Evangeline Read online

  No, Angeline had absolutely zero interest in America’s Game… until earlier that day when Caleb flagged her down in the corridor and invited her to come watch Friday night football under the lights.

  Presto. Suddenly my sister was a huge fan.

  “I don’t like it,” the deputy muttered under breath as he pressed the campaign hat onto his head. Then he checked his watch, frowned at Angeline and went out the door.

  No, sir. Stumpy didn’t like it one bit.

  And Angeline loved that.

  When Sister arrived in Willowdale Township to watch the undefeated Buffalos take on the Clearwater Cardinals, the parking lots and side streets around the high school were jammed with vehicles. Judging from the size of the turnout, the game must have been a pretty big deal. It took Sister more than ten minutes to walk from her parking spot on a residential side street to the ticket booth, dressed against the November chill in one of Mother’s threadbare coats.

  With ticket in hand, she followed other late arrivals down a ribbon of blacktop toward the sound of muffled drums. As she crested a grassy slope the girl found herself looking down on the high school football field; a vast green carpet shining brightly beneath halogen lights.

  The stands flanking the field were jammed with spectators who were cheering wildly as a lone figure wearing a blue jersey went dashing the length of the field, chased by a posse of red shirts. At the end of his run, the boy in blue raised the ball above his head, a man in black and white threw up his hands and a sudden cacophony of band instruments and raucous cheers washed over Angeline like a wave. Friends, this was an alien place for Angeline--a world as foreign as the surface of the Moon--and it was with great trepidation that she decided to move closer.

  When Sister turned the corner at the front of the stands, she found herself looking up at a sea of faces. A few she recognized from school, but most were strangers, bundled against the cold in scarves, gloves and jackets. On the other side of a chain link fence that separated the crowd from the field, Briana Dresner and her Dresnerettes were flinging their arms, kicking legs and shaking their pom poms as they chanted in unison, “Go blue let’s fight! Go gold, win tonight!”

  Angeline had begun climbing the first aisle, passing row after row of aluminum benches looking for an open place to sit, when she recognized Billy Quinn’s barking butt-sniffers, the three boys who followed their leader through the high school like obedient hounds. The puss-faced kid nearest the aisle nudged his buddy and pointed Sister out. She turned away quickly and parked her butt on the very edge of the nearest bench, shoulders hunched and hands tucked between her knees.

  A whistle blew and a loud speaker blared, “Clearwater timeout”. As the band struck up a discordant tune, the boys in blue came trotting off the field in Angeline’s direction. When the helmet came off number 51, she recognized Billy. The Asshole peered into the stands with eyes underlined by smears of black war paint, and Sister instinctively held her breath and shrank away. Billy wasn’t looking for her, of course--it would have been almost impossible to pick her out of that crowd--but that’s how far the boy had crawled inside my sister’s mind.

  Like a turtle emerging from its shell, she poked her head out again when Billy looked away. Then she saw Caleb and sat up straight. Number 32 sure looked handsome in that jersey, thought Angeline. Much better looking than the other boys. His blonde hair was matted with sweat and he raked fingers over his scalp to push it back. One of his teammates tossed him a water bottle and Caleb squirted a stream into his mouth.

  When the whistle blew again, Caleb and the rest of the blue shirts pulled their helmets back on and trotted to the middle of the field as the cheerleaders shuffled and chanted, “Move from side to side, and show that Buffalo pride! Move from side to side and show that Buffalo pride!”

  Before long the red and blue armies were battling tooth-and-nail again. Caleb went sprinting after a red shirt who was headed in the direction of the stands. But before he could catch him, number 51 came flying from nowhere and crushed the kid, driving him violently into the turf and separating him from the ball. It was The Asshole doing what The Asshole did best… bringing the pain. The loose ball was grabbed by an overweight Willowdale player who lumbered away with red shirts leaping upon his back like a pride of lions trying to bring down a fleeing water buffalo.

