The Farewell Season (10 page)

"Everything's fine. Okay?" If I weren't starving, I would have turned around and walked right back out of the house just to escape Mom's third degree.

Mom sighed and gave up asking me questions.

The back door slammed, and Kirstin came in wiping smudges of dirt off her face. "Eric, what're you doing here?"

"I live here."

"But, well, I expected … you're early."

"Sorry. If I'd known you'd wanted time to form a welcoming committee, I would've walked home."

Kirstin gave me a disapproving stare.

"Ah, at least I know I'm in the right house."

"Dinner's almost ready," Mom said. "Kirstin, wash your hands. Eric, please set the table."

"Isn't it Kirstin's turn?"

"She has to wash up. So would you set the table? Please?"

"In a minute. I gotta put my gym bag away." I took the stairs two at a time for a quick getaway. I took my time on my way back to the kitchen, figuring Kirstin would have gone ahead and set the table by then. Instead, I found her still at the sink, her arms lathered up to the elbows.

"Eric," Mom said. "I asked you to set the table."

I grabbed the silverware and slammed each piece down. I was sick of being told what to do.

In silence, we started eating Mom's Norwegian meatballs. We didn't have them that often because with the combination of ground steak and pork, not to mention heavy cream, they were, as Mom put it, a cholesterol disaster. But they were delicious, and by the time I finished wiping up the last of the gravy with a piece of bread, I was in a good enough mood to say, "Great meal, Mom."

"Why, thank you, Eric," Mom said with a wide-eyed look.

My good mood lasted only until Mr. Lindquist showed up a while later. Mom invited him right in, as if she'd been expecting him. I'd planned on going up to my room and crashing, but I didn't want to even be in the same house with Lindquist. I didn't need to watch Mom fussing over that balding, middle-aged geek, offering him coffee and all that kind of crap.

"I'm going out," I said.

"Out?" Mom raised an eyebrow. "Where?"

"Just out."

"When will you be back?"

"Whenever."

"Eric, that's not very specific …."

I was already halfway out the door. Once outside, however, I wasn't sure what to do. Before, when I was restless, I'd take Dad's car and just drive, maybe to the top of the butte and look out over the valley. But Dad's car had been totaled in the crash that killed him. I hated driving Mom's old station wagon.

I didn't feel like walking. I went into the garage, intending to take Mom's car out of desperation, but stopped when I saw my bike. I hadn't ridden it much since the day I got my license. For some reason, it looked inviting again. Flying around with the air on my face, my legs pumping like pistons, it'd be good for me.

I grabbed my helmet and headed out. Trouble was, I didn't know where to go. I could ride up to the top of the butte, but I'd never have the energy for practice tomorrow if I did.

There was the ride through vineyard territory, but that loop took about three hours and I wasn't up for that either. So I just hopped on my bike and started pedaling. It was still kind of hot, so I followed the shade. Next thing I knew I was on Grove Street. When I found myself in front of Glynnie's house, I stopped and stared at her front door.

Maybe she was waiting to interview me. She said she would see me today. At least, that's what I remembered. Maybe there'd been a mix-up. Maybe she was calling my house right now, looking for me. Why was I making such a big deal of it? I was at her house. Why not stop in? If she wasn't expecting me, I could easily dismiss her with a simple, "Sorry, my mistake."

I parked my bike, hung my helmet on the handlebars, went up on the porch and rang the bell, looking casual as hell.

Mrs. Alden answered the door with a paintbrush in her hand instead of the miniature cigar. "
Bonjour
, Eric! How wonderful." She yanked me inside. "Glynnie's upstairs. I know she'll be glad to see
you
." She pointed to a wide curved staircase. "Second door on your left."

I tried to ignore the smell of paint as I admired the wainscoting and ornate plaster medallions holding the light fixtures. The house was older and more elegant than mine, but both had the same aura of place and pride that encompassed the town. It was a feeling that would be part of me forever, no matter where I might go—and no matter how much I might sometimes complain about living in a house full of antiques.

At the top of the stairs, I hesitated. What was it Mrs. Alden had said, exactly? Not that Glynnie was expecting me. No, that she would be glad to see me. The emphasis on
me
. I wondered what I was walking into.

I glanced down the hall. The second door on the left was shut. Music blared through the keyhole. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should just tiptoe back downstairs and out of the house.

