21. Chapter 21
twenty-one
Idread this. But I’m doing it anyway.
Came home after work, showered, shaved, even put on a starched white shirt, pressed jeans, charcoal sports jacket, and my black Stetson. Polished my boots. Be damned if I’ll go before the country-club-packed school board and have them say I look less than respectable.
I’m respectable. Right?
I’ve done good with the ranch since I lost my parents.
My parents.
I look at their picture on the dresser and run my thumb across their faces like I could touch them again. They were happy. You can see it in the way Mom leans into Dad, like she always knew he’d catch her. The way he’s looking at her.
I wanted that for me and Laurel—what they had. I thought we’d have it.
I lost them while I was locked up in fucking jail.
It was night. A deer jumped in front of their truck. Came straight through the goddamn windshield. They hit a tree at sixty miles an hour. Instant, they said, like that was supposed to make it easier.
They went out of this world with their son locked behind bars.
I didn’t get to say goodbye.
They let me out for the funeral. Not in orange, thank fuck. Not in cuffs.
They let Tanner bring me a suit—black, too big in the shoulders. He’s always been broader than me.
The only thing good I can remember was the crowd. A big one. My parents were respected in this town.
Tanner was waiting for me outside the chapel doors. Didn’t say a word. Just nodded once, like I’ve got you. I felt like a ghost wearing a borrowed life, staring at two caskets in front of me.
Lowest day of my life.
And I’d thought losing Laurel was the worst thing that ever happened to me.
It wasn’t.
But since I got out, I’ve stayed out of trouble. I’ve built two businesses, Boone Welding and Boone Well Service, and Tanner and I have B & B Hardware.
None of them can say I’m less than them.
Well, hell. They can say it. Doesn’t make it true.
“Damn.” That’s all Tanner can say about the size of the crowd.
“Jesus.” I’m stunned, too.
Guess everybody told everybody Calder Boone wants us to build a new stadium. We don’t have money for a new stadium. Who the hell does he think he is?
The school parking lot is packed with cars and trucks like it’s Friday night football. Folks standing in little knots, talking low, glancing at my truck as we pull up.
Tanner elbows me. “You’ve got this.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got your back.”
He doesn’t have to say it. I know he does. He always does.
But I tug at my collar. Too tight. Everything feels too tight.
Tanner leans in. “They’re here because they know you’re right.”
“Or because they want to watch me get torn apart.” A bitter laugh slips out as my hand tightens on the door handle.
He snorts. “Same crowd either way.”
He’s not wrong.
We walk toward the doors, me fidgeting with my manila envelope of photographs.
The closer we get, the louder the hum of voices gets—that low, buzzing sound of people who came ready to pick a side. And I know damn well which side most of them think they’re on.
An hour later, my ass is numb sitting in this straight-back chair while they go through their hoopla—the pledge, the reading of the minutes from last month’s meeting, all the departmental reports before the superintendent finally says, “New business.”
“That’s you,” Tanner whispers out of the side of his mouth.
Like, I don’t know.
Ray approaches the microphone, up front in the middle aisle, facing the board members.
He clears his throat. “While walking the stadium last month, I noticed a hand railing leaning, so I asked Boone Welding to come check it out and repair it.” He turns, nodding at me. “Calder, will you stand?”
Shit.
I do, all eyes falling on me. Murmurs pass through the packed house.
“At that time, Calder had to replace or repair seven different handrails on the home side, as well as several seat supports. I’d like for him to explain what he saw.”
He turns again, motioning me forward. “Calder, come up here, please.”
Ray steps away from the microphone as I take it, having to lean over because it’s too damn low. “Ladies and gentlemen.” I reach down and aim the mike straight up, so I don’t have to lean over. Feels like wrestling a tool that doesn’t want to cooperate.
“Like Ray said, I found seven handrails loose enough I could rock them with one hand. A couple of seat supports were cracked clean through, and three aluminum treads bowed from years of kids jumping on them. One riser was rusted out around the bolt hole bad enough I could see daylight through it, so I cut the bad section out, welded in a patch plate, drilled new holes, and bolted it back in.” I glance at Ray.
“I told Ray then, based on the wear I saw, he should have a structural engineering firm investigate the safety of the stadium.”
A ruckus rolls through the crowd, enough, the superintendent says, “Everybody, settle down.”
The room gradually goes quiet.
“Ray tells me you studied the uprights,” the superintendent says.
“Yessir, I did.” I wave Tanner to bring me the envelope—which he does. “Mercedes Bennett helped me print these pictures this afternoon. We have one set for each of you.”
After handing the envelope to the superintendent, I return to the podium. “I think these speak for themselves. If they don’t, I’ll explain what you’re looking at.”
More mumbling as the superintendent opens the envelope, distributing the pictures.
It’s not long before one woman says, “I don’t know what I’m looking at.”
