Deadline by Chris Crutcher
“Ben…”
“And look at you. You think if you let me say that word the world is going to cave in or something. I’m on a totally uninformed tirade here and you’re waiting to pounce on one bad word because it offends your belief system.”
“Ben Wolf, you’re not exactly Galileo or Newton and you sure as the devil aren’t Jesus. Are you drawing parallels between your introduction of Malcolm X to Trout, Idaho, with Newton and gravity? Are you that much smarter than the rest of us? Give me a break. There’s a lot more behind those belief systems than you’re allowing. There are good and evil in the world, and part of education is learning what they are.”
Sooner says, “We got us a midget Einstein. Whoa.”
I may not be Einstein but I’m smart enough to let that statement pass. “There may be good and evil,” I say to Lambeer, “but neither you or I know what they are.”
The vein in Lambeer’s neck pushes against his shirt collar like a rat being devoured by a snake. “Maybe you don’t know what they are, Ben Wolf, but I sure do.”
“I think not,” I say. This dying thing makes me way brave. “Let’s say you’re a five-year-old kid outside Da Nang, Vietnam, sometime in the late sixties or early seventies and fire comes raining out of the sky on your house. And I mean fire. Raining. You didn’t do anything to bring that kind of shit—stuff—down on your head but happen to be inside your Vietnamese mother five years ago, and before the day’s over you don’t have that mother anymore and your face is burned beyond recognition. Somehow you live and forty-odd years later you’re sitting around, burned and broken, wishing you hadn’t had to grow up an orphan. Let’s say you defied the odds and learned to read English and you pick up Robert McNamara’s book like I did last month, and discover the United States had no idea what we got ourselves into when we went to war there because we didn’t learn about the people. Robert McNamara was the secretary of defense then. They called him the architect of that war. Robert McNamara was the architect of a war he didn’t understand and because he didn’t educate himself, you got fire rained on you. Who are you going to believe is evil? And who can argue with you?”
“I can argue with you. My father fought in that war. You know nothing about Vietnam. Men put their lives on the line and came back home to ridicule and hate.”
I’m tempted to reintroduce Lambeer to the term nonsequitur; tell him he’s proving my point, but I’m zoned in. “No offense, but if I know nothing there’s a pretty good chance you don’t, either. I read about that war and I’ve heard about it from you. You read about it and heard about it from your dad. Neither of us knows what it was like to be there. My only point is that a lot of things happen because of faulty information and the reason to get educated is to cut down as much as possible on faulty information, not skirt it because we don’t want to offend the locals.”
The class is silent. They sense danger. But when you’re dying, there is no danger. The truth works on every level, and I’m in a spot where I feel addicted to it.
Lambeer backs up a little, setting back my doomsday clock a couple of seconds. “I won’t get into my personal losses with that war,” he says. “But history tells us that democracy gives people their best chance at having a good life. When you live in the best one in the world, arguably the best one in history, you have to back it through its mistakes as well as its triumphs.”
“My country, right or wrong?” I ask.
“My country, right or wrong,” he says.
“But if you’re a patriot in whatever country you’re in, that’s true, right? I mean if you were a North Vietnamese you’d be considered a coward if you turned and fought for the U.S. Right? And if I live in Trout, Idaho, I can never see eye-to-eye with anyone from Harlem.” In my defense I do see the differences; but I also see the similarities.
Lambeer has clearly had about enough of me. “You think you’re pretty smart, Mr. Wolf, but there are things you don’t understand. Things that come with experience. It’s easy to pass judgment on your country and on freedom when you’re ensconced in a place it can’t be taken away. But you’re missing something important, something I probably won’t convince you of today. You’re missing experience. You’re showing off in front of your friends because there’s no cost. And I’m supposed to sit here and listen to your drivel because you’re a student and I should be happy that you are curious, but I find your ideas sophomoric and ill thought-out, sir, and until you have that experience, I suggest you choose your words carefully so I’m not forced to put you in your place.”
This is the time. “You’re right, Mr. Lambeer. I do think I’m pretty smart. No Galileo, but pretty smart. And I’m going to have to go with that because I won’t be getting the experience you’re talking about.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’m dying. Because this time next year I’ll be a picture in last year’s yearbook. I want any information I get between now and then to be correct, which is why I’m all over the place with my arguments and why I’m busting your chops. And I’m pretty sure if you spend your lunches in the teachers’ lounge you’re hearing I’m the same pain in the butt in every other class.”
I can feel the shock among my classmates. My brother is shaking his head and smiling. Dallas Suzuki stares at her desk. If I could know only one thing, it would be what she’s thinking.
“What do you mean, you’re dying?” Lambeer says. I put him in this tough spot on purpose.
“I mean no breathing, stopped heart, all stiff and stuff.”
“That’s not funny.”
My brother almost spits out his gum. “It’s not funny to me most of the time, either,” I say, nodding at Cody. “Right now it kind of is.”
“I’m going to end this discussion,” Lambeer says. “It seems to have drifted.”
I agree it’s drifted.
