The Great Santini Part 28

In the Meecham house, Ben descended the stairs carrying his gym bag. His hair was wet and brushed back. Outside, in the backyard, he could hear Matthew shooting set shots at the outdoor goal. His mother and two sisters were sitting before a large fire. The room smelled of oak, and flame, and December. Entering the room, Ben said to his mother, "Mama, I really do need a new gym bag to tote my stuff. You got this one up at Henderson Hall when I was in the eighth grade. That was about a million years ago."

"Your last name is Meecham, sugah," Lillian answered. "It isn't Rockefeller, Vanderbilt, or Carnegie. Your daddy didn't invent Coca-Cola and I didn't recently discover King Solomon's mines."

"It's not like I was asking you to buy me an F-8, Mama. These things only cost a few bucks."

"If I give in for one thing, then the next thing you know, I'll be giving in for everything," his mother replied.

"Why don't you put your uniform in a paper bag, Ben?" Mary Anne said. "After all, we're not Rockefellers."

"We've got a lot of expenses neither of you know about. Your father and I are also trying to save a substantial amount of money each month."

"What are you saving it for?" Karen asked.

"Well," Lillian answered, "it's really none of you children's business but if you swear not to let it go any further than this room, I'll tell you. Your father and I are saving money for our dream house."

"Dream house?" Ben said.

"Yes, dream house. I've lived in over twenty houses or apartments since I married your father and I think I deserve a dream house when he retires from the Marine Corps. I want it to be an exquisite, wonderful home that will be included on garden and candlelight tours. I know exactly what it will look like and how it will be furnished. I can see it in my mind as if it were already built. I've been collecting ideas from Better Homes and Gardens for over ten years now. There is one thing I can tell you about my dream house: it will be like nothing you have ever seen."

"Does that mean you can't buy us socks or underwear anymore," Ben teased, "because of the dream house?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Lillian said.

"Why don't you get the dream house now so we kids can enjoy it too?" Mary Anne said.

"The dream house will be for your father and me. We earned it. It will be lovely and charming and no one will be allowed to lose their temper or to be ugly or to make scenes in the dream house. It will be a place of perfect harmony and people will act sweetly toward each other at all times. There will be no pressure on Bull at all. There will be no Marines around because they tend to bring out the worst in your father. There will be no one around. Just the two of us living in the dream house."

"I've got to get to the game, Mama," Ben said.

"We've got over forty-five minutes, darling. Hold your horses. You're going to turn me into a basket case if you don't relax. Let's go pray at the shrine."

"Oh, brother," Mary Anne moaned.

"You hush, Mary Anne," Karen said, "this is the first game."

"Oh," Mary Anne said sarcastically. "Oh, a thousand pardons, little brown-noser. If I'd only known that it was a prayer for the first game. There's nothing in the world as tacky as a basketball game."

"Then you can stay home, darling," Lillian said. "I'd never force you to do anything tacky."

"She wouldn't miss it for the whole world," Karen said.

"That's what you know," Mary Anne said. "I'm going to the game so I can see our golden Apollo here shoot jump shots. Of course, I have to admit that there are other reasons. I like to look at the naked legs of all the boys."

"Mary Anne!" Lillian said.

"It's true. I'm an honest person and I say what's true. But the big reason I want to go to the game is that I enjoy sitting up in the stands hating the guts out of all the cheerleaders."

"You're just jealous because they're prettier than you," Karen said. "I'm going to be a cheerleader when I get old enough, just like Mama was."

"Jealous of cheerleaders? Me?" Mary Anne sneered. "Jealous of Ansley Matthews with her perfect legs and her brain the size of a pea? Jealous of Janice Sanders with her perfect bosom and her brain the size of a bean or Carol Huger with her perfect smile and her brain the size of a BB or Sally Tomlinson with her perfect everything and her brain the size of a chigger's eyeball? I'm not jealous of them. I loathe them. I love just sitting in the stands hating them. They're so disgustingly happy and enthusiastic. They're so peppy. They bounce. I hate girls that bounce."

"Some of them are real nice girls," Ben said.

"Is that the voice of perfection?" Mary Anne said, cupping her hand to her ear. "Is that he that hath fed on honeydew? Is that my saintly, sugarcoated brother, projected hero of the first game? The patron saint of jump shots?"

