Reid Forgrave - Love, Zac

Love, Zac

Small-Town Football
and the Life and Death
of an American Boy

Reid Forgrave

ALGONQUIN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL 2020

Published by
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225

a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014

2020 by Reid Forgrave. All rights reserved.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020016842

e-ISBN: 978-1-64375-109-2

To Megan, the one I want to impress

Z ac Easter stood on the long wooden dock leading out onto Lake Ahquabi, gripping the .40-caliber pistol hed given his dad for Fathers Day not even five months before.

The sun had dipped over the horizon on the other side of the Y-shaped lake. Leaves lay in heaps on the fringe of the woods. The gusty November winds died down as the sun sank on the horizon, but there was still a chill in the air. Winter was coming. Zac took out his phone and snapped a picture. He posted it to Snapchat, ignoring the frantic phone calls that were pouring into his phone. God bless America, he captioned the photo.

Where is Zac? All around Zacs hometown, friends and family were terrified. Theyd seen his Facebook post a few minutes before: If your reading this than God bless the times weve had together. Please forgive me. Im taking the selfish road out. Only God understands what Ive been through... I will always watch over you! They needed to stop him. But how? They didnt even know where he was. From the house where Zac grew up, a few miles away and amidst fields of corn, his parents called. Zac did not pick up. From the small town just down the street where Zac had played high school football, and from Des Moines, the big capital city not quite twenty miles to the north, his friends called. Zac did not pick up. At 5:36 p.m., a college roommate texted him: Hey whatre you up to bud? No reply. From the law school at Case Western Reserve University, almost seven hundred miles away in Cleveland, Ohio, Ali EppersonZacs girlfriend, and the only person to whom he had fully confided his struggles with his rapidly deteriorating braincalled. Zac did not pick up.

She called again.

He did not pick up.

She called again.

Finally, Zac picked up. There was terror in his voice.

I cant do this, he told her. Its never going to get better.

Ali, a vivacious law student who in many ways was Zacs oppositea bleeding-heart liberal who balanced out Zacs dyed-in-the-wool conservatismwas freaking out. How many hours had she spent on the phone with him, talking about the disease that seemed to be eating his brain from the inside? How many times had the two talked about the sport he loved, the sport that had consumed much of his childhood but now seemed to be consuming the rest of his life as well? How many times had she told him that a real man was not stoic and unfeelingthat a real man must face his demons instead of suffering silently in deference to some antiquated ideal of masculinity? How many times had she told him not to apologize to her, that she loved him despite the crazy stuff that was going on, and that they would work through it all together?

Earlier on this dayFriday the 13th, of all days, in November 2015he had apologized again. Im sorry you fell in love with a guy with a ducked up brain, Zac had texted her, his phones autocorrect softening the swear word. Hed awoken early, started drinking, and called Ali in a panic late in the morning, shit-faced and swerving his car around the suburbs. Shed coaxed him to drive into a gas station, then into a Jimmy Johns to grab a sandwich and sober up. Shed calmed him like she always did. Hed apologized like he always did. Shed texted him back: You cant choose who you fall in love with. You just fall in love. Then, hed texted an ominous reply: If anything happens to [me] just by a chance of luck. Tell my family everything.

Now, things were happening. A friend noticed the setting of Zacs Snapchat photo: the beach on Lake Ahquabi, where Zac and Ali had escaped to in the summer to get away from high school friends and stare at the clouds. The lake was just down the road from his familys house. The lakes name is derived from an ancient Algonquian language. It means resting place.

Ali kept Zac on the phone. Listen to the sound of my voice, she soothed him. Listen to the sound of my voice.

Im losing my mind, he cried. This is it for me! One Warren County Sheriffs Office cruiser came speeding down the winding hill toward the lake, followed by another. Ali, did you send these cops here? The cops got closer to him. He started apologizing to Ali, and he told her he wanted his brain donated for research. Then, Zacs phone cut out.

Out on the dock, Zac pointed the pistol at the darkened sky and fired a warning shot.

That is when a pickup truck sped down the hill and slammed to a stop next to the lake. Zacs father, a burly former high-school football coach named Myles Easter, jumped out. The parking lot quickly filled with squad cars. One deputy, a former all-conference linebacker who played for Myles on the same high school team Zac had played for, trained his assault rifle on Zac. Lasers from other police rifles danced on Zacs body. The evening was dark, and it was getting cold. Myles saw the cherry-red 2008 Mazda3 Zac called Old Red. He peered into the window of his sons car. He saw an empty six-pack of Coors Light, an empty bottle of Captain Morgan rum, and a pill bottle.

Floodlights illuminated Zac. A black curtain fell on the water behind him. Zac stood up from a picnic table and walked down the pier toward a wooden fishing hut at waters edge. A few more steps, and hed be inside, alone on the water, out of sight.

Put your gun down! the deputies shouted.

Nope! Zac yelled with an anguished laugh. Not gonna do that!

In a flash, Zacs father realized what was happening: Zac wants the police to shoot him. Fuck it, Myles said to himself. I cant let this happen.

Zacs father sprinted past the sheriffs deputies and onto the pier. Zac! he shouted. If he shoots me, he shoots me, the father thought.

Dad, stop!

As Myles Easter ran toward his son, Zacs face came into focus. His blue eyes looked foggy and confused. The expression on his still-boyish face matched the tenor of his voice: sad, sick, exhausted, scared. Worn down by life. Beaten, once and for all.

Zac, Im coming, Myles said. Put your gun down.

Dad! Zac shouted. Dad, stop!

Then, gripping his fathers pistol, Zac disappeared into the fishing hut. The door slammed shut behind him.

And Zac Easter was alone.

Zacs often-haphazard spelling is retained when quoting from his diary and other writings.

I owas capitol building sits on a grassy hill just east of downtown Des Moines. It marks the highest point on the east side of this Midwestern city. Atop the rectangular limestone structure, four smaller copper domes encircle one large dome in the center, which ascends 275 feet above the ground. The large dome is gilded with 150 troy ounces of 23-karat gold leaf. Six intimidating Corinthian columns rise up on each side of the building to ornately designed cornices at the roofline. The architectural message from this enormous edifice, for which the cornerstone was laid in 1871, seems to be this: Respect authority. Nearby is a newly hopping entertainment district that a little more than a decade before had a reputation somewhere between sketchy and abandoned.