Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

Of course, Virgil had no more interest in earning a degree than he did cracking open a book. A year or two of exposure in a top-ranked football program and he’d turn pro. A year or two and the money would be there. Shoe deals, sports drink endorsements, it was all part of the game. Millionaires didn’t need an education. As long as he maintained his appetite for violence, success both on and off the gridiron would follow.

Unfortunately, Virgil also had an appetite for women and drugs, the latter amplifying his propensity for violence. On the eve of signing a letter of intent with the University of Florida, the high-school star decided to spend the night on the town partying with a few friends and teammates. After getting high, the boys headed to nearby Clewiston, intent on crashing their rival’s homecoming dance. One of the Clewiston cheerleaders had caught Virgil’s eye during their last game, and the star linebacker’s loins ached at the thought of seeing her again.

The girl was there, dancing with her boyfriend, the team’s starting tailback. Virgil approached the couple, grinning his gold-capped smile. ‘Yo, hoochie, why don’tch ya’ll shake dat thing over here-I’ll show you how a real man handles it.’

The tailback threw first, his punch impacting Virgil’s nose, drawing blood. Virgil never flinched, only his expression changed, morphing into an insane leer his defensive coordinator had dubbed ‘the Robinson Rage.’ In one motion the All-State linebacker grabbed the smaller teen by his neck and head-butted him twice, the latter blow knocking him senseless. A swift knee to the mouth finished the job.

As the crowd backed away, Virgil turned his attention to the girl. Grabbing her by the wrist, he tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her out to the parking lot like a Neanderthal choosing his mate.

Back in his truck, Virgil had to slap the girl twice before he could tear off her panties. By that time a small crowd had gathered around the vehicle, including Wes Hobart, the school’s wrestling coach. Hobart yanked open the door, only to have Virgil leap out and grab him by the hair, smashing him headfirst through another car’s windshield. Then he spun around to face his next assailant, the girl’s father, an English teacher – who was carrying a shotgun.

The load of buckshot struck Virgil in his left knee, shattering the patella, blowing out most of the supporting cruciate ligaments and muscle. Six hours of surgery later, Virgil Robinson awoke in a hospital bed, his dream of playing professional football gone forever, the nightmare of adulthood about to begin.

The former star left the hospital a week later and was sent to jail to await trial. The judge sentenced him to three years.

When the Reverend Morehead read about Virgil’s fall from grace, he approached the judge and offered to take the youth in as part of the church’s work-release program. In the former high-school star Quenton saw yet another downtrodden youth whose soul needed to be saved… and a potential son-in-law in the making.

And so Virgil Robinson moved in with Reverend Morehead and his foster-daughter, Madelina. Encouraged by their ‘matchmaker,’ the two began dating. After three weeks, the reverend promised Virgil he would use his influence to have the rest of his prison sentence commuted, but only if he agreed to marry Madelina.

Faced with another two years of incarceration, Virgil wholeheartedly accepted.

A quick Sunday ceremony and the deed was done. As a wedding gift, Quenton gave the young couple use of a dilapidated stucco home the church owned, but could find no one to rent. Before anyone could say ‘early parole’ the newlyweds headed off to begin their lives together, blessed with all the hardships poverty and a lack of formal education could offer.

For a short while things seemed fine. With Quenton’s help, Virgil landed an assistant manager’s position with one of the big sugar companies. By day, he supervised sugarcane workers, by night, he would return home from the fields to find comfort in his young bride’s loins. As for Madelina, with Quenton out of her life, the girl finally felt safe. Medication kept the ‘voices’ at bay, and she began saving money to purchase a nicer home. There was even talk of starting a family.

And then Virgil’s drugging resurfaced.

It started innocently enough-a few missed NA meetings here, a few hits of coke there. But drug addiction is a disease only abstinence can contain, and before Madelina realized what was happening, her husband had spent their savings on his all-night binges.

Madelina was forced to dip into her medication money just to afford groceries. Depression set in, and with it, all of the girl’s old fears. ‘Remember girl,’ Quenton always said, ‘the Devil will take your soul if you’re not strong…’

To make matters worse, the college football season was upon them, the time of year that stoked Virgil’s anger to its fullest. Watching the University of Florida’s games on TV, his internal rage would build until he had to lash out at something… or somebody.

Madelina told Quenton she had broken her arm while mending the roof. The punctured lung-that had come from a nasty fall on her bike. She told the intern at the clinic that she broke her nose slipping in the bathtub.

The beatings subsided briefly in late January of 2013 when Virgil learned his wife was pregnant. The news seemed to calm the former football star. A son could be put to work in the fields. A son could be taught how to play football. Virgil Jr. would live the life denied his father-he would return glory to his old man by making it in the NFL. Twenty years from now, old Virgil Robinson would be able to retire in wealth, living off the fortunes of his prodigal son.

Life in the Robinson home stabilized… for the moment.

And then the world seemed to lose its equilibrium, and sobriety was not an option.

Reverend Morehead enters the strip club, his senses immediately seized by the smell of alcohol and smoke and sex. It takes him several minutes to find his son-in-law, who is in a back room, receiving a lap dance.

‘Virgil! Get your heathen butt home, your son’s on the way!’

‘Aww shit, Quenton, give me two more minutes.’

‘Now boy!’

‘Sumbitch!’ Virgil climbs out from beneath the stripper, squeezes an exposed breast, whispers, ‘Call you later, baby,’ then follows Quenton into the parking lot.

Boca Raton, Florida 2:13 a.m.

The parking lot is quiet, the National Guard having cleared the hospital and its grounds. Only authorized personnel are allowed entry, no one permitted on the third-floor maternity ward without President Chaney’s personal approval.

Dominique sits up in bed, gazing through heavy lids at her new family. Edith beams like a proud grandmother as she coddles the dark-haired twin. Ennis Chaney sits back in an easy chair holding the fair-haired infant, the gruffness gone from the old man’s weathered face.

Rabbi Steinberg sits on the edge of Dominique’s bed, taking everything in. ‘So? Have you decided on names? You know, it’s Jewish custom to use the first initial of a deceased loved one to honor the dead.’

‘I’m going to name the dark-haired twin Immanuel, after Isadore.’

Edie looks up, the mention of her late husband, causing her eyes to moisten. ‘Your father would be honored.’

‘We’ll call him Manny for short. He has Hispanic blood running through him, you can see it in his eyes.’

‘And what about this blue-eyed fellow,’ Chaney asks. ‘How about an ‘M’ name, after the father?’

‘The father’s not dead!’ Dominique blurts out the words, the unexpected burst of anger exploding from her mouth.

‘Doll, take it easy.’ Edie hands Immanuel to the rabbi, then takes Dominique’s hand.