John Grisham - Bleechers

There were quick glances and awkward stares, but the others seemed content to brood over the coffee and ignore him. After all, he had ignored them for the past fifteen years. Messina owned its heroes, and they were expected to enjoy the nostalgia.

"When was the last time you saw Screamer?" Paul asked.

Neely snorted and looked out of the window. "I haven't seen her since college."

"Not a word?"

"One letter, years back.Fancy stationery from some place in Hollywood. Said she was taking the place by storm. Said she'd be a lot more famous than I ever thought about being.Pretty nasty stuff. I didn't respond."

"She showed up for our ten-year reunion," Paul said."An actress, nothing but blond hair and legs, outfits that have never been seen around here.A pretty elaborate production. Name-dropping right and left, this producer, that director, a bunch of actors I'd never heard of. I got the impression she was spending more time in bed than in front of the camera."

"That's Screamer."

"You should know."

"How'd she look?"

"Tired."

"Any credits?"

"Quite a few, and they changed by the hour. We compared notes later, and no one had seen anything she said she'd been in. It was all a show.Typical Screamer. Except that now she's Tessa.Tessa Canyon."

"Tessa Canyon?"

"Yep."

"Sounds like a porn star."

"I think that's where she was headed."

"Poor girl."

"Poor girl?"Paul repeated. "She's a miserable self-absorbed idiot whose only claim to fame was that she was Neely Crenshaw's girlfriend."

"Yes, but those legs."

They both smiled for a long time. The waitress brought their pancakes and sausage and refilled their coffees. As Paul drenched his plate with maple syrup, he began talking again. "Two years ago, we had a big bankers' convention in Vegas. Mona was with me. She got bored, went to the room. I got bored, so I walked along the Strip, late at night. I ducked into one of the older casinos, and guess who I saw?"

"Tessa Canyon."

"Tessa was shuffling booze, a cocktail waitress in one of those tight little costumes that's low in the front and high in the rear.Bleached hair, thick makeup, twenty or so extra pounds. She didn't see me so I watched her for a few minutes. She looked older than thirty. The odd thing was how she performed. When she got near her customers at the tables, the smile came on with the purring little voice that says, 'Take me upstairs.'The glib one-liners.The bumping and rubbing.Shameless flirting with a bunch of drunks. The woman just wants to be loved."

"I tried my best."

"She's a sad case."

"That's why I dumped her. She won't come back for the funeral, will she?"

"Maybe.If there's a chance she'll bump into you, then yes, she'll be here. On the other hand, she ain't lookin' too good, and with Screamer looks are everything."

"Her parents are still here?"

"Yeah."

A chubby man wearing a John Deere cap eased to their table as if he was trespassing. "Just wanted to say hello,Neely ," he said, almost ready to bow. "Tim Nunley, down at the Ford place," he said, offering a hand as if it might be ignored. Neely shook it and smiled."Used to work on your daddy's cars."

"I remember you," Neely lied, but the lie was worth the effort. Mr. Nunley's smile doubled in size and he squeezedNeely's hand harder.

"I thought you would," Mr. Nunley said, glancing at his table for vindication. "Good to see you back here. You were the greatest."

"Thank you," Neely said, releasing his hand and grabbing a fork. Mr. Nunley backedaway, still waiting to bow, then took his coat and left the restaurant.

The conversations were still muted around the tables, as if the wake had already begun. Paul finished a mouthful and leaned in low. "Four years ago we had a good team.Won the first nine games.Undefeated. I was sitting right here eating the same thing I'm eating now, on a Friday morning, game day, and, I swear this is true, the topic of conversation that morning was The Streak. Not the old streak, but a new one. These people were ready for a new streak. Never mind a winning season, or a conference title, or even a state championship, they're all peanuts. This town wants eighty, ninety, maybe a hundred wins in a row."

Neely looked around quickly then returned to his breakfast. "I've never understood it," he said. "These are nice folks—mechanics, truck drivers, insurance salesmen, builders, maybe a lawyer, maybe a banker.Solid small-town citizens, but not exactly earthshakers. I mean, nobody here is making a million bucks. But they're entitled to a state championship every year, right?"

"Right."

"I don't get it."

"Bragging rights.What else can they brag about?"

"No wonder they worship Rake. He put the town on the map."

"Take a bite," Paul said. A man with a dirty apron approached holding a manila file. He introduced himself as Maggie Renfrow's brother, now the chef, and he opened the file. Inside was a framed eight by ten color photo ofNeely at Tech. "Maggie always wanted you to sign this," he said.

It was splendid picture ofNeely in action, crouching behind the center, calling a play, ready for the snap, sizing up the defense. A purple helmet was visible in the right lower corner, andNeely realized the opponent was A&M. The photo, one he'd never seen before, was taken minutes before he was injured. "Sure," he said, taking a black marker from the chef.

He signed his name across the top, and for a long moment looked into the eyes of a young, fearless quarterback, a star biding his time in college while the NFL waited. He could hear the Tech crowd that day, seventy-five thousand strong and desperate for victory, proud of their undefeated team, thrilled that they, for the first time in many years, had a bona-fide ail-American at quarterback.

Suddenly, he longed for those days.

"Nice photo," he managed to say, handing it back to the chef, who took it and immediately hung it on a nail under the larger photo ofNeely .

"Let's get outta here," Neely said, wiping his mouth. He placed some cash on the table, and they began a quick exit. He nodded, smiled politely at the regulars, and managed to make an escape without being stopped.

"Why are you so nervous around these folks?" Paul asked when they were outside.

"I don't want to talk about football, okay? I don't want to hear how great I was."

They drove the quiet streets around the square, passing the church whereNeely was baptized, and the church where Paul was married, and the handsome split-level on Tenth Street where Neely lived from the age of eight until he left for Tech. His parents had sold it to a certified Yankee who'd been brought down to manage the paper mill west of town. They passed Rake's house, slowly, as if they might hear the latest just by driving down the street. The driveway was crowded with cars, most with out-of-state license plates, Rake's family and close friends, they figured. They passed the park where they'd played Little League baseball and Pop Warner football.

And they remembered stories. One that was now a legend in Messina was, of course, about Rake. Neely, Paul, and a handful of their buddies were playing a rowdy game of sandlot football when they noticed a man standing in the distance, near the backstop of the baseball field, watching them closely. When they finished, he ventured over and introduced himself as Coach Eddie Rake. The boys were speechless. "You have a nice arm, son," he said toNeely , who could say nothing in response. "I like your feet too."

All the boys looked atNeely's feet.

"Is your mother as tall as your father?" Coach Rake asked.

"Almost," Neely managed to say.

"Good. You'll make a great Spartan quarterback." Rake smiled at the boys,then walked away.

Neely was eleven years old at the time.