It's. Nice. Outside. (28 page)

“Really fucked-up. Like, reality-TV fucked-up.”

“Your lives weren't that bad,” I said.

“We had a crazy house, Dad. A crazy house,” Mindy said. “Do you remember Silent Nights?”

“Yes,” I said softly.

Mindy was referring to the darkest part of the War Years, when the blitzkrieg raged. We were experimenting with Ethan's medications, and things weren't taking. His tantrums were worse than ever, and the slightest thing would set him off. Desperate, we agreed to keep all noise—TVs, radios, and even talking—to a bare minimum. Consequently, we turned into a house of mimes, pointing to things we wanted, rubbing our stomachs when we were hungry, waving hello, good-bye, clasping our hands together and holding them close to our heads when we wanted to sleep. The whole thing was tragically ridiculous and, to make matters worse, it didn't work.

“We survived,” Karen said.

“Kind of,” Mindy said.

“You two both turned out fine.” I reached over and turned the lights off.

“Who do you love more?” Mindy asked. “Be honest. Karen can take it.”

“Lie down now. Lie on your stomachs.”

They slid down on their backs so I had to turn each of them over.

“Good night, girls.” I kissed them both on the tops of their heads.

“Where's Stinky Bear?” Mindy said, her voice muffled by the pillow. “Where Stinky. Bear. Be?”

“Go to sleep.”

“I miss Ethan,” Karen said.

“Yeah, so do I. Where's his room?” Mindy said. “Get him in here. I miss the big galoot. He always smells so clean.”

“Because I'm always giving him baths.”

“I love him,” Mindy said. “Every time I think I am incapable of love, I think about him. I think, man, I love him, like a pure love, so there, I'm not as fucked-up as I think. Ethan kind of makes me normal. He makes me be nice. I'm not a nice person, but around him, I'm not that bad.”

“Yeah, I know what you're saying. That's his thing,” Karen said. “He gives you a chance to be nice. Ethan gives everyone a chance to be nice.”

“Sometimes I think that without him, we'd all, like, fall apart. He's, like, our center or something. Hey, Dad, do you really think you can leave him? Just leave him like that?”

“I'm not going to just leave him, but, yes, he's going to stay there, yes. We all agreed we were going to give this a try. It's a good place.”

“No, you're not,” Karen said. “When it comes down to it, no, you're not.”

“He's your whole life.” Mindy said this softly, like she was dreaming.

“This whole trip is a joke,” Karen whispered.

“When it comes down to it, no way are you leaving him there, no way, not for six weeks. Not for one day.” Mindy said. “We're just waiting for you to realize it and go home.”

“This whole trip is a joke,” Karen whispered again. “A big, fat, joke.”

 

11

The next morning began much too early with a knocking, followed by the sound of Ethan's excited voice: “Hello! Hello! Hello!”

I sat up in a fog. I had had my Ethan-is-talking-normal dream again, but couldn't remember specifics, just that we were together and that he was speaking, clearly, in complete sentences. I did not like those dreams, didn't like them at all; after I woke, a feeling of loss would cling to me.

“Hello! Hello! Hello!”

“Okay. Hold on!” I suddenly had a strong desire to see him, give him a squeeze. I got to my feet and wobbled, stiff-legged over to open the door. And there he was, standing next to Mary, bright-eyed bushy-tailed, Mindy's Bud Light cap on backward. He may as well have been wearing a T-shirt that read,
CARP DIEM!
I leaned down and kissed him on his forehead, then gave him a solid hug.

“My man,” I whispered.

I smiled at Mary. She looked summery that morning: sunglasses, a soft yellow sleeveless dress, sandals. I wondered how far we were from the ocean.

“Where. Girls. Be?” she asked.

I released Ethan, put a finger to my lips, and motioned with my head. “Enter.”

Ethan walked past me, followed by Mary. When she saw Karen and Mindy lying side by side, facing each other, breathing heavily out of their mouths, she took off her sunglasses and said, “I don't even want to know.”

“Stinky!” Ethan cried.

“You don't.”

“Girls!” Ethan said, pointing and smiling. “Girls. Sleeping.”