"Let's pray for Ben's success in the first game," Lillian said, ignoring her older daughter.

They walked to the alcove in the front hall where the shrine was set up beneath the steps. Lillian lit two candles on either side of the statue of Mary. Then she knelt on the rug and motioned for her children to do the same. Ben and Karen knelt beside their mother while Mary Anne knelt behind them. The color in Our Lady of the Fighter Pilot's shawl was pale blue that changed hues in the flickering of the beeswax candles. Lillian prayed aloud, "Blessed Mother, thank you for my family. Thank you for their health, for their intelligence, and for their good humor." With the last words, Lillian glanced back and smiled at Mary Anne who scowled behind her. "Tonight," Lillian continued, "we ask your intercession when Ben Meecham plays West Charleston High School. Help him score a lot of points, play good, strong defense, and thread the needle with his pa.s.ses. But most of all, help him to be a good sport, to hold his head high, and to make the Meecham family proud. We love you, Mary, and we love your Son."

"And let's beat the h.e.l.l out of West Charleston High," Karen shouted toward the icon.

"Karen, I'm surprised at you."

"None of the girls in the sixth grade believe that Ben's on the team. They say they never heard of him."

"This is so ridiculous," Mary Anne said, removing her gla.s.ses and wiping them off with a Kleenex. Her eyes had a stunned, swollen appearance when she removed her gla.s.ses; they strained to make out shapes, to translate blurs. "I bet heaven has a few more important things going on besides a silly basketball game between Ravenel and West Charleston High. Like maybe a famine or two. Or a couple of wars. I'd like to remind this family that this stupid game is not the most important thing in the world."

"You're wrong, Mary Anne," Ben said. "G.o.d appeared to me last night in the shape of a gla.s.s backboard and said, 'In this sign thou shalt conquer and you, Ben Meecham, are to cut your oldest sister's throat with a dull machete to prove your worthiness.' So Mary Anne, if you'll just step to the kitchen."

"I've raised the two most sacrilegious children I know," Lillian said sadly.

"That's nothing, Ben," Mary Anne retorted. "The Virgin Mary appeared to me in the shape of a pom-pom ..."

"Stop it!" Lillian shouted.

"They do this all the time, Mama. I try to stop them but then they start teasing me," Karen said.

"I've never teased you once in my whole life, so help me, G.o.d," Mary Anne said.

"Where's Dad?" Ben asked.

"Your father's meeting us at the game."

"Oh, no," Ben groaned, "he's not at happy hour."

"Yes."

"That's great. That's just great. In fact, that's more than great. That's just fabulous."

"He promised to have just two drinks."

"He probably will just have the bartender fill up two washtubs and call that two drinks," Ben said.

"He promised," Lillian said, looking at her watch. "Let's go. We're on our way to beat the h.e.l.l out of West Charleston."

Ten minutes later, Ben entered the overheated locker room. Odors seemed to deepen in the heat. He could smell Tuf-Skin and ankle tape, week-old perspiration, moist towels mildewing in forgotten lockers, foot powder, ammonia, and unwashed socks. It was a smell of general decomposition but one with universal dimensions, one that an athlete could identify until the day of his death. Several players were sitting on the long wooden bench beside the varsity lockers. In low whispers, they talked about the sock hop following the game that night. It was a natural law of athletics that there must be whispering before a game and nothing else. To converse in a normal tone of voice meant that an athlete was not thinking seriously about the coming game; it exposed a frivolous nature alien to victory. Coaches loved silent, frowning boys in the nervous air of locker rooms before games. Opening his locker, Ben unpacked his uniform and stared at the new Converse All Stars Bull had bought him, a purchase that had gone unreported to the iron-fisted keeper of the books, Lillian Meecham. If Lillian had her way, Ben was certain he'd be playing in Scotch tape and sweat socks. One thing about Santini, Ben thought, he always made sure my basketball shoes were the best. Carefully, Ben placed his new All Stars in the locker, then entered the hushed conversation by sitting on the wooden bench and turning toward Pinkie Taylor.

"You going to the dance tonight, Meecham?" Pinkie asked.

"I'm not sure," Ben answered.

"Who have you been dating, Meecham? I've never even seen you with a girl," Pinkie said.

"I've been sort of playing the field."

