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  Blue Star Rapture

  James W. Bennett

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY

  OF MY MOTHER, MARGARET RUTH MORRIS,

  THE BEST PARENT A BOY COULD EVER HAVE.

  ONE

  On the day they left for the Full Court basketball camp, T.J. was flat on his back on the concrete, cramped beneath the deteriorating Toyota. While the grease streaked his chin and rust flakes stung his eyes, he struggled with the bolts on the starter bracket. Tyron, who was supposed to be helping him, was instead power slamming the basketball through the old rim on the older garage. “Hawkeyes!” he cried each time. “Ass-kickin’ Hawkeyes!”

  Every now and then, T.J. hollered at him to come and pass a wrench under, or a bolt, or a screwdriver. Each time, Tyron asked him, “Is it fixed yet?”

  “No,” said T.J. “It’ll get fixed a lot faster if you stay here to help me instead of playin’ Hawkeye over there.”

  “Boring.”

  “Did you know that next to the battery the starter is the heaviest engine part there is?”

  “No,” Tyron answered. “Have you ever been to Carver-Hawkeye?”

  “I’ve never been there. I’ve seen it on TV. It’s a huge arena, but what else would you expect from a Big Ten university?”

  “Sellouts, you mean. ESPN, huh?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. They sent you a letter, that’s all. Coaches send letters to lots of players, they work from a huge mailing list. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

  “Maybe they’ll offer me a scholarship, though.”

  “Maybe a lot of stuff. Let’s just kiss off on this Hawkeye shit, okay? North State was in on you from the beginning; if there’s going to be a chance, that’s probably where it will be. Either that or junior college.” T.J. tried to take a deep breath, but all he got for that was a mouth full of rusty granules. “This isn’t the one,” he said to Tyron. “I told you the crescent wrench.”

  “Slam-dunkin’ Hawkeyes, man!”

  Tyron jumped to his feet; after two or three of his giant strides, he was ready for another assault on the basket. The bolts were loose, so the rim wavered like a wire coat hanger. By turning his head to the side, T.J. was able to watch Tyron’s drama. “You’ll break the rim off if you don’t watch it,” he said.

  “No hangin’ and no jacknifin’,” Tyron replied. “Only power dunks.”

  “Come get me that big screwdriver.”

  When he passed it under, he said, “Explain to me about Proposition Forty-eight.”

  “No. We’ve tried that before.”

  “Okay then, explain to me Prop forty-two.”

  T.J. had had it up to his eyeballs with all the talk he’d heard about Propositions 42 and 48 from Lindsey, the coach at North State, and others. The propositions were the combination of high school grades and standardized test scores you had to achieve to become eligible for a college basketball scholarship. At times, he himself was confused by it all, so how could he explain it to someone else? To Tyron? “The bottom line is, you’ve got to study hard and get good grades.”

  “Shit.”

  “You asked.”

  Tyron’s response to this was another slam dunk and another cry of “Hawkeyes! In your face, motherfucker!”

  As soon as the starter was bolted firmly in place, T.J. crawled out from under the car. He flexed his torso to work some of the stiffness from his back while wiping grease from his hands and face. With his toe he kicked the tools out from underfoot.

  Gaines, the sportswriter from the Ledger-Daily, was sitting on his front porch. How long has he been sitting there? T.J. asked himself.

  “Is it fixed yet?” Tyron asked T.J. while ignoring the sportswriter altogether.

  “It’s fixed. Go get your stuff.”

  The big guy didn’t have to be told twice. He headed down the block in an up-tempo jog.

  “Hey, Nucci.” The sportswriter was calling him. T.J. wondered why Gaines’s clothes never seemed to work. He was wearing a pair of royal blue walking shorts, but with black socks and white canvas deck shoes. He asked T.J., “How close does he live?”

  “Less than a block. Down on the corner.”

  “He lives in a group home, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he does.” T.J. was afraid this might become one of those how lucky he is to have you for a friend conversations, so he asked Gaines what he wanted.