“Girls,” I said. “Right. Very hungover girls. Girls who were out very late last night.”

Mary's face wrinkled up. “What is that smell?”

“Girls who threw up last night. Girls who drank too much tequila.”

“Stinky!”

“Oh God.” Mary cupped hand over her nose. “How did you stay in this room?”

“I think they need to sleep awhile,” I said.

“How long?”

“Labor Day.”

Mary shook her head, reached for Ethan. “Let's go, buddy. You want to go swimming?”

Ethan jumped up and down. “Swimming!”

“All right,” I said, even though swimming was absolutely the last thing I wanted to do at that hour. “Let me get my suit. I'll meet you down there.”

“You stay here. I'll take him.”

“Dad. Come! Swimming!”

“Come on, Ethan,” Mary said. “I'll take you. Let's give your old daddy-o a break. I think he had a rough night.”

I gave Mary an appreciative look. “Thank you. I'll take him after that. Maybe play hoops somewhere. Find a park.”

“Hoops! Now!”

“No. Swimming now. And hold on to the sides,” I said.

“Let's go, buddy,” Mary said. She gave Mindy and Karen one last look. “Our sweet girls,” she said.

“Yes, sir, we did something right.”

*   *   *

Of all the cities and towns we had been through, Wilmington, Delaware, was probably the place I had the least desire to explore because, in all honesty, I had never heard of it. In its defense, it did seem like a nice, solid mini-city, just orderly and clean enough to make it unremarkable. For all I knew, it might have had a deep and rich history. George Washington might have slept there, possibly Lincoln too. It might have had a vibrant arts community, or a thriving underground music scene, but I never made an effort to find out. All I really learned about Wilmington, Delaware, was that it had a pretty good outdoor basketball court.

After his swim with Mary, Ethan and I found a quiet, shady park at the end of a dead-end street. It had a small court with real cloth nets, not the chain nets many parks had, and this was a plus. Sometimes the rattling sound of the chains upset Ethan; the cloth nets were soft and silent.

I took a few shots, then sat on a nearby bench and encouraged Ethan. He was particularly deadly that morning. He immediately hit five in a row, pushing the ball two-handed from his chest, jumping a bit as he released. I was amazed, as always. He was as good as me, as good as anyone.

As he shot away, I wondered, not for the first time, if things had been different, if his chromosomes were normal, what kind of player he could have been. Would he have made the basketball team, would he have played? Started? Would he have been a point guard, or the shooting guard that I was? Would I have been one of those ex-jock fathers who lived vicariously through him? When you have a child like Ethan, you have to contend with a fair amount of “what if” moments, and though they diminish over the years, they could and would still ambush you at odd times and at odd places. Like a park in Wilmington, Delaware.

“Nice shot!”

“More!”

“Okay, shoot more. Take your hat off—you'll shoot better. Your hat, take it off.”

I sat back, squinted up at the sky, relaxed. This was a good morning: the girls were burying the hatchet, I was inching closer to Mary, and Ethan was in a fine mood. What was more, he hadn't uttered the name Rita in close to twenty-four hours. Based on experience, I knew the word had not stuck. The danger had passed.

Eventually, Ethan walked over and buried his head in my lap.

“What's going on? You tired? Need a break? Halftime?”

“Play,” he said softly. He was being shy and tentative because I often turned this particular request down. I knew what he wanted to do.

“Play what?”

“Play.”

“What game do you want to play? Chess?”

“No!”

“Um, Monopoly? That's always fun.”

“No!”

“Oh, I know, poker! That's it. I bet Sal taught you.”

“No!”

“Then what game, dude-man, what game? You have me wondering here.”

“Illini,” he said, his voice muffled.

“What?”

“Illini.”

“Oh. Wow, never would have guessed that. Never. You want me to play Illini?”

He sat up, eyes gleaming. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Illini, huh?” I surveyed the park: the court was still empty, and while there was a cluster of children and parents by the swings, they were a good distance away. I stood. “Sure, why not? We haven't played that in a long time. Okay, Illini!”

“Dee!”

“Right, you be Dee. Okay.”