"Ansley's father told me that the night you dated Ansley was the first date you ever had," Jim Don Cooper said, pulling up his uniform pants.

"A lot he knows," Ben said.

"Why are you getting dressed so early, Jim Don?" Blease Palmer, a second string forward, asked.

"Because he always has to take an hour long s.h.i.+t before every game," Pinkie said.

"It helps me relax," Jim Don said defensively.

"They brought in a n.i.g.g.e.r band for the victory dance," Blease said. "Payin' 'em seventy-five dollars. It should be a swingin' night."

Art Bullard walked into the locker room, his long arms swinging back and forth, and a broad smile on his face. "Gentlemen. Gentlemen. Gentlemen," he said in greeting.

"What are you showing your gums about, Art the Fart?" Jim Don asked.

"You haven't heard," Pinkie said. "He's got a date with Susie Holtzclaw after the game."

"Whoopee!" his teammates shouted.

"I may just park down by the river to watch those underwater submarine races," Art said.

"We know what you're after, ya ol' stud horse," Pinkie said.

"You're gonna have a hard-on this whole game," Jim Don said, smacking his oversize lips together. "Ol' Pinkie used to date Susie until she got tired of sucking on that birthmark of his."

"Don't say nothin' about my mark," Pinkie flared.

"Yeah, let's think about the game," Philip Turner said. He had slipped up to his locker quietly. No one had noticed or acknowledged his entry.

"I'd rather think about the treasures of Susie Holtzclaw's body," Art said dramatically. He then broke into a low, primordial litany. "Nookie, nookie, nookie, nookie," he began to chant. He closed his eyes reverently, danced in a circle, and raised his hands, as if in supplication to the G.o.ds who decided such matters. Pinkie and Jim Don began to clap in time with Art's voice. None of the players saw Coach Spinks standing in the doorway drinking a newly opened bottle of R.C. Ben saw him first.

"Hi, Coach," he said. Art froze on the "k" syllable.

"Good evening, Coach," Art said. "We were just discussing what kind of defense West Charleston might throw up against us."

"I told you boys I don't want this kind of talk before a game. All you boys think of is p.u.s.s.y. We got more important things to think about ... like beating West Charleston High School. Now, I know all you boys got the hot pants 'cause I was young myself and I had to cut my horns like anyone else. But there is a time and a place for everything and this is no time to be screaming about some cheap piece of poontang." He spat some R.C. into an empty, open locker, casting an acrimonious glance at Art. He took a long swig on the R.C., then continued his harangue. "I told you boys last year what to do when you felt your p.e.c.k.e.rs getting hard. You got to think about your girlfriends in a certain way. You can't think about them all dolled up in lace panties and satin, skimpy nightgowns. You got to think about them differently. Think about them with their hair up in curlers, no makeup on, squattin' on the commode and takin' a s.h.i.+t. That'll soften your p.e.c.k.e.r. Just think of 'em squattin' on the pot with a bead of perspiration poppin' out on their forehead, with them gruntin' and fartin' tryin' to get rid of a big one. Now the girls' game's about half over so let's start gettin' dressed for war. We're waging war tonight, men. We are playing West Charleston High School and they think they're coming down here to trounce the hicks. Well we're going to surprise the big city boys by cleaning their pipes real good. Get your uniforms on and get on over to the blackboard. I don't want to hear another word out of you."

When all the players had dressed, they a.s.sembled in a small alcove in the back of the locker room where the blackboard hung. Beneath the blackboard and to the left was a new whirlpool bath. The team members sat in the creaking, green folding chairs. Ben tied and untied his shoes over and over. Pinkie Taylor cracked his knuckles. Jim Don had disappeared to the toilet for his ritualistic pre-game excretion. The crowd, invisible but possessing a huge, menacing voice, roared its approval of a Calhoun girl's basket. Among the boys, tension exuded in a subtle musk, a glaze of perspiration under the arms, behind the knees, and in the hands. A whistle blew. The crowd jeered and the boys listened to the voice of the referee, far-off and m.u.f.fled through the cinderblock wall, call a foul against a Calhoun player.

Then, the manager burst through the double doors that led to the court and ran breathlessly into Coach Spinks's small office. "Five minutes left in the girls' game, Coach."

"Thanks, Tommy," came the reply. "Get me another R.C.," he said, flipping the manager a dime.

