It's. Nice. Outside. (7 page)

He shrugged. “Was getting in the way.”

“I never knew you had freckles. When did that start? I guess we could never see your face.”

He shrugged again, smiled. He was a classic-looking all-American kid, right off the streets of Mayberry: blue eyes, blond hair, a major “aw-shucks” dimple-smile thing going. His appearance was deceiving, though; on the court, dude was stone-cold.

“How's school going?”

“Okay.”

“How's the team looking?”

“We'll be pretty good. Tyrell is coming back, which kind of surprised everyone, and just about everyone else is too. We lost Tommy, though.”

“Herr? The big guy? Did he get drafted? I don't remember.”

Kyle shook his head. “He just signed on with a team in Croatia.”

“Croatia? I thought he went late second round.”

“He'll be okay, he's still making a lot of money. “

“Kid could jump. And he was great with those outlet passes. Kevin Love good.” I forgot how much I liked talking basketball with Kyle. Made me feel young. “Well, we watch your games when we can. That Kansas game was tough. Ethan and I watched that one at Rafferty's. Remember, Ethan? They let us sit at the bar?”

Ethan had lost interest in our conversation and was picking at his fingernails.

“You played well in that game.”

“I missed that free throw.”

“You made the second one. Tied it.”

Kyle looked off to the side, across the park. I silently cursed myself for having brought that game up: Louisville had lost in overtime. “We'll be okay this year,” he said.

“Well, even though you should have gone to Illinois, we're all proud of you. You're the most famous person to come out of Wilton.”

“I don't know. I think Mindy is probably the most famous person to come out of Wilton. She's really funny. That diaper thing.” He turned to Ethan. “But you're pretty famous too,” he said. “Ready to shoot some hoops? Make it rain?”

Ethan looked up from his fingers. “Rain!”

“Do you want to play?” he asked me.

“What? Oh God, no. I'll sit down. You guys go ahead.”

“You sure? I remember you being a shooter, Mr. Nichols.”

I appreciated the compliment more than I should have, but resisted the opportunity to embarrass myself. “No, thanks. I'm beat.”

“Some other guys might come too,” Kyle said.

“More reason for me to sit.”

I wearily made my over to a nearby bench and collapsed with a thud, exhausted. I couldn't believe how long the day had been; the pool in Indianapolis was an absolute lifetime ago. I sighed and stretched out my legs. I would have to do it all over again tomorrow.

“Hoops!” Ethan yelled.

“Hoops,” I said, but not quite as enthusiastically.

“Illini!”

“No, we're not playing that tonight.”

“What's he want to do?” Kyle asked.

“Nothing, this thing we do, this game. He'll be fine. You can just shoot with him.”

I watched Ethan take up a position just inside the free-throw line. Once situated, he immediately began making shots: one became two, two became three, three became four, the ball flying in a high, looping arc.

“Man, I forgot how good he was at this,” Kyle said, smiling. “He could teach me.”

Ethan kept this up for a while, showing off, I suspect, while Kyle and I looked on. Finally, after a few misses, he bounced the ball to Kyle and took a seat on the ground, halfway between my bench and the basket.

“Hoops!” he commanded.

“Okay, buddy,” Kyle said. “Guess it's my turn.”

Sitting there in the warm Kentucky night while Kyle shot, watching the ball sail smooth and pure against the darkening sky, I felt equilibrium returning. Each time Kyle made a basket and each time Ethan cheered, my head began to clear and my spirits rose. I sat back. I had made it this far.

As Kyle shot, I said a silent prayer of thanks. Like some kind of angel, he had descended, picked me up off the ground, and dusted me off. This was, fortunately, not an uncommon occurrence. Over the years, numerous times, too many times to count, just as I was about to reach my breaking point, just when I thought I couldn't take another minute, another second, out of nowhere—at the grocery store, at the park, at restaurants—angels, Ethan's angels, would appear and save us: strangers in stores would stop to talk to Ethan; neighbors took him for a walks. Once a truck driver in a parking lot, someone I had never seen before, or ever again, gave Ethan his baseball cap. Another time, while Ethan was in the midst of a meltdown in a parking lot, a policeman distracted him by letting him sit in a squad car. These acts, simple and impulsive, kept me going, reaffirmed my belief in God, in a universe that could, at least at times, mean well. I stretched out my legs farther, exhaled. We had a long way to go; I hoped there were a lot of angels still out there.

