The playbook, p.26
The Playbook, page 26
He hangs up and deletes her number. Brings up Molly’s. Pauses. Deletes that one too.
Turning off the video in Dub’s office, Chelsea checks her phone: 6:21. She calls Palmer but no answer. Worried, she calls Ty, but Vanessa picks up. “Hey,” says Chelsea.
“Congrats on the game,” says Vanessa. “Sorry we couldn’t be there.”
“How’s Ty?”
“He’s back in the hospital.”
“Sorry to hear that. I’ll visit soon as I can. Do you know if he’s heard from Palmer today?” She tries to keep her voice steady but doesn’t quite succeed.
“Ty’s been asleep since this morning. Don’t think he’s heard from anybody.”
“If Palmer contacts him, let me know immediately.”
“What’s going on?”
Chelsea voices her fear. “Palmer didn’t show up for our six o’clock meeting. Something is wrong. I can feel it.”
“He snuck Ty out of the hospital late last night. Drove him up the mountain for some guy talk.”
“That’s crazy.”
“He’s getting a piece of my mind when I see him, and it won’t be the pretty part!”
“Palmer’s girlfriend,” says Chelsea, feeling more panicked by the second. “Any idea how I can reach her?”
“Molly or Bridget?”
“I have Bridget’s number, but not Molly’s.”
“Reckon she still works at the motel?”
“I’ll check there,” says Chelsea. “Anything I can do to help Ty?”
“Win Saturday. A championship will lift his spirits better than anything I can imagine.”
Vaness beeps off and Chelsea tries Palmer again but gets no answer. She tries Dirk. Also no answer. Her heart in her throat, she pockets her phone and hustles out.
The living room at Palmer’s place is clean. The floor swept. A fresh stack of wood on the hearth. The fire is out, the fireplace cleared of ashes. His guitar case and a small gym bag sit by the door.
His mind set, Palmer slips on his jacket, throws his backpack over his shoulder, and takes a 360 degree turn around the room. A touch of nostalgia hits him, and he sighs. Though here only four months, the place had started to feel a little like a home, a spot to hunker down in, at least until he finished high school.
Thoughts of Molly flit through his head, then memories of Bridget and Dirk. Finally, he thinks of Ty and Coach Deal. Good people, he concludes, but no more permanent than a log in a fire. Here one moment but vanished the next, like so many others he’s met in his life. He glances around one last time, then picks up his guitar and gym bag and heads out the door.
In the yard, he loads his belongings into his truck, then walks to his motorcycle. Careful with his shoulder, he pushes the bike up the front steps, parks it on the porch, and pauses for a second. Is he really doing this? Setting his jaw, he pats the motorcycle seat, then runs to the truck, hops in, and pulls out of the yard, the wheels kicking up gravel as he speeds away.
Less than a half hour later, Chelsea parks in Palmer’s front yard, jumps out of her truck, and hustles to the dark porch. She sees his motorcycle, pushes past it, and bangs on the door. No answer. She knocks again but instinctively knows it’s futile. The house is empty.
She keys her phone as she hurries back to her truck. “Palmer’s gone, Dub,” she laments as soon as he answers. “He missed our six o’clock meeting. I’m at his house. It’s dark—empty dark.”
“Stay calm,” advises Dub. “Teenage boys slide off the rails sometimes. Do crazy things. Doesn’t mean he’s disappeared for good.”
Chelsea climbs into her truck. “He left his motorcycle, Dub. I’m telling you, I feel it in my gut. Last night, the last time I saw him, I blew him off. He’s got nobody and, when I should’ve been there for him, I screwed up.”
“It’s all right, Chelsea,” soothes Dub. “I’m here. Tell me what you need.”
“I’m going to find Palmer. If I’m not available for practice tomorrow, handle that for me.”
“That will confuse the team,” Dub warns.
“It doesn’t matter. This is bigger than football. I won’t be able to live with myself if something happens to Palmer and I just stood by and did nothing.”
“You want help looking for him?
Chelsea lays her head on the steering wheel, her mind racing, trying to figure out where to start searching.
“Chelsea?” Dub asks.
