Chapter 7

Yeah, so that had happened. An entire afternoon with Mrs. Jenkins. The next day, as I clambered into the school bus, my brain still spun with memories of visiting Coach’s home. And that spinning didn’t slow as the day wore on. Nor the following day. Even momma paused before heading out to ask if everything was alright. What could I say? I said yes.

But nothing was right. At all. What were Mrs. Jenkins and me? Once again, her husband had paid me for my time. So, I was only a...? At that point in my life, I hadn’t the proper word. Not that it would’ve applied to us anyway, as I would soon discover.

Besides, other things had changed. After that afternoon, my world was different. Whenever I caught a girl’s glance, sure I still held it. But here’s the thing. None of them could compare to Mrs. Jenkins. And images of Coach’s wife kept appearing. Not only in my dreams, but during the day, whenever my mind wandered.

On the plus side, I’d used some of the money to buy an older but sturdy pickup truck. With its perma-grimed windows and scuffed wheel hubs, the faded-blue Ford wasn’t much to look at, but its guts were solid. I’d even christened it by taking Mary Whitworth, a Junior, on a “date.” She was nice, but the whole time I was with the slight brunette, all I could think of was Mrs. Jenkins. As I pulled to a halt before her family’s trailer, she’d gotten a kiss on the cheek and a promise I never kept for a second date.

Oh, and if things were strange between Coach and me after the woods, the practices after the visit to their house were beyond weird. Other than while directing drills, he remained silent, sticking to his role—Coach. Likewise, I listened, fulfilling my role—player. However, any time his eyes met mine, a shadow drifted behind them. A scudding cloud. Not dark. Not heavy. More like a wisp. A hint of anxiety, perhaps?

It was almost a fortnight later when he pulled me aside after practice. One of those chilly early fall rains was sending cold spatters from my pads and helmet. Already conditioned, after glancing at the low clouds, what did I think? There’d be no pool time with his wife.

“So, uh, Hiram. Um, we need to talk.” While rubbing his chin, Coach wore a serious dad expression. My chest tightened. After the pool. With Mrs. Jenkins. As he’d watched. And the shower. Also, with her, but alone. I couldn’t say I was surprised when he added. “It’s about my wife.”

“Okay, Coach.” I mean, what else could I say? All good things must come to an end. She’d probably been on pins and needles like me, but it wasn’t right. What we’d done. Yeah, they’d paid me. But for the deck scene. My little “face-fucking my whore” play acting. Not for what had happened afterwards. I’d overstepped. “When and where? It’s getting”—after flattening my palm, more and fatter raindrops splatted ever faster on it—”kinda damp.”

“Nah. Not today.” Coach almost grinned while shaking his head. “How ‘bout Friday? Say, uh, dinner?”

“At your place?” I asked, raising my eyebrow because, for some reason, that was a poor location to say goodbye. I knew I’d be tempted. And at the memory of that afternoon, when I’d pushed past him in the bathroom, I gulped. He’d not be able to stop me. I’d take his wife again.

“No.” The curt response sent a jolt through me, but he smacked his lips and a taut grin appeared. “No, I don’t think so, Hiram. Someplace, um ... Someplace public would be better. How about ‘DiGrigio’s’?”

“Sure.”

Again, how else could I respond? If this was a goodbye, then best to do it where his wife could speak her peace before departing with him. Just then there was a bright flash, and blinding sheets of gray raindrops forced us inside. As thunder rumbled, Coach dashed towards his office while I headed for the showers. My teeth were clenching. Not from the chill.

Oh, well, there was always Mary Whitworth.

That Friday, since I drove “Old Blueberry,” it was only a half-hour drive over the state line to Carrollville in Georgia. Yippee, no more long-ass bus rides. And, with it being Friday, momma was out “working,” so I’d fielded no questions from her.

Also, it may sound cold-hearted, but if I was about to be “let go,” at least I would eat well while looking good. In my nicest black slacks and a shiny purple silk shirt momma had bought for my birthday, I couldn’t help but smile. DiGrigio’s made the best shrimp Alfredo. By the time I’d parked, my stomach was growling.

Now don’t get me wrong. Like I said, there wasn’t a night I didn’t think about Mrs. Jenkins. Not only the obvious things any teenaged boy/man would miss, but also her eyes. The way they sparkled. The cute curve of her full red lips when she flashed an impish grin. The amazingly smooth angle of her hips under my hands. So, yeah, I’d be sad when she left me behind, but life would go on.

Once in Georgia, I sighed. I’d do it. Call Mary for a second date. If she was available. And if she remembered me. Nothing fancy. Maybe a movie. And I wouldn’t think about Mrs. Jenkin’s blazing green eyes. The way her breath was so warm and minty as she panted. Or her glistening, full, ruby lips. Or sleek, warm skin. Nope, not at all.

