Darkhouse

TEN

Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1982

‘I think my baby’s gonna kick some butt, today,’ said Wanda. ‘The first Rawlins family jock.’ Duke rolled his eyes.

Wanda climbed out of the pickup and smoothed the legs of her wrinkled jeans down to her yellow high heels. She looked at her son, dressed from the waist down in his football gear.

‘You look real cute, honey,’ she said.

He shrugged and pulled the rest of his gear from the floor of the cab. He slid the shoulder pads and jersey over his head.

‘Cougars. Number fifty-eight,’ said Wanda. It was the first time she’d seen it. ‘What do you have to do, then? What did I pay my thirty dollars for?’

‘I throw the ball back between my legs and make sure the nose guard from the other team doesn’t tackle the quarterback.’

‘Well, that’s wonderful, honey. I’ll be lookin’ out for you,’ she said, pointing at his chest.

Duke’s eyes wandered past her to another family, dressed for church, the father standing behind his son, pressing strong hands on to his shoulders, smiling.

‘Honey, look at all the pretty little cheerleaders!’ said Wanda.

In a corner of the parking lot, a group of teenage girls in dark blue shorts and cropped tops stamped with a white cougar stood in a circle, practising their cheers. Beside them, a slim blonde stood on one leg, while she pulled the other behind her until it almost touched her shoulder. Others were jumping or doing splits, their faces set in wide, static smiles. Duke turned to his mother with the same eerie grin. Wanda frowned.

‘Stop that, honey,’ she said, smacking his arm.

Two men stood in a cloud of cigarette smoke by the entrance to the stadium, laughing loud and hard.

‘Or Wanda Blowjob?’

‘Wanda Cum-in-my-Face?’

‘All I get from Gloria is Wanda Be Held.’ They hooted. One slapped the other’s back. They stopped laughing when Duke walked between them, pushing a small, firm hand into each man’s stomach and continuing into the stadium.

‘Hey, buddies,’ he spat.

The men looked at each other.

‘Twelve years old,’ said one, shaking his head. ‘A genuine son of a bitch.’

Duke went to the weigh-in area, then sat with his mother and Geoff Riggs for the last few minutes of the PeeWee game. Donnie jogged off the field, his face red and shiny. His hair was limp with sweat.

‘You shoulda seen him out there today,’ said Geoff. ‘Ran his skinny little legs off catchin’ that ball.’ Geoff rubbed a thick hand across his shaved head, showing the sweat patches on his tank top, letting loose a blast of foul air.

Wanda leaned away. ‘Good for you, Donnie,’ she said. ‘The Midget hero.’

‘Donnie’s in the PeeWees,’ said Duke. ‘I’m Midgets.’

Wanda smiled at Geoff. ‘Duke’s gonna score a touchdown today, aren’t you, baby?’

Duke rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, Mom…if I turn into a quarterback.’ Donnie laughed.

‘We gotta go,’ said Geoff. ‘Good luck, Duke.’

‘Thanks.’

Duke grabbed his helmet and left his mother alone in the stands. Five rows in front of her, separated by an aisle, groups of parents chatted and laughed, pointing out their kids on the sidelines. Wanda focused on her feet, rubbing the dull pink marks that scarred them. She tilted her ankles and examined the fresh red scabs at her heels. Reaching down, she hooked a nail under the hard, dry flesh and picked one free. Crystal Buchanan walked by her, stiff blonde hair, painted like a stewardess, with a flask of coffee and two plastic cups hanging from her little finger. She sat down beside her.

‘Hi Wanda,’ she said, smiling. ‘Duke playing today?’

Wanda looked at her, curious. ‘I know you’re a good Catholic…’ she said.

Crystal’s smile froze.

‘…but I’m not your Mary Goddamn Magdalene.’

‘I was trying to be nice,’ said Crystal.

‘Nope. Not buyin’ it,’ said Wanda, staring straight ahead. ‘You were lookin’ to rescue the downtrodden. Old folks, handicapped babies and whores. Crystal Buchanan, our Lord and Saviour.’

Crystal stood to leave. ‘You’re truly beyond help.’

‘Well, that’s Crystal clear,’ said Wanda. ‘Oh – and say hi to Mr Buchanan.’ Wanda had never met Mr Buchanan, but she liked the way she could make a good woman flinch.

She turned back to the field, watching as the Braves’ centre started play. He snapped the ball to the quarterback, then blocked the nose guard pushing towards him. The quarterback sprinted, but was tackled to the ground by a chunky defender and the ball popped loose. The referee blew the whistle. The game continued with players piling onto the ball, untangling, piling, untangling.

At half-time, Wanda looked at the scoreboard. The Cougars were in the lead by one point. She watched as Duke straddled his legs and bent over the ball. The players lined up on either side of him. ‘On hut two!’ yelled the quarterback. ‘Blue! Red! Hut! Hut!’ Duke snapped the ball between his legs. In seconds, the nose guard had pushed him aside and tackled the quarterback. The quarterback fumbled the ball and the nose guard recovered it. Everybody dived. The whistle blew. The quarterback turned to Duke. ‘Good job…you fuckin’ retard.’ But Duke’s eyes were on the retreating back of the nose guard as he jogged to the huddle. Duke moved quickly behind him, leading with his helmet, charging low into his kidneys.

‘Go, Dukey!’ yelled Wanda before she realised her mistake. Parents craned their necks to stare at her.

The boy collapsed onto the field, crying out through the stunned silence. His mother was on her feet, running towards him. The whistle blew and a yellow flag sailed through the air and landed at Duke’s feet.

‘Out!’ roared the referee. ‘You’re ejected. Go.’ He pointed the way.

Duke stared at him, then jogged off. He passed his coach who stabbed a finger towards him. ‘Get outta that uniform! Go sit in the stands.’

The mother of the nose guard pushed onto the field to her son.

Duke’s coach ran over to the referee.

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ said the referee, holding up his hand.

The coach’s voice was low. ‘What can I say, Mike? I agree with you.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Mike. ‘The kid’s fucking nuts. Spearing a kid for—’

‘I know that, for Christ’s sake. You shoulda seen him in practice. Didn’t get the whole no-contact thing.’

They both looked toward the stands and saw Wanda stagger through the row, pushing Duke ahead of her.

‘Poor bastard,’ said the coach.