*

“Are you ready?” Joe called into the mic once Perry left us. The noise continued as the gate leading to the soccer field opened again. This time a pick-up truck waited. The band picked up strains of ‘Giddy-up, Horsemen.’ “Please welcome our Fighting Horsemen Freshmen Football Team!” The truck pulled out onto the track. From the back, several young ladies dressed in white football uni­forms waved at the crowd. “And our own freshmen cheerleaders!” Fol­low­ing the truck, boys dressed in white pleated skirts, and shaking orange and black pompoms hurried onto the track. This was another tradition, although our freshman boys didn’t enjoy it at all. They stayed together and hurried. 

A second truck pulled up to the gate. “Here comes our victo­rious Sophomore Fighting Horsemen!” Joe called. Again the truck bed held girls in football uniforms, this time with dirty or­ange knickers. “And the sophomore cheerleaders.” The boys that followed wore orange pleated skirts. They pranced about, shook their pom-poms and cheered. One boy paused mid track, flapped his arms like chicken wings, wobbled his knees and crowed. Joe even cracked a smile.

“Okay,” Joe called again. “Please welcome our varsity cheerleaders!” This time the truck entering the field carried girls in black pleated skirts. Bobby Boyle, his ID flapping behind him, raced after the truck and caught up. He hopped onto the back bumper and balanced there as he pointed his camera at a blonde cheerleader. He snapped off several pic­tures of her. She tried to push him away. I could see her mouth move, but the crowd noises buried her words. At last she curled up her fist. Bobby jumped away as she dove after him. Her friends just caught her.

Joe growled as Bobby raced back to the parade’s starting point.

“That kid is trouble,” Joe commented. He picked up his mic again. “Please welcome the Art Club.” The parade continued with school sponsored clubs and sports teams, each had decorated a golf cart. A little girl with long, dark hair and clown white on her face drove the first cart onto the track. She wore a black clown collar and an orange, pointed hat. Bobby raced up to her. She waved at the camera as he snapped her picture.

“Isn't that Lisa McCafferty?” I asked. Lisa’s mother and Bobby’s mother were sisters. In fact Lisa’s mother, Brenna, was a friend.

Pictures of clowns were taped to side fenders and the back of the cart. Clowns on foot followed her through the gate. One of the boys pretended that the bunch of orange and black balloons he hung on to was about to carry him away. Others held signs advertising an upcoming art exhibit at Moraine Valley Community College.

Joe nodded at Lisa. “She’s a handful,” he commented. “Anyone crosses her is asking for trouble.”

“She’s sweet,” I commented.

“No, she’s not. Her mother is sweet. Bobby’s mother is sweet. His father is a drunk and her father...” He didn’t have to finish. I agreed. “The entire family is a mess. Not one male with an inch of backbone.” I crossed my arms. We didn’t agree about Brenna’s brother, Tim. Joe just watched me. I wouldn’t back down, but I didn’t want to fight neither.

Joe continued to watch me as he lifted the mic again. “Please welcome the French Club,” he said with less fervor. A group dressed in acrobat costumes entered the track. He finally returned his attention to the field.

Once on the visitor’s side, the drivers parked their golf carts and got out. Kids streamed between the lines of band members, and made their way towards the home side, and a place in the grass to sit. Pockets of orange and black clowns, acrobats, vampires, ghosts, mummies and flappers were forming.

The gangsters were ever present, getting in the way and snapping pictures. Flashes were as intense as a swarm of gnats on a hot day. Some of the kids smiled, and some shook fists. Joe chewed on the inside of his cheeks.

Finally the last group entered the back gate. “Please welcome the Pep Club,” he growled. They dressed up like cowboys and cowgirls, and half carried, half dragged a huge, paper covered hoop. Dead center someone had painted interlocking horseshoes, with the open side pointing down.

“That’s bad luck,” I said as the kids struggled on.

“What?”

