Both sides of that coin are on view in the stories in this book: the strengths of a conversation within a self-defined community and the integration of its themes and motifs into literature — into the art of fiction — more widely. It’s nice not to have to choose between these things! This recent editorial journey, this immersion in the present tense of the field, has caused me to discover just how vital and diverse and happily contradictory the variations within a so-called genre can be. An anthology, at its best, reproduces a fundamental condition of any field of art or literature: that it is, always, greater than the sum of its parts.
Crime and mystery are essential to storytelling not only because of the truism — a true truism — that every story that captivates your interest is at some level a mystery. Yes, mystery lurks in language, in narrative, just as it lurks in the human heart. But it’s also the case that the specific do-wronging of one person or persons to another, and the impulse to explore or expose or make right the do-wronging, is the world we’re born to, the life we live, however unnerving it is to dwell on it. Crime stories are deep species gossip. They’re fundamentally stories of power, of its exercise both spontaneous and conspiratorial; stories of impulse and desire, and of the turning of tables. Crime stories allegorize the tensions in our self-civilizing, a process that’s never finished. (If I were a biblical guy I’d say this has been true “since Cain and Abel,” but since Alice in Wonderland is my bible I’ll say “since the tarts were stolen and Tweedledum and Tweedledee strapped on their armor.”) How can we not hang on their outcomes? Will injustice prevail? Might the oppressed outwit the powerful? Are we innocent ourselves, or complicit?
Turn these pages, and find out.
Jonathan Lethem
Robert Hinderliter
Coach O
from New Ohio Review
Coach Oberman watched from his office window as a group of students prepared the bonfire by the south end zone. Two kids stacked tinder while another knelt beside a papier-mâché buffalo they would throw on the fire at the end of the pep rally. Oberman couldn’t wait to watch it burn.
He’d just gotten off the phone with Mike Treadwell — coach of the Ashland Buffaloes — who’d called to wish him luck in tomorrow’s game. Mike had been Oberman’s assistant for three years before taking the job at Ashland High. And now, after back-to-back state titles in his first two years, he’d been offered the defensive coordinator position at Emporia State University. This would be the last time they’d face off.
“I’ll miss seeing you across the field,” Mike had said. “Although I sure won’t miss trying to stop that Oberman offense.”
This was pandering bullshit. In their two head-to-head contests, Mike’s Buffaloes had routed Oberman’s Hornets by at least four touchdowns.
“I just wanted to say thanks,” Mike had said. “I couldn’t have gotten this far without you.”
He’d said it like he meant it, with no hint of sarcasm, but Oberman knew there was venom behind those words. In Mike’s two years as assistant, Oberman had treated him badly. Mike had a good mind for the game, there was no denying that, but he was a scrawny wuss with thick glasses and a girlish laugh. He didn’t belong on a football field. Oberman had banished him to working with the punter and made him the butt of jokes in front of the players. When Mike’s brother-in-law became superintendent at Ashland and handed Mike the coaching job, Oberman had scoffed. And now Mike was moving on to a Division II college while Oberman was stuck muddling through another losing season with an eight-man team in Haskerville. He knew the irony wasn’t lost on either of them.
Oberman picked up a playbook from his desk and flipped through it. In his seventeen years as head coach of the Hornets, the playbook hadn’t changed much — mostly I-formation offense heavy on power runs and quick play-action passes. And in his first few years, those plays had been good enough to keep Haskerville near the top of the standings, even winning a couple regional titles.
After that, however, the program had gone downhill, bottoming out with a 2–8 record in ’01 and hovering around .500 ever since. The plays weren’t to blame. In a little Kansas town where cows nearly outnumbered people, he just didn’t have enough decent athletes. He’d whipped his group of dimwitted farmer boys into shape as best he could, but it would still take a miracle to beat Ashland. He’d need to think of a genius game plan, something to put Mike in his place one last time.
Oberman dropped the playbook, grabbed his jacket, and stepped out of his office into the locker room. He took a deep breath of sweat, steam, and jockstraps, then made his way through the empty gym to the rear exit. Outside, a few of his players were milling around the field, either tossing a football or lounging on the bleachers watching the cheerleaders run through their routine. The pep rally would start soon. Oberman walked out to the sideline and stood there, hands on his hips, until a voice from the bleachers called his name.
“Coach O!”
It was his quarterback, Javi Esteban, sitting alone on the bottom row. He had a two-liter bottle of Pepsi gripped in one meaty hand and the other raised in a wave. Oberman stepped over.
“You sticking around for the fire, Coach?”
“Guess I am.”
“Wanna throw a ball around?”
With his round cheeks and fleshy arms, Javi was built more like a trombonist than a quarterback. But he was nimble for his size, and strong. He could sidestep a charging defender and launch the ball fifty yards downfield with the flick of his wrist. When he was on his game, he had D-II talent, maybe even D-I. Oberman had already fielded a few calls from recruiters.
Javi was a quiet kid, with a sadness in his eyes even on the rare occasions he smiled. He didn’t have much to smile about. His dad had lost both legs in Iraq, and his little sister had cerebral palsy. He worked weekends at the putt-putt course across from the cemetery. Football seemed to be the one bright spot in Javi’s life, and he especially liked Oberman. After practice, he’d stay to help Oberman put away equipment. Sometimes they’d talk, but usually they just worked together in silence. It was at these times, Oberman thought, that Javi seemed most at peace. He liked the kid, but now he was in no mood to play catch.
“I’ve got to do some thinking, Javi. Save that arm for tomorrow.”
“Okay, Coach. I’ll be ready!”
As Oberman walked away down the sideline, he shook his head and cursed. Javi’s eyes had been red, his gaze unsteady. That Pepsi bottle was probably a quarter full of vodka.
He’d been aware of Javi’s drinking for two weeks now. Kids were kids, and he didn’t begrudge them a few beers on the weekend, but one day Javi had looked wobbly in practice, a half-beat slow on all his reads, and Oberman had smelled liquor on his breath. He’d debated whether to say something, but the next day Javi was sharp, zipping the ball to his receivers, so Oberman held his tongue.
And then during last Friday’s game, Javi threw three interceptions against the Willow Creek Muskrats — the winless, perpetually bottom-feeding Willow Creek Muskrats — including a first quarter pick-six that put the Hornets in an early hole. He looked dazed and sloppy. Oberman pulled him aside at halftime and asked him if he was fit to play. Javi insisted he was fine, and in the second half they came back and won, thanks mainly to their running game and defense, but the near-disaster cost Oberman a sleepless night mulling over what to do.