The Prophet

7

WORD SPREADS FAST IN Chambers, Ohio. There was nothing in the morning newspaper, but his kids already knew, anyhow, and Kent was not surprised. It is a small town, close-knit. Or invasive. You picked the word depending on your role in it, the way it impacted you. The familiarity, the way everyone knew everyone else, either wrapped warm arms around you or pried with cold, cruel fingers. One of the boys on his team had a father with the police. Another had an uncle with the coroner’s office, a third had a mother who worked as an emergency dispatcher. It would have started with one of the three. Or maybe one with a connection he didn’t even know about, and it ultimately didn’t matter; somewhere, somehow, one of them would have heard, would have issued a late-night call or text message or e-mail, and that would have spawned a dozen like it, and most of the town probably woke to the news.

The weight of it was visible on them as they took to the field, parents walking down with their sons, parents who would ordinarily have sent their sons out into the cold day alone. This was one of the things that he liked about Chambers. It was small enough that people considered everything a shared experience. There was a positive to that. There was also a darkness. Those who never knew Rachel, who wouldn’t have recognized her in a grocery store checkout line, would today claim to remember her quick laugh and generous smile and kind spirit.

Except for the truly dark ones. For those exist in Chambers, too, make no mistake. Kent remembered them well. By noon today, someone would have voiced the first rumor—She was a little slut, you know. Or maybe it would be even worse, tinged with more of the things they attach to disaster in their private moments—I heard she was running around with some Mexican boy.

Only some of them would have memories of Rachel, but all of them would have a theory.

He stood in the center of the field as they gathered. There were a few nods exchanged, a few whispers, but no one actually said words of substance. They were waiting on him.

Remember Walter Ward, he thought, and he wished his old coach were here so bad it stung him, a child’s need, desperate and weakening. Take this one for me, Coach Ward, take this one and handle it the way you did once before, please.

But Walter Ward had been in Rose Hill Cemetery for six years now. By then he was more than an ex-coach, he was family, Kent’s father-in-law, and Kent had stood beside the open earth and delivered the eulogy. That earth would not offer his old coach back today. Kent had accepted the job from Ward, and all that came with it. This was one of those things. He’d never imagined it would be, and yet somehow he felt as if he couldn’t be surprised. Everything circled. Everything with teeth, at least, everything that snapped and bit and drew blood.

When the full team was gathered, he spoke. The crowd was well over a hundred deep. Lots of adults. Parents, mostly, but there were faces in the group he didn’t recognize.

“I expect most of you have heard,” he said, “but just in case you have not, let me explain that there will be no practice, and why not.”

And so he told them the news they had already heard. One of their own had been taken from them. The word choice was key. He would never forget the way the word lost had seared him when used with Marie, as if she had been misplaced, a set of car keys, a remote control, a pair of shoes. No, she was not lost.

She was taken.

“We know,” he said, “that this game is of the barest importance. This morning we are all reminded of that in a way I hoped we never would be. Let’s remind ourselves of something else now: we draw strength from one another. Sometimes, we need to take more than we can offer. You boys have to be aware of that now. There will be those—Rachel’s family, her friends, your teammate Colin—who will need more than they have within them. They will need it from you, from me. We have to remember that, and offer it.

“We’ve spent months—years—discussing what this game represents, and what it does not. Today, it represents nothing. Understand that. Be clear on it. And remember… There is no fear or loss so mighty that it can break faith.”

A chorus of agreement, one of the loudest coming from a man in the back of the crowd, and when Kent’s eyes flicked his way the man dipped his head immediately. He was wearing a baseball cap and now his face was down but he was familiar. For a moment Kent stuttered, then looked away and refocused.

“No practice today, no football. Be with your families, be with your friends, be with your thoughts. Make sure those thoughts are directed toward the people who need them.” He paused, then said, “I’ll say a prayer now for those who would like to stay for it.”

They all stayed.

Kent hoped to make it home without comment to the press, but Bob Hackett, the community’s venerable sports editor, three decades on the job and still going, caught him at his car. He’d been there when they won their state title in Kent’s freshman year, he’d been there when they lost the title game with Kent at quarterback his senior year, he’d been there through everything that had happened in between.

Today he was waiting beside Kent’s Ford Explorer, and they leaned together against the car and stared at the ball field that had mattered so much only a few hours ago.

“I’m sorry,” Hackett said.

“Lots of people are deserving of sympathy right now, but I’m not among them.”

“Kent? Someone is going to want to talk with you about it soon enough,” Hackett said. “And I’ll tell you this: it’s easier if you talk to me. If I write it first, the AP will grab it. Then when somebody else calls, you can say you gave your one interview on the topic and want to leave it at that. If you don’t give any, though, everyone will get to bend it their own way.”

So let them, Kent wanted to snap. It’s got nothing to do with anything, it’s so long ago, so far away.

But that wasn’t true. It wasn’t far away, never would be.

“You know me well enough to understand I’m not hunting for the scoop,” Hackett said. “If you don’t want to say a word about her then I’ll—”

“No,” Kent said. “Let’s get it done. Let’s talk about my sister.”

Hackett looked away, and Kent appreciated the man’s genuine discomfort. He didn’t always agree with the sportswriter’s columns, but he always appreciated the way he went about his job. He didn’t treat it as writing about coaches and athletes and games. He treated it as writing about people.

“Go inside?” Hackett said.

Kent shook his head. “Why don’t we sit on the bleachers.”

It was maybe thirty-five degrees, the morning sun not yet doing much to warm the gray day, and Hackett didn’t have a hat covering his bald head, but he nodded and led the way.