The Silver Linings Playbook (17 page)

Just as I had hoped, the new television is an experience. The players warming up on the field look life-size, and the sound quality makes me feel as though I am in San Francisco, sitting on the fifty-yard line. Realizing that my brother is not going to make it by kickoff, when a commercial comes on, I jump to my feet and yell “Ahhhhhhhhh!” but Dad only looks at me like he wants to hit me in the face again. So I sit down and do not say anything else.

The announcers state that Donté Stallworth was a late scratch, so I start to hope Baskett will get a few more balls thrown his way, since the Eagles’ number one receiver is out of action.

The Eagles set up a nice drive and score on their first possession with a shovel pass to Westbrook, at which point my father’s emotions morph. He reaches across the couch and repetitively claps his hand against my thigh, saying over and over again, “Touchdown Eagles! Touchdown Eagles!” I start to feel hopeful for my dad, but when the Eagles kick off, he resumes his negative ways and says, “Don’t celebrate too much. Remember what happened last week.” And it is almost as if he is talking to himself, reminding himself not to be overly hopeful.

The defense holds strong, and tight end L. J. Smith scores a touchdown with only a few minutes left in the first quarter, making it 13–0. Even though the Eagles have blown big leads before,
it seems safe to say the Birds are the superior team today. My thoughts are confirmed after Akers hits the extra point and my father jumps up and starts singing “Fly, Eagles, Fly.” So I jump up and sing with him, and we both do the chant at the end, spelling the letters with our arms and legs: “E!-A!-G!-L!-E!-S! EAGLES!”

Between quarters, my father asks me if I am hungry, and when I say yes, he orders us a pizza and brings me a Bud from the refrigerator. With the Eagles up 14–0, he is all smiles, and as we sip our beer, he says, “Now all we need is your boy Baskett to get a catch or two.”

As if my father’s words were a prayer answered, McNabb’s first completion in the second quarter is to Baskett for eight yards. Dad and I cheer so loudly for the undrafted rookie.

The pizza arrives during halftime, and the Eagles are up 24–3. “If only Jake were here,” my father says. “Then this day would be perfect.”

My dad and I have been so happy that I’ve forgotten Jake is not with us. “Where is Jake?” I ask, but Dad ignores the question.

In the third quarter the San Francisco running back fumbles on the Eagles’ one-yard line and defensive tackle Mike Patterson picks up the ball and runs toward the opposite end zone. Dad and I are out of our seats, cheering on the three-hundred-pound lineman as he runs the whole length of the field, and then the Eagles are up 31–3.

San Francisco scores a few touchdowns late in the second half, but it doesn’t matter, because the game is basically out of reach, and the Eagles win 38–24. At the conclusion of the game, my father and I sing “Fly, Eagles, Fly” and do the chant one last time, celebrating
the Eagles’ victory, and then Dad simply turns off the television and returns to his study without even saying goodbye to me.

The house is so quiet.

Maybe a dozen or so beer bottles on the floor, the pizza box is still on the coffee table, and I know the sink is stacked full of dishes and the pan in which Dad cooked his breakfast steak. Since I am practicing being kind, I figure I should at least clean up the family room so Mom won’t have to do it. I carry the Bud bottles out to the recycle bucket by the garage and throw away the pizza box in the outside garbage can. Back inside, a few used napkins are on the floor, and when I reach down to pick up the mess, I spot a crumpled ball of paper under the coffee table.

I pick up the ball, uncrumple it, and realize it is not one but two pieces of paper. Mom’s handwriting emerges. I flatten the papers out on the coffee table.

Patrick
,

I need to tell you I will no longer allow you to disregard the decisions we make together, nor will I allow you to talk down to me any longer—especially in front of others. I have met a new friend who has encouraged me to assert myself more forcefully in an effort to gain your respect. Know that I am doing this to save our marriage.

Your options
:

Failure to complete either option 1 or 2 will force me to go on strike. I will no longer clean your house, buy or cook your food, launder your clothes, or share your bed. Until you declare which option you wish to take, consider your wife on strike.

With best intentions
,

Jeanie

It does not seem like Mom to be so forceful with Dad, and I do wonder if her “new friend” coached her through the writing of the two-page letter. It is very hard for me to picture Dad returning his new television, especially after watching the Eagles win on the new set. His purchase will be considered good luck for sure, and Dad will want to watch next week’s Eagles game on the same television so he will not jinx the Birds, which is understandable. But the demands Mom made—especially the one where Dad has to talk to me every night—also seem incredibly improbable, although I do think it would be nice to eat dinner together as a family and maybe even go out to a restaurant, but not to the movies, since I am now only willing to watch the movie of my own life.

Suddenly I need to speak with my brother, but I do not know his phone number. I find the address book in the cabinet above
the stove and place a call to Jake’s apartment. A woman picks up on the third ring; her voice is beautiful.

“Hello?” she says.

I know it is not my brother on the other end, but I still say, “Jake?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Pat Peoples. I’m looking for my brother, Jake. Who are you?”

I hear the woman cover the phone with her hand, and then my brother’s voice comes through loud and clear: “Did you see that ninety-eight-yard fumble return? Did you see Patterson run?”

I want to ask about the woman who answered my brother’s phone, but I am a little afraid of finding out who she is. Maybe I should already know, but forget somehow. So I simply say, “Yeah, I saw it.”

“Frickin’ awesome, dude. I didn’t know a defensive tackle could run that far.”

“Why didn’t you come over and watch the game with Dad and me?”

