The boys streamed music from speakers. They walked through the music in their camouflage pants and hats with cursive A’s and cartoon elephants holding footballs. It was exactly what Max had seen in the movies: a party in the backyard of a suburban house with cars parked in the driveway and gallons of soda poured into plastic cups and paper napkins to use once and throw away. People brought jars of white sauce and slathered the meat in it. He watched a man open a soda can and pour in a pack of sugar. Max couldn’t stop admiring how similar it was to what he expected, even with all the ways it was different. Someone asked him—what you want? Cola? Diet Dew? Grape?
When Max said nothing, they said, Why you smiling goofy like that? Cat got your tongue?
Max blinked at them. His face told them he did not understand.
Aw, he’s just messing with you, said Davis, who dug his hand deep into a cooler full of crushed ice. A Coke appeared in his hand. He held it out to Max.
Here you go, buddy, Davis said. Loosen the mind. Soften the spirit. You’re wound real tight. I see it in your jaw.
Just messing with you, Max thought in his head. He popped the top of the Coke. He tried to tell his shoulders: unclench the jaw. Cat got my tongue.
Thank you, buddy, said Max, trying out the new word.
The boys and their fathers wore clothes a size too big. They seemed to dress intentionally unstylishly, as if to announce their masculinity, but somehow, maybe without meaning to, they’d invented a new style. The dress code was specific and mandatory. Their feet wore strappy sport sandals or cowboy boots or sockless boat shoes. The shirts that hung from their shoulders were pastel polos or rayon casuals or ragged white tees with Confederate aphorisms. dixie republic. this is our heritage. They clasped delicate gold crosses around their thick necks. The songs they played told of tractor trucks, fishing lines, and girls in short skirts who loved them. They sung these songs loudly. They tossed their arms around one another’s shoulders and swayed. One song was about Alabama itself and how blue the sky was and how sweet it was to be home and how big the wheels were that would take them there.
Knox’s dad slapped Max on the back, startling him back into his body.
That’ll put some hair on your chest, son, he said, giving Max’s frame a once-over.
He pointed at the Coke perspiring in Max’s grip and laughed.
Scrawny, isn’t you? said Knox’s father.
It was true Max’s body appeared smaller than the others who loomed above him, bloated and strong. It was true his chest was without hair. Max gripped his can tighter.
Just don’t drink too many.
Knox’s father narrowed his red-edged eyes, frowned from behind a slim, drawn face, like he was scolding Max for something he hadn’t done yet.
Too many will make you fat. You want to be strong. Not fat.
Okay, said Max. I will not too many.
Not okay, said Knox’s dad. Yes, sir.
Apologizing, Max said, Yes, sir.
Fellas, said Coach, with his booming voice. Fellas, circle up!
He raised his pitch, so he could be heard above the chatter.
Wes turned down the music and took off his hat.
I want to pray with y’all, Coach said.
The crowd swarmed him. They formed a huddle, almost like it was muscle memory. The warmth of the bodies could have felt smothering, but it had a sedative effect.
Know why? Coach said. Because we got something to lift up to the Lord God right here. Right now.
Max looked around. The boys nodded, peered at their feet, squinted at Coach lit by the sun. Max wondered what they had to lift up, wondered what lifting up even meant. He stepped back into the crowd, almost behind the toe line, trying to blend in.
Fellas, we got a new friend that’s come to us from all the way over in Europa.
Max’s heart struck the curve of bone around it.
Max, son. C’mon over here. C’mon here, son.
Coach moved his arm in a corralling motion, gesturing for Max to come to him. His voice was lighter than it was at practice, silky at the edges, almost inviting with that peculiar, pleasant twang. Max walked over and stood beside Coach. The sting of being watched spread over him, squared his shoulders. Coach’s skin had the charred sheen of someone who’d spent a lifetime outdoors. Max could see Coach’s son, Hayes, in his father’s hook nose and watery eyes, in the square tips of his fingers that he now slammed together in front of his polo-clad chest. The boys bent their heads in unison. Someone named Graham kept staring at Max and nodding his head with a deranged look, like one of those bobble-head dolls that keeps bobbing forever, eyes painted open.
Father God, started Coach. We know whenever two or three are gathered in your name you’re here, too, God. So, we want to take that opportunity to welcome Maximillian today. We ask that you make his heart a fertile ground for your seeds of everlasting love to sprout. We ask you be with him, bless him, and keep him well in his new life here in Alabama. We ask you use him as a vessel to do your blessing.
Coach’s hand rose up and clasped Max’s neck. Max felt the Coach’s calluses. The hand squeezed. Maximillian was not Max’s name, but he said nothing to correct this.
Father God. Coach’s voice split down the center. The grasp on Max’s neck tightened. Max wanted to step into the crack of his voice. The voice could carry him. He might like where it went. The emotion that clenched Coach’s voice raised a response from the crowd, too. Max had never observed emotion in a man like this, in a man like Coach, who preferred crudeness and coarse talk and handshakes that hurt you.
Yes, Lord.
Yes, Lord.
A minute of silence passed. Max heard the traffic in the distance, the breeze thick in the trees.
Lord God. We ask you protect this boy. Show him your love so he might see you as we see you. Let him never lose the faith.
Amen! Coach bellowed to end it.
Amen, Father, said the boys.
Amen?
Amen!
With the final amen, the tension that had seized the backyard eased. Coach’s voice returned to its growl. He gave Max a shove.
All right, boy, all right, he said, chuckling to himself.
All right, said Max.
Son, Coach said. Coach leaned in so that their eyes were fixed on each other, at the same level. Max focused on the sty on Coach’s left lid. Do you know the love that Jesus Christ has for you?
What? said Max. I mean, he said, catching himself, What, sir?
Coach’s brow had a high, skeptical arch. He seemed to want to say something else but thought better of it. He slapped Max on the shoulder. So much touching, thought Max.
You’ll know soon, son. The Lord’s got plans for you. For all of us.
Yes, sir, said Max.
Good boy, Coach said, giving him an uneasy once-over. Good. Boy. Then Coach walked off.
Wes turned the music back up. No one else seemed affected by the outburst of prayer. Above them, the sun sizzled. Everyone flushed under a fine layer of sweat. Max’s neck was sticky from the meat of Coach’s hand. The spot where he had held him while he prayed vibrated and hummed. He didn’t want to touch it, for fear that he would wipe the sensation away.
Wes licked his thumb and stuck it into Max’s ear. Max laughed. It felt good to laugh. Wes laughed back like they were friends.
They lifted their Cokes to the chemical blue sky and toasted to their luck but also to their God. The can was so thin, Max wanted to crush it in his fist. He wanted to crush the moment in his fist. The music opened up. It reached the treetops. It pushed into the leaves. The twang of them singing out of tune together swallowed the afternoon in one boyish yawn. Max wished he knew every word to every song they sang, and he pretended he did.