Bliss and Other Short Stories Part 12

I recalled Walker pitching over finish lines at home and away, sobbing for breath. "Okay," I said.

We walked over to where the sidelines should have shown and got lined up, shoulder to shoulder.

"Go," Walker whispered.

I left the crouch too fast, took one stride, and fell. Walker was already twenty feet ahead of me. I got up and ran hard, trying to catch up. The wind was at our backs and I settled into a steady run: I would let him pace me until we were halfway around, then I would take him.

I caught up near the end zone and swung inside, slowing down to take the corner. Then I saw that Walker was wearing spikes; he didn't slip an inch. Coming out of the corner I fell again and scram-bled up and ran on as fast as I could. By this time he was far ahead. I put on all the speed I had.

I heard Bill yelling hoa.r.s.ely from the middle of the field as Walk-er pounded on ahead of me, really moving. The distance between us hadn't closed. I saw him turn at the far end of the field. His arms were dropping. He reached out to touch the leg of the goalpost with his fingertips as he went by it.

I put my head down and forced myself to move a little faster, and by the time I reached the goalpost I couldn't negotiate the turn and fell again, heavily, into the end zone. This time I didn't get up.

I rolled onto my back and closed my eyes. Snowflakes pattered onto my face and into my mouth as I pulled in the air. When I opened my eyes the sky swirled and then everything out there irised in a tight quarter-turn and stopped dead. Walker's head swam into view.

"Get up," he panted. "Sprint to the finish."

Walker stood over me, clutching his knees, blowing steam into my face. I was hot in the middle and cold at the edges and my stom-ach was knotted around the sour booze.

"Can't," I said. "You go ahead without me."

"Cute," Walker said. "That's really funny."

I heard squishy footsteps. "G.o.d, man, are you okay?" Bill said.

"He's all right," Walker said. He turned back to me. His fogged lenses were beautiful, cloudy opals. "He's just out of shape. Get up." He grabbed my arm. "Come on, get up."

I pulled away from him and rolled to my knees.

"Keep your G.o.dd.a.m.ned hands off me," I said. "I'm telling you, Walker, don't touch me again."

"You said you'd race."

"Well, I won't. I'm finished. Congratulations."

"You said you'd race," he persisted.

"Hey! Are you deaf, or what?" Bill shouted. "He just said-"

"Shut up, Bill," I said.

By now I was thoroughly chilled, my guts burned, and I was shak-ing all over. I scooped up two handfuls of snow and clenched my fists until the stuff compacted, burning me like iced steel. I closed my eyes.

I saw myself reaching out with long arms as Dad's car groaned through the rupture it had made, saw the burst railing hanging like broken strings and the car hesitating on the brink, felt a snake twist through me as the car up-ended and all sound, just before the mo-ment of impact, was sucked, like their last breaths, from the sky.

I scooped up more snow and rubbed my face with it. I couldn't breathe. Streams of icy water ran down into my collar and over my chest. I was already cold. Now I would be completely cold.

Walker whipped off his gla.s.ses. Without them he looked dazed; his glare was skewed. "Stop it," he said.

But I didn't want to stop. I moved my fingers by manipulating the cold wires running through them, bringing the snow to my mouth and swallowing the lump before it had time to melt.

Walker got down on his knees and grabbed my shoulders. "Stop this and get up," he said. "Get up and race."

I threw off his hands and screamed in his face. "You son of a b.i.t.c.h.

My parents are dead."

He looked at me with bare, stony, terrible eyes.

"You lose, then," he said softly.

I lunged, knocking Walker over, then climbed on top of him and punched him in the face. It felt good. I settled in to punch him some more but he twisted, braced himself, and abruptly sat up-I got the top of his head square on the mouth. I covered my lips, pressing hard to contain the pain in my mouth while Walker pounded and pushed me. I grabbed at his flailing arms and found his hands. We stayed like that for a moment: me sitting on him, our hands clasped, neither of us moving. Blood was dripping off my chin. My eyes were so dazzled with tears that I couldn't see anything except a glare of blue; then, faintly, the tall uprights of the goalposts floated up out of the watery weather and into my view.

I felt hands slide under my arms and I let go of Walker, was pulled backward, lifted, and Bill laid me out on the field. *

"Now that that's over, I could sure use a drink," Bill said.