“Handle practice if I’m not there,” she repeats. “That’s what I need from you.”
“Okay then. I got your back. Do what you need to do.”
Chelsea hangs up, starts the truck, and calls Bridget as she wheels down the road. To her surprise, Bridget answers almost immediately. “Hey, Bridget. This is Coach Deal. Have you seen Palmer today?”
“Nope. But he left me a weird voice message a little bit ago. Said I might not see him for a while.”
“Did you break up with him?”
“No! But my folks grounded me. No phone, no games, no parties. I didn’t see him last night and had no way to tell him why I didn’t show up.”
“The message he left … did he say where he was going?”
“No. You think he’s okay?”
“Just let me know if he contacts you.”
Air pods jammed into her ears, Molly vacuums the motel lobby, burrowing the vacuum under a sofa. Bouncing a bit with the music, she picks up a dirty sandal left beside a coffee table.
Chelsea enters the lobby, spots her, and hurries over. “Hey, Molly!” she yells as she touches her shoulder.
Molly jumps at the touch, turns, and removes an air pod. “Hey, Coach,” she says. “What’s up?”
“You heard from Palmer lately?” asks Chelsea, her concern clear in her voice.
Molly turns off the vacuum. “We’re not together anymore.”
“I know,” says Chelsea. “But I’m worried about him. He missed our study session tonight. I called him but he didn’t answer. I drove to his house. No sign of him. I think he’s left Rabon.”
Molly drops her eyes. “I talked to him for a couple minutes last night. At Georgio’s after the game. He was upset and I made it worse.”
Chelsea puts a hand on Molly’s shoulder and Molly raises her eyes. “Where do you think he would go?” asks Chelsea, urgency permeating her voice.
“His new girl’s house? Bridget?”
“I already talked to her. He’s not there.”
“Nashville? To stay with Dirk?”
“I’ve tried to reach Dirk but no luck.”
Molly thinks a second. “Palmer told me once that Dirk plays sometimes at a bar called the Wildhorse,” she finally offers.
“I’ll call there.”
Chelsea turns to leave but Molly grabs her arm. “If you go to Nashville, I’m riding with you,” says Molly.
“But you’re not with Palmer anymore.”
“Maybe I should be. If you go, let me tag along.”
“I’ll see,” says Chelsea, backing away. “But no promises.” She rushes off as Molly watches her, the vacuum still quiet in her hand.
Her hair in a ponytail and her eyes red, Lacy pulls her beat-up car into the parking lot of a dive bar in a seedy part of Nashville. A row of lights burns over the bar’s entrance, illuminating a sign for Honky Tonk Heaven. Worn out from lack of sleep, and the almost four-hour drive from Rabon to here, Lacy lays her head on the steering wheel and deals with second thoughts. She’s come to this place to see if she can score a fix. But another part of knows she should run from this skanky place as fast as her trashy car will take her.
She thinks of Palmer pointing her to the door. Just as she deserved, she decides. She’s no good to him or anybody else. She’s a failure, a screw-up, a burden. Resigned to her fate, she pulls her jacket tighter, climbs out of the car, and walks toward the bar. Two guys stand by the front door. Lacy pulls a cigarette from her jacket. “Got a light?” she asks.
The tallest man, an unshaven middle-aged guy wearing a dirty baseball cap and a Tennessee Titans sweatshirt, lights her cigarette. “I’m Flip,” says the man.
Lacy puffs her cigarette.
“You all by your lonesome?” Flip asks, eyeing her top to toes.
“Not looking for company tonight,” answers Lacy.
“Pretty lady like you ought to always have company,” says Flip, a smirk on his face.
“You got party favors if I choose to accept your company?”
“You like a particular party favor?”
“Miss Emma, China Girl, Ox. They’re all favorites.”
“You offering cash for these favors? Or, you know, me and you, all night?” Flip leers at her again.
Lacy pulls cash from a pocket. “I ain’t for sale. If I party with you, it’s ’cause I choose to do it, not ’cause you bought me.”
The second man, a short guy with a bad combover of his reddish hair, chuckles. “The lady’s got scruples, Flip.”