"The second door on the left!" Mrs. Alden shouted. I turned and saw that she was at the bottom of the staircase, watching me. So much for slipping out unnoticed.

"Thanks," I called back. Unless I dove out of a second-story window, I didn't have much choice. I took a deep breath, walked up to Glynnie's door and knocked.

My knock was answered with a loud
thunk
against the door, accompanied by Glynnie yelling. "I told you to leave me alone!"

I was too surprised to speak. I was trapped between Glynnie's door and Mrs. Alden at the foot of the stairs. Maybe I
could
find a window to jump out of.

"Mother, I know you're still out there. Go away!"

I was tempted to just leave, but there was something in Glynnie's voice besides anger. I wasn't sure what I was getting into, but I plunged ahead anyway. "Glynnie, it's me. Eric."

The music stopped.

"Glynnie?"

The door opened a crack. "Eric?"

"This is stupid." I tried to peek through the crack. "Would you come out of there?"

"No." Glynnie sniffled. She opened the door all the way. "You come in." She blushed and pointed to a thick dictionary, which was obviously what she'd hurled at the door. "Sorry about that."

"No problem." I stepped into a room of lace curtains, faded quilts, and an enormous four-poster bed covered with antique stitched pillows. There was such a sense of intimacy that I felt I didn't belong.

"Come on." Glynnie grabbed my hand and pulled me into the room. Her mouth curved into small smile. "Don't worry. I won't seduce you."

"Too bad." Her joking put me at ease. I sat on the window seat filled with throw pillows. The purple clematis curled on the other side of the glass. "Would you mind telling me what's going on?"

Glynnie sat next to me, her legs bent and her arms wrapped around her knees. "First of all, Eric, I am so sorry I forgot I was supposed to see you today."

"It's not a
major
blow to my ego." I grinned. "What's the 'second of all'?"

Glynnie frowned and let out a long breath. "It started with a phone call I got this morning."

"Phone call?"

"From my father."

"Your father?"

"Is there an echo in here?"

"Sorry." I placed my fingers on my lips to indicate I'd be quiet.

"He said he had some 'great news.'"

"Great news—oops." I clamped my hand over my mouth.

"In
rapturous
tones he told me Nicole is going to have a baby." Glynnie raised one hand as if she was gesturing toward the heavens. "He's going to be a father again."

I gave Glynnie a sympathetic, "Hmmm."

"He was so excited. Said it was a new beginning. A chance to
make up for the way he missed so much of my childhood!"

"Make it up to whom?"

"Exactly!" Glynnie gave my shoulders a savage shake. Her face burned with an expression that was halfway between embarrassment and despair. Her hands slid off my shoulders. "Sorry, Eric. I didn't mean to take it out on you."

"S'okay." I wasn't sure how to deal with her anguish. I hesitated, then reached over and took her hands in mine. "Did … did your father travel a lot?"

"Travel?" Glynnie gave me a questioning look. "Oh. No. He didn't miss out on my childhood because he was traveling. He simply didn't have time for something as insignificant as
my
childhood. He was too busy working."

"Oh." I knew I was lucky that Dad spent so much time with his family, with me. I think that's part of why Rolf and I were good friends. He was close to his dad, too. A lot of guys I knew weren't. Some had fathers who ignored them, others whose dads insulted them, maybe even physically abused them. Then there were the guys whose folks were divorced and who saw their dads only for scheduled visits, and sometimes not even then. Whenever I was around guys like that, I used to feel lucky and guilty at the same time.

Glynnie went on with her tirade. "Father didn't have time for
me
. He wouldn't take ten minutes out of his day to read to me or tuck me in at night. He couldn't make it to any of my school plays or tennis matches. No, he couldn't make time for me. But he found plenty of time to sneak around with Nicole!" Glynnie was screaming. "And now he expects me to be thrilled because
he
has a second chance at fatherhood!"

Glynnie grabbed a throw pillow and heaved it across the room. "You know, it's not as if I've moved to another planet. If he wants a second chance at fatherhood, how about, in some small way, trying out his fatherhood on me? I may be seventeen, but I'm still his child too!"

The wild anger in Glynnie's face crumbled into deep sobs. She pressed her head on her knees, wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked back and forth.

For a moment I just sat there. I didn't know what to say in the face of all that raw pain. Finally, I cupped my hand under her chin, tilted her face up and wiped away some of her tears. "Let's get out of here." 

