Philpot rested on his bunk becoming increasingly aware that he’d been mentally checked out for a while. Doc Mastes knelt at the bedside, gently mopping the sweat off his forehead. It was a far cry from what he was used to. Doc usually only poked and prodded his tumor with a curious indifference. He found the additional human touch welcoming, but it didn’t last too long.
“I need to take another sample Caleb. Do you feel up to it?” Doc Mastes broke through the wall of comfort. “This might hurt a bit.”
“Maybe it's time to cut it out of me, Doc.” Caleb couldn’t imagine life without the tumor. It had been with him over forty years, but the pain was intensifying and for the first time since the war, Caleb could see Death perching anxiously in the corners of his every breath.
“Caleb, you've done so much for this town. You know that I would if I thought it would help you. I think removing it could cause more damage than just leaving it there. You might not even survive the operation.”
“We could both rub it before you started... Everything would go alright then. It would bring us luck.”
“Maybe, but we should play it safe. I'll tend to you Caleb. I always have. We almost lost it... almost lost you tonight.”
Doc Mastes took out a scalpel and scraped a bit of the tumor. Philpot winced, but he kept working. He took a small sample of the scraping and placed it in a test tube, capped it, and stuck the layer of flesh in his medical bag.
“It's been with me so long, Doc. I guess I'd feel kind of naked without it.” Philpot’s fingers reached down to touch the tumor before being brushed aside by Cletus.
“Don’t touch it, Caleb. We can’t risk further infection.”
“Have I ever told you the story about the Nazis?”
“Yes, about a hundred times.”
“What a gift. They were giving me exactly what I needed to survive and escape.” Caleb remembered the first hour in the Nazi cell. In his mind he rehearsed a thousand different escape scenarios. He remembered thinking of his mother and how she would respond at the news of his death should he fail to make it home.
“You need to rest.” Doc interrupted the memory.
“You've been so good to me these years, Doc.” Caleb reached up and grabbed Cletus by the hand.
“You’ve been good to us Caleb. Better than we’ve been to you.” He took his medical bag in hand and made haste toward the door, eager to view the new sample from the BLT.
“Rest Caleb, you'll need your strength. We can talk about removing it after the game on Friday.
As Doc exited the room, an old song flashed through Caleb’s brain and he began to sing it again as if for the first time:
“When the saints go marching in,
Oh, when the saints go marching in,
Oh, Lord I want to be in that number,
When the saints go marching in!”
Caleb sang until he drifted off to sleep.
A novel, presented in chapters.
A small town high school football team has gone largely unrecognized after forty years of consecutive wins and a young, ambitious reporter uncovers a stunning secret—behind the small town values and string of impressive athletic victories hides a bizarre pre-game ritual: each player must rub the bulging tumor of their school janitor for good luck. As the janitor's health begins to fade, the town unites around the local body politic to push for the world's first ever tumor transplant in a crazed attempt to save their winning streak. The transplant fails, creating even more fevered desperation to win at least one more game. The town’s proposed solution is both as sickening as it is outrageous: players will consume the tumor during a special called Eucharist served up by the town minister, thereby demonstrating just how far a group will go to stay on top in the ‘dog eat dog’ world of high school athletics.
This book is in no way meant to make light of the terrible disease of cancer, which took my grandfather and many others I have loved. It's a metaphor for a different kind of illness.
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