The following day, Saturday afternoon, he’d gone to Javi’s house. He’d planned to talk with the family, make them aware of the situation so they could rein in the problem before it got worse. In the Estebans’ living room, Javi’s mom offered him store-bought cookies while Mr. Esteban sat scowling in his wheelchair, clearly drunk. Javi’s little sister, Mia, sat on the floor watching a cartoon. She smiled up shyly at Oberman, skinny arms twisted across her chest. Javi, white-faced in the corner, looked at Oberman with such panic and pleading in his eyes that Oberman couldn’t bring himself to mention the alcohol. And the whole next week in practice, Javi had been focused. Oberman had thought the problem was behind them. But now here was Javi tonight with the two-liter.
He’d have to say something. He couldn’t afford another shaky performance out of his quarterback, especially against Ashland. There was too much on the line.
Earlier that day he’d been coldly reminded of how much was on the line when the superintendent, Bob DiMarco, had called him out to the district office for a chat. He’d lectured Oberman about how a winning football team really brings the community together, lifts the spirits of the whole town. He was sure Oberman remembered what that felt like, all those years ago. It wasn’t a threat, exactly. Oberman had been the football coach and PE teacher at Haskerville High for seventeen years now, and he doubted they’d fire him even if he never won another game.
Still, it pissed him off that DiMarco thought he needed a pep talk. The football team meant more to Oberman than anything. His pride as a man, his sense of self-worth — it was all out there on the field. Every day in practice he shouted himself hoarse, whipped lazy blockers in the helmet with his whistle, and got down in the mud with his players to show them proper technique. He didn’t need some bureaucratic prick telling him football was important.
The sun was falling behind the pine-tree shelterbelt surrounding the field. A faint clack and low hum sounded as the floodlights came on and started to warm up. Oberman walked across the field, cutting a wide arc around the cheerleaders. It had rained that morning, and the grass was spongy under his feet. The field smelled clean and earthy, and as he stopped at the 50-yard line and looked from end zone to end zone, he thought of all the hours he’d spent on football fields — all the joy, camaraderie, and lessons the sport had given him over the years. He’d been playing or coaching since he was eight years old. His happiest memories were all related to football. He’d even been one of those clowns who proposed to his girlfriend on the field. That had been his senior year at Fort Hays State, when he ran up in the stands after the last home game of the season, grabbed his girlfriend’s hand, led her down to the sideline, and knelt on one knee. Her name was Sandra, and they’d been married now for eighteen years.
Remembering that moment — the giddiness he’d felt as he loosened the tape from his ankle where he’d hidden the ring, the clamor of excitement through the crowd as they realized what was happening, Sandra’s hand to her mouth, already sobbing and nodding before he could even say the words — remembering that moment made Oberman queasy. A great yawning cavity opened in his chest.
He’d found out last weekend that she’d been seeing Lonny Hinkle, the Haskerville High English teacher.
The past Saturday, after he’d come back from the Estebans’ house, Sandra told him she wanted to have a girls’ night with her old college roommate, Maisley. Maisley was living in Lawrence now, working in the provost’s office at KU, and every few months Sandra would drive up to meet her for a movie and margaritas. She would crash on Maisley’s couch and drive back to Haskerville the next day. Usually they’d plan their get-togethers a few weeks in advance, but Oberman knew Sandra had been stressed lately, dealing with her mom’s dementia, so he told her to go ahead and have fun, and he would take care of Ruth.
Ruth had been living with them for three years since her diagnosis, but in the past few months she’d taken a sharp turn for the worse. She was always talking about trolls. They were everywhere, she said — their red eyes peeking out from air vents or under the couch. They wanted to tear her to pieces. Oberman and Sandra had to constantly reassure her that she was safe, that trolls weren’t real. And so he’d understood Sandra’s desire for a night away.
The following morning, before Sandra came home, Oberman got a call from his brother in Dodge City.
“Were you guys in Dodge last night?” his brother said. “I was dropping off Ashley at around one A.M., and I swear I saw Sandra coming out of that bar by the China Chow. But she was with this tall bald guy. It looked like he was wearing a scarf. You know anything about that?”
Oberman told his brother he was crazy, that Sandra had been home all night. And then he hung up, locked himself in the bedroom, and pulled out his hunting rifle from the back of the closet. Hands shaking, he took the gun from its case and laid it on the bed.
Could it be true? Was Sandra cheating on him? In the past year she’d started acting strange — trying a vegan diet, listening to New Age music, and reading books about spirituality and emotional detoxing. It’d left Oberman baffled and annoyed. At one point he’d told her that if he had to listen to one more second of that goddamn sitar, he’d throw the CD player out the window. He winked when he’d said it, but they’d been at odds since Ruth moved in, and maybe he’d been ignoring warning signs for a while. “I feel like I’m on the verge of a great transformation,” she’d told him recently. At the time, Oberman had just rolled his eyes. Now, though, he wondered if her transformation involved Lonny Hinkle.
Hinkle had come to Haskerville two years ago from somewhere in the Northeast — Connecticut, maybe, or Vermont. He was in his mid-thirties, still single, and wore that red scarf nine months out of the year like a European dandy. Oberman had suspected he might be gay until a rumor came through the teachers’ lounge that he’d moved to Kansas to escape a chaotic love triangle with the principal and home-ec teacher at his last school. In their few conversations, Hinkle had bored Oberman senseless with talk of animal welfare. He’d apparently adopted three rescue dogs and was trying to set up a regional ASPCA chapter. Sandra had recently started volunteering at the local animal shelter. That must’ve been where they’d met. Maybe, Oberman thought, they were in Dodge on some sort of humanitarian mission — saving a dog from an abusive home or scoping out a suspected exotic animal smuggler. Sandra had a big heart. He loved that about her, and he loved that ridiculous sweater she wore with a corgi on it, tighter than she realized. Made her look nineteen. And anyway, this wouldn’t be the first time she’d forgotten to tell him about some volunteer activity. But as he stared at the rifle on his bed, his mind whirled with dark thoughts.
Oberman walked off the field, sat on the front row of the empty visitors’ bleachers, and watched the stands on the home side slowly fill with people. All HHS teachers were expected to attend, but so far Hinkle hadn’t showed. He wouldn’t dare. Most of the other teachers had arrived, along with several dozen students and a few of the team’s most ardent supporters. It wasn’t like it used to be. Back when they were at the top of the league, half the town turned up for pep rallies, and game days brought out Hornets flags in every yard and motivational signs on every store window. These days no one could seem to muster much spirit. DiMarco was right.
When he’d gotten the call from DiMarco to come to the District Office, Oberman didn’t think the meeting would be about football. In the aftermath of hearing about Sandra and Hinkle, he’d made a poor decision.