The Farewell Season (7 page)

"I guess," Rolf said. "I just worry about you being so … alone." He tried to sound as if he was making light of it, but I could tell he was serious.

"I'll be fine." I punched his arm.

"Okay…," Rolf said. Then he dropped the subject.

***

During afternoon practice, with our pads on, I thought I would collapse from the heat. I guzzled water as if I was trying to drain the Willamette River.

I had trouble concentrating. I tried to avoid looking over toward the stands, but it was a tough habit to break. During afternoon practices Dad had always left work early and stopped by to watch. He'd sit in the fifth row, fifty-yard line. Now whenever I looked up, that spot was nothing but a dark shadow. Except … there was a guy sitting way up in the last row. He looked sort of familiar. Was it that guy from the store, that Rock guy? Just as I was wondering what he'd be doing at practice, he got up and left.

"Nielsen, face forward!" Horton screamed.

I put Rock, or whoever it was, out of mind and tried to focus on the field.

I couldn't help looking over at the stands every now and then though. One time as my gaze drifted over toward there I saw Glynnie sitting next to Jamar. It felt as if she was staring at me. I quickly looked away. I don't know why. I was used to girls staring at me. But this was different. Maybe I felt guilty because I'd run out on her while she was trying to interview me.

Not that she hadn't deserved it, I told myself. Where did she get off being so nosy and personal, anyway?

I spat out a final mouthful of water and ran back on the field for the strip drill, where we tackle and try to strip the ball from the ball carrier's hands. Feeling fired up for the first time all day, I crashed into Norm Swan full force and popped the ball loose. As we plowed into the field, Norm uttered a few obscenities just loud enough for me to hear.

"Give me a break," he said as he slowly got to his feet. "It's only the second day of practice."

I grinned. Coach Horton called out for the sideline, "Good hit, Nielsen."

My intensity was waning. Maybe it was the heat. Or the blisters building up on my heels. Whatever it was, I couldn't wait 'til practice was over.

Near the end we had a short, informal scrimmage and got to do some hitting. I felt a surge or energy. After I got in a couple of pretty good licks, Lars Sundstrom went in for a few plays. I was on the sidelines, replacing the old bodily fluids, when Derek Davis made a huge hit.

He raised his fist, trotted over to the sideline away from the coaches. "How's that? Who needs Jamar Pickett?"

Rolf must've heard, because he charged over to the sidelines. I thought he was going to pound Derek. What he did was leap over the concrete wall and climb to where Jamar was sitting. I could see Rolf speaking and gesturing.

After a few seconds, Jamar laughed. He and Rolf stared down at Derek, who shriveled under their scrutiny.

Impressed, I shook my head. Rolf saw what was important. Duking it out with Derek was not. Dealing with Jamar's feelings was. I didn't have that much common sense.

It was time for warming down, and then, finally, practice was over. We were headed for the locker room, when Glynnie drew alongside me.

"Hi, Eric. I've got some questions for you." Her cheeks glowed pink from the heat.

"Maybe I don't have any answers for you."

"How 'bout later, after you eat?" Glynnie asked, totally ignoring my remark. "You could come over to my house, sit in the shade and have some lemonade."

"Bribery will get you nowhere." In spite of my fatigue, I walked faster.

"What about pleading?" Glynnie race-walked to keep up with me. "Will that work?"

I didn't answer.

"Hey, give her a chance," Rolf said. "She's got a job to do."

"Yeah, give me a chance. I've got a job to do."

I shot Rolf a thankless look, then said to Glynnie, "At your house?" I figured I could duck out whenever I wanted if I went over there.

"Yes. Ninety-seven Grove Street. It has lots of—"

"—fruit trees in the yard. I know the place. Used to be the Petzold house. You're going to ask me about football this time?"

"Football it is." Glynnie crossed her heart.

I sighed. What's one evening if it would get her off my back? "Okay. Seven o'clock?"

"Great," Glynnie said. "See you then." She ran off and hopped on her bike, not giving me a millisecond to change my mind.

Chapter Seven

By the time Rolf dropped me off at home, I was starting to think I'd been delirious from heat stroke when I'd agreed to see Glynnie after supper. I was hot, I was tired and I was in no mood to deal with some nerdy girl who asked a lot of nosy questions.

Mom was late, so Kirstin roped me into helping fix supper.

Mr. Lindquist dropped in just as we were having dessert, to talk about some business concerning the insurance agency.

Lindquist was short, balding and had to be at least fifty years old. But it was the third time in less than a month that he'd come sniffing around, using business as an excuse. Mom was too polite to tell him she would never be interested in any man except Dad, and certainly not a guy who needed to wear pants with a stretch waistband. She asked him to have some almond cake with us.

"Hiya, Eric." Mr. Lundquist plunked himself down at the dinner table—in Dad's chair. "How's practice going? Think we'll go to the playoffs again this year?"

I shrugged. Where did he get that "we" crap.
He
wasn't out there reading plays and hammering opponents.

"Say, Eric," Mom said. "I heard you have a new coach."

"Yeah … so?"

"Well … I was just wondering, what's he like?"

"Hard-nosed and always getting on me."

"Oh, I'm sure he's not—"

"Mom! I just remembered. I'm supposed to go over and talk to Glynnie Alden." I had to get out of there.

"How about just a small piece of almond cake first?" Mom reached for the cake server.

"I'm late now. See you later." I stood up, scraping my chair across the floor.

"Couldn't you stay for just—"

"I said, I'm
late
." I slammed the door on my way out. I felt my chest tighten. Lindquist, in Dad's chair.
Damn.
I did not want to think about it.

