Travis stood. A tentativeness shone in his eyes that James recognized from bygone days. The high-pitched screech of the chair legs scraping across the concrete floor bounced off the walls as Travis pushed the chair back under the table. His gaze flicked to James, then the wall, then back again to James.
“I don’t buy it, Travis. I’m sorry, but I just don’t buy it, any of it—the whole story.” James kept his tone firm and hoped his expression invited a total confession. He narrowed his eyes a little, trying to be intimidating.
“Me neither. I don’t buy your story and what’s going on with you. How ’bout that?”
The fire in Travis’s tone startled James, but only for a moment. He hadn’t expected Travis to turn the tables, but that profound gift had popped out at just the right time. James would not bow to it today, though. He met Travis’s gaze directly. “This isn’t about me!”
“Oh yeah? Maybe this is all about you, Jimmy. “How ’bout that!” Travis shot back, his conviction totally convincing.
“Would you stop!”
“You stop!” Travis countered, thrusting an accusing finger towards James. “You started it.”
James forced his tone to calm. “Aren’t you worried about what’s going to happen to you in here? What’s going to happen to your mother?”
“She’ll be fine. I’ll be fine, too. God has His plan. You should know that better than anyone.”
James stared, speechless. Travis had a point.
James had to concede that Travis had always been a prophet of sorts. The revelation startled him. God always blessed the innocent. Travis lived his calling. James shook off the thought, making a mental note to ponder later.
“Championship game against Fairmont, you busted your pinky when that tub of lard, Puckett, crushed you. Remember that?”
James smiled faintly and nodded, wonderment still sizzling along his nerve endings.
“Yeah, that’s right. We were five yards from the end zone. Next play, if you didn’t get hurt, what play were you gonna call to take the ball in?”
“Pass to Tyler,” James replied.
“That’s right. But you couldn’t throw, so what did you do?”
“Faked the pass, handoff to Clay.”
“Touchdown!” Travis slapped the table for emphasis, and the sound echoed through the room. He let out a deep breath. “It’s not ours to question His plan, Jimmy. Just to play the game.”
9
James hammered on the front door of the Wexler residence. Travis’s mother didn’t answer the door. “Ms. Wexler?”
“Go away! Leave me alone!” she yelled from inside.
He stepped off the front porch and headed around to knock on the back door. “Ms. Wexler? It’s Jimmy Moore. I’d really like to talk to you, ma’am.”
No answer.
He rapped on the window in quick succession and finally, Travis’s mom swung open the door.
“What do you want?” She barked as she drew her terrycloth robe closer around her body. Years and a few extra pounds had aged her face, but evidently, neither had diminished her sass.