Before a Fall

If the bank had opened before ten, we would’ve gotten the key and left Liberty Crossing without incident.

Unfortunately, Willard had an hour to kill.

Willard with free time was apparently a public-safety concern.

“She’s a whole lotta woman,” he said from the passenger seat. “Whole lotta woman.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Felicia.”

He said the name like it explained everything.

It didn’t.

We parked outside a brick apartment building wedged between a bakery and a hardware store. Third-floor windows stood open above flower boxes and wind chimes.

Completely normal.

Which was probably the most suspicious thing about it.

Willard adjusted his hat.

“Oh, good.”

Nobody liked the smile accompanying those words.

“What’s good?” Bodhi asked.

“Felicia’s awake.”

“How can you tell?”

Willard pointed toward a third-floor window.

A hand appeared and yanked the curtains shut.

“She’s subtle.”

“The bank opens in an hour,” I reminded him.

“Exactly.”

“That wasn’t permission.”

Willard climbed out.

“Won’t take long.”

“Willard.”

He crossed the street.

Gene watched him disappear into the building.

“Should we stop him?”

Kristy Lee shook her head.

“I’m not going anywhere near whatever’s about to happen.”

From the rear seat, Rachel laughed.

Small.

Barely there.

It caught my attention.

Rachel looked exhausted again.

Not tired.

Drained.

The color she’d gained after Jasper’s attack had disappeared during the drive. Every movement seemed to require conscious effort.

The front door closed behind Willard.

Silence.

A beat.

Two.

Then shouting erupted from the third floor.

“YOU WERE IN JAIL AGAIN?”

Willard answered.

We couldn’t make out the words.

Whatever he said didn’t help.

The window opened.

Willard’s hat came sailing out.

It landed in the flower bed.

Gene nodded.

“Strong opening.”

A shoe followed.

Then a folded shirt.

Then a couch cushion that lodged in a tree.

Kristy Lee stared upward.

“She folded the shirt before throwing it.”

“Boundaries,” Gene said. “Healthy relationship.”

I sat on a bench beside the bakery.

Sasha immediately settled against my leg.

Happy.

Content.

The smartest one among us.

I scratched behind her ears and looked toward the morning sky.

I should pray.

The thought appeared without invitation.

I’d prayed over Kristy Lee.

Prayed before meals.

Prayed from stages in front of thousands of people.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat alone with God without asking for something, promising something, or trying to manage His answer.

Maybe I never had.

I closed my eyes.

Lord—

“YOU COULD’VE CALLED!”

My eyes opened.

Gene shrugged.

“She has a point.”

I tried again.

Lord, I don’t know—

Another shoe flew from the window.

It struck Willard’s hat in the flower bed.

Gene looked impressed.

“Good arm.”

Kristy Lee smacked his shoulder.

I closed my eyes.

I don’t know what You want me to do.

A loud crash shook the windows.

Nothing came outside.

That was somehow worse.

Rachel smiled.

Actually smiled.

Not much.

Enough.

An hour earlier, she looked ready to collapse.

Now some color had returned to her cheeks.

I frowned.

“Rachel?”

She looked at me.

“Yeah?”

“You feeling better?”

She considered the question.

“Maybe.”

“What changed?”

Her gaze moved toward Felicia’s window.

“I don’t know.”

The answer didn’t comfort me.

Across the street, the window opened.

Willard leaned out.

“Everything’s fine!”

A third shoe struck him in the chest.

He disappeared.

The window slammed shut.

Gene laughed so hard he had to sit on the curb.

Twenty minutes later, the apartment door opened.

Willard emerged wearing his hat, his freshly pressed shirt, and what appeared to be a lipstick mark beneath his left ear.

He looked more content than any man had a right to look after having his belongings thrown from a third-floor window.

Gene wiped his eyes.

“What happened up there?”

Willard adjusted his cuffs.

“Rules of engagement are confidential.”

Felicia’s window opened.

“AND DON’T COME BACK UNTIL YOU MAKE YOUR COURT DATE!”

Willard pointed upward.

“See?”

Nobody did.

He climbed into the passenger seat and pulled his hat over his eyes.

“You know,” I said, starting the engine, “for a man who can open any door, you spend a lot of time in jail.”

Willard settled lower.

“That’s the price.”

I looked at him.

“What is?”

“Every door opens for me.”

He tipped his hat far enough to expose one eye.

“But sooner or later, somebody always catches me.”

“You could’ve left Dwayne’s cell whenever you wanted.”

“Sure.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“What’s the point? They’d catch me somewhere else.”

He covered his face again.

“Best to get it over with.”

Then he went to sleep.

Liberty Crossing looked like someone had preserved a small American town in amber.

Brick storefronts.

Flower baskets hanging from lampposts.

A white courthouse with a clock tower.

The only thing that didn’t match was Finch’s.