With every step, my heartbeat raised as I thumped across a cracked asphalt parking lot towards the dark wood-framed, stone-faced restaurant. Beneath a row of olive trees, the place gave off the whole Italian villa vibe. Down to a rustic wooden pergola-shaded entrance. There was no sign of Coach’s blue sedan.

As soon as I stepped inside, I gulped. Since it was Friday, the place was packed with customers—white customers. Almost everyone turned to me, though most returned to their huddled conversations. So yeah, a lone black man my size, I wasn’t somebody who could sneak into a restaurant in Georgia. Or anywhere.

At least a svelte brown-haired girl waiting for a free table flashed me a warm smile. After she’d turned away to whisper with her friends, the young women—and not half-bad looking—shot me sidelong glances. There was a strange look in their eyes that had me on edge as I approached the hostess stand.

“I’m uh, gonna wait,” I said to a little doe-eyed brunette behind the podium.

After she’d nodded at me, I settled onto a green felt-covered bench. As I scanned the room, I couldn’t help but chuckle. The place was a testament to a kitschy Italian medieval vibe. Black iron sconces on gray, probably fake, rock-faced walls. Their electric candles lit the dining room. Thick wooden beams decorated the pitched ceiling and walls. But it did a good business, and most of the burgundy tables and booths were filled with customers. Over faint classical music, muffled conversations and the clink of glassware and utensils on plates filled the room.

Each time the entrance opened, I glanced up from my hands, which kept clenching and unclenching. Better than shaking, at least. Besides, after that evening, I’d be able to move on. You know, just focus on school and football. And Mary Whitworth, or somebody more appropriate. Closer to my age. Time dragged.

It was well past the time Coach had given, when the door again opened, and I almost didn’t bother lifting my head. I was planning. I’d head to my buddy Terrel’s house. We’d have a couple of beers. Maybe catch a ball game. On Monday, Coach could tell me I was done with him and his wife’s games.

Except, I did look up.

It was Mrs. Jenkins.

With my heart drumming, I stumbled to my feet as heat flared across my body. Unclenched, my hands then shook.

Draped on her husband’s arm, Mrs. Jenkins wore a skintight, off-the-shoulder dress. Wine-colored, it was so short it displayed the laced bands of black thigh-high stockings. As she click-clacked in on five-inch maroon stilettos, mine were not the only eyes tracking her.

Everything on her was gold. Triangular daggers dangled from each ear. A heart lined with diamond chips hung from a flattened chain between her swaying breasts. She wore sultry evening makeup. When her jade eyes, beneath long thick lashes, caught sight of me, they ignited. Glossy, her crimson-painted lips parted into a beaming smile.

Beside her, Coach was in a wrinkled, faded brown suit. His chestnut tie was askew, and he rolled his lips when he spotted my approach. After a noticeable gulp, he thrust his hand out.

“Evenin’ Hiram.” His grin was forced and, wriggling down the side of his face, a trickle of sweat glittered in the faux candlelight. After a quick glance at his wife, he inspected me. “Uh, glad you could make it.”

“Hiya, Coach. Yeah, no problem. Easy drive.” After flashing him a grin, I gave his wife a slight bow of my head. “Mrs. Jenkins.”

Rather than speak, she only nodded and pulled tight to her husband while he asked after his reservation. Yep, I was done. But, damn, she looked stunning. They’d probably be going somewhere afterwards. Perhaps to meet that guy who’d stood them up for her little forest “rape” thing. That was okay. I nodded to myself. I mean, it was their life. They were married, right?

Despite the brown-haired, doe-eyed woman behind the podium peering at me, I only flashed her a grin before following Coach and his wife, trailing another hostess, across the dining room. Since I was behind Mrs. Jenkins, the curious eyes from earlier no longer focused on me. My hulking presence meant nothing. Like me, they watched every rhythmic motion of her lithe chassis as she moved.

Amazing.

When they arrived at a small booth towards the rear of the room, Coach stood aside to let his wife slide in. However, she shoved him inside first before slipping onto the red leather seat. As she crossed her legs, my eyes, along with several others, shot to the hem, rising to bare most of her black-lace stocking top. While Coach leaned in to say something to her, I settled across from them and looked everywhere other than Mrs. Jenkins.

At long last, with a sigh, I tried to focus on whatever was written on the menu in my trembling hands. My fingers squeaked on its glossy pages. Let’s be honest, I didn’t want to be let go. I didn’t want them to abandon me. And I darned sure didn’t want her to go to some strange man in the woods after dinner. So what? I also didn’t have a vote. The menu shook more.

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