From time to time, at Ethan's request, we would reenact the final minutes of the famous Illinois–Arizona game. I, of course, took on the heroic role of Deron Williams, and he of star guard Dee Brown. It was a ritual that required energy and enthusiasm. Fortunately, I had enough of both in the tank that morning.

Back on the court, I stretched, touching my toes a few times, before launching into the well-worn narrative.

“Wow, a close game throughout. Arizona has
exploded
into a fifteen-point lead. Once again the first double-digit deficit the number-one team Illinois has faced all season! This crowd is stunned.”

“Shoot!”

“Okay.” I officially commenced the comeback by hoisting a shot from the top of the key that was nothing but net. “Deron Williams gets three of those fifteen points back! This game is far from over!”

Ethan retrieved the ball and bounced it back to me. I dribbled off to the left of the basket and continued the long-since-memorized play-by-play. “Brown feeds Williams. Williams for three. Got it! Deron Williams with the biggest three of his life!”

“Face!”

“Look at his face! The look of determination!”

“Back!”

“He's putting the Illini on his back right now!”

Ethan gleefully jumped up and down and yelled, “Go, Illini!” then bounced another pass my way. This time I dribbled to the free-throw line, faked my invisible defender, and took another shot. This too went in. Like Deron had been years before, I was on fire. “Right between the—!”

“Eyes!” Ethan screeched with joy.

We kept this up for a good fifteen minutes under a hazy sun, Ethan feeding me passes while I provided the running commentary, which climaxed with, “The Illini are going to the Final Four! The Illini are going to the Final Four!” Afterward we went to a McDonald's for Sprites, where we sat happily in a booth celebrating the amazing victory.

“Wow!”

“Wow is right. That game was wow!” I said, squeezing his hand. “I remember Sal hugging the crap out of me after that. He hugged me so hard, he hurt my back. I was in pain for a week.”

“Sal!”

“Yeah, Sal. One of the world's all-time huggers. He actually practices hugging.”

“Me!”

“You what?

“Me!” Ethan stood up and extended his arms.

It took me a moment to realize what he wanted. This was new. “What? Oh, sure, sure.” I stood and, in the middle of the crowded McDonald's, we hugged hard.

“Done!”

“No, not yet,” I said, burying my face in his hair.

“Done!”

“No, not yet.” I said.

*   *   *

When we returned to the hotel, we found the girls slouching in oversize chairs in the lobby. With their large round sunglasses and chalky faces, they looked like strung-out rock stars waiting for their limo. Neither one said anything as we approached.

“Well, well, well, if it isn't Thelma and Louise,” I said.

They remained silent, staring straight ahead, heads not moving.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” I said. “We just had brunch with Manny. He sends his regards. ‘
Hola, muchachas bonitas
' were his exact words. I hope you don't mind, but I gave him your home addresses. He's goes to New York a lot on business, he said.”

More silent staring.

“You guys come straight from the health club? Get a good workout in? You seem tired. Hey, where's your mother? Did she work out with you?”

“I'm over here.” I turned just as Mary walked up, bags in tow. She was still wearing that cheerful little dress and had, I noticed, a slight spring to her step, a perky spark in her eyes. I found this interesting, if not encouraging. There was no Valium in that woman's system, at least not this morning. “Ready to hit the road?” she asked.

“Hope so. Our teenagers' binge threw us off schedule though, so we're going to have to make tracks, limit our throw-up breaks. Do either of you have airsick bags? Might save some time.”

“We're right here, Dad,” Mindy said. “You don't have to yell.”

“I'm hardly yelling.” I, of course, was talking very loudly, enjoying the pain and torment each decibel inflicted. “And remember, we're in one van now, so get ready for a commercial-free Stinky Bear marathon. And let's not forget the new Red Bear reality show,
Hard of Hearing
! Everyone talks really loud in it.”

“Oh, fuck,” Mindy said.

“Hey, watch the words, please,” Mary said, motioning to Ethan.

“I just remembered, I think I left Red Bear at the bar last night.”

“What?” I stopped with the mocking. “What are you talking about? You think you left Red Bear at that bar? What bar, that tequila place? That place?”