The Silver Linings Playbook (20 page)

Because of my poor throws, Cliff and I get knocked out of the Kubb tournament early, losing the five bucks my brother fronted me, and this is when Cliff asks me to help him move some India Pale Ale out of the Asian Invasion bus. When we are inside of the bus, he closes the door and says, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“You weren’t even looking to see where your batons landed, you were so distracted during the Kubb games.”

I say nothing.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re not in your leather seat.”

Cliff sits down, pats the bus seat, and says, “Pleather will have to do today.”

I sit down in the seat across from Cliff and say, “I just feel bad for T.O. That’s all.”

“He’s getting millions of dollars to endure this type of criticism. And he thrives on it. He brings it on himself with those touchdown dances and the hoopla. And these people don’t really want T.O. to die; they just don’t want him to perform well today. It’s all in good fun.”

Now, I know what Cliff means, but it doesn’t seem like good fun to me. And regardless of whether T.O. is a millionaire or not, I’m not sure T-shirts encouraging
anyone
to shoot himself in the head should be condoned by my therapist. But I don’t say anything.

Back outside the bus I see that Jake and Ashwini are in the final game of the Kubb tournament, so I try to cheer for them and block out the hatred that surrounds me.

Inside the Linc, all throughout the first half, the crowd sings, “O.D.—O.D., O.D., O.D.—O.D.—O.D.” Jake explains that the crowd used to sing, “T.O.—T.O., T.O., T.O.—T.O.—T.O.” back when Owens was an Eagle. I watch Owens on the sideline, and even though he doesn’t have many catches yet, he seems to be dancing to the rhythm of the crowd’s O.D. song, and I wonder if he is really so immune to seventy thousand people mocking his near overdose or if he really feels differently inside. Again I can’t help feeling bad for the guy. I wonder what I would do if seventy thousand people mocked my forgetting the last few years of my life.

By halftime Hank Baskett has two catches for twenty-five yards, but the Eagles are losing 21–17.

All throughout the second half, Lincoln Financial Field is alive; we Eagles fans know that first place in the NFC East is at stake.

With just under eight minutes to go in the third, everything changes.

McNabb throws a long one down the left side of the field. Everyone in my section stands to see what will happen. Number 84 catches the ball in Dallas territory, puts a move on the defender, takes off for the end zone, and then I am in the air. Under me are Scott and Jake. I’m riding high on their shoulders. Everyone in our section is high-fiving me because Hank Baskett has finally scored his first NFL touchdown—an eighty-seven-yarder—and of course I am wearing my Baskett jersey. The Eagles are winning, and I am so happy that I forget all about T.O. and start to think
about my dad watching at home on his huge television, and I wonder if maybe the TV cameras caught me when I was riding high on Jake’s and Scott’s shoulders. Maybe Dad saw a life-size me celebrating on his flat screen, and maybe he is even proud.

A series of tense moments get our hearts beating at the end of the fourth quarter, when Dallas is driving, down 31–24. A score will send the game into OT. But Lito Sheppard intercepts Bledsoe and returns the pick for a TD, and the whole stadium sings the Eagles fight song and chants the letters, and the day is ours.

When the clock ticks down, I look for T.O. and see him sprint off the field and into the locker room without even shaking the hand of one single Eagle. I still feel bad for him.

Jake and Scott and I exit the Linc and run into the Asian Invasion—which is easy to spot from far away because it consists of fifty Indian men, usually clumped together, all in Brian Dawkins jerseys. “Just look for fifty number 20’s,” they always say. Cliff and I run up to each other and high-five and scream and yell, and then all fifty Indian men start chanting, “Baskett, Baskett, Baskett!” And I am so happy; I pick little Cliff up and hoist him onto my shoulders and carry him back to the Asian Invasion bus as if he were Yoda and I were Luke Skywalker training on the Dagobah System in the middle section of
The Empire Strikes Back
, which is—as I told you before—one of my all-time favorite movies. “E!-A!-G!-L!-E!-S! EAGLES!” we chant so many times as we navigate the crowds and find our way back to our spot behind the Wachovia Center, where the fat men are waiting with ice-cold celebration beers. I keep hugging Jake and high-fiving Cliff and chest bumping the fat men and singing with the Indians. I am so happy. I am so impossibly happy.