  “I thought I’d ask you if you’d like to take a few notes at Full Court. Call me when you get back and maybe we can get a story out of it.”

  “Why?” asked T.J.

  “Most of the best players in the state will be there, as well as several of the top prospects in the Midwest. A lot of high-profile college coaches will be there. If you kept your ears on, you might hear something.”

  “You mean like who’s going to which college, right?”

  “Sure.”

  He asked Gaines, “Why aren’t you covering the camp yourself?”

  “I would if I could, but there’s an international softball tournament down in Belleville. I’ll be there all week. I don’t like it, but that’s where my editor is sending me.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll keep my ears open, but I won’t promise about taking notes.”

  “Did I mention the paper would be willing to pay you?”

  T.J. didn’t know if this made it any better or any worse, but it certainly got his attention. “Let me think a minute,” he said to the sportswriter. “I’ll be right back.” He went into the kitchen where he could be alone, where there might be some sanctuary for this thinking he needed to do.

  It would be easy enough, for sure. All he would have to do would be to keep his ears open and then pass pieces of information about big-time players at the camp to a newspaper writer. But it didn’t feel right, somehow. It reminded him too much of the diary he had been keeping for several months in which he made notes about Tyron’s letters and contacts from college coaches.

  He entered the bathroom and began scrubbing his face and hands. The diary really seemed lame at times, and it also seemed lame how important you suddenly were if you were the closest friend of a big-time college prospect.

  Back in the kitchen, on top of the table clutter consisting of catalogs and third-class advertising circulars, was a note from his mother. In the freezer, according to the note, were eight pigs in a blanket wrapped in a box that used to house Tyson frozen chicken breasts. Take these with you, instructed his mother’s looping cursive, and they’ll be thawed by suppertime. T.J. couldn’t help but smile. His mother couldn’t get past the notion that camp meant they would be sleeping in lean-tos and fishing along the riverbank for food to eat.

  The note had a P.S.: As soon as you get back, I want you to show me some more stuff about the Quicken. He had to smile again. Quicken was the financial program his mother was studying in a night school computer course. Sometimes explaining computer information to her was as challenging as interpreting scoring averages for Tyron.

  He took the box of frozen pigs in a blanket, then gathered up his wallet and car keys. As soon as he was on the porch again he asked Gaines, “How much would the paper pay me?”

  “Can’t say for sure. We’d have to see what you find out.”

  “We’ll see,” said T.J. It wasn’t the kind of thing he could make up his mind about on a moment’s notice. Tyron was approaching the driveway with his huge Georgetown duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He was wearing the headphones of his Discman.

  Gaines was smiling. “I told you he was g
oing to be good, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you did.” said T.J.

  “He scored twenty-two points a game and averaged double-figure rebounds. I told you he was a prospect, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  They loaded the car and left. Tyron reclined the passenger’s seat as far as it would go, but his knees still jammed up awkwardly against the dash. At six feet nine inches, and 270 pounds, the big guy wasn’t likely to find a physical comfort zone in a small Japanese car. Tyron’s open, ingenuous face was smooth-complexioned, the rich color of coffee with milk added. His too-long nappy hair constructed an out-of-date Afro shag, but it made a convenient resting place for his marbled pick.

  “Do me a favor, Tyron,” said T.J. “Take the pick out of your hair, okay?”

  Tyron frowned. “But why?”

  “It’s one of those things that gets interpreted as some kind of gang shit. We don’t need that at the camp.”

  “My pick is nothin’ to do with gangs.”

  “You and I know that, but not everybody else does. Coaches and administrators, they think everything unusual is some kind of gang shit. You don’t want to do anything to get Lindsey suspicious. Or any other coach, for that matter.”

  Tyron leaned forward to slip the earphones of his Discman into place. He was so huge that in this position he blocked out all the light from the passenger’s side window. The secured pick stuck out at an acute angle like the armature on a coatrack. He spoke in the direction of his knees: “I got a letter from Georgetown. From John Thompson.”