“Number one is a hairline fracture in the westernmost upright on the home side. That upright’s got a little give. What you’d call metal fatigue. Not enough to worry about now, but it’s giving.
“Number two, you’re looking at rusted bolts on that same upright. The rust speaks for itself. And number three, that’s a crack in the footing of that same upright. It’s a hairline fracture, too, running diagonal. Not a break, but it tells me water’s been getting in it for years.”
“So, it’s just the one upright. That’s all we need to replace.” That’s Anderson Sellers. He’s a trial lawyer in town.
“No, Mr. Sellers. I didn’t see any point in taking pictures of every upright in the stadium.
” I nod at the pictures they’re holding.
“You’re looking at a representative sample of maybe a fourth of your uprights on the home side.
The visitors side is in better shape, probably because it’s never carried as much weight. ”
The school board members whisper among themselves while the crowd does the same. All of a sudden, I feel like I’ve got a target on my back. Like the whole room’s waiting to see if I flinch.
“I move we table this for further discussion,” one member says. I don’t know him.
“I object.” Vicki Gibson owns a dress shop downtown. “I say we need the study he’s recommending.”
“Ray? What are we looking at, for that kind of study?” the superintendent asks. He’s covering his ass. Ray already told him. He just wants Ray to say it in public.
Ray approaches, and I shuffle aside. “Up to ten thousand dollars.”
“Ten thousand dollars? For a study?” Sellers throws up his hands, leaning back in his chair, looking back and forth at his other board members. “And we don’t know what that study will find.”
“That’s the point of a study, Andy,” Vicki fires back.
All at once, the crowd takes sides. Someone stands. “Pay for the study!”
Another. “We can’t take his word for it!”
The superintendent raps his gavel. “If anyone has a comment, raise your hand and come to the podium. Mr. Boone, thank you. You can sit down.”
I’ve done all I can do. I gave it a shot.
One by one, people come to the podium. Some for. Some against. Nobody’s slurred my name.
Then someone I never expected approaches. Someone who takes my damn breath. She’s poised. Professional. Wearing a black pencil skirt, white silk blouse, and heels. Her hair’s up in a curly bun on the crown of her head.
She’s not afraid of this crowd. If she is, she doesn’t show it.
“Superintendent Evans, board members. If I may, I’m Laurel Hayes-Prescott. I grew up on the bleachers of Longhorn Stadium, as did my mother and father, who are in the audience. And I’d like to think my son will play on the same field.” She glances over her shoulder. “He’s sitting with them.”
She turns back to the school board. “I’ve recently moved back, and I’d just like to say that having lived other places, I know Ladera’s a wonderful place to raise a family.
But parents want to know their children are safe when they send them to school.
We want to know we’re safe when we sit in the stands and cheer for our children.
“I’ve known Calder Boone most of my life.
He’s a man of his word. He told you what he saw.
He’s a licensed, respected welder. So, I would just tell you, having heard him, holding those pictures in your hands.
” She points a manicured nail at them. “You take a great risk by not acting—because, God forbid, should the unspeakable happen—you leave yourselves wide open for lawsuits big enough to bankrupt the school district.”
“Fuck,” Tanner whispers out of the side of his mouth. “Damn.”
“I know.” Never expected that. She shut this place down. I can hear the ceiling fan hum overhead.
“Thank you for hearing me,” Laurel says, before turning and walking down the center aisle, back straight, chin high, never looking my way.
She doesn’t have to. That’s the fire I remember—a part of her I always admired. Laurel could always stand up to anybody… except her dad.
Then—as Laurel returns to her seat—fucking Sellers covers his microphone, leans over and whispers to the guy next to him, “Take it with the grain of salt. They used to date.” Idiot didn’t realize his voice would carry into the other guy’s mike, telling everyone there.
Someone behind us snickers, “You can’t trust either one of them.”
Before I can make it to my feet—Dabbo’s striding down the aisle like a bull that just saw red. Jesus, I hope he doesn’t have another heart attack. The veins on his forehead are pulsing.
“You all know who I am,” Dabbo says to the board members before he ever reaches the podium.
He doesn’t need the microphone.
He faces the audience with his shoulders squared.
“So do you. And yes, Laurel and Calder dated when they were young.” He aims his arm at the back of the room.
“She just came back after being gone ten years. So, let me tell everyone in this room—First? You don’t speak ill of my wife or daughter. Not where I can hear it.”
He turns to face the board members. “Two?” He holds up his right hand, fingers splayed.
“I told you five years ago when this first came up—count ’em, five—that First National Bank would finance your new stadium.
But you built a gym instead. Now, I can’t guarantee we’ll finance a stadium, since you’re still carrying the gym bond.
But if this school district can’t afford a ten-thousand-dollar study—let me suggest you skip your next trip to the National School Board Convention to pay for it. ”
With that, he strides down the aisle, stopping at my row, nodding. “Good work.”
Damn sure never expected that.