The bar sat half a block beyond the community bank, painted dark red with black trim. A temporary banner stretched across the front.

FINCH’S ANNUAL DECADENCE DAY

ONE DAY. NO REGRETS. MOSTLY.

Barricades closed three blocks around downtown.

Food vendors lined the sidewalks. Volunteers in orange vests directed traffic. A fire-department crew stood beside a supervised propane display shaped like a cannon. Adults drinking alcohol wore bright wristbands and remained inside a marked festival area.

At least somebody had thought about insurance.

People wandered the streets wearing costumes that made absolutely no sense.

A pirate argued with Abraham Lincoln.

A woman with butterfly wings skated past carrying coffee.

Napoleon pedaled a giant tricycle into a hay bale.

Someone played a banjo.

Poorly.

Gene climbed from the van and stopped.

His eyes widened like a child discovering Santa’s workshop.

“What is this?”

“Decadence Day,” Willard said. “Once a year.”

Gene turned slowly.

A group of Vikings drank from souvenir horns near Finch’s entrance.

“This place is perfect.”

He began drifting toward them.

Kristy Lee followed.

“I’ll keep him from joining a raiding party.”

“You can’t stop destiny,” Gene called.

The community bank stood across the street.

A sign beside its doors displayed special Saturday hours.

LOBBY OPEN 10:00 A.M.–NOON

DECADENCE DAY CUSTOMERS WELCOME

We had ten minutes.

Willard checked the street.

Then the bank.

Then Rachel.

“Let’s shake the money tree and see what falls out.”

He started across.

Rachel followed.

Bodhi stayed beside her.

Sasha moved after him.

Bodhi stopped near the entrance and looked down at her.

“You can’t go inside, girl.”

Sasha stared at Rachel.

“I’ll keep her,” I said.

Bodhi hesitated.

Then handed me the leash.

Rachel reached the opposite sidewalk and stopped.

She looked around.

Really looked.

At the crowd.

At the drinking.

At a couple arguing beside a food stand.

At a teenager crying while her friends pretended not to notice.

At a drunk man asleep against a trash can before ten in the morning.

Rachel drew in a slow breath.

Her shoulders straightened.

The exhaustion lifted slightly from her face.

Not gone.

Fed.

Sasha whined.

I looked down at her.

“You see it too?”

Her tail moved once.

“She looked half-dead when we left the ranch.”

Sasha watched Rachel.

“She looks better now.”

The dog pawed at my leg.

“Am I getting close, Lassie?”

Sasha barked.

For one ridiculous second, I understood why Jasper kept listening.

She wanted to tell me something.

I was simply too human to hear it.

The bank doors unlocked at ten.

Willard entered first.

Rachel and Bodhi followed.

I started after them.

Then the festival cannon fired.

A controlled burst of flame rose above the street. The concussion rattled windows and drew the crowd toward a pirate-ship parade float rolling through the intersection.

A man in a red coat stood at the bow.

“Ladies and gentlemen!”

Costumed performers tossed bead necklaces and candy.

The crowd gathered.

“Welcome to Finch’s annual Decadence Day!”

People cheered.

“It’s the one day a year when your tastiest dreams become reality, your worst ideas receive community support, and your regrets don’t count until tomorrow morning!”

The crowd roared.

The pirate looked across the street.

At me.

He stopped.

Even beneath the beard, hat, and ridiculous coat, something about him felt familiar.

He slid down a rope from the mock mast and stepped onto the street.

His eyes narrowed.

Then widened.

A grin spread across his face.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Every phone nearby turned toward us.

The pirate pointed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a bona fide celebrity in our midst.”

My stomach dropped.

The crowd followed his finger.

“Give it up for the legendary destructive force of the San Diego Stallions—Dan Callahan!”

The street erupted.

Phones rose.

People shouted my name.

Then someone started the chant.

“LINE UP AND PLAY!”

Others joined.

“LINE UP AND PLAY!”

Within seconds, the whole block shouted it.

I cursed myself for not wearing a hat.

Across the street, Kristy Lee’s expression changed.

She held up her phone, pointed at the crowd recording me, then made a cutting motion across her throat.

End this.

Now.

The pirate approached.

He favored his right side.

Bad knee.

Football players noticed things like that.

The walk.

The shoulders.

The way he protected one leg without realizing it.

Recognition hit.

“Wade?”

His grin widened.

“Took you long enough.”

Wade Finch wrapped me in a quick hug complete with the required three back slaps.

The crowd cheered.

Sasha barked.

I hadn’t seen him in more than a decade.

We’d played together at Notre Dame. Wade had been a backup quarterback with enough talent to believe his chance was coming.

Then his knee went.

One bad practice.

One torn ligament.

One career that ended before it technically began.

Wade jumped back onto the float.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I haven’t seen my dear friend in—what? Ten years?”

“Closer to twelve.”

“Twelve years!”

He looked around dramatically.

