Doc knelt by Philpot on the floor. Having unwrapped the bulging mass from its bandages, he shifted his weight to allow Mayor Barton a closer look.
“Watch the light, Paul. You’re throwing a shadow over it.”
“How bad is it, Doc?”
“It's not good. He hit it hard enough to burst the outer membrane.”
“Will we lose it?”
“That's kind of up to Caleb, I guess. He's been so fragile lately. I figured we didn’t have much time left for it, but this incident may have sped up its demise.”
Mayor Barton felt his temperature begin to rise. So many years of history were at stake here, so many victories. Perhaps even his town’s identity.
“Listen to me, Doc. I don't care what it takes; anything you have to do, whatever it takes; you can’t let that tumor die before the game, Friday. We have a state championship on the line. If it’s going to be our last, then I want this town to enjoy it completely.”
“Help me get him on the bed, Paul.”
“This is that reporter's fault, nosing around where he doesn't belong.”
With a sputter and a groan, Caleb Philpot went completely silent. Placing his ear against the man’ chest, Doc listened for some sign of life. Moving more quickly, Cletus placed both hands across Philpot’s chest and began to initiate CPR.
“The commotion threw Caleb into some kind of damned arrest.”
“What can I do?”
“Just give me some space.”
Seconds passed, and Paul held his breath. His eyes worked their way down to the uncovered mass of cancerous flesh at Caleb’s waste. This wasn’t how the story was supposed to end, not here, not now. Paul thought of his town, and his memories floated back to his election some sixteen years ago. In the back rooms where he shook the sweaty hands of his constitutes he had made a promise to keep the BHS tradition alive. At that time, Caleb had floated the idea of retirement, and there was a great deal of pressure to keep the tumor around. Immediately after the election, Paul had enacted his plan. With the help of the Doc, Caleb wasn’t going anywhere. A heavy dose of pain meds and psychotropic drugs would be enough to keep him hidden. The boosters all praised his swift action, and had become the force behind his subsequent reelections.
“He's coming back around.” Doc said in a resolute voice.
“I don't care about him... what about it?”
Doc backed away from Philpot and checked for a pulse. Satisfied he tended more carefully to the tumor, checking to see if it has been injured, wondering to himself how, after all these years, Paul still didn’t understand.
“It's a part of him, Paul. Jesus, whatever happens to him, happens to it. We lose him, and you lose it. And this town loses the game Friday night. Got it?”
Mayor Barton’s eyes cringed down into a squint, “That Yankee son of bitch.”
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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