6

Who’s Flying This Life?

At the last minute Mary Jean changed her mind about sending Tucker Case to her cabin in the mountains. “Put him in a motel room outside of town and don’t let him out until I say so.”

In two weeks Tucker had seen only the nurse who came in to change his bandages and the guard. Actually, the guard was a tackle, second-string defense from SMU, six-foot-six, two hundred and seventy pounds of earnest Christian naïveté named Dusty Lemon.

Tucker was lying on the bed watching television. Dusty sat hunched over the wood-grain Formica table reading Scripture.

Tucker said, “Dusty, why don’t you go get us a six-pack and a pizza?”

Dusty didn’t look up. Tuck could see the shine of his scalp through his crew cut. A thick Texas drawl: “No, sir. I don’t drink and Mrs. Jean said that you wasn’t to have no alcohol.”

“It’s not Mrs. Jean, you doofus. It’s Mrs. Dobbins.” After two weeks, Dusty was beginning to get on Tuck’s nerves.

“Just the same,” Dusty said. “I can call for a pizza for you, but no beer.”

Tuck detected a blush though the crew cut. “Dusty?”

“Yes sir.” The tackle looked up from his Bible, waited.

“Get a real name.”

“Yes, sir,” Dusty said, a giant grin bisecting his moon face, “Tuck.”

Tucker wanted to leap off the bed and cuff Dusty with his Bible, but he was a long way from being able to leap anywhere. Instead, he looked at the ceiling for a second (it was highway safety orange, like the walls, the doors, the tile in the bathroom), then propped

himself up on one elbow and considered Dusty’s Bible. “The red type. That

the hot parts?”

“The words of Jesus,” Dusty said, not looking up.

“Really?”

Dusty nodded, looked up. “Would you like me to read to you? When my grandma was in the hospital, she liked me to read Scriptures to her.”