Two hours later, Wood drove into Gardi. The rain fell steadily. Rippling along the roadside. He pulled over by the railroad tracks just before town and cut the engine. He wouldn’t look at me. “I want to get you over for dinner, but Laura just needs some time…” He shook his head. The admission was painful.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “She’s protecting you. You should listen to her. I’d probably do the same.” I stepped out. “Thanks for today.”
“You got a plan?”
“Well…” I chuckled. “I have no money, no home, no car, no career, no wife, no family, and, to my knowledge, only one friend who half believes what I’m telling him.”
He pointed down the tracks. “I knocked off the cobwebs. Stacked some wood. Canned foods in the pantry. Some eggs in the fridge. Propane’s full. Window unit’s busted so sleeping should be a real joy, but the ceiling fan works. You might have to tape up a few cuts in the screens to keep the mosquitoes out. And if you’re looking for some clothes, when Audrey disappeared, I gathered up what was left of your stuff and put it in that old cedar trunk on the porch. Right next to that old trail bike. It sputters, but it’ll get you where you need to go.”
Wood’s great-grandfather farmed shade tobacco on several hundred acres contiguous to St. Bernard’s. The business peaked under his grandfather, then slid into oblivion with his father. When hard times hit, Wood could never bring himself to sell the acreage, making him cash poor and land rich. I’d always admired him for keeping it when his own business tanked. In addition to shade farming, his grandfather had a penchant for moonshine, which he cooked out of a cabin he built on site. The block of property sat, oddly enough, a short walk from the tracks. The cabin lay near the middle of the property, and the dirt road leading to it was gated. On Friday nights, after games, a lot of us piled in there on sleeping bags next to the wood-burning stove. I smiled. “Thanks.”
“It should offer you some privacy. Keep the paparazzi at bay.” He chuckled. “And speaking as your attorney, ’cause I know you can’t afford one, it’s legal in terms of distance from the school.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Oh—” He raised a finger and shook his head. “You might should steer clear of the barn.” He handed me an official-looking letter from the stack of papers crammed between the dash and the windshield, which I had a feeling doubled as his mobile desk.
I scanned the letter. “What’s this?”
“About six months ago, the school busted some kids in there smoking dope. To deflect attention from their dope-addicted kid, one of the parents made a stink about the barn’s condition. The county investigated, agreed with the parent, and told me it was a lawsuit waiting to happen.” A shrug. He spoke almost to himself. “If they wouldn’t trespass, it wouldn’t be a hazard, but despite the fifty obnoxious yellow NO TRESPASSING signs hanging everywhere, somehow I’m responsible for their kid’s trespassing and dope smoking.”
I laughed.
He continued. “To make sure they got their point across, the county sent me a—” He gestured to the letter in my hand. “CYA note via certified delivery informing me that I should bulldoze it before I get sued and lose my land. I get a new one about every other month.”
“That thing still standing? It was a hazard back when we were running around.”
“Evidently, the county would agree with you, and given its proximity to the school, and knowing that kids have a penchant for hanging around it—”
I smirked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“They keep telling me it’s got to come down.”
“What’s the holdup?”
He sucked through his teeth and weighed his head side to side. “It’s complicated.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see when you open the door. And for the record, I had nothing to do with what you find there. Neither did Ray. It all just appeared a couple years ago and every few months something new pops up. It’s like that scene in Jeremiah Johnson where the Indians leave stuff at his old house where the crazy lady now lives. Nobody sees them coming or going, stuff just appears.” He sat quietly a moment, wrestling with something on the tip of his tongue. Finally, he slid a sheet of paper off the dash and handed it to me. “Laura did some digging. There’s no record—at all—of an Audrey Rising in or near south Georgia or north Florida.” He glanced at me and then looked away. “She checked under ‘Audrey Michaels,’ too.” A single shake of his head.
The rain felt cold on my shoulders. I tapped the top of the car. Not knowing quite what to say. Rare is the friend who will stick by you when most think you’re a deviant. Rarer still is the one who believes. “Wood, thanks.”
His eyes welled up. “You’ll find out soon enough that I haven’t helped you any.” He waved his hand across a town oblivious to my return. “If you thought they loved you then, wait until you see how they hate you now.” He put the car in drive but kept his foot on the brake. “My office is in the old Mater building. Second floor. I do—” He shrugged. “Bail bonds.” He wouldn’t look at me. “I can see the jail from my window.” Another shrug. “It pays the bills. Or most of them.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a small wad of cash. Dirty twenty dollar bills. “You’ll need this.”
Based on his appearance, whatever he was giving me was a lot. Maybe all he had. I waved him off. “I’m good.”
He offered it a second time. “Come on. You need—”
I raised my hand. A stop sign. “Laura’s right. Be smart. Stay away from me.”
He tapped his chest. Eyes welling. “When I close my eyes and think back through the worst and toughest times of my life, I see you looking back at me. Telling me that I could do what I never thought I could do.” A pause. “No matter what I do, I can’t bring myself to hate you.” He shook his head and stared at the national championship ring he wore on his left hand. He and I won seven championships together—four in high school and three in college. The one he was now wearing was our last.
The memory returned. A good one. Late in the third quarter, we were down by thirteen. We needed to cross the goal line twice and they were killing us, both on the line and in the coverage. The nose guard was pushing Wood around like a rag doll. I stood in the huddle asking myself what to do. He’d never asked or told me what to run, but in that second Wood just got mad. He stuck his face in front of mine and grabbed my jersey. “When I snap the ball, follow me.”
“Wood, he’s been eating your lunch all day.”
Determination sprinkled with rage spread across his face. “You just hold on, and I’m gonna push this country boy back into his lineage.”
And he did. When he snapped the ball on the six yard line, I tucked my head and he plowed a path to the goal line. Carried the nose guard, both tackles, the weak side linebacker, and the free safety with him. You could have driven a truck through the hole. It wasn’t until after the game that I learned he’d broken his left arm—in the first quarter.
Wood had always had a high pain threshold, and sitting in the front seat of his Suburban, he was in pain. He wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve. “I think back to the trial and—” He pounded the steering wheel. “I cannot reconcile the man I knew in the huddle with the man they put on trial.”
That made two of us. I waited, saying nothing.
A tear spilled down his cheek. “Matthew, these people are going to rip your head off your shoulders, pour gasoline down your neck, and light your body afire.”
I nodded. I knew that.
“You’re either the worst kind of man who lies to his wife and friends and self. In which case twelve years wasn’t enough, never will be, and God alone will deal with you. Or somebody, for reasons I can’t fathom”—his giant paw pounded the console between the seats—“did this to you. Stole what you had and everything you were ever gonna have.” He wiped his face on his sleeve. “And I’m not sure which scenario hurts worse.” The pain had spread across his face. “I’ve had twelve years to think about it, and I’m no closer to figuring it out.” His voice rose. “Today certainly hasn’t helped. Seems like five minutes ago, you threw that backside pass to Roddy in the end zone. I carried you on my shoulders around the field. People were holding signs that read ROCKET FOR PRESIDENT and ROCKET, WILL YOU MARRY ME? Moms were naming their kids after you. Ninety-six thousand people were screaming—” His voice fell to a whisper. He stared out through the windshield and into our shared past. “ ‘Rocket! Rocket! Rocket!’ ” He closed his eyes. Finally, he looked at me. “Call me a fool. Call me gullible. Call me the town idiot. I been called worse. I was your friend then. Am now. And will be.”
When he drove off, one taillight burned out. I heard myself whispering, “How I love that man.”