"Thanks."
Paul kicked the grass. "Look, Jesse, there's a memorial service tomorrow, at the field. Most of Rake's boys will be there, you know, to say good-bye. Mal thinks he might be able to pull some strings and get you a pass."
"No way, man."
"You got a lot of friends there, Jesse."
"Former friends, Paul, people I've let down. They'll all point and say, 'Look, there's Jesse Trapp. Coulda been great, but got messed up on drugs. Ruined his life. Learn from him, kids. Stay away from the bad stuff.' No thanks. I don't want to be pointed at."
"Rake would want you there," Neely said.
The chin dropped again and the eyes closed. A moment passed. "I loved Eddie Rake like I've loved nobody else in my life. He was in court the day I got sent away. I had ruined my life, and I was humiliated over that. I had wrecked my parents, and I was sick about that. But what hurt the most was that I had failed in Rake's eyes. It still hurts. Y'all can bury him without me."
"It's your call, Jesse," Paul said.
"Thanks, but I'll pass."
There was a long pause as all three nodded and studied the grass. Finally, Paul said, "I see your mom once a week. She's doing well."
"Thanks. She visits me the third Sunday of every month. You ought to drive over sometime, say hello. It's pretty lonely in here."
"I'll do that, Jesse."
"You promise?"
"I promise. And I wish you'd think about tomorrow."
"I've already thought about it. I'll say a prayer for Rake, you boys can bury him."
"Fair enough."
Jesse looked to his right. "Is that Mal over there?"
"Yes, we rode with him."
"Tell him to kiss my ass."
"I'll do that, Jesse," Paul said. "With pleasure."
"Thanks boys," Jesse said. He turned and walked away.
* * *
At four o'clock Thursday afternoon the crowd parted at the gate to Rake Field and the hearse backed itself into position. Its rear door was opened and eight pallbearers formed two short lines and pulled out the casket. None of the eight were former Spartans. Eddie Rake had given much thought to his final details, and he had decided not to play favorites. He selected his pallbearers from among his assistant coaches.
The procession moved slowly around the track. The casket was followed by Mrs. Lila Rake, her three daughters and their husbands, and a handsome collection of grandchildren. Then a priest. Then the drum corps from the Spartan marching band, doing a soft roll as they passed the home stands.
Between the forties on the home sideline there was a large white tent, its poles anchored in buckets of sand to protect the sacred Bermuda of Rake Field. At the fifty-yard line, at the exact spot where he had coached for so long and so well, they stopped with his casket. It was mounted on an antique Irish wake table, the property of Lila's best friend, and quickly surrounded by flowers. When the Coach was properly arranged, the family gathered around the casket for a short prayer. Then they formed a receiving line.
The line stretched down the track and through the gate, and the cars were bumper to bumper on the road that led to Rake Field.
Chapter Eighteen
Neely passed the house three times before he was brave enough to stop. There was a rental car in the driveway. Cameron had returned. Long after dinner, he knocked on the door, almost as nervous as the first time he'd done so. Then, as a fifteen-year-old with a new driver's permit, his parents' car, twenty bucks in his pocket, the peach fuzz scraped off his face, he had arrived to take Cameron on their first real date.
A hundred years ago.
Mrs. Lane opened the door, same as always, but this time she did not recognize Neely. "Good evening," she said softly. She was still beautiful, polite, refusing to age.
"Mrs. Lane, it's me, Neely Crenshaw."
As the words came out, she recognized him. "Why, yes, Neely, how are you?"
He figured his name had been mud in the house for so long, he wasn't sure how he'd be received. But the Lanes were gracious people, slightly more educated and affluent than most in Messina. If they held a grudge, and he was certain one was being held, they wouldn't show it. Not the parents anyway.
"I'm fine," he said.
"Would you come in?" she said, opening the door. It was a halfhearted gesture.
"Sure, thanks." In the foyer, he looked around and said, "Still a beautiful home, Mrs. Lane."
"Thank you. Could I get you some tea?"
"No, thanks. Actually, I'm looking for Cameron. Is she here?"
"She is."
"I'd like to say hello."
"I'm very sorry about Coach Rake. I know he meant everything to you boys."
"Yes ma'am." He was glancing around, listening for voices in the back of the house.
"I'll find Cameron," she said and disappeared. Neely waited, and waited, and finally turned to the large oval window in the front door and watched the dark street.
There was a footstep behind him, then a familiar voice. "Hello Neely," Cameron said. He turned and they stared at each other. Words failed him for the moment, so he shrugged and finally blurted, "I was just driving by, thought I'd say hello. It's been a long time."
"It has."
The gravity of his mistake hit hard.
She was much prettier than in high school. Her thick auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her dark blue eyes were adorned with chic designer frames. She wore a bulky cotton sweater and tight faded jeans that declared that this was a lady who stayed in shape. "You look great," he said as he admired her.
"You too."
"Can we talk?"
"About what?"
"Life, love, football. There's a good chance we'll never see each other again, and I have something to say."
She opened the door. They walked across the wide porch and sat on the front steps. She was careful to leave a large gap between them. Five minutes passed in silence.
"I saw Nat," he said. "He told me you're living in Chicago, happily married with two little girls."
"True."
"Who'd you marry?"
"Jack."
"Jack who?"
"Jack Seawright."
"Where'd he come from?"
"I met him in D.C. I went to work there after college."
"How old are your girls?"
"Five and three."
"What does Jack do?"
"Bagels."
"Bagels?"
"Yes, those round things. We didn't have bagels in Messina."
"Okay. You mean, like, a bagel shop?" Shops.
"More than one?"
"A hundred and forty-six."
"So you're doing well?"
"His company is worth eight million."
"Ouch. My little company is worth twelve thousand on a good day."
"You said you had something to say." She had shown not the slightest hint of thawing. There was no interest in any of the details of his life.
Neely heard faint footsteps on the wooden floor of the foyer. No doubt Mrs. Lane was back there, trying to listen. Some things never changed.
The wind picked up slightly and scattered oak leaves across the brick sidewalk in front of them. Neely rubbed his hands together and said, "Okay, here goes. A long time ago, I did a very bad thing, something I've been ashamed of for many years. I was wrong. It was stupid, mean, lousy, selfish, harmful, and the older I get the more I regret it. I'm apologizing, Cameron, and I ask you to forgive me."