I stomped off and fought my way through a red haze of anger until I reached the corner. I stopped and took a deep breath. We only had four kitchen chairs. There was nowhere else for Mr. Lundquist to sit. Still.

The balmy air brushed across my face. I felt as if I could close my eyes and be carried away on a dewy wave of sleep. But it was only seven o'clock. I took another deep breath and crossed Main Street.

I started to walk past the empty lot where old Mr. Johnson's house once stood. A tangle of blackberry bushes curled like barbed wire along a leaning split-rail fence. The heavy, fruity fragrance of plump ripe blackberries made me stop. I picked a few and ate them right there. The warm, sweet, juicy taste more than made up for passing on the almond cake.

I picked a handful to take to Glynnie as kind of a peace offering because I was going to be late. When I got to her house, I saw her in the front yard sitting with her long legs stretched out on a fat low branch of an ancient pear tree. In her blue running shorts and a plain white-T shirt she looked as if she was just resting up after a run.

"Ah." Glynnie smiled when she saw me. "I was afraid you chickened out."

"Me? Never. I stopped to get you some blackberries." I held out my hand.

"Thanks!" Glynnie surprised by me by looking genuinely pleased. "Let's eat them now." She hopped up from the low branch and gestured for me to follow.

I followed her along a gravel path bordered with clumps of pansies to a patio at the side of the house. We sat at a picnic table under an old black walnut tree with graceful, curving branches. Glynnie poured us a couple of glasses of lemonade from a pitcher on the table, and then spread out the blackberries on a paper napkin that she plucked from a basket.

"Should I wash these?"

"Don't bother. Just dust off any bugs if you see them first."

"Hmm. Is that the Oregon pioneer way?"

"No. It's the too-lazy-to-go-in-the-house-and-wash-them first way."

"Ah." Glynnie examined a blackberry. "Well … nothing ventured … "She popped the berry into her mouth. "Mmm. Yum."

"Any bug you might eat is just added protein, as my Dad used to say." Funny, I hadn't thought of that in years. I shook off the prickly feeling at the back of my eyes and changed the subject. "Hey, that clematis is beautiful," I said, admiring the dark velvety-purple flowers of the vine twisting its way up a trellis leading to a second-story window.

"So that's what it is, clematis. It is pretty," Glynnie said. "The nice thing about it is the trellis it grows on leads right up to my bedroom window … in case I ever want to elope."

She said it with such a straight face it took me a second to realize she was kidding.

"Ah, there you are, Glynnie." A short woman with a sag beneath her chin, but a rosy prettiness in her round face wandered over to the patio from the back of the house. Her graying brown hair was pulled up in a haphazard ponytail. She wore a paint-splattered sweatshirt and held a thin cigar between her fingers. Staring hard at me, she said, "And who's this handsome young man?"

"Eric, this is my mother. Mother, meet Eric Nielsen," Glynnie said. "And don't get excited. He's just here so I can interview him."

"
Bonjour,
Eric. Nice to meet you." Glynnie's mother sat down and reached across the table to shake my hand.

I gave her the firm-but-not-crushing handshake Dad had taught me. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Alden."

"It's
Ms.
Alden, ever since my husband had his little mid-life crisis and dumped us for a twenty-three-year-old twit." She said it with a laugh in her voice, as if the whole idea was really quite amusing.

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just muttered, "Oh."

"
Pardon moi.
I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable, Eric," Ms. Alden said. "When it first happened, Glynnie and I ripped Mr. Alden up one side and down the other for weeks. Months! That got all the bitterness out of our systems. Well, almost. I suppose there are a
few
residuals." She took a short puff on the thin cigar then threw her head back and let out a throaty laugh.

Glynnie joined in the laughter.

"Now then, who exactly
is
Eric?" Ms. Alden asked, almost as if I weren't there.

"He's one of the football players, Mother. The one who did that cartoon for the school paper that I showed you."

"Oh, of course!" Ms. Alden said, as if I were now a completely known entity. She puffed on the small cigar and blew three tiny smoke rings. "Well, I have to get back to my painting. Nice to meet you, Eric."

"Uh … same here." Once she disappeared into the house, I asked, "Is your mother an artist?"

"Oh, no." Glynnie shook her head. "She teaches French at the university. She's just painting the kitchen. Says it helps her relax. Trouble is, everything is in constant disarray. As soon as she finishes the whole house, she starts over again. I think that's one reason—besides the twit—that Father left us. At least, that was one of his excuses."

"Oh." I wasn't exactly thrilled the way Glynnie and her mother talked so openly about something so private.

"After twenty-four years, Father suddenly decided he couldn't stand the way Mother always had to have a miniature cigar in her hand either. That from a man who has a pipe growing out of his lower lip." Glynnie said this as if she were talking about something as simple as the weather.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I asked, hoping to change the subject.

"No brothers or sisters." Glynnie paused to sip her lemonade. "Father does have that new young wife back in Massachusetts. It's not as if he's dead." She took in a quick breath. "Oh. Eric. I'm sorry."

I couldn't toss off a casual "That's okay," but I nodded to show that I accepted her apology.

"I met him once," Glynnie said. "Your father, I mean. When I got car insurance here. Except that his hair was straight and silvery blonde and yours is golden and curly, I think you look just like him. The same boyish face. He didn't look old enough to have a son your age." She stared into her lemonade for a second. "When Father first walked out, I actually thought it would've been better if he'd died."

Glynnie didn't see me wince.

"He hurt me and Mother so much," Glynnie said. "The girl he got involved with was one of Mother's graduate students. That
really
pissed her off. She griped that she not only lost her husband, but Nicole, one of her best students, too." Glynnie frowned into her lemonade. "Of course, Nicole was so young that I felt as if
I
had also been replaced."