Leaving, Page 3

  Everything took time, and then on weekends he visited his mom in prison. Her current sentence had three more years, at least. Drug dealing penalties got worse with each conviction. His mother could attest to that. They would talk and pray and she would hold his hands — really hold them — like she might not survive after he let go and left the room. But he always left. He had no choice.

  To fill the empty spaces, a couple times a month Cody had dinner at the house of his old war buddy Art Collins. Art didn’t make it home from Iraq, and for the last year Art’s mother, Tara, had taken to hosting Sunday dinners for her son’s Army buddies. “I own me a special place in my heart for you, Cody Coleman,” she told him whenever he stopped by. “God’s got Himself good plans for you, young man. You got any doubts, we’ll talk about it, you hear? I’ll change your mind!”

  Tara was long on conversation and hospitality—her food rich and warm and homemade. Creamy sauces, soft fresh bread, and any number of cuts of beef. The woman was African American, with a hearty laugh and a loud voice, and her small house smelled of spices and laundry detergent. But, even so, she reminded Cody of Bailey’s mom, Jenny. Tara Collins filled a broken place in Cody’s heart. She helped him walk through the weekends without breaking down and calling Bailey.

  Once in a while Tara invited Cheyenne Williams — the pretty girl who had once been engaged to Art. Cody had no delusions about Tara’s intentions where Cheyenne was concerned. Tara was trying to set them up. But Cody kept his distance. Other than an occasional text message, he didn’t talk to Cheyenne outside Tara’s house. He had no intention of doing so. Bailey had taken his heart a long time ago — no matter how he tried to convince himself otherwise.

  Combined, his schedule left his heart little room for feeling or missing or wondering what might have been if he hadn’t let stubborn pride stand in the way when he saw Bailey outside his mother’s prison last New Year’s Day. He’d watched her pull away without showing himself, without saying a word. Never mind that she was like a drug, an addiction he couldn’t overcome. He saw her face in his dreams and heard her voice in a crowded room. Even when she might as well have been a million miles away, Bailey was there.

  Always she was there.

  He stopped on the way to his room. There on the wall was a photograph he couldn’t just walk past, a picture he stopped and looked at every day without fail. In it, he was twenty, maybe twenty-one, at Lake Monroe surrounded by the Flanigans. All of them. Jenny and Jim, and their six kids. The five boys — Connor, Shawn, Justin, BJ, and Ricky. And there beside him, her eyes bright from the light inside her, stood Bailey. The photo drew him in, made him feel even for a minute that he was there again. The Indiana sunshine on his shoulders, a football tucked under his arm, the family he loved around him … and Bailey.

  Breathing the same air as him.

  A draft from the nearby window sent a chill down his arms. He blinked and the warmth of that summer day faded. The interview. He had to focus on the interview. He pulled off the thermal he’d worn to class that morning and slipped into a white T-shirt. A smile tugged at his lips. Okay, maybe not the biggest job interview ever. But the biggest interview he’d had so far. A school forty minutes east of Indianapolis needed a PE teacher and an assistant football coach. He had a pizza delivery job most nights and weekends, but it didn’t pay much. The interview at Lyle High School was at least a step in the right direction.

  One of his professors at IU had told him about the position. “They’ll grant you an emergency credential,” the man told him. “It’s a small school. But since this is your career field, I think you should at least talk to the principal.”

  The professor made arrangements for the interview and Cody stopped by the registrar’s office early this morning. If he was given the job, he could switch his two morning classes to the evening, and since his others were already at night, he would be free to take the job. He was set to graduate from IU this May, and after that he would take an accelerated course of classes to earn his master’s degree in education. The fit was perfect.

  Cody peered into his cramped closet. He owned two dress shirts — a solid white and a pale blue. He chose the white one. It was a little wrinkled and maybe a shade grayer than a year ago. But it was the best he had, and it would do for today. He slipped it on, buttoned it up, grabbed a blue tie, and perfectly knotted it in place. After living with the Flanigans, he would never struggle with a tie. Bailey’s father, Jim, had seen to that.