  “I know. Remember, you showed it to me?” Tyron had received letters from so many colleges, T.J. would have lost track long ago were it not for the diary he maintained. T.J. had given up trying to explain to him that most of them were merely formal letters of introduction; they didn’t necessarily indicate any serious interest.

  “Slam-dunkin’ Hoyas, man,” murmured Tyron.

  “Take the pick out, okay, Tyron? All you have to do is put it in your pocket.”

  He took the pick out, but the flourish with which he cranked up his Boys II Men CD was a high-profile act of defiance.

  By the time they reached the edge of town, T.J. found himself brainstorming the pros and cons of Gaines’s offer.

  Thinking about the sportswriter, he remembered the first time he ever met him, that time when workouts started last fall. Gaines had shown up at a practice wearing an olive green corduroy suit that was loose and shapeless. He had taken a seat next to T.J. while the scrimmage was in progress. He seemed to clean his glasses a lot, and T.J. tried to remember if he’d ever seen a corduroy suit before.

  When the sportswriter saw the ice pack and wrap on T.J.’s left ankle, he asked the nature of the injury.

  “It’s nothin’,” T.J. had answered. “Coach DeFreese told me to sit a while.”

  “Oh, tough guy, huh?”

  “No, it’s nothin’.” It really was nothing, and certainly not the first time he’d ever faked an injury or exaggerated the seriousness of one. T.J. knew how rapid his recovery would be, how fully restored to health he’d be by suppertime. But he wasn’t about to say so to this sportswriter or to anyone else.

  For a few minutes they sat quietly, watching the scrimmage pound back and forth. It hadn’t taken long for Gaines to focus his attention on Tyron. “What do you know about him?” the writer had asked.

  T.J. could have answered, just about everything there is to know. But instead, he had simply replied, “He’s my friend. I know him.”

  “You’re a transfer too, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’m a transfer too.”

  “You transfer together?”

  “No. He transferred this year. I transferred last year.”

  “You know a lot about him, then.” By this time, Gaines had taken out a notebook and a ballpoint. “How’d he do as a sophomore?”

  “You mean back in the city?”

  “Yeah, how’d he do?”

  T.J. took the time to adjust his wrap, but it was only a stalling tactic. He didn’t know Gaines, so what should he tell him? A sportswriter was probably someone who could hurt you or help you, so you couldn’t just blurt out any information that came to mind. “Why are you so interested in Bumpy?” he finally asked.

  “Bumpy?”

  “I mean Tyron. That’s just an old nickname from when he was a kid; forget I even said it. But why are you so interested in him?”

  “Well, he’s a six-nine transfer from Chicago. It’s not the kind of thing that happens every day, is it? I have to check him out.”

  T.J. was set to ponder these remarks, when Gaines continued. “Until he proves otherwise, I have to assume he’s going to be an impact player.”

  “And?”

  “Well,” Gaines had said, while cleaning his glasses for the third or fourth time, “look at him.”

  T.J. watched. He could see how Tyron looked a lot more like a good player now that so much of the baby fat was gone. He moved better too, probably for that very reason. One time down the floor, when Morgan beat his man along the baseline and jumped to try a finger roll, Tyron left his man to swat the shot off the end of the court.

  Another time, on offense, getting his man on his hip posted up, he snatched a bad pass with his left hand, then turned in the lane to sink a soft jumper. “Look at that,” pointed out Gaines. “Strong hands. He catches the ball with one hand while holding his position, then shows nice balance rolling into the lane.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” said T.J. He didn’t know much about Gaines, but the sportswriter’s evident knowledge of basketball was urging him to look at Tyron with fresh eyes.

  “That’s the first thing a college scout looks for,” Gaines had added.

  College scout?? thought T.J., astonished. Did he say college scout? “Did you say something about college scouts?”