“The horseshoes are upside down. Luck runs out that way.”

“You would notice that.”

They dragged it to the edge of the grass on the corner closest to the school, and held it up. It took six kids to steady it.

Earlier Joe had set his uneaten sandwich on top of his clipboard. He moved it, foil and all, to the window ledge, so he could check his notes. He took up the mic again. “Okay,” he looked at me in his way that said he just wanted to get on with the game. “Please wel­come this year’s varsity starting line-up for the Theodore Roosevelt High School Fighting Horsemen. Start­ing quarterback is Anthony LoBianco.” Tony rushed through the near gate and onto the field. He lowered his head, helmet first and charged the hoop. He jumped, diving through the paper. The kids holding it nearly dropped it. The crowd cheered louder.

“Please welcome running back, Matthew Orozco!” Matt charged forward. He wrenched out both arms, and clenched his fists, obviously hoping to break more paper. He jumped. Cheerleaders moved forward, welcoming the football players. The girls jumped about, clapped their hands and cheered as Linc Weber charged through the near gate.

Bobby snapped another picture. “This is what I mean,” Joe complained. “Spends more time irritating the hell out of people than he does concentrat­ing on school work or any­thing else. And look at his friends. Warren De­vers? Oh, my God. Somebody should lock that kid in a cage. He doesn’t belong on the field with real human beings.”

”Easy,” I soothed. “At least they’re trying to fit in.”

Joe grumbled under his breath and picked up the mic. “Please welcome re­ceiver, Lin­coln Weber.” I think I saw Bobby drop his camera. I know I saw him moving along using both hands to push past kids on the field. His friends hurried. It should have hit me then. All of them had free hands, and some were working to unbutton their coats. Pete Lobecky entered the gate on the near side. Joe picked up the mic. “Tight end Peter Lobecky.” As the cheerleaders and other members of the team swept up Linc, Derrick Campbell glided onto the field and prepared to dive through the hoop. Pete’s feet landed on this side of the hoop, and Joe keyed up the mic again. Bobby and his friends began to sift through the group nearest the hoop.

“Running back, Derrick Campbell!” Derrick leapt into the air and through the hoop.

Something banged, loudly assaulting our ears with the repercussions of an explosion. Someone screamed. Something banged again. Sound drained away. Joe turned in my di­rection. He looked confused. I know I was. But when the third bang reverberated throughout the stadium, we knew what it was.

He dropped the mic and grabbed my arm. We fell to the floor, each reaching out  to the other. He wanted to peek; and I could feel him strain against me. One shot after another rang out. The screaming started. On the field and in the stands, too. And then the running. If more shots were fired, I couldn’t hear them. The stampede, the sounds of feet pounding. The cement stands shook the booth as if it sat in earth quake territory.  

I closed my eyes and prayed. I had friends out there. My God, whoever wasn’t shot could be trampled.

Joe rose up, and I followed. We struggled to push each other down. Once we caught a peek, though, we were transfixed. Most of the field was empty. Decorated golf carts had been parked at an angle on the field across from us. The hoop lay on the track, and a clutch of black and orange balloons drifted upwards. In the northeast corner children lay on the ground. There were cheerleaders, football players, band members and kids wearing costumes. Few moved. More blood had spilled onto the ground than I had ever seen in my life.

“No! Stop!” A cry came from the direction of the near goal post. And movement. A tiny clown hopped onto the back of one of the gangsters. His open coat flapped with her movement. I watched in horror thinking of Brenna and little Lisa. That blonde cheer­leader that Bobby had tormented earlier was bent over a football player, touching his shoulder with one hand and her side with the other. His face was a mess, so was her mid section.

Bobby and another gangster faced off. The new boy pointed a weapon over Bobby’s shoulder at Lisa. Don’t ask me what it was, I don’t know. It was a gun. And he pointed it right at Lisa. Bobby screamed. “Not her, you bastard! I told you from the be­ginning. Not her!” Bobby raised his weapon. The gun discharged with a flash, and an ear splitting bang followed a micro second later. The unknown gangster fell.

