No More No Name Page 7

  She paused and took a drink of her grape soda. I knew that trouble was coming.

  “I didn’t even see her,” she said. “I was standing behind your mom and dad. I wanted to be close to them. You understand, right?”

  “Sure. Close to neighbors, friends, my folks.”

  “I don’t think Heather was sitting anywhere near us. I would have seen her, and trust me, I looked. I think she snuck up on me. And when I started cheering for Lloyd, that made her angry.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She called me a name so bad I don’t even want to say it. And when I ignored her, hoping she would go away, she yanked my hair from behind. She twisted me around and slammed her fist into my box of popcorn.”

  “Did my folks see that?” I asked.

  “Not at first. They might have heard her shouting, but the whole gym was jumping up and down and hollering.”

  “Faye, they heard it. I know they did. Heather has that scratchy scream in her voice when she’s mad. Everybody heard it.”

  “You’re right, Bobby. I just don’t want to admit it. Yes, everybody within a hundred feet heard what she called me. Then she started hollering about how I better leave her boyfriend alone. I better shut my mouth and get home to my books.”

  “Faye, what do you think this is really about?” I asked.

  “It’s bigger than Heather and Lloyd, Bobby. I think she can’t take the changes going on all around her. She used to be the prettiest girl in school. But now pretty isn’t everything. And Lloyd and his friends ruled.”

  “And now that we have a Choctaw basketball coach,” I said.

  “And Choctaw and Cherokee players,” Faye added. “Things are changing.”

  “Smart matters,” I said. “Pretty isn’t everything. And you might not admit it, Faye, but you do have a fair share of pretty and smart.”

  “I never thought of myself as anything but a bookworm,” Faye said. “And that didn’t bother me. I do love books. I like to read and dive into a world that makes more sense than this nutty universe. And you wanna know what I like most about books?”

  “I’d like to hear it,” I said.

  “In a good novel, good wins. That doesn’t mean evil doesn’t make a strong showing. But evil never wins. Not in my favorite books.”

  “You wanna know why I like life more than books?” I asked.

  “Yes, I do,” Faye answered. “I’d like to hear this.”

  “Hoke,” I said. “In the world of books, evil might lose. Evil might even die. Or be killed. But seldom does evil have a chance to change. I want Heather to have that chance. I want Lloyd’s dad to have that chance. My dad did, and look what happened.”

  “You want miracles,” Faye said.

  “Yes. I want miracles.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Night in Jail

  Saturday morning was usually a sleep-in-as-late-as-you-like day, but not today. The sun was peeping through my window curtains when I heard Mom moving around in the kitchen.

  I looked out my bedroom window, and there sat Coach Robison and Dad on the patio, drinking coffee and talking quietly.

  Man, I wish I could listen to that conversation. Guess I’ll know soon enough. If Coach came over this early on a Saturday, it must involve Lloyd’s dad.

  “Or maybe it’s just two old men relaxing over a nice morning coffee,” I said to myself. As if.

  I tossed on a Thunder T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, and hurried through the kitchen.

  “You’re up early,” Mom said.

  “Looks like the whole neighborhood rose up early,” I said.

  She slid a glass of orange juice across the table and smiled.

  “Thanks for the juice,” I said on my way to the patio.

  “Have a seat, Bobby,” said Dad. “We were about to get you out of bed. No need for surprises.”

  I looked at Coach, but he waited for Dad to tell me the news.

  “Lloyd’s dad was pulled over for speeding last night. As we thought. He also swung a fist at a police officer. But he was so drunk he slipped and fell on his butt.”

  “Is he in jail?”

  “He is for now,” Coach Robison said. “Mrs. Blanton is trying to borrow enough money to get him out on bail. And the obvious question is, why doesn’t she just get a bail bondsman? They’re available 24/7.”

  “Which raises another question,” Dad said.

  “She doesn’t want him out of jail,” I said. “Sounds like Lloyd needs a friend. A friend who won’t judge him for what his dad does.”

  A powerful silence hung in the air, and I realized what I had just said—in front of my own dad.

