Sins of the Tribe

The following is an excerpt from Sins of the Tribe, by Mark Salter, available on July 12, 2022 from Greenleaf Book Group.

Wally

NEW MEXICO

WHEN I CLOSE my eyes and think of a blade of grass, sweet memories appear, filling me with a purpose abandoned long ago. These memories, independent of my will, multiply and become my thoughts. The blade is uniform in a sea of perfect green and, with one knee on the ground, I place my finger on it, look back to Henry for his nod, then the ball in the grasp of the center’s hands. I give a quick command, the ball sails towards me, and my hands take over: catch, place, and spin. Then the sweet thud of Henry’s foot sends the ball high over the cresting line and my blade of grass reappears as if the transaction was meaningless.

I think of Dion, Coach Oldham, and the other players and the trust they placed in me and my brother, Henry, even though neither of us belonged. I would’ve struggled to play small college football. I think of the fans in the stadium and those watching on TV. I feel their intense gaze as we performed our duties, a gaze that penetrated too far and asked for sacrifices without knowing their depths.

Bastille University. The Bastille University Tribe. Six-time national champions located on the Florida panhandle near the Georgia and Alabama border, the heart of college football. A place where they’d take your thoughts along with your body if they could. But here in New Mexico, my thoughts are my own. On long drives where the black road converges to a point against a mountainous horizon, or at my aunt’s art colony listening to peaceful souls discuss the meaning of their latest creation while I get high, or after I chase the Coach away from the valley and stare at the starlit night — I think of Henry.

The turnoff to my aunt’s place was a few miles down the road when I saw the carcass. I pumped the brakes trying to slow my truck, a truck that would never pass inspection. The brakes whined their rusty complaint like they were too tired to make an unplanned stop and I was a good forty yards past the carcass when I came to a halt. This one was big, and I knew the Coach, a Mexican gray wolf, would be happy. The afternoon light was fading, and I reminded myself it was already October. I ran my hand through my long hair and scraggly beard, it was my way of measuring time — I hadn’t shaved or cut my hair since everything that happened almost two years ago.

Instead of backing up I decided to walk. I pulled out a garbage bag I kept behind the front seat for just this purpose, stuck it in my jacket pocket, and slipped on my work gloves. The cool High Plains air was rolling in and it gave me a sense of liberation, quite unlike the unending Florida humidity and I gave thanks to no one in particular.

It was a raccoon, the biggest one yet. I looked it over carefully, noting the blunt trauma. The raccoon’s head had taken the shot, probably from a front bumper, and it rested in a halo of blackened blood. I used to hate ugliness. I used to close my eyes and wait for it to go away, but over time I was conditioned to look at it for what it was and accept the unchangeable. Like hearing a knee get blown out or the shallow, gasping breaths of a teammate with newly broken ribs. First the pop, then the screams, or worse, the silent swallowing of pain. It wasn’t physical pain that emptied them though, it was the pain of knowing they were eliminated

from the dance contest like some middle-aged proctor had tapped them on the shoulder with a sad look. Their dreams of going pro, probably marginal to start with, were finished unless they were at Dion’s level.

I squatted over the raccoon and tried to see if any whisper of life remained. I hated talking at important times like this, but it was deader than the Tribe’s shot at the National Championship two years ago. Nevertheless, I cleared my throat and spoke with a manner of politeness and gravity.

“Professor, I’m very sorry, but the Coach would like to see you.”

His body was stiff, I could tell when I picked him up by the tail and lowered him into the plastic bag. The Professor’s weight pulled on me like guilt and I soon found myself swinging the bag with the rhythm of my walk as if we were taking a pleasant stroll through the quad. A pickup truck crested the hill, and I knew who it was without confirmation. I put my head down and walked on the gravel, hoping it would pass, but it eased to a stop beside me. It was my Aunt Janie. She rolled down the window and I saw the sad look on her face, like she was watching a recovering alcoholic heading for the bar. She didn’t speak and I took a moment before replying to her silence.

“I’m not hurting anybody,” I said. “Or anything.”

She let another moment pass and I felt her passive disapproval, just an exhale of dry, voiceless air as she checked the rearview mirror for traffic that wasn’t there. I loved my aunt even though I barely knew her. When we first met, I looked into her face, trying to imagine the face of my mother, but that had faded quickly and now I saw only her and the gracious deeds she performed on my behalf. She was the only person I could turn to when it all came crashing down.