Flip points to an alley past the building and Lacy follows him as he heads that way, the other guy trailing. In the alley, Flip stops and turns to Lacy, a pistol now in hand. “I’m plumb out of party favors, lady,” he says. “But I’ll take that cash just the same.” He points at Lacy’s money as the short guy blocks the alley.
“Come on, man,” pleads Lacy. “Play fair.”
“Fair is what you make it, lady.”
Lacy tries to back up, but the other guy stands in her way.
Flip reaches for the money and Lacy fights him off, but he punches her in the face, and she drops. The money scatters.
Not giving up, Lacy latches onto Flip’s leg, but the short guy pulls her off. She stands and rushes Flip again, but he throws her against the wall, and she bangs her head and falls again.
Grabbing the money, Flip tosses a few dollars at her and walks away. Her lip bloody, Lacy lays in the alley, tears running down her face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The sun rises as a steady stream of vehicles pull up to the gas pumps of Gerty’s Gas and Go service station. Many of the drivers run inside to buy coffee, doughnuts, or microwaved sandwiches as their tanks fill up. Everyone is in a hurry. Jobs and schools await on a chilly Monday morning. Horns honk, engines rev, and music pours out of car doors and windows.
Behind a green dumpster on the backside of the gas station, Palmer slumbers in his truck bed, a sleeping bag stretched out to cover his long body. A toboggan cap is pulled tightly on his head and cloth gloves cover his hands. A blue jay perches on the edge of the dumpster, its eyes on Palmer, chirping as if trying to wake him up. A trash truck rumbles to the dumpster and the blue jay flies away. The truck’s hydraulic arm embraces the dumpster and dumps its contents into the truck bin, but Palmer continues to sleep.
A couple minutes later, the truck pulls away and Gerty, an older woman wearing a blue vest and saggy black pants, hauls a trash bag from the station’s back door to the dumpster. As she tosses the trash in, she spots Palmer and steps closer. “Hey!” she yells at him, her voice shrill. “Wake up!”
Somehow, Palmer is still asleep.
Gerty bangs a fist on the tailgate of his truck. “I said wake up!”
Palmer rolls over and rubs his eyes.
“This ain’t no Holiday Inn!” shouts Gerty. “You can’t be sleeping here!”
“Sorry,” says Palmer, sitting up. “I’ll get moving.” He rolls up his sleeping bag and hops out as Gerty examines him a little closer.
“How old are you, boy?” she asks.
Palmer ignores the question and opens the truck door.
“Where are your folks?” Gerty presses.
“Where am I, exactly?” Palmer asks, facing her as he removes his gloves.
“Should I call the cops?”
Palmer shoves his gloves into a pocket as he considers how to respond. “No disrespect, ma’am,” he finally says, “but I’d just as soon move along.”
Gerty eyes him. “You don’t look harmful,” she says, her face softening.
“I’m not,” agrees Palmer.
Gerty pulls a pack of cheese crackers from her vest and tosses it to him. “You a few miles outside Jackson, Mississippi, son.”
“How far to Austin, Texas?” Palmer asks, relaxing a little.
“Your mama know where you are?”
Palmer pulls off his cap but doesn’t answer.
“What’s your name?” presses Gerty.
“Don’t call the police,” he says. “I’m leaving.”
“I ain’t on no first-name basis with the police.”
“Name is Palmer Norman,” he offers.
“You gone play music in Austin, Palmer Norman?”
Palmer smiles a little and Gerty does too.
“Willie Nelson started there,” he says. “Reckon I can too.”
“You gone be a big star?”
Palmer smiles again and Gerty reaches back into her vest, produces a pack of beef jerky, and throws it to him.
“All right,” she finally concludes. “Go get famous, Palmer Norman. One day I’ll tell folks you slept behind my dumpster!”
Palmer climbs into his truck and smiles back at Gerty. “Thank you, Gerty.” He points to her nametag on the vest and she grins. He pockets the jerky, starts the truck, and rolls off, Gerty watching as he disappears past the dumpster.
Flags fly in a steady breeze directly in front of Rabon High School. Several camera crews have set up in and around the flag area and production vans line the curb up and down the street. An ESPN crew is set to film first while others wait for their turn in front of the flags.