  “Kinda like Cherokee Johnny and next-door neighbor Faye,” Dad said.

  “Sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean anything by it. You know I love you, old man.”

  Dad smiled and gave me a light-fisted shoulder bump.

  “And I, you, kiddo. But I understand what you’re saying.”

  “Maybe you can give Lloyd a call?” asked Coach. “More than ever, he needs to be at practice today.”

  “Sure thing, Coach,” I said, standing to leave.

  “Not yet, you don’t,” Mom said. “Mind holding the door open for me?”

  She carried a platter loaded with scrambled eggs and onions, with bacon bits and cheese decorating the top. Also on the platter were thick slices of just-juicy-enough bacon.

  “And for my health-minded husband, I even made oatmeal and sliced bananas.”

  “Yum de dum,” said Dad, rising to help carry toast and butter and jam and whatever else remained from the kitchen table.

  “See what I’ve been missing all these years, Coach,” Dad said.

  “Yeah, and all for a sip of beer at the bar,” added Coach.

  “Hoke, fellows, mind if we talk about something else?” Mom asked.

  We all laughed and joined hands for our prayer. Dad gave the offering. “Dear Lord, please bless this food and the lives of everyone at this table. Bless also those who need you the most, the mother, the son, and the man in need of higher understanding.”

  I didn’t want to lift my head and open my eyes. I didn’t want anyone to see the tears. Or see my face. I felt like I was rising from my deathbed, in the hospital once more, surrounded by Dad and Mom.

  Maybe it was Dad’s voice that brought back the memory. So strong. I don’t know how, but I heard him say it again—as real as the night of the true miracle. “I can tell you this,” Dad had said. “If he comes back to us, I will never touch another drink as long as I live. You have my word on that.”

  “Yakoke, Dad,” I said, in real time now, lifting my face so all could see my feelings. “Thank you.”

  As we began eating, Coach Robison said, “I want to make sure Lloyd shows up for practice today. He can’t be missing on his father’s account. That would start a dangerous precedent.”

  I spooned salsa on my eggs and took a big bite. I was reaching for my orange juice when I realized everybody was staring at me, waiting for me to say something.

  “Hoke,” I said, after gulping down a swallow. “Why don’t I call Lloyd and make sure everything’s alright? Or as alright as things can be with your dad in jail.”

  “Why, Bobby, I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Dad said.

  “Hoke, Dad,” I said with a laugh, “that was a little over the top. I’m thinking that’s what you two were hoping for.”

  “Better coming from you than me,” Coach said.

  “And to tell you the truth,” I said, “I was gonna call him anyway.”

  “Good for you, Bobby,” Mom said.

  “Basketball for Lloyd is quite a bit different than it is for you,” Coach said. The way he glanced around the table told me he wasn’t sure if he should say this or not. So I waited.

  “Lloyd will never play college ball. He hustles and gives it his all, but he doesn’t have the skills needed to take it to the next level.”

  Where is this going?

  “Whereas you, Bob
by, are a bright student, a good learner on and off the court. And you have a natural ability to shoot that arching jump shot. You’re a fine ball handler already.”

  Mom and Dad dropped their jaws and looked at me, then at Coach Robison.

  “Are we talking scholarship here?” Dad asked.

  Coach shrugged his shoulders, pursed his lips, and nodded a yes for all to see. “With a little work.”

  “Coach, maybe that’s setting the bar a little high,” I said. “I’m just a punk kid playing my first season!”

  “Exactly my point,” Coach replied. “You’re playing your first season and already competing against seniors.”

  I was blown away.

  “Excuse me, folks,” I said, jumping up from the table. “I’m gonna make that phone call.”

  I hustled to my room, shut the door, and dialed Lloyd’s number. After five rings it went to voicemail. I decided against leaving a message, but something told me to try again.

  I waited a few minutes, and this time he answered the phone on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Lloyd, this is Bobby. I just heard what happened last night. I’m so sorry, dude.”

  “That’s hoke. Thanks for calling.”

  “You at home?” I asked.

  “No, I’m at the county courthouse. It’s not the first time Dad’s been caught driving drunk.”