“Walter,” Aunt Janie said. “I need you to stop by tonight. I got another email.”

I nodded and painfully waited for her release.
“And do it before you get high.”
I nodded again without telling her I’d already read it, then she slowly pulled away. I’d been checking her laptop secretly to see if he wrote again. When I got back to the truck, I placed the Professor in the front corner of the cargo bed and wedged him in with my tool kit to keep him safe. My rifle was jammed in between the passenger seat and the door, the butt of it next to a couple boxes of ammo.

It took a couple of turns for the engine to start and when it did my excitement started to build, I even had butterflies in my gut and was thankful the feeling was as fresh as ever. I could feel the adrenaline pulsing in my veins and the euphoria starting to kick in, like we were running out of the tunnel at Bastille Stadium. As the Professor and I pulled onto the road, I called back to him through the open window.

“Don’t worry Professor, we’re going to get them sonsabitches.” I screamed a bloody howl and banged the top of the roof as the old truck strained as hard as it could.

The sun was sinking fast and the Professor and I had to hurry. I drove deeper into the land, the part where I feel like I’m burrowing instead of crossing. It always feels like I can walk out of my trailer and reach out and touch the mesas just south of the colony but to actually get there it’s almost a half hour drive over bumpy dirt paths. When I got to the spot in the valley between the mesas, I coasted the truck in and checked the sun. In about forty-five minutes it would dip far enough to cover the valley in the mesas’ shade and catching a clear view of the Coach would be tricky.

The Professor’s podium was a large flat boulder about five feet high and the Coach always had a tough time scaling it without the risk of a tumble. When I first began to shoot it was only for the thrill of hearing my shot echo through the valley, two or three fading scorches like it was out of a movie. The first day I saw the Coach sniffing around some fallen animal, I drew the sight in and took aim. I didn’t know what I was doing. I pulled the trigger and watched through the scope as the shot hit about ten feet away from the Coach. It was like the bullet stung the earth and a cloud of dust burst out of the ground then slowly drifted away, like applause in a faraway stadium.

The Coach had been coming from the scrub brush on the east, so I sat the Professor up as best I could and leaned him against a large rock I’d placed on the podium. I tried to position his head so he’d see the Coach coming but he didn’t cooperate, his crushed head drooped to one side in a grotesque manner and I knew he needed a talk. I straightened his head and into those small black eyes I strained for his attention.

“Listen, Professor. He’s coming and there’s nothing we can do about it, you said so yourself. If I could, I’d raise your paws and stick your middle claw out on each one to let him know how you feel but I can only hold him off for so long. You got me?”

The Professor slumped against the rock with his head draped over again and his fat belly was exposed like a middle-aged man in a skybox waiting for the game to start. A mild wind caused some of his fur to flutter, little black and gray and white strands, beautiful and intricate and it always made me wonder why mother nature would go to such great pains creating life to then allow its destruction in such a cruel manner. The wind blew stronger in response to my thought as if it were trying to carry him away to a better place, but his weight bound him to the podium. His fate was determined, and I had my own work to do.

“One more question, Professor. Have you seen Henry?”

I climbed back in the truck and drove up to my spot, an outcropping of boulders almost a hundred yards away. With my rifle I scaled the boulders to the spot I’d cleared out and settled in lying down

on my stomach. The view through my scope let me scan the valley and when I determined the Coach wasn’t there yet, I laid down my rifle and pulled out my Tribe flask. The etched arrow on the flask was nearly faded from overuse and the cheap whiskey burned down my throat, but within seconds the bloom of pleasant heat settled over my brain. I took another drink, then propped myself up on my elbows and stared through the scope. It gave me time to think.

The roads I traveled most days, the vistas from atop a high mesa, or this lonely valley open up something inside me. Amid the solitude I can pause the churning feelings inside and draw them into focus, if only for a moment, but the moment is never long enough. I was the one that made it crash, I ruined it, something I had prayed for my entire life, something communal and once pure.

A movement caught my attention, I scanned the valley and the Coach appeared, the Mexican gray wolf. He probably watched me every time I escorted the Professor to his podium. Watching him react to my bullets triggered a lustful relief, but it almost got me kicked out of the colony. The artists were heartbroken when they heard what I was doing. A few of them sat me down and explained how the colony, funded by the good fortune earned during my aunt’s time in Silicon Valley, was a sanctuary for gentle beings seeking a peaceful existence in a senselessly violent world, and my shooting at innocent animals violated their communal pact of peace to the point that their artistic souls were blocked from manifesting themselves. As much as I loved my aunt, to me they were a bunch of middle-aged hippies getting high and filling out coloring books. Only Aunt Janie’s wisdom made me think, That wolf is as innocent as Henry.