Twenty-Three
Sweet Hey-Soos, who should I tell? Should I tell one? Should I tell three? What the hell, tell ’em all. All that contemplation, then I open my mouth and out come the beans. Two periods after I said it the whole school knew the hand I’ve drawn, and students walked around me like I had anthrax powder on my shoes, proving I wasn’t that far from correct with my original decision. Cody hung with me. Dallas disappeared. I think she went home.
But file this under If You Want to Give God a Good Laugh…I walk into school a couple of minutes before class this morning to find the halls quiet as a church. I’m egotistical enough to think it’s about me until I catch a glimpse of Mr. Cowans sitting in the principal’s office, his forehead pressed against the flat surface of Mr. Phelps’s desk, his body convulsing.
Sooner Cowans was killed last night. Car wreck. Not far from the bridge where Becky Sanders died during Coach’s senior year. Just a random, senseless accident. Sooner took Ellen Marker, the girl who stood him up for homecoming, for a late burger at Clear Creek Station, which is about seven miles out of town. Mrs. Olsen fell asleep driving from town to the Olsen ranch about a mile past Clear Creek. She drifted across the yellow line and hit Sooner and Ellen head-on. Dead on impact. Mrs. Olsen has a sprained back and a couple of bruises.
Mr. Phelps stands with a microphone in the center jump circle before a stunned, silent student body. I can’t help thinking the only person rude enough to make a noise in this tomb is the reason we’re here. This exact same scenario is playing out over in Council, for a girl who was tough enough to hang out with Sooner.
Mr. Phelps starts to talk, chokes, and takes a deep breath. He tries again, gets a couple of syllables out, stops, covers his face. Coach steps up, gently elbows Mr. Phelps to the side.
“Listen, you guys. This is a big hit. One of you who was alive yesterday is gone today. Simple as that. There’s no way to sugarcoat it or make it better. A great kid is gone. In Council they’re feeling exactly the same.
“We’ll go ahead to class. Individual teachers will decide what to do with the time. Don’t be surprised if most of the day is study time. Or sitting
Coach lowers his eyes. “Guys, this is tough. The spirit and memory of Sooner will walk with us for a long time.” He shakes his head. “This is senseless.” He waves us to class.
As Cody and I rise to leave, I glance through the bleachers for Dallas, but she’s not there. “I gotta get out of here, man. No way am I sitting through this day.”
Cody says, “Want me to go with?”
“Naw. I’m okay. I’ll probably run. Or walk. Whatever I can do. I know you don’t want that.”
He smiles and slaps my back gently. “Holler if you need me. My cell is on. Can’t imagine anyone will give a shit. Can’t imagine I’d care if they did.”
Dad’s in the backcountry with the mail and freight and Mom’s door is closed. I slip upstairs and shove my iPod into the computer to make a playlist for loss. I start and end it with the song I found the day I heard from Doc what lay in store for me, the one I listened to on the hill; Too Old to Die Young. I’ve since discovered Ann Savoy wrote it. She sings it with Linda Ronstadt. The lyrics beg for time. Sandwiched between are songs with no words. There are no words for this.
I glide along Main Street, up the frozen dirt road toward the reservoir, over the mile-long earthen dam, and into the hills, jogging slow. The music sets a pace and I lean back on it, letting go of my mind.
Who knew Sooner had a death sentence, too? Hey-Soos would say, Not destined. Maybe not, but unavoidable because Mrs. Olsen decided to drive tired and Sooner decided to go to the restroom before he left, or argue about the bill or wait for his change, placing him on the grid that would intersect him and Ellen perfectly with Mrs. Olsen.
Who would have thought I had more time than Sooner, or Ellen Marker, for that matter? None of us will ever be too old to die young. When Mr. Cowans walked out of Mr. Phelps’s office, he looked like he didn’t want to live one more day. All the meanness was drained out of him. I wonder what he thought of ending Sooner’s season with a broken collarbone. What are the Markers thinking over in Council? None of those people had the advantage I have. Knowing. Preparing.
I jog down out of the woods, retracing my steps, running part of the way, walking some, stopping when I have to, resting with my hands on my knees. I imagine I can feel myself slowly draining.
My God, I want to make it to the end of the year just so the student body won’t fall back into that desperate hole I saw them in today.
Cody and I and Dolven and Glover and Sooner’s dad and a cousin from his mom’s side carry the casket at Sooner’s funeral. There’s not a church in town large enough to accommodate the crowd, so we use the school gym. Jocks from other schools show. There are probably more people in this gym than there are in the town.
After we bring the casket in from the hearse, Cody and the other guys and I sit with the team and Coach sits next to Mr. Cowans. I’ve never heard old man Cowans say a nice word to or about him, but there Coach is, hand between Boomer’s shoulder blades, propping him up as if they were brothers. Sooner’s mom sits quiet and stoic. Not a tear and she never takes her eyes off the casket, nor does she touch her husband. Never have I been in the presence of so much regret.
Cody taps my knee, whispers, “I can’t do this, little big man.” He rises, works his way past the team, and out the door. My brother has just looked to the next funeral. In the distance I think I hear him wail. This is not going to be easy. Someone else will have to help carry Sooner out. While I’m watching the door, Dallas slips into Cody’s seat. She never says a word, but when the service is finished, she pats my leg and disappears.