About a half hour later three other players arrived, emerging one by one from the shadows that ringed the lighted court. Two of them, giants, wore easy smiles, but the third and shortest, was expressionless. I immediately recognized him as Tyrell Dee. Big. Time. Player. I sat up.

“Ethan, move over here,” I said. “Get closer.”

“He's okay!” Kyle yelled.

The two Bigs gave Ethan hesitant smiles then nodded hello in my direction before taking their first shots. Tyrell took no interest, however. He stood sullenly near the basket, head down, texting with one hand. All the boys were wearing oversize shorts that hung low, but Tyrell's shorts were outrageous, a comedy, hovering just inches above his ankles. He wasn't as tall as Kyle—I put him at six-two—but in his sleeveless white T-shirt, I could see the coiled power in his arms and chest. The kid was ripped.

I was apprehensive at first and a little embarrassed; I hoped Kyle hadn't asked his teammates to come on our behalf. But after a few minutes I began to relax and enjoy the show. Other than Tyrell Dee, the players clearly didn't mind being there.

Ethan scooted over by me, and we both watched on in silence, bordering on awe as the players shot away.

“Dunk!” Ethan yelled.

“Ethan, shhh!” I said.

Kyle heard Ethan and obliged, dunking the ball with both hands, his mouth wide open with effort. This was followed immediately by another slam, by one of the Bigs. Within seconds a full-fledged dunking contest was under way, the iron backboard shaking as if it were in a hurricane. I sat speechless, not sure, once again, if the players were putting on a show just for Ethan, or if this was some off-season nightly ritual. Regardless, Ethan was more than appreciative, answering each dunk with applause and an exclamation. “Dunk!” he cried.

Soon a small but growing crowd of people, mostly students, began to form on corners of the court: We were in Louisville and this was the UofL basketball team after all. I suspected they drew a crowd wherever they went.

Tyrell Dee remained off to the side, absorbed with his phone, but Kyle and the two Bigs continued to bang away while people took pictures and ooohed and ahhed. After one particularly loud, rim-rattling dunk, Ethan jumped up and screamed at the absolute top of his lungs, “Wow! Wow! Wow!”

This last exclamation caught Tyrell's attention. He finally looked up from his phone and took Ethan in, his face still blank.

“Give me the ball, man,” he said to Kyle. He dropped his phone on the grass by the side of the court, hitched up his shorts, and bounced the ball a couple of times, before taking full flight. Whirling a semicircle in the air, he slammed it down spectacularly with one hand. Then he pointed at Ethan.

“Wow!” Ethan quietly said. He was stunned and maybe a little scared by the spectacle.

“Wow,” I agreed.

Tyrell Dee walked over to Ethan and slapped him five. “See, that's how it done,” he said. “Don't pay no attention to these others, don't be wowing them. They all be playin' in Croatia next year, man. Their mommas gonna have to get some kind of super international dish, see their games two in the morning. They say, ‘Oh, look, there's DeMarcus! He just scored for Team Croatia, I so proud!”

He said this last sentence in a falsetto voice, and even though DeMarcus was a seven-foot-tall, four-hundred-pound beast, I couldn't help but laugh.

“Yeah, where you be playing next year, TD?” Kyle asked

Tyrell sauntered back onto the court. “You know where I be, Sweet LA. Who you think I just be talking to? Kobe, just beggin' my ass to come out there, resurrect the situation.”

“You be playin' for DC,” DeMarcus said.

“Ain't playing for no DC. I ain't no
Wizard
, man, tell you that right now. LA gonna trade for me. Hey, yo, watch this, man!” He pointed to Ethan, then threw a ball against the backboard, caught the rebound in midair with one hand, and slammed it home. More ooohs and aaahs from the crowd, more phone cameras flashing.

“Wow!” Ethan yelled.

“Wow is right. I
am
wow.” Tyrell walked back over to us. He wasn't even breathing hard. “Yo, Baker, what's his name, man?”

“Ethan,” Kyle said.

