Chapter 9

Even quieter than after the woods, or my visit to his home, Coach was a ghost at Monday’s practice after the previous Friday’s dinner at DiGrigio’s. Well, by ghost I mean, he was his normal boisterous self on the field, but whenever he was near me, the air grew heavy. Once again, he said nothing. And, despite every detail replaying in my mind all weekend long, I, for damned sure, had no wish to discuss that night.

When I stepped from the locker room, Coach slipped a thick envelope into my hand. As I opened my mouth to ask about it, I caught a weird flicker behind his narrowed eyes. It said, don’t question, just take it. With a nod, I shoved the cash in the back pocket of my jeans and walked out.

Once in my truck, I tore it open and counted out the bills. Ten twenty-dollar bills. Crisp, new ones. With a gulp, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. If that was the deal. Well, okay then, he’d be paying me to be with his wife. While pursing my lips, I nodded. That was safe. Only a business transaction. Controllable.

And whatever his wife had said to him about us? Had she mentioned what she’d begged of me? How she’d wanted me to keep her? A long sigh slipped from me as I folded the bills back into the envelope and tucked it away. Well, she’d said she’d handle him, so she had. While sucking on my lips, the memory of her licking the thick cum—my thick cum—from her wedding ring had my chest tightening. At the end of the day, if that was their decision, who was I to complain? As momma always said, why give anything away for free?

After that, the season began in earnest, with games and practices becoming a never-ending whirlwind. Despite his persistence, I dodged Cyril’s ever more aggressive offers. From the gleam in his eyes each time I refused him, he’d developed as much a craving as Cindy. Poor kid.

One day, out of the blue, momma, wearing a slinky champagne dress, peeked into my room. After attaching a pair of dangling gold earrings, she tossed me a bag.

“You’re eighteen, Hiram. A man,” she said. “In case ... You know if football doesn’t...”

Right then, a car horn sounded from the road out front, and she dashed into the night. Nestled in the bag was a shiny black leather backpack. It had nice thick straps and plenty of room. At the thump of the car door and her forced, loud giggle, I nodded. Momma and I had always understood each other; I hadn’t any real future if I stayed in Alabama.

Several days later, after Coach spotted me heading to the showers, he gestured me to his office. As he leaned back in his chair, I stood just inside the doorway. There was no sound but the steady tick of a wall clock while his gaze swept over everything but me. At last, after a deep sigh, he pointed to a pair of gray metal chairs before his desk. We called them the “oh, shit” chairs, since the only time anyone sat in his office was when they were in trouble. While cramming my bulk between the chipped armrests, one missing its thin padding, I let out a long breath.

“Uh, Hiram...” His voice was low as his gaze finally settled on me. Though the air conditioning blew at full blast and a fan whirred, a trickle of sweat burst from his forehead to race down the side of his face. “Ahem. My wife ... Um, she’d like to ... Uh, she’d like to see you.”

“Again?” So, while I wasn’t in trouble, the way his eyes kept sliding from me to look out the window at nothing sent shivers slithering along my spine. “You, uh, don’t seem so keen, Coach?”

Understatement of the year, right there. With his hands clenched together in one tight twisting, white-knuckled ball on the blotter before him, he turned from the window to stare at me. After a slow swallow, a gradual, hitching sigh slipped from him.

“She...” Coach ran his tongue over his cracked lips before clearing his throat. “I want to see her happy, Hiram.” Another trickle raced downwards to edge along his jaw and drop to the desktop. “You, uh ... You ... She enjoys her time with you.”

“You sure, Coach?” I mean, I had to ask. Because his answers did not match his expression. Or the wavering tone of his voice. Not at all.

“Mmm, hmm.” After a languid nod, he leaned back, pulling his hands from the desk to his lap. When my eyes flicked to the bulging crotch he was trying to hide, I swallowed before returning to his gaze. “She’ll be out back. Uh, by the pool. Um, waiting.”

“Can’t do it tonight, Coach.” It was my turn to suffer a surge of panic as my heart hammered. “I’ve, uh, got a date with”—I hesitated. Should I name my date? Because he’d tell his wife. Then again? With an impish grin, I added—”Chanelle, the cute waitress from DiGrigio’s.”

Let the competition begin.

I’d like to blame the little devil on my shoulder, but I shouldn’t. All I’ll say is that back then, what did I actually know of my future? Mrs. Jenkins both feared losing me to younger women and saw me with Chanelle before I’d left the restaurant. She’d offered to do anything if I’d keep her. Alright, well, so what exactly would Mrs. Jenkins do? Yeah, I was young and stupid. On the other hand, I was also being paid.

Which had me scratching my head. Did Coach even know about his wife’s offer to me? Or was he still being told I was simply her erstwhile, albeit gentler, “rapist?” Either way, he should be relieved I wasn’t available.

“Oh. Hmm, okay.” As he gulped, his eyes went unfocused. “I guess. Um, thanks, Hiram.”