  Snow was forecast for later that day, but for now his old pickup could get him forty-five minutes east for the interview. Getting home might be another matter. He grabbed his portfolio — a few copies of his resume and some newspaper clippings from Clear Creek High football, the team he’d helped coach in Bloomington. He was meeting with the principal, and then the athletic director and football coach. Might as well bring everything he had to convince them.

  The drive took longer than he thought. Or maybe it only seemed that way because every radio station was playing another love song. Halfway there the reason finally hit him: It was Valentine’s Day. Of course they were playing love songs. He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the setting sun on the snow-covered fields. So what was he doing driving to an interview halfway to Ohio? Bailey loved him, right? That’s what she had told him outside her parents’ house the last time they talked, right. He exhaled hard. Why was he so stubborn?

  He clenched his jaw and kept his attention on the road. The reason hadn’t changed. Bailey Flanigan settling for a guy whose only family was a frail, sad woman doing time for dealing drugs? Risking the possibility that the paparazzi would figure out the details and drag both their names through the mud? And there were other reasons. For the last six months he’d lived with the threat from his mom’s abusive drug supplier. The man said he’d kill Cody or anyone Cody was with if his mom turned him in — which she did. Until the guy was caught recently, Cody’s life was like some crazy crime movie. Cody wouldn’t expose Bailey to that no matter how he felt about her.

  God, I can’t mix my life with hers … You know that. He tightened his grip on the wheel. But I can’t get her out of my heart, either. Help me move on. You can see how I am. I can’t leave her behind without Your help.

  A response came then, brushing like a whisper against his soul: Son … I have loved you with an everlasting love … commit your plans to me and they will succeed.

  Cody relaxed back into his seat. Is that You, God? He waited, but nothing … no more whispers. The verse was something his mom had shared with him last weekend. She was in Bible studies just about every day. “It’s the only way I stay sane,” she told him. “After what I’ve done to you … to my chances at ever being a real mom.”

  “You’ll always be my mom.” He took her hands in his. “We’ll get through this.”

  She blinked back tears, but she agreed. And that’s when she gave him a slip of paper. Scribbled on it was Proverbs 16:3. Commit your plans to the Lord and they will succeed. But why would God bring that to mind now? Was it about the plans he had for teaching at Lyle? Was that why the Spirit would whisper the verse to him here? That must be it. This was a big interview, after all. So maybe God didn’t want him thinking about Bailey but about the task ahead of him: winning the job.

  He switched the radio station. Sports talk. That’s what he needed. Get his mind off Bailey. Focus on something left-brained: The Lakers or the Heat — which team was stronger heading into the NBA All-Star weekend. Pro baseball’s spring training. Who was moving up in the ratings for April’s NFL draft.

  Anything but Bailey.

  The trick worked, and for the next thirty minutes he listened to a host take callers either raving about or tearing apart LeBron James. Cody exited off the main highway and took a two-lane country road through ten miles of farmland. Barren corn and soybean fields and orchards of empty-armed apple trees. Endless ranches and herds of cattle as far as he could see. The longer he drove the more he figured he was lost. Maybe he miss
ed a turn off. What sort of school could be this far out in the sticks? He was about to pull over and check his MapQuest directions, when up ahead he saw a cluster of homes and small buildings — the tallest, a red brick church with a white steeple that pierced the cloudy sky.

  As he approached, a sign came into view: “Welcome to Lyle, Home of the Buckaroos.” The next one made him smile: “25 M.P.H. Thank you kindly for observing our speed limit.” Polite people. Cody liked that. He slowed his pickup and looked for signs of life. A weathered, oversized American flag fanned in the breeze from the corner of a low-slung nineteenth century trading post-type building — Al’s Hardware, according to the sign. Two guys in overalls sat on a bench outside the front door. Waiting for customers, no doubt.

