John Grisham - Bleechers

"Sounds like Rake."

"He gave me the courage, man. Then he convinced me to open this place, and when I was sure I had made a huge blunder, Rake started hanging around here and word spread.Just a second. Don't leave." Nat loped away toward the front where an elderly lady was waiting. He called her by name, in a voice that couldn't have been sweeter, and soon they were lost in a search for a book.

Neely walked around the counter and pouredhimself another cup of the brew. When Nat returned he said, "That was Mrs. Underwood, used to run the cleaners."

"I remember."

"A hundred ten years old and she likes erotic westerns. Go figure. You learn all sorts of good stuff when you run a bookshop. She figures she can buy from me because I have secrets of my own. Plus, at a hundred and ten, she probably doesn't give a damn anymore."

Nat put a massive blueberry muffin on a plate and laid it on the counter. "Dig in," he said, breaking it in half.Neely picked up a small piece.

"You bake this stuff?"Neely asked.

"Every morning.I buy it frozen, bake it in the oven. No-body knows the difference."

"Not bad. You ever see Cameron?"

Nat stopped chewing and gaveNeely a quizzical look. "Why should you be curious about Cameron?"

"You guys were friends.Just wondering."

"I hope your conscience still bothers you."

"It does."

"Good. I hope it's painful."

"Maybe.Sometimes."

"We write letters. She's fine, living in Chicago.Married, two little girls. Again, why do you ask?"

"I can't ask about one of our classmates?"

"There were almost two hundred in our class. Why is she the first you've asked about?"

"Please forgive me."

"No, I want to know. Come on,Neely , why ask about Cameron?"

Neely put a few crumbs of the muffin in his mouth and waited. He shrugged and smiled and said, "Okay, I think about her."

"Do you think about Screamer?"

"How could I forget?"

"You went with the bimbo, instant gratification, but in the long run it was a bad choice."

"I was young and stupid, I admit. Sure was fun, though."

"You were the ail-American,Neely, you had your pick of any girl in the school. You dumped Cameron because Screamer was hot to trot. I hated you for it."

"Come on, Nat, really?"

"I hated your guts. Cameron was a close friend from kindergarten, before you came to town. She knew I was different, and she always protected me. I tried to protect her, but she fell for you and that was a huge mistake. Screamer decided she wanted the all-American. The skirts got shorter, blouses tighter, and you were toast. My beloved Cameron got thrown aside."

"Sorry I brought this up."

"Yeah, man, let's talk about something else."

For a long, quiet moment there was nothing to talk about.

"Wait till you see her," Nat said.

"Pretty good, huh?"

"Screamer looks like an aging high-dollar call girl, which she probably is. Cameron is nothing but class."

"You think she'll be here?"

"Probably.Miss Lila taught her piano forever."

Neely had nowhere to go, but he glanced at his watch anyway."Gotta run, Nat. Thanks for the coffee."

"Thanks for coming by,Neely .A real treat."

They zigzagged through the racks and shelves toward the front of the store.Neely stopped at the door. "Look, some of us are gathering in the bleachers tonight, sort of a vigil, I guess," he said."Beer and war stories. Why don't you stop by?"

"I'd like that," Nat said. "Thanks."

Neely opened the door and started out. Nat grabbed his arm and said, "Neely, I lied. I never hated you."

"You should have."

"Nobody hated you,Neely . You were our ail-American."

"Those days are over, Nat."

"No, not till Rake dies."

"Tell Cameron I'd like to see her. I have something to say."

* * *

The secretary smiled efficiently and slid a clipboard across the counter. Neely printed his name, the time, and the date, and put down that he was visiting Bing Albritton, the longtime girls' basketball coach. The secretary examined the form, did not recognize either his face or his name, and finally said, "He's probably in the gym." The other lady in the administration office glanced up, and she too failed to recognize Neely Crenshaw.

And that was fine with him.

The halls of Messina High School werequiet, the classroom doors were all closed.Same lockers. Same paint color.Same floors hardened and shiny with layers of wax.Same sticky odor of disinfectant near the rest rooms. If he stepped into one he knew he would hear the same water dripping, smell the same smoke of a forbidden cigarette, see the same row of stained urinals, probably see the same fight between two punks. He kept to the hallways, where he passed Miss Arnett's algebra class, and with a quick glance through the narrow window in the door he caught a glimpse of his former teacher, certainly fifteen years older, sitting on the corner of the same desk, teaching the same formulas.

Had it really been fifteen years? For a moment he felt eighteen again, just a kid who hated algebra and hated English and needed nothing those classrooms had to offer because he would make his fortune on the football field. The rush and flurry of fifteen years passing made him dizzy for a second.

A janitor passed, an ancient gentleman who'd been cleaning the building since it was built. For a split second he seemed to recognizeNeely , then he looked away and grunted a soft, "Mornin'."

The main entrance of the school opened into a large, modern atrium that had been built whenNeely was a sophomore. The atrium connected the two older buildings that comprised the high school and led to the entrance of the gymnasium. The walls were lined with senior class pictures, dating back to the 1920s.

Basketball was a second-level sport at Messina, but because of football the town had grown so accustomed to winning that it expected a dynasty from every team. In the late seventies, Rake had proclaimed that the school needed a new gym. A bond issue passed by ninety percent, and Messina had proudly built the finest high school basketball arena in the state. Its entrance was nothing but a hall of fame.

The centerpiece was a massive, and very expensive, trophy case in which Rake had carefully arranged his thirteen little monuments. Thirteen state titles, from 1961 to 1987. Behind each was a large team photo, with a list of the scores, and headlines blown up and mounted in a collage. There were signed footballs, and retired jerseys, including number 19. And there were lots of pictures of Rake—Rake with Johnny Unitas at some off-season function, Rake with a governor here and a governor there, Rake with Roman Armstead just after a Packers game.

For a few minutes,Neely was lost in the exhibit, though he'd seen it many times. It was at once a glorious tribute to a brilliant Coach and his dedicated players, and a sad reminder of what used to be. He once heard someone say that the lobby of the gym was the heart and soul of Messina. It was more of a shrine to Eddie Rake, an altar where his followers could worship.

Other display cases ran along the walls leading to the doors of the gym. More signed footballs, from less successful years.Smaller trophies, from less important teams. For the first time, and hopefully the last,Neely felt a twinge of regret for those Messina kids who had trained and succeeded and gone unnoticed because they played a lesser sport.

Football was king and that would never change. It brought the glory and paid the bills and that was that.

A loud bell, one that sounded so familiar, erupted nearby and joltedNeely back to the reality that he was trespassing fifteen years after his time. He headed back through the atrium, only to be engulfed in the fury and throng of a late-morning class change. The halls were alive with students pushing, yelling, slamming lockers, releasing the hormones and testosterone that had been suppressed for the past fifty minutes. No one recognizedNeely .