"O-okay." Glynnie took a couple deep breaths. "But where?"

"I don't know … I've got my bike. Get yours. We'll just go."

Glynnie brushed away the rest of her tears. Her white, arresting smile found its way through the veil of uncertainty. "Okay. Let's go!"

We ran downstairs hand-in-hand like a couple of kids on their way to the playground. Just as we got to the front door, Mrs. Alden seemed to appear again out of nowhere.

"Going somewhere?"

"Out, Mother," Glynnie said as we brushed past her. "Just out!"

"Have a nice time," Mrs. Alden called after us.

Glynnie shook her head as we slowed to a walk. "Honestly, my mother. She thinks if only I had a social life I could handle all the divorce and father stuff better."

"You don't have a social life?"

"Occasionally I go to a movie or something with Lisa Graham or Sandi Boyer. But not on a regular basis." Glynnie plucked her bike helmet from a hook on the garage wall. "I tend to make friends slowly."

"Oh." I wondered if she wore horn-rimmed glasses and chopped-off hair to keep people at a distance until she could make up her mind about them. Maybe having a distant father made her distrustful. Maybe I was getting too analytical for my own good.

We rode through the center of town to a road that cut through fields of alfalfa. I hadn't planned it, but we were headed toward the lake. Glynnie kept pace with me. Maybe I should say I kept pace with her. I seemed to be breathing harder than she was.

As we approached the entrance to the park bordering the lake, we stopped and looked out at the water. The sun skittered across the ripples. Sailboats skimmed the surface. Kids splashed on the shoreline and families picnicked in the shade of towering fir trees.

"Did you want to stop here?" Glynnie asked.

The picnickers and the evening light prompted memories of happier times with my family. "No. Not tonight. I have somewhere else in mind."

"Okay." Glynnie gave me a half-smile. "I'm not sure I could take the happy-family setting right now, anyway."

"Yeah …." I nodded toward the road heading off to the right. "Let's go."

The road veered away from the lake, but sometimes we had a view of it when it wasn't obscured by enormous clumps of blackberry bushes or stands of scrub oak trees. There was a smooth but steady incline, and by the time we reached the top I was puffing.

"Man, and I'm supposed to be in shape!" I noticed Glynnie had barely broken a sweat.

"Don't worry." Glynnie grinned. "It's not about being in shape. It has to do with what you're used to. I probably couldn't keep up with you in a game of football."

"If that's supposed to make me feel better, it doesn't," I groused.

Glynnie shrugged and laughed. "Sorry!"

"Come on," I said. "We're almost there."

"Almost where?"

"You'll see."

We took a road that hooked to the left, away from the hill we'd been climbing and back toward the lake. A couple of S curves and a hairpin turn later and there we were.

"Wow," Glynnie whispered as she gazed at the towering dam and the force of water storming through the turbine openings into the river below. She turned and looked at me. "How on earth have I missed seeing this before?"

"Not many people come up here unless they fish." I pointed to some distant figures on the other side of the dam.

"Why are they all over there?"

"Fishing's not allowed on this side because of the hatchery. Come on. That's what I really brought you up here to see."

We parked our bikes and walked past the overlook platform, down a few steps and up again over to the hatchery. I stopped in front of one of the collecting areas. "Do you see the fingerlings?"

"The what?" Glynnie peered down into the water. "Hey, a little fish! Another one. It's full of fish. What are they?"

"Salmon. They'll release them in November, so they can swim out to sea."

"Then what?"

"Someday they'll come back to spawn, their eggs will be collected, moved to another facility to hatch, brought back here as fingerlings to be released and start the whole cycle over again." I felt like a human brochure, but I couldn't help it. Must've been all those field trips in grade school.

"But why all that? Doesn't nature take care of that stuff?"

"For one thing, if it weren't for the fish ladders, the salmon would get caught in the turbines. Then there's freezing, flooding, disease, predators. These days the salmon need all the help they can get."

"Fish have it tougher than I thought."

"Yeah," I said. "But I really didn't bring you up here for a lecture on the obstacles to salmon spawning." I grabbed her hand and led her to a collecting area that was protected on three sides by a rail. The water was far below us. The fourth side was a high wall holding back the next level of water. "This is what I wanted you to see. Now just keep watching. There! Did you see it?"

"Omigosh, Eric. That salmon must've jumped ten feet in the air. Look! There's another one. And another!" Glynnie's eyes flashed with excitement.