  A gas station with rusted pumps, Ali’s Coffee Can, Shirley’s Curl and Cut … Cody felt like he was driving through a movie set. Small-town America. Up ahead a slightly tattered banner stretched across Main Street: World Famous Lyle Rodeo. The rodeo was the only reason Cody had ever heard of the little town. Same as most anyone in Indiana. A few of Cody’s buddies from Clear Creek High made a trek of it every year, last weekend in June. One of them even competed. Saddle broncs. Crazy stuff.

  Suddenly an image flashed in his mind. An Iraqi interrogation room. A view through the bars of a four-foot cage. Shouting, and slamming doors, and the butt of a rifle ramming him into a corner. The face of an Iraqi soldier opening the cage and …

  Cody blinked and the images disappeared. He pulled over to the side of the road and hung his head. His heart pounded, and his breaths came in shaky short gasps. A layer of perspiration beaded up across his forehead and on his forearms. He hated this, the way images from war took over his mind without warning. Especially lately. I can’t do this, God. Make them go away. That time in my life is over. Please … make it stop.

  Gradually, a peace that passed understanding put its arms around his shoulders and he felt his body relax, felt his breathing and heart rate return to normal. Thank You … thank You, Lord. I feel You here. He drew a slow deep breath.

  Okay, maybe riding broncs wasn’t the craziest thing.

  He wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. Twenty minutes until his interview, but he might as well get to the school. Three blocks east and another north and there it was. Square in the middle of another massive field, surrounded by maple trees — a two-story brick structure with an old-fashioned marquis out front announcing: Cake Walk and Carnival, February 19.

  Cody drove around back and there was the football field: Barely a hundred yards of snow and grass with a few rickety wooden bleachers. Weeds poked their way up through the asphalt track that bordered the end zone. In the distance, against a darkening sky, an army green water tank boasted the obvious. Lyle Buckaroos — Class of’11 painted in blue on one side.

  Another survey of the field.

  The stands would hold maybe a hundred people. This couldn’t be where they played their varsity games, right? He checked his watch. Ten minutes until the interview. He drove around to the front of the school and pulled the folded piece of paper from his pocket, the one his mom had given him. Commit your plans to the Lord and they will succeed. He had long since memorized it, but somehow reading it in his mom’s handwriting made him feel more normal. Like his mom was waiting at home making dinner, encouraging him. Cheering him on.

  “Here goes,” he whispered. Once more he folded the piece of paper and returned it to his pocket. He shut and locked the door, straightened his tie, and made his way inside the school.

  Three women were talking over one computer when he walked in the room. They stopped and looked at him. “Hello.” The youngest of the ladies took a step closer. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes.” He stood a little taller. “I’m Cody Coleman. I’m here to meet Ms. Baker.”

  The woman smiled. “That’s me.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’re early.” Her eyes were kind as she shook his hand. “I like that.” She motioned for him to follow her, and he did. They went through the workspace to a private office at the back corner. She left the door open, took the seat behind the desk, and offered him the one on the other side.

  “You come highly recommended by your professor.” Ms. Baker picked up a portfolio on her desk and thumbed through it. “I’m impressed, Mr. Coleman.”

  Mr. Coleman … so old-sounding. Cody swallowed his nerves. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She leaned back, relaxed. No way she was a day over thirty. “Tell me about yourself. Why do you want to teach at Lyle?”

  “I was an athlete in high school.” He talked easily about his time at Clear Creek and his service in Iraq. Then he shifted in his seat and searched for the right words. “To be honest, I didn’t know about the opening at Lyle until this week. I want to teach because … because the people who’ve made the most impact in my life have been teachers. Coaches.” He paused, and he could hear Jim Flanigan’s voice. You can do anything, Cody … God has great plans for you. Never let anything stop you from your dreams …

  He looked at Ms. Baker. “I was nearly killed in Iraq, ma’am. With this second chance, I want to make a difference. The way a few teachers and coaches made a difference for me.”