I have no idea what that means.
Twenty-Four
It’s as if Sooner kicked open the door and is holding it, waiting. Within weeks of his funeral I feel myself really slipping. Mostly it’s fatigue. At times my arms and legs are too heavy to lift and this pervasive weariness almost entombs me. On days I don’t make it to school, Dad stays home and lets Rance Lloyd drive the truck. Mom hasn’t come out of her hole, which is bad because she’s way past due. I think some part of her can’t afford to watch this.
Basketball season ends, and the guys start into track. Normally this would be my time to step up as an athletic hero yet one more time; run a whole bunch of posers into the ground in the two-mile, but it’s all gone. I was a little shit before, but now, little shits call me a little shit. My clothes hang on me.
Cody has signed at Boise State and they’re making promises he’ll start as a freshman, but he’s pretty nervous. He doesn’t want to do this alone. “The feather,” I tell him, imitating the mouse riding in Dumbo the elephant’s hat as they plummeted toward the circus tent floor when he thought he’d lost his magic feather. “It wasn’t really magic! You can fly, Dumbo! Spread them ears!”
My brother will be fine. He just has to get through this time. He keeps saying maybe he’ll stay a year and take care of things, as in Mom and Dad, that he was never that big on college ball anyway, but Dad would never let that happen, and that brings me peace. Dad’s contract wasn’t just with my mom. It was with us all. Cody will break away from me when I finally break away.
I’m living in a gauzy haze, seldom get up much now. Doc sent a hospital bed home so I can sit up and lie down at the push of a button, and I can also kill the pain any time I want. Once in a while Cody puts me in the Grey Ghost and we tool around Trout, the town we own since the Horseshoe Bend game. Coach comes over for dinner a couple of times a week. He stays until I fall asleep, then goes into Cody’s room to go over hour after hour of BSU game films. Cody tells me he’s getting it; it’s very possible he didn’t before because he didn’t have to.
I want to make it to graduation. I haven’t done any schoolwork for a month or more, but they’ve promised a social promotion if I make it. Mr. Phelps says seniors don’t do any work anyway, and I’m the only honest one.
Once in a while I have a good day; one that makes Cody think I’m maybe coming back, but there are never two in a row and I’m sinking about on schedule.
It’s one of those good days and I talk Cody into taking me over to Mr. Cowans’s house. I’ve heard he hasn’t come out since the funeral. I’m a little unsteady so Cody walks me up on the porch. “I’ll call on my cell when I’m done,” I tell him. He leaves while I knock on the door.
For a good while there’s no answer, but he can’t out-wait me because I’ve had experience with Rudy McCoy, so I pound. Finally he answers. “Hey, Mr. Cowans. Okay if I come in?”
He stands staring. I’ll bet he’s lost twenty-five pounds. He looks like me, for Christ sake. He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t move.
“I’m coming in,” I tell him and move slowly past him to the couch. He takes a deep breath, follows me inside.
I say, “Listen. I don’t have much time. Or energy. It won’t be long before I’m where Sooner is.”
He stares at the floor.
All I can do is tell it. “I don’t know what happens next, Mr. Cowans, but I know it’s something. There’s a good chance I’ll see Sooner. You want me to tell him anything?”
Mr. Cowans looks off to the side, runs his hand over his mouth. “Not likely you’ll end up where my boy is.”
“I don’t think that’s right, sir. I don’t think God punishes you because you have….” I catch myself.
So does he. “A mean old man? Well, I hope not.”
“Sir, I know what happened was really hard and it wasn’t fair. We all feel that way. I had warning. You didn’t get any.”
Nothing.
“What can I tell him, Mr. Cowans?”
He looks up with pained, dry eyes, considers me a minute, then, “Tell him I’m sorry I broke his goddamn collarbone.”
I wait for more, but there isn’t any, so I make my way to the porch and call my brother.
On a day when I can’t tell what’s real from
I made a deal with Coach and Mr. Phelps that if I could last I’d speak at graduation, but it ain’t gonna happen. I agreed because I thought I could put a little different spin on death than the school has had following Sooner’s II’s accident. But it’s a good five weeks away and I can feel myself jogging on out of here.
I have some good conscious time once or twice a day and I’ve been writing some things down. I’d like it if my brother talked for me. My brother can talk for me any time.
It’s one of those conscious times and I’m sitting up, writing in my notebook, when I look up to see Marla, my old therapist, standing in the doorway.
I say, “Hey,” and put down the notebook.
“Hey.” She’s tentative about walking in, but she does. “How are you?”
I smile and give her my old line. “Well, I’m dyin’ but other than that….”
“I came to apologize,” she says, and tears nearly squirt. “I am so sorry.”
“For what?”
“For leaving you. For giving up.”
“Hey,” I say, “you did what you had to; the oxygen mask thing, right?”
She cries harder. I do what I do best. “It’s okay, Marla. I was too much of a smart-ass to do much work, anyway….”
“You were dying,” she says, “and I couldn’t—”