Cleo made like he was crouching behind an imaginary center; he barked some numbers and smacked the football with a loud “Hike.” He backpedaled five paces; I pulled on the rope furiously to bring the tire across the space. He cocked and fired a perfect spiral right through the middle of it. Buzzy caught the ball and threw a wobbly pass right back to him. “Bring it over your ear, Buzz,” Cleo said, demonstrating proper technique in slow motion. He turned to me. “Kevin, you gotta pull like you got a world-record jimmy on the line.” He set up at center again. “Y’all ready? Sixteen, sixteen, blue thirty-two, hike.” He back-pedaled exactly five steps. I pulled the rope with newly found pace; the tire whipped across the wire at running-back speed. He stepped up and threw another perfect pass through the opening. Buzzy caught the ball and tossed it back, careful to follow Cleo’s passing instructions. “Great throw, Buzzy. Way to get your hip into it. Kevin, that was good pullin. Our guys can’t run that fast, but in college they all do.” Buzzy and I switched places. Cleo fired another pass, this time missing the tire. I brought my hands up to catch it, but it came so hard and fast that it bounced off my chest, nearly knocking the wind out of me. I picked it up and threw a wobbly pass back to Cleo. He laughed and said, “Who taught you how to throw?”
“No one,” I said. “I taught myself.”
“I can see that. You stink,” he said with a grin. “Come here for a minute.”
I walked over to him. He put the ball in my hands. “First thing, you’re holdin the ball too close to the middle; hold it toward the back like this.” He showed me how to properly grip the ball. “Then bring it back with a straight arm and swing your hips toward the target. Go on and try that.” I did, and the result was measurably better, though still quite lame. Buzzy caught the ball and zipped it straight back to Cleo. “Good try, but you’ve got to bring your arm down to your ear and move your hips to the target at the same time.” I tried it again, this time almost a perfect spiral. “That’s it,” Cleo said. “Great try.” He gave me a high five. I smiled, my first real one since April. We worked with Cleo for another hour in the stifling heat, throwing footballs and doing all manner of drills and exercises.
“Time for road work. Anybody wanna run with me?” he said with a grin.
Buzzy shook his head. “Naw, we got stuff to do.”
“Whatever.” He started off down the road, then stopped. “Hey, hang on jus a second.” He ran into the house, then came out a few moments later carrying a two-foot-long thick black plastic box. He put it at Buzzy’s feet. “This is for you.”
Buzzy knelt, unclipped the hasps, and opened it. Inside, nestled in gray foam, was a gleaming crossbow pistol.
“That asswipe Tilroy give it to me. An now I’m givin it to you.”
Buzzy pulled it out slowly, reverently. “Whoa, this thing is cool.” He raised it, closed an eye, and took aim at a squirrel on a branch.
“Thought you’d like it,” Cleo said proudly. He patted Buzzy on the back, then took off running down the gravel lane that led out of the hollow to the highway.
“Man, Buzzy. Cleo is really cool. I can’t believe he just gave it to you. It’s like he doesn’t treat you like a pissant younger brother or anything. It’s like he’s your friend or something.”
“Yeah, he’s an awesome brother,” Buzzy said. There seemed to be a doleful tone in his voice that I’d not heard before. “Come on, let’s head up the tree house an shoot it.”
We walked over Kinder Mountain to the tree house. I was curious about Buzzy’s father’s illness but decided not to pry.
We took a piece of plywood and made an X in the middle with dirt and propped it against the tree. Buzzy cocked the bowstring and loaded the heavy metal arrow into the groove at the top of the gun. He closed one eye for aim and pulled the trigger. The gun made a whoosh sound and the bolt flew out and hit the dirt X exactly in the middle. The bolt drove through the plywood and lodged in the tree behind it.
“Dude, that thing is powerful. Let me try.”
Buzzy cocked the string and loaded the second bolt. I aimed, hands shaking slightly, and fired, hitting the upper left of the target. “Ain’t bad for city,” he said and laughed. We collected the bolts and tried again. For the next three hours we practiced with the crossbow pistol—once Buzzy missed a squirrel by a whisker. After a while we went back up to the tree house and sat on the front porch.
Buzzy lit a cigarette and handed me one.
“No, thanks, man.” I knew Pops would disapprove and I didn’t want to do anything that would cause reproach.
“We oughta camp up the Tellin Cave tomorrow night. It’s Rebah Deal night.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s the night when all the ghosts a people killed there come hauntin up from the bottom a the cave.”
“You don’t believe that old legend, do you? I mean, seriously, how can a cave kill you?”
“You can ask Rebah Deal herself when she comes ghostin tomorra.”
I looked for a smile to betray the joke, but there was none. “I don’t know. I don’t think Pops will let me spend the night in a cave.”
“Of course he won’t; that’s what makes it fun. Tell him you’re campin with me up the tree house. I owe you a campout.”
We said good-byes and I walked back over the mountain into town just as dusk was settling. Pops was on the porch with the mustering night.
“He is back from his travels at last,” he said when I opened the gate. I walked up the steps and collapsed into the chair next to him. “I assume you either caught up with Buzzy Fink or found an abandoned coal mine to explore. Best stay out of them, mind you.”
“I went all the way over to Fink’s Hollow. He was there helping his father.”
“That’s a lot of walking for a single day.”
“His dad seems really sick. Like he’s got cancer or something.”
Pops nodded. “He’s very ill. It’s sad for Buzzy and Cleo.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Pneumoconiosis.”
“Cancer?”
“Black lung. It’s what some miners get after breathing in all that coal dust for years.”
“Is he going to die?”
“I’m afraid so. This last year has been bad for him.”
I picked at a paint chip in the porch floor and thought about Buzzy and his father and the coming loss. Thought about my father and everything we lost when Josh died. Finally understanding our common trial somehow brought me closer to Buzzy—as if tragedy, or the prospect of it, had inducted us into some secret society of the baned.
“He invited me over to camp out tomorrow night,” I said after a while.
Pops scratched his chin. “Tomorrow night, eh?”
I looked up at him.
“And where exactly will you be camping?”
“Probably up on the mountain somewhere.” It wasn’t a complete lie.
He looked at me with concern. “Just be careful wherever you boys decide to camp.”
“I will,” I said and ran into the kitchen to call Buzzy.
Mom was sitting at the kitchen table with both hands around a hot cup of tea. Audy Rae was working dough by the sink.
Mom looked up to me when I entered the room. She smiled for the first time in months. It was a small, almost indiscernible upturn of the lips, but a smile nonetheless. “Hey,” I said.
“Hi, Kevin,” was all she could manage, then back to staring at the residue on the bottom of her teacup, as if studying the meaning of loss in the leaves.
“My friend Buzzy invited me to camp out tomorrow night,” I said to fill the vast silence.
“That will be fun,” said Audy Rae. Mom opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came. It seemed she had lost her capacity for regular conversation and was able to speak only in grief and salutation.
“Do you know Buzzy’s mom—from when you were growing up?”
She took in a breath and looked up at the corner of the room where the ceiling joined two walls. “I do know Isak Fink and his sister Velva. We were in high school together; Isak was a senior when we were freshmen.” She let out several short sharp breaths.
“I saw your high school stuff upstairs,” I said, hoping the remembrance of her accomplishments past would somehow bring her spirits up. “You were running everything.”
Mom didn’t respond. She continued staring at the corner of the kitchen.
Audy Rae finally broke the awkward silence. “She’s got her mom’s organizational skills and her daddy’s bossiness.”