“And now the great Dan Callahan has returned to celebrate at Finch’s.”

So it was his bar.

His festival.

His crowd.

“What do you say he makes up for lost time by buying everyone a round?”

The crowd exploded.

I shook my head.

“No.”

They booed playfully.

Gene appeared near the Vikings wearing a horned helmet.

“Break out the black card!”

More cheering.

I pointed at him.

“You aren’t helping.”

“I’m helping them.”

Wade spread his arms.

“Oh, I understand.”

Something changed behind his smile.

Small.

Almost nothing.

“Super Bowl hero. Wall Street winner. Man of a thousand commercials.”

The crowd quieted enough to listen.

“Too important to have a drink with a broken-down backup quarterback and a few hundred of his closest friends.”

“It isn’t that.”

“What is it?”

“We’re in a hurry.”

“Of course you are.”

I looked toward the bank.

Bodhi and Rachel had disappeared inside with Willard.

Kristy Lee pointed again at the phones.

Our location was already public.

Every second mattered.

Wade noticed where I was looking.

“Still got somewhere better to be.”

“Wade.”

He raised both hands.

“No problem.”

Then smiled.

“But you know the Decadence rules.”

The crowd began murmuring.

I didn’t like the sound.

“What rules?”

Wade gestured toward a booth offering theatrical dueling swords and padded shields.

“Winner buys the round.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It’s Decadence Day. Making sense is discouraged.”

Someone placed a foam cutlass in my hand.

Wade grabbed another and jumped from the float.

The crowd pulled back, forming a ring.

Phones continued recording.

I could have walked away.

Should have.

But Wade stood there smiling in the middle of his festival, surrounded by people who knew him as the man he’d become instead of the athlete he might have been.

For one moment, I saw my old teammate.

The guy who believed every bad idea deserved one attempt.

I raised the sword.

“One touch.”

Wade saluted.

“First touch loses.”

The crowd cheered.

Wade attacked.

Not well.

Not badly.

Enthusiastically.

Foam clacked against foam.

The crowd reacted like they were watching Olympic fencing.

Wade lunged.

I stepped aside.

He stumbled.

People laughed.

Wade laughed too.

At first.

“Still slow,” I said.

“Still ugly.”

“Fair.”

We circled.

He swung.

I blocked.

Tapped his shoulder.

The crowd booed.

Wade clutched his chest.

“I’ve been mortally wounded.”

“Walk it off!” Gene shouted.

The crowd loved that.

For several minutes, it was fun.

Two former football players pretending to be pirates.

Nothing serious.

Nothing dangerous.

Then Wade missed a step.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed.

I did.

His right knee buckled.

Only for a second.

The movement was small.

The expression wasn’t.

Pain flashed across his face.

Gone immediately.

But there.

He saw me see it.

Something changed.

Not all at once.

A degree.

Then another.

The smile remained.

The warmth behind it vanished.

I lowered the sword.

“You all right?”

“Fine.”

Too quick.

Too sharp.

Every athlete knew that answer.

Nothing hurt.

Everything hurt.

Wade rolled his shoulders.

“Come on, superstar.”

I didn’t like that word.

Not from him.

Not then.

He attacked harder.

The foam blade snapped against mine.

The crowd cheered, still believing it was part of the performance.

Maybe it was.

For them.

Not for Wade.

“You ever think about it?” he asked.

“About what?”

“What would’ve happened?”

He swung again.

I blocked.

“What if the knee doesn’t go?”

Another strike.

“What if I get one more year?”

Block.

“One scout notices?”

Swing.

“One coach gives me a chance?”

The crowd couldn’t hear the hurt beneath his voice.

I could.

I’d heard versions of it my entire life.

Locker rooms.

Training rooms.

Hospital rooms.

The land of what-if was crowded.

Wade swung too hard.

I stepped inside his reach, turned, and used his momentum against him.

Then pushed.

Not much.

I didn’t need much.

His knee betrayed him.

Wade hit the street.

The crowd gasped.

Then laughed.

Not cruelly.

The reflexive laughter people offered when someone fell during a performance.

Wade didn’t laugh.

He remained on the pavement, breathing hard.

Looking down.

I regretted everything.

I offered my hand.

“Wade.”

He stared at it.

Then looked up.

The smile returned.

Wrong somehow.

Too narrow.

Too controlled.

“I’m good.”

The crowd began drifting toward its next distraction.

Wade accepted my hand.

I pulled him upright.

His knee buckled again.

This time everyone saw it.

No one laughed.

Wade brushed dirt from his coat.

“Good seeing you, Dan.”

“Wade—”

“I mean it.”

His smile never reached his eyes.

“Good seeing you.”

He walked away.

Not toward the float.

Toward Finch’s.

Sasha pressed against my leg.

I scratched behind her ears.

“Yeah.”

Across the street, the bank’s alarm began to scream.