Lisa wrestled Bobby to the ground and onto his back. I saw her sit on him. And I saw the Portland officer, too. As Bobby and Lisa struggled, the offi­cer slipped up the sidelines until he stood right over Bobby. He pointed his weapon at Bobby. The boy laughed and pointed his gun upwards. The Portland officer pulled his trigger first. Bobby’s chest exploded, blanketing Lisa with blood and guts from head to waist. The officer tried to take control, turning his weapon on the remaining gangsters. The next discharge took the officer’s head apart.

I ducked. And I vomited.

I heard laughter from the field, and I heard horns from the parking lot be­hind me, and sounds of tires spinning. Everything seemed to be happening so slowly. I remember hearing someone say something about getting Spyres and his old lady.That we must still be in the booth. Joe pinned me to the floor, and used his body to shield me. The next shot pinged off the window ledge. His sandwich splattered the back wall.

His arms tightened about me, and I reached for one of his hands. Something safe or familiar to hold onto. My prayers came faster. I wanted this to end, and I wanted Joe’s bulk off of me. I prayed mostly for his safety though, and that the damage wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

The screaming continued, moving from the field, to the stands and even­tually out into the parking lot. I heard cars crash. And I heard horns. The sodium vapor lights went out, and so did the lights in the booth. I heard cops give orders and I heard more gunfire both near and far. Sirens wailed.

An eternity passed before the quiet came again. Stillness. No more shots, no more si­rens. Then engines of several vehicles hummed below us, and red and blue spinning lights pierced through the darkness, illuminating the back wall of the booth. We began to ease up, me hoping that nothing else would come our way. We startled when a Portland police offi­cer, his weapon in one hand and his flashlight in the other, hopped about the corner. Us­ing his light, he searched the booth. When he spotted us, he sighed. Then he keyed up the radio buckled to his shoulder. “I found them. They’re fine.”

I don’t know about that. I still wake up from a sound sleep, tasting regurgitated garlic, my ears ringing from gunshots, and the smell of sulfur burning my nostrils.

Firefighters conducted triage on the front baseball diamond, separating the wounded by the intensity of their injuries, making sure those who needed help the most got to the hospital first. My brother, Mark, is a lieutenant, and he took charge. Portland worked with para­medics from surrounding towns, and like a well oiled machine, in spite of the fact that none of them had ever faced something this catastrophic before.

Mark told me later that he was concerned because he knew that Joe and I were there. When we didn’t appear, he asked police Lieutenant Bill Ramos if he had seen us.

The Portland Police took over the school building. They turned the gym into a morgue and used the cafete­ria to interview witnesses.

Joe and I were separated for a short time. He had the keys to the wrought iron gates at the stadium entrance. After the field had been evacuated, Joe was instructed to lock up for the night. The cops would search for evidence in the morning.

Little Lisa, thank God, was uninjured. I don’t know if I could face Brenna if she had been hurt. According to the police, Lisa saved the life of that varsity cheerleader. I heard a comment that a few more might have fallen if she hadn’t knocked Bobby down. I also heard some say that the entire family was nuts, and if Bobby told Lisa about his plans beforehand, she might have found her own weapon and joined in. I know better.

Lisa and I sat together in orange plastic chairs, and listened to the sirens wail in the background. Like a pulse, the in­tensity grew as emergency vehicles approached and faded away again as they left. When Joe joined us, he sat on my opposite side, and took my hand in his. My strength began to seep away. Lisa rested her head against my shoulder. She fell asleep for a moment, but then awoke with a jerk.

The police interviewed Lisa first, and then me. Two officers I didn’t know took my name and address, asked me what I saw, and if I recognized any of the shooters. Yes, I said, I saw Bobby Boyle shoot another of the shooters, but no, I didn’t know who it was. And I saw that officer get shot. Another officer escorted me back to my seat. I asked him if I could stay with Lisa until someone came for her.