Sandra Brinner, an early-thirties ESPN correspondent with a model’s face and a gymnast’s body, smiles happily and raises her microphone to just below chin level as her producer counts down. Nothing better than getting a jump-start on the competition. A red scarf wraps around Brinner’s neck and her white teeth line up straight and perfect, like a picket fence in a Norman Rockwell painting.
“Good afternoon.” Brinner beams at the camera as her producer points for her to begin. “It’s lunchtime at Rabon High School in the mountains of North Georgia and I’m here to introduce you to a remarkable woman. Her name is Chelsea Deal and she’s the first female coach to ever lead a boys’ high school football team to a state championship game. We’ve requested an interview with Coach Deal but, to our surprise, nobody seems able to locate her!”
Brinner raises a well-groomed eyebrow at the unexplained mystery of the missing Coach Deal and quickly continues. “For reasons yet to be explained, Ms. Deal is absent from school today and practice is scheduled to start in about four hours. We’ll talk with her and bring you that interview as soon as we can track her down! This is Sandra Brinner with ESPN.”
A country road zips by under the wheels of her pickup as Chelsea wolfs down a fast-food burger. Molly eats French fries beside her and washes them down with a soda. Both women stay quiet, focused on their own thoughts. Chelsea’s phone beeps and she quickly hits the answer button on her steering wheel.
“Hey, Chelsea,” barks Principal Roberts. “You have to stop whatever you’re doing, turn around wherever you are, run every speed limit sign you see, and get back here right now!”
Chelsea bites her lip before she answers but doesn’t give in. “No can do, sir,” she says. “I’m going to find Palmer, like I said on the voice message I left you this morning. I arranged a substitute for my classes and Dub will manage practice for me.”
“Listen to me,” insists Roberts, his voice desperate. “The media showed up like a pack of hyenas this morning. I can see cameras right now outside my window and my phone is exploding. Everyone wants to interview you, but you’re MIA and I have no answer when they ask where you are!”
“That branding you mentioned… I guess it’s working.”
“Don’t be flippant, Coach!” Roberts shouts.
Chelsea glances at Molly and whispers a silent “Yikes!”
Molly grins as Chelsea responds to Roberts. “Sorry, sir. My bad.”
“What do you suggest I tell the media?” asks Roberts. “Our quarterback has gone AWOL and you’re tracking him down?”
“Sounds about right to me.”
“Come on, Chelsea, I’m not joking!” Roberts grouses. “If we say anything about Palmer, that will lead to questions about him. They’ll find out about his grades, the math class meltdown, his family situation. Who knows what else? You know what I’m talking about. Not good for you, me, or anybody else.”
Chelsea looks at Molly again and Molly vigorously shakes her head. Chelsea knows why. The assault after the Longhorn game. Questions about Palmer might reveal it all to the media. Not a good outcome for anyone. Chelsea, shifting in her seat, speaks again to Roberts. “I don’t have a choice on this, George. Tell the media I’m sick. Or took a mental health day. I don’t care how you spin it.”
“Tell them she’s suffering from menstrual cramps!” Molly yells.
“Who was that?” asks Roberts.
Chelsea glares at Molly and waves her off. “Don’t worry about it,” she advises Roberts.
“This is serious, Chelsea,” says Roberts. “Not a laughing matter. Good publicity helps us all. Bad publicity? Not so much.”
“I understand, George. And I swear I’m doing everything possible to resolve the situation with Palmer and return to Rabon. I’ll be back by tomorrow. Hold the media off until then.”
She hangs up and faces Molly. “Menstrual cramps?”
“Not a laughing matter!” yells Molly.
“Come on, Molly.” A smile breaks out on Chelsea’s face, but she tries to hold it back.
“Your time of the month!” yells Molly. “Tell them that! No football coach ever said that before!”
Chelsea and Molly both laugh hysterically now, Chelsea slapping the steering wheel with both hands as Molly doubles over, her whole body shaking. Chelsea turns on some music, which blasts through the speakers as they slowly stop giggling.