When the Asian Invasion drops me off in front of my house,
it’s late, so I ask Ashwini not to blow the Eagles chant horn and he reluctantly agrees—although when the bus rounds the corner at the end of my street, I hear fifty Indian men chant, “E!-A!-G!-L!-E!-S! EAGLES!” I can’t help smiling as I enter my parents’ home.

I am ready for Dad. After such a big win—a win that puts the Eagles in first place—surely Dad will want to talk to me. But when I enter the family room, no one is there. No beer bottles on the floor, no dishes in the sink. In fact, the whole house looks spotless.

“Dad? Mom?” I say, but no one answers. I saw both of their cars in the driveway when I came home, so I am very confused. I begin to climb the steps, and the house is deadly quiet. I check my bedroom, and my bed’s made and the room is empty. So I knock on my parents’ bedroom door, but no one answers. I push the door open and immediately wish I hadn’t.

“Your father and I made up after the Eagles victory,” Mom says with a funny smile. “He aims to be a changed man.”

The sheet is pulled up to their necks, but somehow I know my parents are naked underneath the covers.

“Your boy Baskett healed the family,” my father says. “He was a god out there on the field today. And with the Eagles in first place, I thought, Why not make up with Jeanie?”

Still, I cannot speak.

“Pat, maybe you’d like to go for a run?” my mom suggests. “Maybe just a little half-hour run?”

I close their bedroom door.

While I change into a tracksuit, I think I hear my parents’ bed squeak, and the house seems to shake a little too. So I slip on my sneakers and run down the stairs and out the front door. I sprint
across the park, run around to the back of the Websters’ house, and knock on Tiffany’s door. When she answers, she’s in some sort of nightgown and her face looks confused.

“Pat? What are you—”

“My parents are having sex,” I explain. “Right now.”

Her eyes widen. She smiles and then laughs. “Just let me get changed,” she says, and then shuts the door.

We walk for hours—all around Collingswood. At first I ramble on and on about T.O., Baskett, my parents, Jake, the Asian Invasion, my wedding pictures, my mother’s ultimatum actually working—everything—but Tiffany does not say anything in response. When I run out of words, we simply walk and walk and walk, and finally we are in front of the Websters’ house and it is time to say good night. I stick my hand out and say, “Thanks for listening.” When it is clear that Tiffany’s not going to shake, I start to walk away.

“Turn around, bright eyes,” Tiffany says, which is a very weird thing for her to say, because my eyes are brown and very dull, but of course I turn around. “I’m going to give you something that will confuse you, and maybe even make you mad. I don’t want you to open it until you are in a very relaxed mood. Tonight is out of the question. Wait a few days, and when you are feeling happy, open this letter.” She pulls a white business envelope out of her jacket pocket and hands it to me. “Put it away in your pocket,” she says, and I do as I am told, mostly because Tiffany looks so deathly serious. “I will not be running with you until you give me your answer. I will leave you alone to think. Regardless of what you decide, you cannot tell anyone about what is inside of that envelope.
Understand?
If you tell anyone—even your
therapist—I’ll know by looking in your eyes, and I will never speak to you again. It’s best if you simply follow my directions.”

My heart is pounding. What is Tiffany talking about? All I want to do is open the envelope now.

“You have to wait at least forty-eight hours before you open that. Make sure you are in a good mood when you read the letter. Think about it, and then give me your answer. Remember, Pat, I can be a very valuable friend to you, but you do not want me as an enemy.”

I remember the story Ronnie told me about how Tiffany lost her job, and I begin to feel very afraid.

“Question number one,” my father says. “How many touchdowns will McNabb throw against the Saints?”