  “Oh man. My dad could have been pulled over a hundred times. He was very lucky,” I said. “And Lloyd, I want to make sure you’ll be at practice today. You were great last night. Let’s keep it going. Hoke?”

  “I don’t have a way of getting there,” Lloyd said.

  “Johnny and I can pick you up. Can you be out front at ten thirty? Do it, Lloyd, please.”

  “Sure thing,” Lloyd said. “You think Coach is gonna be mad about everything? Heather and now my dad?”

  “I guarantee you, from the way he dealt with my dad, he’ll be happy to see you. See you in a few,” I said.

  “Good news,” I said as I returned to the breakfast bunch. “Johnny and I are picking Lloyd up at the county courthouse.”

  “The county courthouse?” Mom asked.

  “He’s not a first-time offender, I’m guessing,” Dad said.

  “Did Johnny agree?” asked Coach.

  “Yikes!” I said. “Maybe I ought to give Johnny a call.”

  “Details, details,” Dad said.

  “Choctaw humor,” I said. “Gotta love it, eh, Dad?”

  “Gotta survive somehow,” he said. “I hope you know how important your friendship is to Lloyd, son. And Coach, I still intend to have that conversation with Mr. Blanton. I’m hoping an old whiskey-drinking Indian can talk a Nahullo into putting his bottle away. Think that’s possible?”

  “Sure worth a try,” Coach said. “Not gonna be easy, I’m afraid.”

  “Nothing ever is, where the bottle is concerned,” Dad said. “Nothing ever is.”

  “Well, my friends, I best be going,” Coach said, rising from the table. “I’m sure my wife has a few Saturday chores for this Choctaw before practice. See you all later.”

  “Chi pisa la chike,” Dad said, giving a Choctaw farewell.

  “Chi pisa la chike,” Coach replied.

  I hopped up to call Johnny, when Dad reminded me, “Don’t forget, we still have that Saturday family picnic. Your mom and me and our Choctaw basketball star.”

  “Dad, is it alright if I tag along? I’d like to meet this guy!”

  “Get outta here,” Dad laughed.

  Johnny was happy to help, as I knew he would be. With three bags of Mickey D’s breakfast meals, we arrived at the courthouse at 10:25. Lloyd was waiting for us on the sidewalk.

  “Hey guys,” he said, jumping in the back seat.

  “Anything exciting happening?” Johnny asked.

  Nothing like cutting right to the chase. But Lloyd was cool with it.

  “Nothing new,” he said. “Mom waited for him to cool off and sober up. She’s getting him out on bail now. And Dad’s gonna blame her for paying too much for the bail money.”

  “Either way, there’s no way to win,” I said. “Sorry, Lloyd.”

  “Hey, I’m not. It’s a way of life. I just hate that it happened now. We’re gonna win some basketball games this year. And I’m getting to play for the first time ever.”

  “Yeah,” said Johnny, “and tossing dimes and scoring buckets.”

  “From way downtown,” I added.

  Finally, we can talk some basketball.

  Didn’t happen.

  Lloyd’s phone rang, and I watched as he made a face and rolled his eyes before answering.

  Not good.

  “Can’t talk now,” he said. “I’ll call you after practice.”

  We couldn’t hear what was said, but from the scratchy hollering on the other end of the line, we knew who it was.

  Sweet Heather.

  My mind went to Faye, and I had to fight my own anger. She has no idea how much pain and trouble she causes. And if she did, she wouldn’t care.

  CHAPTER 18

  Burgers for the Boys

  Practice was short and fast, with three hours of workout crammed into one. “Ten up-and-downs!” Coach shouted, blowing his whistle.

  We sprinted ten times from one end of the court to the other. Twice he blew his whistle and yelled, “No slowing down!” and “Your next opponent is running hard. You wanna win?”

  When we finally gathered around the basket, breathing hard, he said, “Nice game last night. But you know that was the weakest team we’ll face all year. Monday night will be a real game, and we’d better be ready.”

  “We’ll be ready, Coach,” Darrell said.

  “We’re with you, Coach,” Jimmy said, and everyone joined in.