  Meantime, the boy Billy had body-slammed plucked the sod from his teeth and shouted a profanity that brought a gasp from the crowd. The Asshole must have taken exception because he grabbed the kid by the front of his helmet and flung him into the ground. From that point it was pandemonium. Players swarmed, the crowd screamed and the men in black and white blew whistles and flung yellow rags in the air.

  So this was football. Sister couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Nor did she care to. She was just happy Billy Quinn was picking on some other poor soul that Friday night.

  The game ended with the Willowdale Buffalos victorious once again and Angeline found herself swept up in a press of humanity moving toward the parking lot like cows driven through a slaughter chute. Caleb was still out on the field with his teammates, huddling with Mr. Walters, the school’s football coach. When the huddle broke and Caleb headed for the exit, Angeline bucked the tide to intercept him. But just before they connected, Susan Weaver appeared and threw her arms around him.

  Angeline tried to reverse course and melt back into the herd, but as Caleb turned to accept congratulations from a passing adult, he noticed her and waved. Sister returned a tight smile as Caleb and Susan approached. Right away she smelled the musky sweat that drenched his uniform.

  “Hey, you made it!” he greeted her.

  “How are you, Angeline?” said Susan.

  “Hello,” Sister replied coolly, giving her competition a dismissive look. She fell into step with them and followed the current.

  “After I get changed we’re heading over to the Mohr’s,” said Caleb, his football cleats clacking over the blacktop. “Why don’t you come with us?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Angel. I got the El Camino running. I’ll drive you.”

  “Mmm-my truck...”

  “Don’t worry about your truck. I’ll give you a ride back here. I owe you one, remember?”

  “You really should come,” prodded Susan. “It’ll be fun.”

  Regardless of whether my sister wanted to be alone with Caleb--or didn’t want him alone with Susan--she eventually decided to return to the Mohr’s that night… a decision that would later prove disastrous.

  An evening that started badly only to get worse, began with Sister spending an interminable twenty minutes in the parking lot listening to Susan Weaver while Caleb changed in the locker room. Angeline was far too self-conscious and awkward to contribute anything meaningful to the conversation, but that didn’t stop Susan from filling the time with a nonstop gush of verbal diarrhea. The girl never took a breath, sharing any inconsequential thought that popped into her head. Even worse, she peppered every sentence with a barrage of superfluous “likes”. It was “like” this and “like” that. For a fan of literature and language like my sister, the word was jarring, banging on her back teeth like tiny hammers.

  While Susan chattered away, Sister found herself distracted by Brianna Dresner and some of her cheerleader pals who had gathered near a banged up cargo van on the other side of the lot. Every student at Willowdale High knew who that black van belonged to. It was The Asshole’s self-anointed “pussy wagon”-- an homage, rumor had it, to his favorite Quentin Tarantino flick. Before long, Caleb exited the gym with big brother Billy close on his heels. The two were arguing, shouting verbal broadsides back and forth, before The Asshole broke it off and joined Brianna at the van.

  Caleb was visibly upset as he ducked behind the wheel of his El Camino.

  “What’s going on?” asked Susan as she slid into the front seat ahead of Angeline.

  “Nothing,” grumbled Caleb, “Let’s just go.”

  As
he backed out of the lot, Angeline caught a brief glimpse of Billy and Brianna engaged in a heated conversation while the other cheerleaders awkwardly drifted away. Caleb booted the gas, the rear tires spit dirt and the car roared from the lot.

  Angeline stayed silent during the long drive to the Mohr’s, shoved up against the passenger’s side door and gazing out the window at shadowy fields of corn and baled hay while Susan Weaver blabbered on. Only once did Sister bother eavesdropping-- and only because the conversation shifted to the infamous Holt Hacker. Apparently Susan had heard disturbing rumors that the serial killer wasn’t just murdering her victims… she was castrating them as well.

  “Where’d you hear that?” Caleb wanted to know.

  “Karen’s dad said so. He, like, heard it from… umm, I forget. But he told her the Hacker…” Susan made a chopping motion with her hand. “She, like, cuts off their pee pees.”

  “Pee pees?” mocked Caleb. “What are you fuckin’ five?”

  “My mom called it that,” Susan snapped indignantly. “Why? What do you call it?”