  She nodded slowly. “I respect that.” Another glance through the folder in her hands. “You’re aware you would be taking this position on an emergency credential basis.” Her eyes lifted to his. “It’s a temporary position, Mr. Coleman. We couldn’t offer you a full-time job until you complete the credentialing process — after you graduate.”

  “I understand.”

  The interview lasted another fifteen minutes while they talked about teaching styles and the importance of hard work and family and faith to the kids of Lyle. “It’s a public school, yes. But this is a community that lives and dies by the success of the crops that surround us. The people of Lyle understand hard work and they’re early to church every Sunday.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Cody felt the light in his eyes. “I can relate.”

  Ms. Baker’s expression softened. “I thought so.”

  A few more minutes and the principal led Cody to the school’s gym. Inside, a class of maybe thirty guys was counting off jumping jacks while the coach barked out orders. “Faster! Louder! Come on guys. This is February. Champions are made in the off-season!”

  Cody wondered if he’d like the man. Some coaches could yell and still get their point across, still show love and concern for their players. Others were mostly a lot of hot air. They stepped inside, and Ms. Baker waited until the coach spotted her. He blew his whistle. “Take five. Get some water. We’ll try it again after that.” The man’s scowl remained as he walked over. “Ms. Baker,” he nodded, terse, serious.

  “Coach Oliver, this is Cody Coleman. The candidate sent over by the university.”

  “Right.” The man gave Cody a quick once-over. “The kid on the emergency credential.”

  A slight look of irritation came over Ms. Baker’s face, but only for a moment. “I’m prepared to offer him the position if he’ll take it.” Her approval of Cody was clear. “But he’ll be your assistant. I’d like the two of you to talk for a few minutes, and then include Mr. Coleman in your practice this afternoon. So he can know if he’d like to be a part of our program.”

  “Got it.” Coach Oliver’s surly attitude remained. “Thank you, Ms. Baker.”

  She nodded and smiled again at Cody. “Talk to me before you leave. I’ll be in my office.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Cody wasn’t sure what was going on, but clearly there was tension between the coach and principal. It was easy to pick sides.

  Ms. Baker left and Coach Oliver stared at him. “Notice she didn’t say, ‘Winning program.’” He sneered. “I’ve been coaching here for two years, and we haven’t won a game.” He took a step closer. “Know why?”

  “No, sir.” Cody crossed his arms.

  “Because of Coach John Brown.”

  Cody could imagine how baffled he must’ve
looked. “I’m … sorry, coach. I don’t know John Brown.”

  The man raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were from Bloomington.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Boy … everyone in the state knows John Brown. He’s a legend. Won a state title with Lyle for the 1A division six years in a row.” He tossed his hand. “Retired two years ago when the talent dried up.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Even John Brown couldn’t make a winning season out of this sorry group a’ kids.”

  Cody nodded. He glanced at the guys, huddled in clusters around the drinking fountain. A couple of them were big — six-four, six-five maybe. Nothing about the group looked especially inept.

  “Sure.” The coach shrugged. “I need an assistant. I need an offense and a defense, for that matter. You can at least help me coach. Give the parents someone else to be angry at.”

  Cody crossed his arms. If this was Coach Oliver’s sales pitch for Lyle, it was falling flat. He nodded absently, not sure if he was supposed to respond.

  Without warning, the man turned to the kids and blew his whistle. “Time’s up. Back in formation.”

  Interview over, Cody thought. He could already picture himself telling Ms. Baker no thanks. He didn’t want to drive out here every day, and he had no desire to take heat from parents because of the defeated mind-set of Coach Oliver. A few minutes later — when the coach was finished with calisthenics — he led the team outside to the bitter cold field. Cody didn’t want to be rude, so he followed.