Chapter 18

At practice on Tuesday, Butch met the team, and they ran through their usual drills; two on one, three on two, fast breaks, long passes, out-of-bounds plays and then they did some foul shots set ups and practiced blocking out and getting rebounds. A newly hired coach for the JV arrived and was introduced, he was a math teacher at the nearby junior highschool. They discussed practice times.

Then Marcus arrived, and he and Butch embraced like long-lost brothers. They, it turned out, had played with and against each other many times on Chevy Chase playgrounds the previous summer.

On Wednesday they played teams from one of the smaller, up-county schools, and both JV and varsity won easily. Butch McGonigal scored 17 points and Marcus Jones got twelve before he fouled out early in the second half. Joe Shorts made all his jump shots, many from behind long-practiced screens, played only a bit more than a half and scored 20. The scrubs got a lot of playing time.

Thompson talked to Marcus about his fouls, especially the charges and the way he used his forearms, and the boy nodded and watched McGonigal's smooth moves.

"See what Butch did there. That's called a drop-step, he caught it square, both feet on the floor so he could pivot either way. See that?"

The boy nodded.

"Then he swung his left leg behind the guy guarding him and, there he was, open to the basket, couldn't be stopped. The guy had to foul him. Remind me to get you to practice that next Tuesday."

At the end of the game, Mr. Murphy came down out of the stands and shook Marcus's hand, smiled at the coach and said, "Good decision don't you think?"

Then came a week that he would long remember no matter how hard he tried to forget it. It started on a cold, rainy Monday when Marcus slipped on an icy curb as he hurried toward the Giant store, twisted his ankle, fell on his right shoulder and broke his clavicle. He lay on the wet sidewalk until somebody saw him and the rescue squad was called. The teacher had to give up his plans for installing a high-low offense. Marcus hobbled back to school two days later, arm in a sling and ankle grossly swollen. He sat and watched practice.

Then on Tuesday morning the Ditto machine broke. First it was just a paper-feed jam but then there was a clanging noise and the machine sizzled and died. The old Mimeograph machine was uncovered but no supplies or blank stencils for it could be found. Anything that had to be copied was taken over to the junior high for the rest of the week.

Wednesday was going along smoothly until a pair of County policemen showed up at lunch time and took Butch McGonigal out of the cafeteria and loaded him into the back of a police car. The operation was done so quickly and quietly that most of the other students hardly noticed. The story was on the six o'clock news that evening. A high school student, unnamed, had been arrested and charged with statutory rape and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Butch returned to school a week later but was barred from extra-curricular activities. He told his coach that he was sorry and that he had paid the 15-year-old girl for her services.

The teacher thought about stealing the JV's center, but resisted the temptation and began teaching his boys how to play Dean Smith's four-corners offense. The varsity lost all but two of its remaining games.

On Thursday one of the boilers broke down and half the school was without heat. Classes met in the gym and cafeteria for the next two days.

And on Friday of that cold, wet miserable week, someone slashed the tires of several cars in the apartment block's parking lot, including one back tire of Meg Collin's little Dodge. That was when she found out that her spare tire and jack had been stolen.

They got their interim reports turned in and ate a quick lunch in the cafeteria and then headed north, having packed the car the night before. It was only a hundred miles to Harrisburg and good roads all the way.

"So," he asked, once they were out on the big highway, "how's it going? We haven't talked about tenure for a while."

"Done deal. In the bag. I think they've already filed the paperwork. So we can cross that one off the list. Now all we have to worry about is getting married." She paused and pursed her lips. "And I've got to find a dress." She sniffed, smiled and said, "And settle a few things with my sisters."

He laughed. "I'm not worried, not about that at least. But I do worry some about meeting your parents. I assume they know we've been living together. Your sisters do, don't they?"

"Yep, sure, I guess so. Never came up in our conversations. Just gave them your phone number."

"What's your father do? Is he retired?'

"No, not really. He's in his sixties, works when he wants to, now and then. Doubt he'll ever retire, enjoys what he does, always has. Dad's a pharmacist, started in old Mr. Finklestein's store right down town and ended up owning it. Then he bought two more." She glanced at him. "Mom had some money."

"Drug stores?"

"Yep, so he's got the old one in Mechanicsburg with wooden floors and jugs of colored water in the window, a big one in Harrisburg fighting the chain stores, sells everything from screwdrivers to Barbie dolls, and the other at a shopping mall on Route 15. Been having some problems there last time I heard, vandalism, theft; that kind of thing. Business is off, going else where, the big malls. Couple of places are boarded up."