  “Captain Winky.”

  Susan smirked at him. “You think it’s funny, but the Hacker probably lives around here. She could be anywhere.” Susan turned to Angeline. “Am I right?”

  Angeline shrugged.

  The El Camino turned onto the Mohr’s property and parked between sections of rusted barbed wire. A fire was burning in the outdoor pit, but only a handful of hardy souls were braving the chilling mist that ghosted in. Everyone else had retreated into the farmhouse, which is where Caleb and Susan immediately headed, trailed by Angeline.

  The interior of the Mohr’s home, illuminated by candles and lanterns, was a dilapidated mess, carpeted in decades of dust. The walls of the crowded great room, which is where the partiers had congregated, were pocked with holes. The wallpaper--or what remained of it--was torn and yellowed with age. There was no furniture to speak of, either. Just a busted up table and a tattered couch with years of grime and dirt ground into its fabric.

  The partiers--mostly students from Willowdale High--were drinking booze, smoking weed and singing along to mainstream country tunes blasting from a CD player propped on the mantle of a fireplace that was filled with empty beer cans and shattered bottles.

  “Screw this pop country shit!” Caleb shouted above the din. “Let’s rock this house!”

  “Fuck off!” a chorus of voices retorted.

  Caleb grinned as he pulled a pint bottle of tequila from a bag he’d carried in from the car. “You like country?” he asked Angeline. “I mean real fiddle and steel country?”

  Sister shrugged. She’d heard of country. But, thanks to Mother, the only music in the house was La Vie En Rose-- which she’d endured a thousand fucking times.

  “I grew up listening to that music,” continued Caleb as he twisted the cap off the Jose Cuervo. “That and old school rock n’ roll. My bros played it all the time. That’s music with attitude, you know? It’s honest. Not like this recycled mainstream country bubblegum bullshit.”

  “Well, I like it,” Susan interjected.

  “Yeah, you would Weaver. You can have your Carrie Underwoods and your fuckin’ Taylor Swifts. Gimme Red Dirt country any day of the week, man.” He took a jolt of tequila and offered it to Angeline. “Want some?”

  Sister declined, so he passed the tequila along to Susan. The girl took a sip, grimaced at the taste, then passed it right back again. “I’ll stick with mine,” she told him, hoisting a bottle of cheap wine.

  “I’m smokin’ up,” said Caleb, leaving to join a circle of friends passing a pipe on the far side of the room. As he crossed, a stocky kid wearing a Redman Chewing Tobacco cap was leading a girl with boobs the size of small children up a rickety staircase to the second floor.

  “Trust me, you don’t want to go up there,” said Susan, reading Sister’s eyes.

  “W-What’s up there?”

  “Mattresses,” answered Susan, crinkling her nose. “Can you imagine? Gross.” That said, she moved off to join some of her girlfriends, leaving Angeline standing all by her lonesome.

  For the next hour or so my socially retarded sister held up the walls and tried to blend in with the wallpaper. Despite her best efforts, though, Caleb kept finding her; introducing Angeline to new friends and copious amounts of alcohol and cannabis, all of which she waved off.

  After a time she considered sneaking away, perhaps even walking home. But it was almost a three mile hike through a cold, spitting mist to reach the farm, and ten times that distance back to the parking lot where the F-100 was parked. My sister was stuck, once again, on an alien planet. Her best option, it seemed, was to ride out the night and try to survive the unpleasant situation.

  It was about that time that Angeline’s gaze happened to fall on the half empty bottle of Jose Cuervo sitting on the fireplace mantle. She drifted closer, careful not to draw attention to herself, then snatched the tequila and twisted off the cap. Sister didn’t like the idea of drinking booze, but the stuff seemed to have loosened up everyone else at the party so…

  She sniffed the neck, took a cautious sip and gagged.

  But at that point, however brutal the taste, failure was not an option. So Angeline bravely soldiered on, swallowing another sip, then another… followed by a gulp. And each time the alcohol went down a little easier. Soon enough a comfortable warmth was rising through her body.

  Tequila, she decided, was damn good shit.

  “Hey, Angel!”