A few moments later, Spinks walked to the blackboard, his eyes studying a 3 x 5 card filled with statistics. His face was businesslike, determined. A transformation had taken place. There was something n.o.ble in Spinks's face as he prepared to address his team, something military; this man Spinks, a generalissimo in the land of the jock, rising above himself and his R.C., above his coach's whistle and his small office, a speech forming on his lips, taken from storybooks and movies, and dog-eared copies of Sports Ill.u.s.trated.

But before he spoke he picked up a piece of yellow chalk and drew five X's and O's up on the board. He ran the X's through the offensive patterns the team had practiced repet.i.tiously for two weeks. Spinks's chalkwork, with its sweeping, serpentine arrows and carefully crafted letters, was a genuine and delicate art. He had a flawless and very feminine handwriting that seemed detached from the man possessing it. But when he spoke it was in the harsh rhythms of coaches who had once been athletes who had failed in the same arenas they now presided over as adults.

"We are gonna stick to man-to-man no matter what kind of offense those sons a b.i.t.c.hes throw at us. When I hold my arm up like this," he said, thrusting his arm straight upward, his fist clenched, "I want you to pick 'em up all over the court. I want you to scramble a.s.sholes and elbows after them. When I stand up and hold my belt, I want you to slow the ball down. And when I grab hold of my nuts, I want the manager to run over with the jock powder, 'cause I'm gonna have a powerful itch."

The whole team laughed, pressure released like air from a tire. The buzzer sounded for a subst.i.tution.

"I want you boys to hit that court hungry. I want you boys to be starving. I want you boys to feast on some medium rare West Charleston High School a.s.shole. I want us to win. Win. Win. Win. I want us to win big. I want us to make our school proud," he roared out, his voice surpa.s.sing exhortation. "I want us to make our parents proud, our grandparents proud, our first and second cousins proud, our poontang proud, and ourselves proud. Do y'all hear what I'm saying?"

"Yes, sir!" came the thunderous reply.

Suddenly, Coach Spinks's face mellowed. There was a dissociation of form and substance. His eyes glistened; his gaze became beatific. "Let us pray," he said and all the heads on the team dropped floorward as though they were puppets strung to the same wire.

"O sweet Jesus, we come again to ask your blessings and your forgiveness for our many trespa.s.ses against you and our fellow neighbor. We are playin' West Charleston High School tonight, Lord, but there's no need to tell you that since you knew about it two or three million years before I did. We ask, good Jesus, not that we beat West Charleston High but that we do our best before our G.o.d, our family, and our country. We do ask, Lord, if you see it befitting, that we score a point or two more than West Charleston even though I know that Coach Warners is a G.o.d-fearin' man and a deacon in the Baptist Church besides. But you know as well as I, Lord, he's one of the mouthiest so-and-so's that ever wore socks. I'm also aware, dear Jesus, that their players are all clean cut boys and also pleasant to your sight. We don't want to ask for anything special, Lord, but help my rebounders get off their feet. Help Pinkie and Jim Don control their tempers. Give Philip and Art a little more temper. And get Ben to quit throwin' those big city behind-the-back pa.s.ses. And, Lord, please help this high school if I got to make any subst.i.tutions. My scrubs is good boys but they've been havin' a devil of a time puttin' that ball into the hole. The real thing I want to ask, Lord, is that all these boys make the first team in that great game of life. If they make mistakes, Lord, blow the whistle because you're the great referee. Call time out and bring them to center court for another jump ball. Don't let them go out of bounds, Lord. If they bust a play, make 'em run wind-sprints and figure eights but stay with 'em, Lord. Coach 'em all the way to the champions.h.i.+p of life. A-men."

"A-men," the team echoed in relief.

"Now you boys sit here and think about the game," Coach Spinks ordered. "I'm gonna go out and watch the girls finish getting stomped," he said, walking from the blackboard.

Then he stopped and said in an afterthought, "You know why I like to watch the girls' games so much? You probably think I'm watchin' the strategy used or something. But that's not it. Naw. I just love to watch all those t.i.tties bounce."

When he left the room and the double doors closed, Pinkie whispered, "If those prayers get any longer, I'm gonna quit believin' in G.o.d."

His teammates laughed.

