When Men Betray by Webb Hubbell

his life would be about wanting instead of enjoying. Life was good the way it was. To my delight, he had not changed one iota.
    While we finished our lunch, Ben told me about Clovis and his exploits on the gridiron, and he told Clovis about my pitching days.
    â€œBlind people used to come to the ballpark just to listen to him pitch,” he claimed, laying it on thick and grinning. “So how’d you two hook up?”
    Clovis told him he had taken on the job of providing security for Beth and me.
    â€œSecurity, huh. You know who you’re guarding? Why Jack took on the whole football team by himself one night.” Seeing me grimace, Ben quickly said, “Sorry, Jack, I wasn’t thinkin’.”
    Clovis shrugged and put up both hands. “I know enough about what happened that night to do my job. The rest is none of my business.”
    Ben quickly changed the subject. “I’ll keep my ears open, but both of y’all better be careful, that’s all I got to say. Nothin’ll happen until after the funeral, but this city’s wound tight as a drum. Everybody’s upset, angry, and might be lookin’ for a little vengeance. People won’t remember you were a towheaded kid who used to pitch for the Stafford State Cardinals. They think you’re some Yankee lawyer here to work your magic and free the killer of their star quarterback. Right now, Russell is everybody’s favorite son, and Woody is Cain who murdered his brother. They ain’t interested in justice or mercy. … They want blood.
    â€œI’m sure you’re one fine lawyer, Jack, and coming back to help Woody shows you’re a damn good friend. But you want my advice? Walk away. Woody shot Russell. There ain’t no magic in this bottle.”
    We stood and wrapped our arms around each other awkwardly. Men still haven’t quite learned to hug except on a ball field. Now folks were starting to stare, but I didn’t much care. We let go and stepped back.
    Ben gave me a gentle punch on the arm. “I can’t afford to lose you as a customer again. Profits are down.” He turned to Clovis. “I’ll keep my ears open, but take care of him as best you can.”
    Clovis smiled. “You don’t think he’s leaving any time soon, do you?”
    â€œNever listened to me back then …” Ben headed back to the kitchen, laughing.

13

    B ACK IN THE Tahoe, we sat quietly for a minute. Eventually, I said, “The night I left town was the last time I talked to Ben, until today, but it certainly wasn’t the last time I thought about him. Thanks.”
    â€œHey, you can direct me to Ben’s anytime. You aren’t the only wayward son Ben ever sold a beer and barbecue.”
    â€œYou got a deal.”
    We drove by my old high school, Westside High, nestled among towering pines but showing decades of neglect. Where the parking lot had once housed a good number of sixteenth-birthday cars, it now consisted of row after row of temporary buildings that had become permanent classrooms. These days, it seems that school boards grudgingly agree to build temporary structures and trailer classrooms to meet the demand for space, but rarely muster the money to invest in permanent additions. Communities used to take pride in the structures that raised and educated their children; now the buildings are increasingly representative of our negligent attitude toward public education.
    Clovis and I drove by my old home, which seemed much smaller than I recalled. In fact, it was just a small, red-brick tract house, but it was the first house that had actually belonged to my mother, and it represented a new beginning … a life where good things were supposed to happen and, except for my stepfather, mostly did.
    Next on the tour came the American Legion Baseball Field adjoining the Butler Boy’s Club.
    Clovis whistled. “Your old ball field has seen better days.”
    No