  Caleb was grinning at her from across the room. “Whatcha doin’ over there?”

  Angeline returned a drunken smile. The girl was all numb and fuzzy now. Life was good.

  “Careful with that,” said the boy. “It’ll sneak up and bite you in the ass.”

  As he was saying this, Susan Weaver stumbled drunk into Caleb’s arms and planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek. He draped an arm over the girl’s shoulder and returned an affectionate peck on her head.

  Well, friends, that didn’t sit well with my sister. She thought the blabby bitch was muscling in on her man. Tequila in hand, Angeline lurched their direction then paused on the fringe of the circle of friends. As near as Sister could figure it, the conversation was about the Holt Hacker, but the kids were either too stoned or too shit-faced to stay on point.

  “Well, that’s what I heard,” Susan was slobbering at Soup.

  “Woooooo… scary,” said Soup as he sparked a joint.

  Susan glared at him. “I hope she chops your weenie off.”

  “Good luck finding it,” laughed Caleb.

  “Listen to needle dick the insect fucker,” Soup retorted.

  A tall kid with a mutton chop beard and black frame glasses laughed and bumped knuckles with Soup.

  “I’m serious, okay?” Susan mumbled drunkenly. “This shit is, like, freakin’ me out.”

  “What do you care, Weaver,” said Soup. “You’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “Ha… ha,” mocked Susan as she laid her head on Caleb’s shoulder. “It’s jus’ freakin’ me out, tha’s all.”

  Caleb felt a tap on the opposite shoulder and turned to find Angeline behind him.

  “Hey, Angel. What’s--”

  Before he could finish, Sister was stretching on her toes and lunging forward, trying to plant a sloppy kiss on his mouth.

  “Whoa, wait a sec!” exclaimed Caleb, jerking his head back.

  Angeline stood there mortified, frozen awkwardly in time. The kid with the mutton chops chuckled and a short Asian-looking girl next to him slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. Embarrassed and ashamed, Sister bolted for the door, nearly bowling over a couple walking in as she was rushing out.

  Of course I knew Angeline’s mind. The girl fully intended to walk all the way back to the family farm, weather be damned. And she would have to--or died trying--if Caleb hadn’t caught her on the oil road.

  “Hold up,” the boy was pleading as he trotted after her. “C’mon, Angel. Talk to me.”
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  “I feel so stupid,” she sobbed drunkenly, wiping away tears.

  “It’s not what you think,” he insisted, falling into step. “It’s not.”

  “I know you like Susan, Caleb. I’m so sorry.”

  “Susan’s got nothing to do with it. You don’t understand. Hey, wait a second.” He grabbed Angeline by the arm, bringing her up short.

  “I couldn’t kiss you, Angel,” he said. “Not the way you wanted. It’s different with you.”

  Angeline’s face hardened and she angrily wiped away her tears. The boy had plucked a nerve.

  “Bbbb-because I’m different,” she said coldly, then shook off his grip and began walking again.

  “No.” said Caleb watching her go. “Because I’m your brother.”

  What the fuck?!

  The news whiplashed both of us like a blindside impact, and brought Angeline up short. It was a long moment before she turned to face the boy, still too stunned to speak.

  “I wanted to tell you before,” Caleb explained. “I just didn’t know how.”

  “I don’t bbb-believe you.”

  “It’s true,” he insisted. “My mother got spun one night about a month ago and told me everything. She said all my brothers had different fathers… and that mine was J.D. Gottschalk.”

  “No. That’s a lie.”

  Caleb approached her slowly. “My mom may be a tweaker. And she may be a whore. But she’s never been a liar.” He stopped before her, took a deep breath and let it out again. “Look, I can’t prove anything, and you can believe what you want, Angel. But I know my mom. And I know she was telling the truth.”

  To me it all made sense now-- Caleb Quinn’s whole “getting to know you” shtick. Of course, that didn’t make things any easier for my sister. The poor girl was devastated, not knowing what to think or how to feel. So, rather than deal with those clashing emotions, she fled them, turning on heel and walking, once more, toward Hainesville.