"I dropped the bottle." I got up slowly and looked around at the world: bleachers, sky filled with cold sparks, blear of snow over the ground. Walker was stamping his feet and wiping his face, putting himself together. He was b.l.o.o.d.y, too.

"Some terrific race," Bill said.

"Will you for sweet Jesus' sake shut up," I said.

"What did I say?" Bill said. He turned to Walker. "What did I say?"

"Not over yet," Walker said to me. He put on his gla.s.ses. "Fifty yards to go."

"You're nuts," Bill said. "Both of you. Banana bread with nuts."

Walker and I hunkered down together. He looked over and grinned, his eyes slanty behind the smeared lenses. "Run like h.e.l.l,"

he advised me.

We hit the fifty-yard line at about the same time, finishing the race roughly where we had started, but neither of us stopped there.

We kept running, made the turn at the goalpost and headed down- field. Walker got ahead of me and pretty soon he was swallowed up in the snow. Putting on speed, he lifted his arms and in a moment had faded like a ghost into the whiteness of the end zone.

I didn't make the turn. I ran straight off the field and into the parking lot, pa.s.sing the empty school building. I heard Bill yelling my name. I ran down the empty street, hearing my shoe-slaps echo off the storefronts, then on past the entrance to the mill. It was all downhill from here. I was running like h.e.l.l. Over the roofs of the houses I could see the line of trees that twisted through the valley along either side of the river. *

The bridge was the old steel trestle type with a steel mesh deck, painted black except for a shiny section of new railing in the middle of the span. As I crossed the railroad tracks that ran at a right angle to the bridge, I slouched to a walk, put my arms around myself, and listened to the sound of blood surging through my ears.

I was still a little ways off-but I could make out someone leaning against the unpainted aluminum railing, a young woman in a blue coat. As I moved closer she lifted her head out of her arms and my heart began to thump again.

It was Ellie.

She looked my way as I stepped onto the bridge. The steel trem bled from the punishment its foundations were taking, and as El lie and I walked toward each other across the emptiness above the open water I felt the river's vibration run up through the soles of my feet and into my bones, as if some spirit of steel and water-of blood and bone-were shaking me.

"I was just remembering something," Ellie said. I could hardly hear her for the drumming of the water and leaned over to listen.

"Pooky," Ellie said. "Mom used to call me that. Do you remember?

She had this little song about me. She sang that I had pooky eyes, that I was her little pooky girl. Do you remember that, Phil?"

I nodded even though I did not remember.

"Pooky," she said again. "I have no idea what that means." She looked at me, then frowned and put her fingers on my lips. "You'll be in trouble," she said. "You've been in a fight."

I took Ellie's hands and we stood for a long time looking down into the noisy chasm where our parents had gone. *

Bill came by a little later with the van. I wrapped Ellie up in some furniture blankets Frank kept in the back, then threw one around my own shoulders and drove Bill home. It was a quiet ride, and with him in the van, that's saying something.

At home, Alice asked few questions, but only a few. She hustled Ellie down the hall and put her into a hot bath. I needed one, too, and while I waited my turn I made a pot of coffee. When it was ready, I took a cup up to my room, pulled off my wet clothes, and put on my robe. I dug through the stuff in my closet until I found my track shoes. There were still tufts of dried gra.s.s from last season stuck on some of the spikes.

I heard the sound of the van's rear doors opening and went to the window. Frank was down in the driveway, going through the tool box.

I opened the window. "Hey, Frank," I called. "I like your boots."

He was wearing my new boots.

"I took the whiskey, Frank," I said.

Frank looked up at me with a face that was almost a pure blank.

"They fit pretty good," he said-but quietly. "How much do you want for them?"

"Fifty dollars," I said. "I'll give you a break on the tax."

He looked relieved. "Sold," he said.

I shut the window.

In the Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Fiction series.

Last Call: Stories.

By K. L. Cook Carrying the Torch: Stories.

By Brock Clarke Nocturnal America.

By John Keeble The Alice Stories.

By Jesse Lee Kercheval.

Our Lady of the Artichokes and Other Portuguese-American Stories.

By Katherine Vaz.

Call Me Ahab: A Short Story Collection.

By Anne Finger Bliss and Other Short Stories By Ted Gilley.

To order or obtain more information on these or other University of Nebraska Press t.i.tles, visit www.nebraskapress.unl.edu.