UNSPORTSMANLIKE CONDUCT
When a football-obsessed town ignores justice, a ghost spurs her grieving
father to action.
Cotton had just poured my third bourbon of the night when
the fat man at the end of the bar decided to talk to me.
“We’re winning state this year,” he said, pointing to his
Huntington Falcons hat.
“We’ll see.”
“No doubt in my mind. Josh Minshew is starting at QB.
There’s no stopping a Minshew.”
I winced at that but didn’t respond.
“Hey, you look familiar,” the man said. “Don’t I know you
from somewhere?”
“Doubt it. I’m not very social.”
“Suit yourself,” the man drawled. “All I was doing was
trying to make a little conversation.”
He took a sip of his beer and looked around the empty bar
before turning back to me. Some people just can’t help themselves.
“You are a fan,
right?” he asked.
“Can’t be a fan. I’m a ref.”
The guy almost spit out his beer mid-swig.
“That’s it!” he said, pointing at me. “That’s how I know
you. You’re that ref who fucked us over in playoffs last fall.”
“You did a pretty good job of fucking yourselves over.
Charlie Parker threw five interceptions.”
The man waddled toward me and hovered over my shoulder.
“Bullshit,” he growled. “It was tied in the fourth
quarter, and we were driving. Would’ve kicked a field goal to win it if you
hadn’t called that fumble.”
“You want to know the truth about why I called that
fumble?”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning in close. “Let’s hear it.”
“Because it was a fucking fumble.”
“Bullshit! The runner’s knee was down. How much did those
boosters at Central pay you to fix the game?”
“Not enough to put up with water buffalos like you.”
“You think you’re real smart, don’t you?” he shouted.
“Well, I don’t care how shitty of a ref you are. Not you or anyone else is
stopping us this year. Minshew’s taking us all the way.”
“I don’t ref Falcons games anymore, so I guess I’m
allowed to say it. Fuck Josh Minshew.”
“Fuck Josh Minshew?! He and his family made this town!
They’re Huntington royalty.”
“Josh hasn’t even played a game yet,” chimed in Cotton. “Sure
you’re ready to crown him?”
“Damn sure,” said the man. “You’ll see tomorrow night. He’s
gonna be a star here. Then he’ll go to college and the pros like his brother.”
“Kind of weird how excited you’re getting about a teenage
boy,” I said.
“What’re
you implying?” the man sneered. “Bartender, get me another beer so I can
explain a thing or two to this sumbitch!”
“Well, fine. I don’t care to associate with Falcon haters
anyway. I’ll take my business elsewhere.”
The man tossed his empty bottle behind the bar where it
crashed to the floor. He lurched out into the parking lot, slamming the door
behind him.
“Asshole,” said Cotton, bending over to pick up the
broken glass. “Guys like him need to just swallow some buckshot and be done
with it.”
I finished off my drink.
“Could’ve worded that differently, Cotton.”
Cotton stood up and shook his head.
“Oh god, Jerry. I’m sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”
“Just pour me another. I don’t want to think either.”
I downed it and tapped my glass for refill.
The
liquor’s tasted pretty good since Cassie died.
###
After a
few more, I stumbled out the bar and into the parking lot where my ’03 Camry
waited under a streetlight.
“Shit.”
There were only three cars left, but all of them had
their headlights bashed in. Guess the asshole wasn’t sure which was mine and
decided to ruin everyone’s night.
Josh Minshew stared down mockingly from a Huntington
Falcons billboard across the street. Real
sorry about your lights, he seemed to say. But I didn’t do it. I’ve got people who can vouch.”
I reached into my pocket for my keys but pulled out a
napkin instead. I drew a sharp breath when I read the four words written in
pink.
“Daddy, I’m still here.”
###
Sometimes you have trouble driving because you’re drunk.
Other times it’s because your headlights are out. Other times still, it’s
because some sick bastard slipped a note in your pocket pretending to be your
dead daughter.
I had all three working against me, so I guess I
should’ve expected the blue lights. The cop pulled me over, and I cracked the
window.
“License and registration.”
I
slipped them through. The kid looked like he was new on the job – no older than
25 – and I was guessing he still took his work seriously.
“Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?”
“Headlights, I guess. Been meaning to get them fixed,” I
said, trying not to slur.
“You were also swerving. Have you been drinking?”
“No, not really.”
The cop sighed.
“I need you step out of the car.”
I opened the door and struggled to my feet and looked him
in the face. When he made eye contact with me, he took a step back then glanced
down at his shoes and I knew he felt ashamed.
“Sir, I didn’t realize it was you.”
“We haven’t met, have we?”
“No, sir,” the cop said, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s
just… I’m sorry about…”
I lifted my hand.
“No need for that, son. Go ahead and take me in if you
need to.”
“I don’t want to take you in, sir,” the cop sighed. “You
close to your place?”
“Less than a mile.”
“Then just go on home and be safe about it. And make sure
to get those headlights fixed.”
###
At home I found a newspaper on the porch and took it
inside. I poured another drink and turned to the sports section where a
headline said “THE MINSHEW DEBUT” with a picture of Josh standing smugly with
his arms crossed.