The final buzzer croaked. The team formed a circle, placed their hands on top of each other, then broke in a single file for the double doors. As captain, Pinkie led the team, breaking through the papered hoop that the cheerleaders held at the entrance to the gymnasium. Three hundred voices greeted the team as they broke for the far basket, fanning out in two disciplined lines for layups. At first, Ben could see or hear nothing. He had prepared for this moment since the last basketball game he had played the season before. Fifty thousand jump shots ago he had ended his career as an Atlanta high school junior. The noise of the crowd entered his body from the air, through his skin, into his bloodstream where it burned and cooled at the same time. He shot two layups before he began picking out faces in the crowd: Mr. Loring was taking tickets by the door, Mr. Dacus sat at the scorer's table, and Ben's family sat on the front row not far from the bench where Coach Spinks watched their warmups. Matthew and Karen waved at him, frantically trying to get his attention. But Ben knew that it was uncool to visibly acknowledge one's family when going about the serious business of warming up. He winked at them when he went to the back of the layup line. He also wondered where his father was.

On the last row of bleachers the boys cut from the team sat with their backs against the cinderblock wall. In their rejection they had formed new friends.h.i.+ps, a brotherhood of pain that they could interpret for no one, least of all themselves. But they sat together, their dreams bruised, but alive. In the faces of the boys in uniform, they could see their faces. When a jump shot split cleanly through the net, it was their hand, their phantom hand, that guided the ball. Fantasy crackled like electricity along the back wall.

West Charleston was warming up at the other end of the court. Their uniforms were bright yellow and Ben hunted for Number 5, the boy Coach Spinks had a.s.signed to him. He found him shooting jump shots from the top of the key, hard, artless shots with almost no arch. Then, he watched the boy dribble, a teammate pretending to guard him. No left hand, Ben thought. No left hand. The boy's name was Rostelli and his father owned an Italian restaurant just off Meeting Street in Charleston. Rostelli was six-three and with a guard that tall Ben knew he would have to release his jump shots quickly if Rostelli guarded him.

From the Ravenel stands Ben heard someone ask, "Who's Number thirteen?" Ben looked down and was almost startled to find out that he was Number 13. As of that moment, he had not a.s.sociated himself spiritually with the Number 13. He had asked for 22 but Philip had worn that numeral for three years.

The cheerleaders bounced, sashayed, strutted, preened, and generally acted as if they had died and gone to heaven. Whenever she could catch Jim Don's eyes, Ansley Matthews threw him long, telegraphed, slow motion kisses that stung Ben in their pa.s.sage. There was a sibilance to the pompoms. Legs were golden. Desire stalked their leaps.

At the center of the court, Pinkie shook hands with the opposing co-captains. One of them was Rostelli. Ben turned when he heard a familiar voice near the door where Mr. Loring was selling tickets. "Stand by for a fighter pilot," his father said as he weaved through a crowd that had congregated near the main entrance. He was in his flight jacket and uniform. All eyes in the stands turned toward him as he swaggered down the side of the court. He shook hands with Mr. Dacus and paused to have a brief conversation with the princ.i.p.al. The two men laughed, Bull a bit too loudly.

"Who's that jerk?" Jim Don said, retrieving a rebound.

"That's my father, Jim Don," Ben flared, "and I don't like you calling him a jerk."

The buzzer sounded. The team ran to the bench and formed a circle around Coach Spinks, who had gone down on one knee. "I want you boys to set pics like you were Mack trucks. Work the ball around for good shots. Try to get Meecham open. Ben, I want you to drive these boys. Let's whip a.s.s and win for ol' Calhoun."

The starting five broke to the center of the court. Ben shook hands with a huge bearlike forward, another linebacker masquerading as a basketball player. "I've got Number thirteen," he heard Rostelli say. "Let's get these country boys," their center said before he turned to jump against Art. "I got the guy with the s.h.i.+t on his face," a guard named Jones called to his teammates as he pointed toward Pinkie. "Don't say anything about my face, Bucky Beaver," Pinkie shot back.

Art tipped the ball to Pinkie, who snapped a quick pa.s.s to Ben. Rostelli picked him up quickly. Ben dribbled toward the center of the court, spotted Philip backdooring his man near the baseline and shuffled a pa.s.s beneath Rostelli's arms. Philip scored the first two points on a layup that breathed softly through the net.

"Take Meecham out," Ben heard his father cry out from the opposite side of the court.