“Truthfully?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t lie to my brother. Mom called me this morning and told me not to come, so I went to a bar with Scott. She called Ronnie too. I know because Ronnie called me to make sure everything was okay. I told him not to worry.”

“Why?”

“Should he be worried?”

“No, why did Mom tell you and Ronnie not to come over?”

“She said it would give you a chance to be alone with Dad. She said it would force Dad to talk to you. So did he?”

“A little.”

“Well, that’s good, right?”

“I found a note from Mom to Dad.”

“What?”

“I found a note from Mom to Dad.”

“Okay. What did it say?”

“I’ll just read it to you.”

“Go ahead.”

I read him the note.

“Shit. Go Mom.”

“You know he won’t be taking the television back now, right?”

“Not after the Birds won today.”

“Yeah, and I’m worried that Dad won’t be able to meet the demands.”

“Well, he probably won’t, but maybe he’ll at least try, right? And trying would be good for him—and Mom.”

Jake changes the subject by mentioning Baskett’s catch in the second quarter, which turned out to be his only catch of the game. My brother doesn’t want to talk about our parents anymore. He says, “Baskett’s coming along. He’s an undrafted rookie, and he’s getting catches. That’s huge.” But it doesn’t feel huge to me. Jake says he’s looking forward to seeing me next Monday night, when the Eagles will play the Green Bay Packers. He asks me to have lunch in the city before we tailgate with Scott and the fat men, and then we hang up.

It’s getting late, and my mother is still not home.

I begin to worry about her, and so I do all the dishes by hand. For a good fifteen minutes—with steel wool—I scrub the pan my father burned. And then I vacuum the family room. Dad had splattered some pizza sauce on the couch, so I find some
cleaning spray in the hall cabinet and do my best to remove the stain—dabbing lightly and then wiping a little harder in a circular motion, just like it says on the side of the bottle. My mom comes home as I am on my knees cleaning the couch.

“Did your father tell you to clean up his mess?” Mom asks.

“No,” I say.

“Did he tell you about the letter I wrote him?”

“No—but I found it.”

“Well, then you know. I don’t want you to do any cleaning, Pat. We’re going to let this place rot until your father gets the message.”

I want to tell her I found the “Pat” box in the attic, how hungry I was today, that I really don’t want to live in a filthy house, and I need to take one thing at a time—finding the end of apart time first and foremost—but Mom looks so determined and almost proud. So I agree to help her make the house filthy. She says we will be eating takeout, and when my father is not home, everything will be as it was before she wrote the note, but when my father
is
home, we will be slovenly. I tell Mom that while she is on strike, she can sleep in my bed, because I want to sleep in the attic anyway. When she says she’ll sleep on the couch, I insist she take my bed, and she thanks me.

“Mom?” I say when she turns to leave.

She faces me.

“Does Jake have a girlfriend?” I ask.

“Why?”

“I called him today, and a woman answered the phone.”

“Maybe he
does
have a girlfriend,” she says, and then walks away.

The indifference Mom shows regarding Jake’s love life makes me feel as though I am forgetting something. If Jake had a girl
friend Mom did not know about, she would have asked me a million questions. Her lack of interest suggests that Mom is keeping another secret from me, maybe something larger than what I found in the “Pat” box. Mom must be protecting me, I think, but I still want to know from what.

After a relatively short workout and an even shorter—and silent—run with Tiffany, I hop a train to Philadelphia. Following Jake’s directions, I walk down Market Street toward the river, turn right on Second Street, and follow the road to his building.

When I reach the address, I am surprised to find that Jake lives in a high-rise that overlooks the Delaware River. I have to give my name to the doorman and tell him who I am visiting before he will let me in the building. He’s just an old man in a funny costume, who says “Go Eagles” when he sees my Baskett jersey, but my brother having a doorman
is
sort of impressive, regardless of the man’s uniform.

Another old man wears a different sort of funny costume in the elevator—he even has on one of those brimless monkey hats—and this man takes me to the tenth floor after I tell him my brother’s name.

The elevator doors open, and I walk down a blue hallway on a thick red carpet. When I find number 1021, I knock three times.

“What’s up, Baskett?” my brother says after he opens the door. He’s in his Jerome Brown memorial jersey because it’s game day again. “Come on in.”

There is a huge bay window in the living room, and I can see the Ben Franklin Bridge, the Camden Aquarium, and tiny boats floating on the Delaware. It’s a beautiful view. I immediately notice that my brother has a flat-screen television thin enough to hang on the wall like a picture—and it is even bigger than Dad’s television. But strangest of all, my brother has a baby grand piano in his living room. “What’s this?” I ask.

“Check it out,” Jake says. He sits down on the piano bench, lifts the cover off the keys, and then actually starts playing. I am amazed that he can play “Fly, Eagles, Fly.” His version isn’t very fancy, just a simple chord progression, but it’s definitely the Eagles’ fight song. When he begins to sing, I sing along with him. When he finishes, we do the chant and then Jake tells me he has been taking lessons for the past three years. He even plays me another song, which is very unlike “Fly, Eagles, Fly.” This next song is familiar—surprisingly gentle, like a kitten walking through high grass—and it seems so unlike Jake to create something this beautiful. I actually feel my eyes moistening as my brother plays with his eyes shut, moving his torso back and forth with the sway of the piece, which also looks funny because he is wearing an Eagles jersey. He makes a couple of mistakes, but I don’t even care, because he is trying very hard to play the piece correctly for me and that’s what counts, right?