"When we were ten, twelve, around that age, Rolf and I used to come up here, climb on the rail and try to catch a salmon with our bare hands."

"Any luck?"

"No, but we had fun trying—until I slipped and almost fell in. That cured us."

A huge shiny salmon hurled itself against the wall, almost reaching the top. We watched as others continually flung themselves in the air, only to hit the wall of the holding tank with a heavy slap, fall back in the water and try again.

"They don't give up, do they?" Glynnie asked.

"They're relentless," I said. "They go through all the effort of swimming upstream no matter what, just so they can spawn and die."

"Too bad some fathers don't do that," Glynnie said sarcastically. She clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh, Eric … I didn't mean … I was thinking of
my
… oh, me and my big mouth."

"No problem," I said quickly. I knew what she meant. Still, the mood was broken and we both knew it. It was too late to go back and recapture that rare moment of feeling carefree.

"I really messed up. I'm sorry. You brought me all the way up here, for a few minutes it actually took my mind off everything, and I blow it."

I couldn't stand the way Glynnie's brief look of happiness faded into a gloomy sorrow that seemed to weigh her down. "There's only one way to deal with such incompetence." I scooped Glynnie up in my arms, carried her over to the fingerling collecting area and held her over the water.

"And now, you will swim with the fishes." I'm not sure how mob-like I sounded, but it was the best I could do on short notice. I guess my plan worked, because Glynnie's shrieks were of laughter, not terror.

I had to put her down. Her laughter was catching. I tried to hold it in, but I couldn't.

We both stopped, looked at each other, and then there was another spurt of laughs and snorts.

"I don't even know why I'm laughing!" Glynnie exclaimed.

"Me either!"

We both roared, until finally, wiping tears from our faces, we were out of breath. It was then I noticed the dusty orange line of impending night closing in on us. "We should head back to town."

"Good idea. I wouldn't want to ride this road in the dark."

We glided silently down the hill, enjoying the quiet and the sweet, sometimes pungent, summer air. By the time we reached the lake, the picnicking families were gone and the sky was a muted purple. When we pulled up in front of Glynnie's house, I walked her around back while she put away her bike.

"Thanks for taking me up to the fish hatchery, Eric," she said. "I had a good time."

"Me, too."

"And … and thanks for making me laugh." In the pale light of the moon her face took on a polished glow. "I haven't laughed … really laughed … like that for quite a while."

I swallowed hard. "Me, either."

For a moment we just stood there, looking at each other.

Then Glynnie reached out and shook my hand. "Goodnight, Eric."

"Goodnight, Glynnie." I watched her go inside. A girl never gave me a goodnight handshake before. But somehow it felt right.

Chapter Ten

I nailed Steve Grant. I mean, I really flattened him, and it felt good. A great hit always got my blood going, but I especially savored sticking it to Grant. He was a hotshot tight end who liked to think linebackers had the IQ of lettuce. As I held out a hand to help him up, I had the satisfaction of knowing he knew I'd read him like a book.

Just as Grant got to his feet, he yanked my arm. "Nielsen, you smart-ass!"

"You're half right. I'm smart and you're an—"

Steve sucker-punched me in the gut.

I jabbed right back at him, and next thing we were really mixing it up.

Coach Horton jumped in and pried us apart. "That's enough."

But he didn't look all that ticked off. After that, more guys got into fights, and each time it was a bit longer before Coach Horton stepped in.

On one play, Derek Davis missed what should've been an easy tackle, and Larry Johnson, the ball carrier, taunted him after making a big gain. Suddenly, they both had their helmets off and really throttled each other.

Coach Pickett jumped up from the bench and stormed onto the field. He threw down his clipboard. "What the hell is going on?"

All the players, including Derek and Larry, froze. It seemed as if all movement, from the birds to the breeze, stopped. None of the players had ever heard Coach Pickett utter even the most insignificant swear word. He once gave us a lecture saying that if we weren't articulate enough to speak without swearing, we had better hit the books harder.

"Since you don't seem to be in the mood to practice football, you can just run and drop. Now!"

There was a collective moan as we all lined up. Running ten yards, dropping to a three-point stance, standing up and running another ten yards, etc. for the length of the field was grueling. Needless to say, it accomplished Coach Pickett's goal of reminding us to stick to football.