“Ethan, you know talent. What you hangin' out with Baker for? He probably be playin' in Iceland next year. Or be a hockey player. Go play for the Canucks somewhere, man. Be a
Ca-nuck
.” Again he slapped a beaming Ethan five and looked at me.

“All right I give him a ball?”

I was speechless over the offer. “Yes. But you don't have to.”

“'S all right. Gotta support my fan base. DeMarcus, give me a ball. Over here, man, come on. Give me a good one. That one right there. No, that one, yeah. The one in your hands, man. You
holdin'
it. Come on. Over here.”

DeMarcus flipped Tyrell a ball, and he signed it with a marker from his pocket. “You take care of that,” he said, handing the ball to Ethan. “Gonna be
worth
when I go next year, man. Just don't let any of these others sign it. They probably write something in Croatian, depreciate the
worth
.”

I laughed again; the guy was funny.

“Shit, TD, he always got a pen on him,” DeMarcus said, bouncing a ball and smiling.

“Ain't no point leaving home without one,” Tyrell said, slipping the pen away. “Ain't that right?” He slapped Ethan five one more time and asked DeMarcus for another ball. “Yo, Ethan, man,” he said. “Watch this close now. You learnin' from the best.”

“Wow!”

“You got that right,” Tyrell Dee said. “I
am
wow.”

*   *   *

After Kyle made me take a few shots to show the others I once played D1 ball (for the record, not that it matters, I went nine for twelve from downtown); and after I took close to a hundred pictures of Ethan with the players (and one with just Tyrell Dee and me); and after Ethan gave everyone way too many good-bye high fives because he can't do fist bumps; and after I gave Kyle an awkward but very much-deserved bro hug; and after Ethan and I made our way to the Marriott East on the outskirts of town where we had a quick dinner in the bar and watched some
SportsCenter
, we called it an early night.

“Night, dude-man,” I said after I brushed his teeth and tucked him in.

“Leave. Now.”

“You'll get no argument from me there.” I kissed him on the forehead, stripped off my clothes, and fell into my bed. There would be no need for free throws or bourbon or
Blue Highways
tonight. I was exhausted and sensed a night of good sleep on the horizon.

“Good night, Ethan.”

*   *   *

I was just drifting off when I heard Karen's voice, and jerked awake.
Daddy.
She had called me Daddy on the phone. Daddy. She hadn't called me that in twenty years.

 

4

I forced myself to wait until six the next morning before calling Mary. Borrowing a page from her no-foreplay, no-bullshit, in-me-or-off-me playbook, I jumped right in. “What's wrong with Karen?” I whispered.

“Why? Did you talk to her?” Mary asked.

I pulled the sheet over my head in an attempt to muffle my voice. Ethan was still asleep. “No. She tried to call, but I couldn't talk. I was in the van, driving, and things weren't going well.”

“When are you going to get here?”

“I'm not sure. We're not moving as quickly as I had hoped.”

“Where are you?

“We're getting there.”

“Where are you?”

I paused. “Louisville.”

It was Mary's turn to pause. “Kentucky?”

“We have a ways to go.”

There was a cold silence. Then, “Why are you doing this? You should be here right now. You should be here. Karen needs you. The family needs you. You're the father, John. The father.”

“You know, Mary, just for the record, and if you remember, I always said she should have gotten married at home, in Wilton or Chicago. Not in South Carolina. I said that from the start. This whole thing … I mean, no one is from South Carolina. Roger isn't, his family isn't. That might be the one state they don't have a house in.”

“That doesn't help her now.”

“Why does she need help? What's wrong? What's going on?”

“She and Roger had a fight. A big one. Something happened. I'm not sure what.”

I digested this then blurted out, “Let me ask you something. Do you think there's any possibility that maybe—”

“He's not gay! I know that's what you think. You think everyone is gay!”

“I don't think everyone is gay.”

“You think your own daughter is gay.”

I peeked out from under my sheet. Ethan was still asleep, clutching Red and Grandpa Bear, one in each arm. “I don't think everyone is gay,” I said again. “It's just, he made that stink about the centerpieces and how important they are to a wedding. He e-mailed me photos of flowers. Who does that? What guy e-mails flowers?”