“Anything else, Coach?”

“No. Uh, just...” Despite being so nervous earlier, he didn’t sound relieved. In fact, there was a hint of disappointment as he added. “Um, have fun on your date.”

That Friday, it was only as I was driving to the burger joint where I was to meet Chanelle that it struck me. As my fingers trembled on the steering wheel, my chest froze. What if Mrs. Jenkins decided she couldn’t compete? And returned to whomever she and Coach had met before?

After a shrug, I sighed. Was that cold? Perhaps. But, as my momma used to say, you can’t sweat other people’s decisions. Moreover, they were a married couple. As much as the thought of not seeing Mrs. Jenkins again had my heart twisting, I ran into the same issue. Where could it possibly lead, anyway?

After another longer sigh, my mind swirled as I replayed the memory of my call to Chanelle the day before.

“Hi, Chanelle. It’s uh, Hiram.”

There was silence on the line as footfalls echoed in the distance before a door thudded closed. While waiting, I gazed at the lengthy spiral cord running across our living room. She must’ve owned a similar phone line.

“Hello, Hiram,” she whispered. “I’d thought you’d forg ... Well, thanks for calling me.”

“Would you, um, like to go out sometime?” I cleared my throat. “I’m, uh, over in Alabama, but not too far.”

This time, heavy breathing accompanied the silence. She was cupping the receiver close to her mouth. At last, there was a sticky slurp as her lips parted.

“Yes. Yes, I’d like that, but...” There was another long pause before she lowered her voice even further. “Can we meet over by you? In Alabama.”

Even as I struggled to catch her words, my heart chilled. While Alabama wasn’t enlightened by any means, it was a smidge better than Georgia. And a white girl with a big black guy ... Well, that didn’t play well anywhere, but at least there was an Army base north of us.

Frankly, if I hadn’t been with Coach and his wife, I’d never have gone to Georgia to dine at DiGrigio’s. I’d only eaten there with my family or in a larger group. Safer that way.

“Uh, sure.”

So, we’d settled on meeting at “Greg’s Burgers.” Guess what they sold there? It actually was a pretty decent place. All shiny aluminum and glass-fronted, the shiny box-like structure sat in the middle of an always-crowded parking lot. At the edge of town, it caught both the highway traffic and locals.

Any kind of burger you could dream of, Greg made. Also, the finest onion rings in the county. And fat steak fries, not that shoestring garbage. To top it off, his shakes were the best. Thick. Not the watery stuff some folks considered a shake. As momma said, if you couldn’t stand a spoon in it, it was flavored milk.

After pulling into the parking lot and backing into a space, I leaned on the wheel and waited. The fact that Chanelle had agreed to a Friday night, when she could make a bunch of decent tips at the restaurant, said ... Well, it said something.

When a white Datsun 280ZX, as she’d described, nosed into the lot, I flashed my headlights. At Chanelle’s beaming smile, my pulsed raced. After she’d pulled into the space beside me, I shut off my engine and climbed out. In skintight blue jeans and a pink camisole top under a matching navy denim jacket, she slid from her car. As her wide eyes roamed me, she chewed on glossy red lips. Framed by short dark hair, her face carried a hint of make-up. While highlighting her amber eyes, it let a fine spray of freckles over the bridge of her button nose and high cheekbones peek through.

With my heart still speeding, I rubbed sticky palms along my jeans.

“Hi, Hiram,” she said while click-clacking closer in brown leather heels.

“Wow! Chanelle...” Without lingering too long, I scanned her once more before returning to her face. “Uh, you look...” I halted; a simple gold cross swung in the intricate, pink flowered lace at the slight dip of her camisole’s cleavage gap. How loud a tinking would that make against a wall, a sink or anything? “Um, gorgeous.”

“Aww, thanks.” Her smile broadened as crimson traced up her neck and cheeks.

After gesturing for her to walk beside me, we headed to the entrance. Mine were not the only eyes watching her approach. Or my approach, for that matter. If you’re gonna be a black boy with a white girl, in Alabama even in the late 1980s, you’d better be as large as me or with a group. As momma taught me: While ignoring the glares, I smiled at the stares.

Brightly lit and filled with blaring 1950s rock and roll, the white with red-trim interior was crowded. After gazing up at the menu above the registers, we placed and retrieved our orders. I got lucky, spotting a two-person, reddish “leather” booth at the back of the restaurant. Less prying eyes and ears. And the music was low enough to hear our own voices.

As Chanelle settled on one side of the rectangular metal-rimmed white tabletop, I placed our trays and squeezed in across from her. Full and red, her lips were glossy under a swift sweep of her tongue as she glanced from her food to me.

“So, here we are,” I said. While flashing her a smile, I unwrapped my “Greg’s Killah BBQ Burger.” “I, uh ... Well, it’s, um, nice to see you again.” Understatement of the century; she was even more amazing under the bright lights. “So, tell me the Chanelle story.”

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