I can hardly believe I am actually eating a sit-down meal with my father. Mom smiles at me as she winds spaghetti around her fork. She even shoots me a wink. Now don’t get me wrong, I am happy that Mom’s plan has worked out, and I am delighted to be eating a meal with my father, having a conversation even—and I am especially happy to see my parents playing with love again—but I
also
know my father, and I worry that a single Eagles loss will turn Dad back into a grump. I worry for Mom, but decide to ride out the moment.

“Ten touchdowns,” I tell my father.

Dad smiles, pops a small sausage into his mouth, chews enthusiastically, and then tells my mother, “Pat says ten touchdowns.”

“Maybe eleven,” I add, just to be optimistic.

“Question number two. How many touchdowns will undrafted rookie sensation Hank Baskett catch?”

Now, I fully realize that Baskett has only caught one TD in the first five games, but I also know my family is being overly optimistic tonight, so I say, “Seven.”

“Seven?” Dad says, but smiling.

“Seven.”

“He says seven, Jeanie. Seven!” To me Dad says, “Question number three. In what quarter will quarterback Drew Brees finally suffer a concussion because he has been sacked so many times by the Eagles’ superior defense?”

“Um. That’s a tough one.
The third quarter?”

“That is incorrect,” my father says, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “First quarter is the correct answer. Question four. When are you going to bring home that broad you’re always running with? When are you going to introduce your girlfriend to your father?”

When Dad finishes asking question four, he slurps a load of spaghetti into his mouth and then begins chewing. When I fail to respond, he encourages me with his left hand, tracing invisible circles with his index finger.

“Did you see that Pat found his wedding pictures and put them back up in the living room?” Mom says, and her voice sort of quivers.

“Jake told me you were over Nikki,” Dad says. “He said you were into this Tiffany broad. No?”

“May I be excused?” I ask my mother, because my little scar is itching, and I feel as though I might explode if I don’t start banging my fist against my forehead.

When my mother nods, I see sympathy in her eyes, which I appreciate.

I lift for a few hours, until I no longer feel the need to punch myself.

In the new reflector vest my mother has recently bought for me, I run through the night.

I was going to open Tiffany’s letter this evening because I was so excited about having dinner with my father, but now I know I am most definitely not in a good mood, so opening the letter would be a violation of the rules Tiffany clearly laid out for me two nights ago. I almost opened the letter last night, when I was in an excellent mood, but it hadn’t been forty-eight hours.

As I run, I try to think about Nikki and the end of apart time, which always makes me feel better. I pretend that God has made a bet with me and if I run fast enough, He will bring Nikki back, so I begin sprinting the last two miles of my run. Soon I’m running so fast, it’s amazing—faster than any human being has ever run before. In my mind I hear God tell me I have to do the last mile in under four minutes, which I know is almost impossible, but for Nikki I try. I run even faster, and when I am a block away, I hear God counting down from ten in my mind. “Five—four—three—two—” And when my right foot lands on the first concrete square of my parents’ sidewalk, God says “One,” which means I ran fast enough—that I made it home before God said “Zero.” I am so happy. I am so impossibly happy!

My parents’ bedroom door is closed when I go upstairs, so I shower and then slip under my comforter. I pull Tiffany’s envelope from under the mattress of my bed. I take a deep breath. I open the letter. As I read the several typed pages, my mind explodes with conflicting emotions and awful needs.

Pat
,

Read this letter start to finish! Do not make any decisions until you have read the entire letter! Do not read this letter unless you are alone! Do not show this letter to anyone! When you have finished reading this letter, burn it—immediately!

Do you ever feel like you’re living in a powder keg and giving off sparks?

Well, there was nothing I could do to bring my Tommy back, and the inability to accept his death kept me ill for two whole years—but then you came into my life. Why? At first I thought, God is sending me a new man, a replacement for my Tommy, which made me mad, because Tommy is irreplaceable (no offense). But when I listened to the way you talked about Nikki, I realized God had sent you to me so I might help you find the end of apart time. This was to be my mission. And so I have been working on it.