  “Yeah. The first thing they look for, especially in a big man, is can he catch the ball? How are his hands? Can he post up strong and catch the ball in traffic?”

  A college scout?

  “Your friend’s only a junior,” Gaines had reminded him. “That’s what to look for, strong hands in traffic. Keep it in mind when you watch him.”

  T.J. tried, but all he could keep in mind was Tyron’s low IQ and even lower grades. He had to laugh, almost, it was so comical to think of Tyron and a college coach sitting down to have a meaningful conversation.

  By the time the scrimmage had entered its last five minutes, Tyron’s fatigue had taken over, so he was essentially the player T.J. was familiar with. He was lazy down the court, easily discouraged by missed shots or turnovers. He was only a factor if the game was strictly in the half-court mode, and even then only a marginal one. T.J. wondered if Gaines saw those things too, or only the stuff that might make good newspaper reading. College scouts? He had to give credit where credit was due, though; without Gaines’s input, he never would have appreciated Tyron’s potential.

  T.J. put the scrimmage memory aside and returned to the present. By the time they were south of Springfield, he began to watch for exit signs while he kept an intermittent eye on the temperature gauge. The old Toyota was hinky in half a dozen ways, but most especially in the department of overheating.

  Tyron kept shifting uncomfortably in the passenger’s seat, struggling to find a way to conform his huge bulk to the inadequate available space. Finally, he gave it up: “T.J., can we stop somewhere? I have to piss.”

  T.J. was lighting a cigarette. “We’ve only got about six miles to go, once we get off the highway. Can’t you wait?”

  “I have to piss real bad.”

  “Okay, we’ll stop.”

  TWO

  They stopped at a roadhouse only a mile or two off the interstate. Standing at a rural crossroads, it bore the name of HEAVEN’S GATE in white painted letters on green shingle siding. The way the white gravel in the parking lot reflected the heat of the blazing sun, T.J. had to think a name with hell in it would have been more appropriat
e. There was nothing heavenly once you got inside, either. Heaven’s Gate was a combination redneck bar, convenience store, tacky grocery store, and sit-down restaurant.

  There were lop-eared girlie magazines and supermarket tabloids next to the cash register, and a homemade sign by the beer corner said, WE CARD EVERYBODY; IF YOU WANT BREW, HAVE YOUR I.D. READY. A narrow wing with poor lighting and restaurant-style tables wrapped around the bar. There was loud laughing from some of the men seated there drinking beer and playing cards. Some of the faces were familiar to T.J.; he recognized them as coaches, even if he couldn’t recall their names. He decided they must be here to watch players at Full Court, and this would be their watering hole.

  Before they left the roadhouse, Tyron bought a large bag of potato chips and a sixteen-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew. T.J. drove tentatively while Tyron gobbled on his chips. The primitive blacktop road he navigated slowly was characterized by twists and turns and sudden hills. The dense timber stood so near the shoulder that any view of the huge reservoir to their right came in the form of a brief glimpse every now and then across a small clearing. T.J. had to watch the rustic directional signs closely to avoid turning down the lanes that led to boat launches or other recreational areas.

  It might have been an area of pastoral beauty—in fact, probably was—but for T.J. it was too unfamiliar to be comfortable. Besides the fact he’d never been here before, it was too woodsy. There was a severe absence of pavement. This was the forest. T.J. had spent all but the past two years of his life on the streets of Chicago. Heaven’s Gate, it seemed to him, stood at the threshold of a remote and doubtful region of daunting wilderness, much more purgatory than paradise.

  These thoughts made a cloud in his brain, but then Tyron intruded: “What’s in the box, T.J.?”

  “What box?”

  “In the backseat, that chicken box.”

  “Oh. Those are pigs in a blanket. My mother made ’em.”

  “What’s pigs in a blanket?”

  “Hot dogs. They’re baked in crescent rolls.”

  “Can I have one?” Tyron asked.