  “Oh yeah!’

  “We be there!”

  “Bustin’!”

  “In your face,” said a sub.

  “Hoke, boys,” Coach Robison jumped in. “No more in-your-face talk. Understood? We leave that to the big talkers. We’re basketball players. No rubbing it in.”

  “Sorry, Coach.”

  “Not a problem. Just don’t want to hear that. Hoke, men, first team on the court!”

  The best thing about Coach Robison? You knew exactly what to expect—the totally unexpected. And, once again, he banked it.

  “Hoke, men, let’s set up the offense. Second teamers, you’re on defense. Come on! Let’s move!”

  My job was to guard Lloyd, our official starter at the point. I guarded him close, overplaying him to his right.

  “Let’s run the play I drew up last game. Any questions? Hoke, let’s go,” Coach said, tossing Lloyd the ball.

  Lloyd gave his little head fake to the left, but I knew better than to go for that. Then he lowered into his dribble and drove to the right. I didn’t make it easy, forcing him away from the basket. As he neared the sideline, he pivoted back to his right. He scooped up the ball with his left hand and fired a pass to Darrell at the free-throw line.

  Nothing but net.

  “Hoke, good job, Panthers,” Coach said. He gave me a quick look before blowing the whistle. “That’s the way to force him out, Bobby. Make him work for it.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  “Now, gather ’round. Only the offense.” Coach talked low, so only the starting five could hear him. Then he clapped his hands and said, “Hoke, let’s make it work.”

  He blew the whistle, and I saw they were running the same play. Lloyd drove hard and stopped on a dime, then spun around to pass the ball.

  But this time I was ready. I didn’t overplay him, didn’t force him around me. No, I waited for him to pivot, then jumped back to intercept the pass.

  I hate being outsmarted! I don’t care if it is by a coach. But outsmarted I was. Lloyd only faked the pivot, and when I jumped to cover the pass, he drove right by me for a lay-up.

  “Whoaaa!” shouted his teammates.

  “Nice D,” Johnny said to m
e.

  “Don’t bust your ankles,” said Jimmy.

  “Hey, you dropped something,” Darrell added. “I think maybe it’s your pride.”

  Everybody, Coach Robison included, had a big laugh at my expense. At first I was embarrassed. Coach knew what I would do. I didn’t fool anybody, trying to steal the pass.

  Then I saw the smile on Lloyd’s face. He just drove through the defense for a score. “Nice fake, Lloyd,” I told him. “You had me.”

  “Coach’s idea,” he said. “I just did what I was told.”

  “First time for everything,” I joked.

  “Let’s try a new wrinkle,” Coach said. “Bobby, you switch to offense, playing in the corner. When Lloyd drives, you take your man in, going for a rebound. Then cut behind him, back to the corner. That gives us some options. You with me, Lloyd?”

  “Yes, sir, Coach. I can pass to Darrell at the free-throw line, hit Bobby in the corner, or drive to the basket.”

  “You’ve got it. Now, let’s play!” He blew his whistle, and we went to work.

  Ten minutes later, Coach let me take Lloyd’s place at point guard. For the last half hour of practice, we worked on a full-court press. Coach blew his whistle, clapped his hands, and yelled orders—till we were all exhausted, fired up, and ready for the Monday night game.

  “Let’s call it quits for now, men. Get some rest,” he finally said.

  Everybody headed for the door, but Johnny waved at me to join him on the free-throw line. “I just want to shoot a few,” he said. “Mind rebounding?”

  “No prob, Johnny,” I said, and joined him at a side basket. He was acting a little strange, so I knew he had another purpose.

  He took two shoots and hit both. Then he said quietly, “What should we do with Lloyd? I know he’ll get a ride with his old friends, but is it safe for him at home now? What do you think?”

  “You’re right, Johnny. No way he needs to be home. His dad will be busting mad. Let’s go.”

  I hurried to the parking lot and caught Lloyd hanging out on the sidewalk. “Lloyd,” I said, “let’s go get some burgers. Johnny’s treat. How about it?”

  “Sure. Sounds good to me,” Lloyd said. He looked relieved.