Exhausted, he rolled over onto his back and lay in the dirt, looked up into a circle of a half-dozen children’s faces. Some of the kids were grasping cottontails. They giggled at Serge and ran off.
A few rows over, Coleman also lay on his back. Eyes shut tight.
Ribbit. A bullfrog crawled out of a chest pouch and hopped away.
Serge got up and raced about, obsessively not giving up. But then it became just too dark. “Coleman! We have to head back to the car! . . . Coleman! . . .”
Coleman roused from an anesthesia fog. “Wha—? What is it?” He raised his head. “Oh, hello. It’s another of my little nature friends.” While Coleman had been unconscious, something had crawled onto his chest and found his girth, warmth and breathing to be a soothing elixir. He began stroking its back. He sat up and snuggled it under his chin, gently slipping it down into his chest pouch. “I’m coming, Serge!”
Over at the road, kids began jumping back into the pickups that had brought them. Most had sacks and makeshift chicken-wire cages with rabbits. Serge collapsed empty-handed over the hood of the Satellite.
“Jesus!” said Cheyenne. “You look like you’re about to have a heart attack!”
“There’s no other way to do a job than to end up looking like you’re nearly in cardiac arrest. But you’re a witness: I gave it my all.”
“And then some,” said Cheyenne.
The truck beds were noisy with animated tall tales from the cane fields. Then they went silent, all looking in the same direction.
Coleman strolled ho-hum out of the cane field, petting his newest furry friend. He looked up to see all eyes upon him. “What?”
Kids jumped down from the trucks and gathered around the plump, stumbling stranger. “What’s your secret?” “How’d you catch a jackrabbit?” “You must be super fast!”
There was a banging sound. Serge’s forehead against the hood of his Plymouth. Accompanied by fists.
“Easy,” said Cheyenne. “You’ll catch one someday.”
“You’re right.” Serge stood and collected himself. “Besides, the big game is tomorrow. We need to be heading for the hotel to get our rest.”
The gang piled back into the Plymouth and turned south on Main Street.
“Serge, why are you pulling over?”
“Just one last stop of the day on the way to the inn.”
The Plymouth pulled around behind a government building.
“What is this place?” asked Cheyenne.
“Used to be the library,” said Serge. “Now a museum.”
Three people headed for the doors. One went another direction.
“Serge,” yelled Kyle. “The entrance is this way.”
“We’re not going in the museum,” said Serge. “Follow me . . .”
The foursome soon stood on the lawn on the north side of the building. All staring up at the same thing.
“This is just like our hotel,” said Cheyenne. “I’ve driven by a thousand times but never stopped to really take a look.”
“One of the most emotional historic monuments in all the state,” said Serge. “Statues of a family of four: father, young son, and mother cradling an infant, all running for their lives and looking back up at the sky in terror, the parents raising futile arms to shield their heads. And on the monument’s base, a stone-relief sculpture of giant waves washing away homes and snapping palm trees. And if you look real close in the water, there’s a bunch of tiny people drowning beneath a simple inscription: ‘Belle Glade 1928.’”
“Whew,” said Cheyenne. “What can you say?”
“You can’t,” said Serge.
The monument was too much to take in at once, so they didn’t.
“Every now and then, being at a place pulls at me in a way I don’t understand,” said Serge. “I get an odd feeling.”
“Who wouldn’t at a monument like this?” said Cheyenne.
“It’s not the monument,” said Serge. “Another kind of feeling. My bones again, but different this time. Like something big is looming just around the corner.”
They all became quiet again, respectfully taking in the sight as the sun departed.
Chapter 37
Game Day
There had been talk of rain, but it never came. Instead, the departing clouds over Lake Okeechobee left the night air cool and crisp under the stadium lights. The faint smell of smoke from the surrounding cane fields competed with sausage grills in the concession stands.
Spectators had started arriving at the gates when the sun was still high. You had to for this one if you wanted any kind of decent seat. Those who arrived late were still more than happy to stand or watch from outside the fence, fingers clinging to chain link.
Twenty-five thousand were expected tonight. Insane for a high school. But the Muck Bowl was no ordinary game. The number of college scouts in the stands confirmed that. They always came out for the annual battle of the rabbit chasers.
The hype had been building for weeks among the nearby communities. Signs outside restaurants and dry cleaners and lube shops cheered on the Blue Devils and the Raiders. They talked about it in the post office and the supermarket lines. Tailgate parties were planned with the logistics of military campaigns. And now it was time.
School buses arrived after the ten-mile drive up the rim of the lake from Belle Glade, and the players streamed out. Bands played, police directed traffic. The Blue Devils were already on their home-field sideline. Their uniforms were slightly different from the usual. It was the players’ idea. On the front of each of their jerseys, just above the numbers, a strip of tape with lettering in Magic Marker: Calhoun. It was unauthorized, but all the coaches looked the other way.
The cheering from the stands was like a jet taking off. And this was only the warm-ups . . .
. . . A gold Plymouth Satellite rounded the bottom of the lake.
“You sure we got tickets?” asked Serge.
Kyle nodded. “Coach Calhoun said they’d be waiting for us at the booth, but it might be standing room.”
The Plymouth continued north. Even if they hadn’t known there was a big game, they would’ve been able to tell something was definitely up. Everyone in motion, piling in cars, honking, good-natured yelling in traffic, making last-moment dashes into stores, well-wishes painted on the windows of homes and offices.
“This is what I’m talking about,” said Serge, gripping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Small-town pride. The fabric of the community coming together like a Kevlar vest.”
They left Belle Glade behind and then it was just an empty stretch of cane fields that connected destinies. The sun finally set over Pahokee, draping the town in darkness, except for the strings of headlights pouring in from all directions.
“There it is,” said Serge.
The brilliantly glowing football field stood out in the surroundings like Yankee Stadium.
“Looks like we have a bit of a walk,” said Cheyenne.
They parked down the street from the overflow lots and hiked to the entrance booth.
“Coleman, you let the jackrabbit free,” said Serge. “Why are you still wearing the chest pouch?”