[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.”I did as he asked.The ball left my hand, whistled through the air, and dissected the GoPro from its mount on the window.The camera went one direction, the mount the other.Roddy nodded in approval, retrieved the ball, and pitched it back.I caught it, set my feet, and shot a bullet at his head.He just had time to get his hands up before the pigskin split his part.He paused, smiled wider, and tossed it back.This continued a few minutes.After a dozen or so throws, he retrieved a pair of gloves from his car and mimicked shooting a syringe into his arm.“You sure they didn’t feed you some juice in that prison?”“Orange juice on Monday and Wednesday.Cranberry Tuesday and Thursday.Fruit punch on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.Room-temp water anytime you want it.”Having seen and felt enough, he trotted to me, handed me the ball, and then spread out wide to my left, the dirt road stretching out in front of us.He raised an eyebrow and waited.I smiled.“You okay running in those shoes? I don’t want you to pull a hammy and sue me when the team releases you.”“I can handle whatever you dish out.”“Red muscle thirty-two, sticky free china.”He chuckled and followed it with a slow nod.“Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”“And don’t get stuffed at the line.”He laughed louder and nodded.I snapped the ball and he took off.I loved watching Roddy run.Poetry in motion.And after a decade in the pros, he could fly.I watched him float, thirty, forty, fifty.When he hit fifty-five yards, I released the ball and he caught it in stride seventy-plus yards down the road.He trotted back, breathing slightly, and handed me the ball.We returned to the porch, where I offered him a warm ginger ale that he accepted.We sat in the quiet a few minutes, neither talking nor feeling the need to.When he did speak, it was purposeful.He sipped from his soda can.“I know you’ve got a few things stacked against you, but they’d like you to consider trying out.Quietly.No press.Just you and me.Asked me to lean on you.”I stared down into my glass.“Roddy—” I shook my head.He stood, pulled on his suit coat, and slid his glasses back over his eyes.The diamond glistened, matching his pearly white teeth.He straightened his coat, fixed his tie.When I reached out my hand, he accepted it and held it.He said, “I don’t pretend to know what happened.If it’s true—” He paused.Shook his head.“But I’ve played twelve years.Been with three teams and caught passes from maybe a dozen guys who stood behind center.None of them have what you—” He eyed the road.“Still got.” He let go, walked to his car, collected the pieces of the GoPro, and then paused, holding onto the door.He wanted to say something else, but when it got to the tip of his tongue, he thought better of it and stepped into his car.He shut the door, and the dust swirled behind him as he drove slowly out the drive.I whispered, “It means more than you know.”CHAPTER TWENTY-TWOTux slept for the better part of a week and into the second.Morning and evening, I worked with Dee, trying to straighten out his arm.Because Dee’s desire to please his coach, win his approval, ran deep, so did the wound.Hence, progress on his arm was slow.I’m not knocking his heart; all players want to please their coach.Dee’s case was different because he never knew his dad, and Coach Demon, like it or not, filled an empty place in Dee’s heart.All coaches do.Problem was, he was filling it with violent tirades, poor coaching, and betrayal.And based on what I could gather, Dee would experience more betrayal before this season was over.During the day, I laid low and kept clear of public places.And each night, I crept back across the half mile that separated us, hunkered below the window, and waited until I heard the remote control fall onto the floor.I lingered longer as Audrey lived out her nights in worn-out reruns and a self-induced coma.Sitting on the floor next to her bed, I’d slip my hand beneath hers, marveling at the callouses earned in her garden.I’d brush the hair behind her ears, wanting desperately to trace the lines of her figure but feeling guilty at the thought.In that conflicted place I sat, bathing in the sight and smell and sound of my wife.And, yes, I worried a good bit about the unknown effects of the drugs on her life and how long she’d been taking them.Watching her shower proved she’d lost at least ten pounds since I’d been gone.Maybe more.And she never really had it to lose.In the dark, listening to her breathe, “life without parole” took on new meaning.Each night, the glue that held me to the floor grew stronger.One Thursday night around ten p.m., I looked through Audrey’s window to find her room empty.Scratching my head, I thought I heard laughter.A strange sound rising from the pious reverence of a convent when so many haven’t spoken in years.What’s more, the laughter was familiar.I hadn’t heard it in a long time, but there was no mistake.I climbed the wall and followed my ears, circling around to a large, well-lit building in the center.Well-lit wasn’t a good place for me, so I shimmied off the wall and onto the roof of the building where the skylights had been opened.I crawled on my belly, poking my eyes and nose over the edge of the skylight, staring down on the circus below.Audrey sat, legs crossed, on the carpet, looking through reading glasses at Dee, who was standing in front of her.Scattered around her were several multiple-choice tests where the bubbles had been filled in.A large table off to one side, a couch behind her, and a very large flat-screen TV hung on the wall.Reel-to-reel and VHS films filled one wall of shelves.The handwriting on the covers and spine was mine.So that’s where they went.On the table behind them sat a messy stack of papers and one very thick book simply entitled, SAT.The TV had been turned on, and frozen on the screen stood me.My senior year of high school, I’d been made the Joker of the Homecoming Court.In good humor, the school had revolted against me and said I’d already won enough awards, so I had been appointed court jester.It was a lot of fun.The night before homecoming, I’d performed a one-man skit, poking fun at myself.I’d slicked my hair over, wore a whistle on a cord around my neck, pocket protector, white tape around the nosepiece of my glasses, shorts hiked up, socks rolled up, and high-top sneakers.I was the epitome of a cliché nerd.My voice and stage presence was Patton.My body posture was Carol Burnett—meaning I stuck my butt a foot out over my heels at all times.And my voice was as close as I could get to the sheriff in Cool Hand Luke in his famous phrase, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.” I had morphed myself into “Professor P.E.,” and I was giving the gym class an exercise in how to throw the football.In my best Tim Conway impression, I was stumbling over myself, couldn’t throw a spiral to save my life, rattling off about kinetic chain… it was marvelous fun.The school gave me a standing ovation.I think they enjoyed watching me let my hair down for once.The TV had been paused as I was demonstrating the catapult.Below me, Dee stood center stage
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]