The truth is different. That wolf would climb over the dead bodies of his fallen brethren without hesitation in pursuit of fresh meat, just like the real Coach. And after my aunt received the first email, my marksmanship went to hell.

My name is Dion an old friend/former teammate of Wally Hestia. It’s very, very important that I contact him, I have tried for two years but now it’s super important. There’s no trouble, he doesn’t have to worry but I need to contact him very soon. Someone gave me this email and said you may know him or something. Please let him know I gotta talk to him, he can get back to me on this email. Thank u.

Before I was done reading, I could feel something growing out of me like vines trying to reach into the computer, wanting Dion’s approval, wanting to be part of the Tribe again.

“Is this a friend of yours?” my aunt said.

I guess I was in shock and didn’t notice her question until she asked again. I pulled out my flask, took a long drink, and wiped my mouth.

“He was special, one of the great ones, but he got ruined, too.” I looked to Aunt Janie and saw the concern on her face. “It was my fault.”

She took my hand in sympathy and we sat in silence.

“You’ve got to move on, Walter,” she said. “You need to find out what he wants.”

I didn’t respond. I held my head in my hands, waiting for the moment to pass.

“You don’t even see the irony of it, do you?” she said.

I lifted my head, wanting her to continue.

“You left and you’re free with no responsibilities; you live in a wide-open space with no boundaries. But all you’ve really done is build yourself a prison.” She waited for my response, but none came. “You need to reply to this Dion.”

The dashed crosshairs of my scope lined up right on the Coach’s temple and a simple squeeze of the trigger would end his life as the Professor looked down on him. The Coach was a few feet from the podium, sniffing and circling as he tried to determine the best way to scale the boulder. I squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the side of the podium and the Coach jumped back in fear but didn’t yield any further. While he stood there, tongue out, breathing hard, I fired again, and it hit a few feet in front of him. He jumped back and then trotted off into the scrub brush, but I knew he’d be back.

I’d thought I found my own sanctuary here. Looking down the valley on a beautiful afternoon with no connections to the world was enough for me. After I left Bastille — escaped, really — I cut off all connections. I threw away my phone outside the stadium and never went back for my laptop. The only time I’d been on a computer since was when I used my aunt’s to delete all my social media and email accounts and to see if that reporter printed the story. But she didn’t, another promise of truth that went unfulfilled.

After the first email I drank enough to make my head pound like the marching band was playing off-key just outside my trailer. It was a few days before I responded.

I heard you’re looking for me, I don’t want to be bothered. What’s so important and how do I know this is the real Dion McAres?

The Coach approached the podium, and I could see his determination. I got up on one knee, took careful aim, and squeezed off a shot. It hit behind him.

I’m going to Bastille for the Kentucky game. Get there Friday night and call me at the number below. I’ll let you know what hotel and I’ll get you a room. Click on the attachment to find out why. Dion. TRIBE FOREVER!

The Coach circled the podium and I stood, not caring if he saw me. I fired off three shots, none close.

The attachment was a picture. My aunt’s internet connection was slow, it filled the screen in slow horizontal lines from the top down. I could tell it was the campus right away, the stadium was in the background and there were people tailgating in the distance. Then the top of a football helmet appeared with people standing on both sides of the player. I saw Henry was the player, the people I didn’t know. You could take a hundred pictures of Henry while he was in different states of mind and to anyone else, he would look the same. But I could call out every mood he was in; I could tell if he was joyful or sad or panicked. This picture made me cry. He was broken.

The Coach must have come from the far side, he appeared on top of the podium and approached the Professor. Then he stopped and looked in my direction, like he was asking what I was going to do. I fired until the clip was empty, and every shot missed.

I forgot to say how to prove its me. You and me are the only ones that know what QB21 means. You have to show up, I’d come and get you if I knew where you were.

I never shot a single wolf in all my trips to the valley; I didn’t have it in me. I sank to the ground and started to sob then covered my ears to hide from the sound of the Coach tearing into the Professor. In a couple of weeks, I’d be at the Kentucky game.