But I could see that it took a toll on him, too. As he sat on the sidelines, he looked wearier than ever. Jamar must've noticed too, because he came down from the stands, strolled ever-so-casually over to the bench, and sat next to his father, something he ordinarily would not do. Even from the middle of the field I could read the look of concern on Jamar's face.

As soon as we finished our drop-and-run, Coach Horton got practice going again. I couldn't decide if maybe he was a good coach, or the bad coach I usually thought he was, or somewhere in between. I just knew he was different. I think that's why I had a hard time relating to him. He represented change, and I did not want to deal with change.

Finally, practice was almost over and it was time for stretches and warming down. I noticed that Rolf was trying to be his usual enthusiastic self, but it didn't seem natural. The effort showed. I guess he was tired. I knew I was.

I looked up after finishing a set of stretches and there was Mom over on the sidelines—talking to Coach Horton. I became instantly wide awake. Mom was all smiles and hand gestures. What really shocked me was that Horton was staring down at Mom with a big cheesy smile on
his
face! A
smile!
He never smiled! I was ready to run over and punch him out, but then Horton sort of nodded at Mom in a goodbye way and went over to talk to Coach Pickett. Still, I didn't like the idea of Horton looking at my Mom the way he did.

Next thing, practice was over and we all headed to the locker room. I was still fuming about Mom and Horton, when we drew alongside of Jamar.

"How's the toe?" Rolf asked.

"What?" Jamar said. "Oh. My toe. It's a little better. I guess." He shrugged. "Maybe I should just quit the team."

"What?" Rolf exclaimed. "You can't quit. Your toe will heal up. I bet you'll be playing by the fourth game of the season."

"It's not just my toe …." Jamar sighed. "It's my father …."

"Your dad?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

"You saw him today. He looks so tired. The doctor said he should take it easy, avoid too much stress. I think he's coaching this year 'cause it's my last season. Maybe if I quit the team, he would, too."

I was too shocked to say anything.

"Hey, don't think like that." Rolf threw his arm around Jamar's shoulder. "Your dad would never want you to quit. He wouldn't want any of us to quit. You know that. Remember two years ago when we were down twenty-eight to three at the half against the Timbers? We all dragged into the locker room ready to give up. But that speech he gave us about never quitting! We got so fired up we went out and won thirty-four to thirty one. Remember?"

"How could I forget?"

"You know if you stick with it you'll get more offers for scholarships than you can count. You'll have your choice of school and no worries about tuition."

"Yeah …."

"Your dad would want that for you."

"I guess …."

"This heat won't last forever!" Rolf said. "That's gotta be what's gettin' to your dad. Another week or so and it'll cool down and we'll all feel a lot better."

"Yeah, the heat …," Jamar said. "That could be why Dad is so tired."

"If your father thought you quit the team because of him," Rolf said, "well, talk about stress."

"I didn't think of that." Jamar paused, then said, "You're right. Dad wouldn't want me to quit. Thanks, Rolf."

"Sure …."

Good old Rolf. Another problem solved.

***

As we rode home in Rolf's truck, he was real quiet for a change, so I finally let myself think about Glynnie again. It was better than thinking about Mom and Horton. Glynnie didn't usually show up for morning practice. But … I'd probably see her, maybe in the evening, if not at afternoon practice. I had a feeling she wasn't through griping about her dad. I was willing to listen.

At home, Rolf lit up when we walked into the kitchen and saw Kirstin running around putting last-minute touches on the food. She had prepared her usual feast for lunch, and if there was one thing that could put a huge smile on Rolf's face it was the sight of plenty to eat.

Mom dashed in from her store. Before I could say anything about her appearance at practice, she grabbed a couple plates of food and dashed back to the shop with them. I caught a glimpse of Mr. Lindquist in the store.

"Doesn't he have a job?" I said, jerking my thumb in Lindquist's direction.

"He said Mrs. Petzold can run the office for a few days, so he's taking some time off to help Mom." Kirstin stuck a serving spoon into a bowl of potato dumplings. "You know, like Dad always used to help Mom."

I simmered. Mr. Lindquist was not Dad. Neither was Horton. I wished I could just vaporize both of them.

Rolf rubbed his hands together. "Everything looks great."

With that, Kirstin lectured in great detail about the ingredients and origins of each dish she'd prepared. You'd think she was already starring in her own Scandinavian Cooking show.