd disperses, I see Lee Wiggins peering through the pines on the edge of the field, that sick smile stretched across his mangled excuse for a face.
Noodle waves.
“Why’re you waving at him?”
“He looks sad,” Noodle says. “And who knows? He might wave back.”
When he does, I take her hand and we walk off the field together.
36
BETWEEN PRACTICE and the wheat, I’m bone weary by the time I head back to the house.
It’s past bedtime, but Noodle’s waiting for me at the front door in her Strawberry Shortcake pajamas.
I hold up three fingers, but she just grabs ahold of my hand, not even bothering with the sticker bag.
“Where is everybody?” I ask.
“Mom’s…” She points to the living room. “And Jess’s…”
The floor creaks above us, followed by a dragging sound. It sounds like she’s rearranging her furniture or something emo like that. What happened at the Harvest Festival was seriously messed up, but I could sure use some help around here.
“I know three acres isn’t much,” I say as I take off my work boots. “But it’s from the back parcel.”
“That’s tricky land back there. You did real good,” she says as she tightens her lopsided pigtails.
I can’t help but crack a smile. I swear, all I have to do is look at her sometimes and all the sorrow seems to dissolve like sugar left out in the summer rain.
“Ready for bed?” I swoop her up in my arms.
“But I have so much to tell you.” She tugs on my ear. “I looked through the All Saints handbook and did you know nuns can ride bicycles and eat powdered donuts and they already knew my counting song and we did tongue twisters and…’night, Mommy,” she whispers as we pass the living room.
I stop and turn to see Mom’s silhouette. She still hasn’t moved from the couch … the flies.
Noodle doesn’t even seem bothered by it, which makes it worse. This has become normal to her. Sometimes I wonder if Noodle even remembers what it was like before Dad’s death. There’s a heaviness hanging over the entire house now. Or maybe it’s always been like this and I just never noticed it before.