“Sure. Her uncle is on the way.”

When the officer retreated to the kitchen area with Joe, Lisa turned, peek­ing up at me through dark bangs now stained with blood and smeared clown white make-up. “Annie?”

“Huh?”

“Do you think...? Is he...?” She turned away to study something etched in the black and white tile at her feet. She turned back. “Thanks for staying.”

“Who’s coming for you? Uncle Tim?”

She nodded. “I’m glad it’s him. Mom’s working right now. I told them, I wouldn’t go with my father or my stepmother. You know how he is.” She wiped her cheek, smearing more clown white onto her hand. Then she wiped it onto her black shirt. I took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

When Joe returned, he sat down next to me, and slipped very low. “Mr. Spyres?” Lisa called. He leaned forward, pushing around me so that he could see her. “About Bobby?”

“Lisa?” He brought his hands up to speaking level. He gave up. His hands dropped. “Not now.”

“There’s things you don’t know.” She tried to wipe away her tears. “He hasn’t been right since Megan died.”

Joe covered his face. I swear I saw him tremble. When he looked up again, he looked away from us for a very long time.

When Father Tim Flaherity arrived Lisa rose from her seat and wrapped her arms about his middle. They held onto each other for a long moment. She sobbed.

Joe jumped up, eager to be off, and I stood, ready to follow. Tim broke away from his niece. He kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you,” he said. He’s dark like his niece and speaks with a strong brogue. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You know I wouldn’t leave her alone.”

He nodded. Joe took my wrist and tugged. I followed him, grateful for his guidance.

It seemed as if hours had passed between the time we entered the cafeteria through a fire door, and the time we left. We took off in the direction of the student entrance at the back of the building. When we stepped into the hallway, we crunched glass beneath our feet. We paused. About us, display cases had been smashed. Broken trophies lay on the floor with crumpled pictures of past sport teams. Trash cans were emptied, up­ended and dented.

Someone had piled trash against one wall and set it on fire. Someone else used a foam extinguisher to put it out. Sooty swirls stained the wall and charred bits of paper floated on a breeze that infiltrated the hallway. The expelled extinguisher rested on the floor against a damaged Coke machine.

We passed Police Chief Arthur Weber near the back entrance. He held a cell phone to his ear. We stopped dead by the doors. The glass had been shattered. Joe turned on Art. Our police chief waved, indicating he wanted us to stay put while he finished up his call.

Art is huge, well over six feet and heavy. I want to say he’s an African American, but that isn’t enough. The man is truly one of the darkest indi­viduals I had ever met. A good moment passed before he hung up. “Joe,” he nodded. “Annie.”

“Art.”

“What I hate most about this job is that right now my son is in the hospital and I’m here.” He turned his phone off. “Linc is all right.” He sighed, and tucked his phone into his breast pocket. “Took one in the shoulder. Thank God. He was lucky.” He glanced around, now nodding at the pop machine around the corner closest to the gym. “Machine is busted open.” he said. “Looters. Got to most of the trophy cases on this floor. Com­puter lab, TV studio, a few other places. You’d think that with everything going on in the stadium, the last thing anyone would think of is looting.” He kicked at a cigarette butt. “So, McCafferty girl. You were sitting with her. She tell you anything?”

“Probably no more than she told you.”

“She hasn’t told us anything. She won’t talk to us.”

Joe turned in my direction first, as if making up his mind, and then hard at Chief We­ber. “She did say something.”

“What was that?”

“That her cousin hadn’t gotten over his sister’s death. If you remember.” He glanced at me again. “Was it August?” I nodded. “Megan Boyle. Hit by a truck. You guys thought it was a suicide.” That surprised me. I hadn’t heard anything about suicide.

Chief Weber nodded.

Link to Chapter II