“God damn it,” I said, tossing the paper into the trash.
I took my drink to the couch and passed out before I
could finish it.
###
I woke to a crash, then groaned and struggled to my feet,
trying to ignore my throbbing head. When
I got to the kitchen, trash was scattered across the floor.
“Shit.”
I set the can upright and starting refilling it. I
reached for the newspaper but dropped it when I saw the picture of Josh
Minshew. There were holes poked where
his eyes had been, and his face was scratched out in pink ink.
“Cassie?” I called, before realizing how stupid that was.
“Who’s there?”
I grabbed my pistol and searched the whole house twice
without luck.
I was still pretty shaken up but I was even more drunk,
so I plopped down in bed and closed my eyes. I may have dozed off – I don’t
know – but it wasn’t long before I heard her.
“Don’t open your eyes,” she said. “Or I’ll be gone.”
“Baby?” I said. “Is that really you?”
“It’s me, daddy.”
I just started crying. Didn’t know what else to do. She
ran her soft hand through my hair then stole some of the wetness from my
cheeks.
“I want to kill him,” I whispered. “I want to kill the
boy who raped my girl.”
“I know, daddy,” she said. “I know.”
###
I’m not sure how long she stayed, but in the morning I woke
alone.
There was a voicemail on my phone from a number I didn’t
recognize.
“This is Harvey with McClintock and Associates. Wanted to
reach out again about the Minshew case. It hurts that the police wouldn’t make
an arrest, but we may be able to go after him civilly. Assault and battery.
Intentional infliction of emotional distress. They may be willing to settle
if…”
I
deleted it halfway through.
I went to the kitchen and put a Pop-Tart in the toaster,
hoping it’d soak up my hangover. Through the window I could see someone
standing in my yard, near the mailbox. Wondered who the fuck it was, but then
she turned around.
I left my Pop-Tart and ran outside.
“Cassie!” I yelled, searching the yard. “Where are you?”
There was no sign of her, but I noticed a tiny bit of
white peeking out of the mailbox. I reached in and pulled out another napkin
with pink writing.
“Parson’s Bridge. 4pm. He dies.”
###
I drove to Parson’s about an hour before and waited near
the spots where the kids like to go. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone with the
opening game tonight, but if she used whatever weird, mystical ghost powers she
had to tell me to come, I wasn’t going to let her down.
I want to kill the
boy who raped my daughter.
I was sober now, but I still meant it.
Near four, I left my truck and eased down the embankment
with my pistol in my hand. I stayed as quiet as I could, which wasn’t easy with
all the leaves and branches and broken beer bottles scattered across the
ground. When I got to the bottom, I didn’t see Cassie or Minshew or anyone else
yet, so I settled down near one of the abutments and waited in the shadows.
Before long, I heard her voice.
“Put the gun away, daddy.”
“Where are you?” I asked, looking around but seeing
nothing. “Where’s the boy?”
“He’s not here.”
“What about the note? You know I’ll kill him for you.”
“You’re not going to kill that boy, daddy. It’s almost my
time to go.”
“But, baby, I don’t want you to go,” I whispered,
fighting back the tears. “I need you here with me.”
“I can’t stay, daddy. I’m sorry. Sorry about what I did.
I shouldn’t have taken those pills. Wasn’t thinking straight. Wasn’t sure if
I’d ever think straight again.”
“You know I don’t blame you,” I said. “I love you so
much. I’m not able to get on without you.”
“You’re going to be OK, daddy.”
“I won’t.”
“I need you to keep living. Do it for me.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I’ll try,” I whispered.
“I have to go now, daddy, but I have something for you.”
I watched as a loose brick in one of the piers slowly
slipped out of its crevice and fell to the ground.
“Reach inside.”
I pulled out a small book and opened it up.
“Is this your diary?”
“Journal, dad,”
she laughed. “When you miss me, you can read this and maybe I’ll feel a little
closer.”
“I’ll read it every day,” I said. “I’ll read it over and
over. I’ll read it forever.”
I felt her lips kiss my forehead.
“I love you, daddy,” she said.
Then she was gone.
###
I sat down and read the journal from beginning to end then
started back at the beginning. I missed her so much. I sat there reading until
the sun disappeared into night.
When I got back to my car, Cotton had texted me.
“Figured you might have heard, but Minshew is dead. Hung
himself in the locker room three hours before his big debut. Left a note confessing
to everything.”
###
A few days later, I sat at the bar and mostly listened as
Cotton talked.
“It’s funny he wrote the note the way he did” said
Cotton. “Well, not funny. But strange.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was all in pink. Can you imagine a big football
player like that sitting down to write a suicide note with a pink pen? Just
doesn’t seem to fit.”
My glass nearly fell out of my hand.
“Hadn’t heard that.”
“Yeah, they mentioned it on the radio this morning. But
what do I know about these things? I guess there’s nothing typical about them.
Sick people are sick, and there’s no rhyme or reason to how their minds work.” He
eyed my glass and grabbed the Maker’s. “Looks like you’re running low. Let me fill
you up.”
“No, that’s OK,” I said. “I’d better get on home. I’ve
had enough for a while.”
