Winners (22 page)

Maybe an hour passes, or maybe twenty minutes of brief blackout death, and then he’s awake again, sitting on the edge of her bed, listening to the quiet of the house and the world outside. He feels wide awake, like he’s slept in his own bed for eight hours with his own wife in his own life and just now popped up before the alarm to face another day out there in the world. But instead he lives here with his three children and his missing son and robber punks and dope dealers and his woman lying still behind him with one long leg thrown over the top of the covers. There’s blood on the sheets, his blood. Her foot is there beside him and he watches that still foot with the long toes and the dark creases of the knuckles and the light white brown of the bottoms of her feet. He reaches out and takes her foot in his good hand, feels its weight and substance, and then runs his hand up over the bony ankle, her long calf, the soft back of her knee, her back and then the inside of her thigh and then he takes his hands off her and watches the rest of the way up her body to her head buried in a tumble toss of pillow and sheet. What’s it like inside that head? What happens in there that’s different from what happens in his head or Ma’s or Lou’s or Jimmy’s or Samson’s? He wants to go in there and gather up everything he can find, all at once, spill her thoughts and memories at his feet and go through them one by one. And he wants to do it right here and now because he wants to know what will happen if he stays.

This is where he could belong, after all.

Instead he fishes around the dark floor until he finds his clothes. Everything aches, muscles and bones and hair and eyes, and his knee especially feels too big to be right. By the time he gets dressed and turns back to Debra she’s expanded to fill that space he’s left, stretched out luxuriously across the full acreage of the bed just like Lou does. Just as Lou is maybe doing now as he slips out of Debra’s room and walks downstairs. The place is a mess. He straightens out the living room, opens the windows a crack to let the place air out, moves the coffee table back where it belongs. He goes into the kitchen with the beer cans and puts them in a trash bag to take them with him and throw them out. Samson watches him from his picture on the fridge, following his movements around the room. The kid doesn’t look happy to see him. He isn’t happy to see Samson either, to tell the truth.

“I don’t know Sam,” he tells him. “I don’t really know.”

Then he’s limping out into the lightening lot where it’s too early or late even for muggers, dealers, druggies, con artists, respectable citizens, or the walking dead. He is the only one out there as the sun comes up, and he drives off that hill to find the strongest cup of coffee in the universe and a Chronicle and a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and maybe a toasted sesame bagel with whipped cream cheese. If he can find all that and sit down for a minute in some place where other people are doing the same, it seems possible that he might be just another citizen out there going to work, starting his day. There is a cleaning to do in the morning and then he has to go the hardware store for some supplies and the rest of the day he’ll stay busy on the rebuild. It’s Friday, he thinks, as he drives off the hill and back into the city just waking up around him. He smiles, catching a glimpse of his dark scraped-up face in the rear view mirror. Friday, a basketball day.

At high noon big Rex stands at center court with the ball on his hip, grinning at him in the straight-down sunshine as the other team goes scuffling off the court, mumbling mild murder to one another. They are killing today, Shane is killing, he’s having one of those days. Ten, twelve, twenty days in his life like that. He shouldn’t even be on the court, he can barely run, he looks terrible, he hasn’t slept, he hurts, but there he is hitting ridiculous shots fading right and left and away, with guys hanging all over him. Brett holding his shirt and Brian clobbering his shoulder caveman style and Dragon belly bumping him in the lane. It doesn’t matter. His knee doesn’t work right. It doesn’t matter. Even D-One can’t stop him today.

Shane stands near the sideline breathing hard, his face slack, his muscles loose at rest. Jimmy comes up alongside him, reaches out like he’s going to whack him amiably on the butt but halts mid-blow. He looks that fragile, like one little push might knock him down. His knee is definitely swollen and there are bruises on his thighs, a skinned elbow and of course the knuckles. His jaw looks like someone ran him over with a pair of baseball spikes. But what a game.

“You gonna tell me?” his brother asks. No one else out there has got an answer out of him. “What the hell happened to you?”

He begins his lie and then just stops, shrugs his shoulders. “Hard living,” he tells him.

Jimmy cracks up. It’s all about the skins and scrapes, Jimmy hasn’t noticed his knee, none of them have, for some reason it functions fine with adrenaline on the court. “I should see the other guy, right?”

“Can I play ball or what. Goddamn I’m good sometimes.”

“You’re gonna suck tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

“That baseline spin? That was too sweet. You never spin right. Where the hell did that come from?”

“It’s true. I’m amazing.”

“Oh right. I forget.”

Nearby, the guys are howling and slapping Dragon on the back. They point at Shane and Jimmy to summon them over.

“We gonna plant that tree for real, now,” Rex tells them. “Dragon’s gonna be a daddy.”

They stare at Dragon. “The cycle of life,” he says, nodding. “I’m all knocked up and shit.” He passes a celebratory marijuana pipe, sending blue smoke floating through the air.

Shane steps to him and shakes his hand, a proper shake. “A daddy.”

“That’s right.”

“Daddy Dragon.”

“When’s baby Dragon?”

“Six months.”

“That’s six months you better get your ball in,” says Rex, taking a generous pull on Dragon’s pipe. “You’re gonna straight-out disappear for a while. Lock you in the kiddy crypt.” Rex has juniors, two of them, he knows.

“What about J? He brings his little kids up here.” It’s true—J’s an occasional, but he brings his kids in tow, two small boys and a world of toys to keep them occupied. Bikes and skateboards and whiffle balls and remote control motorcycles, whatever.

“Yeah” Rex says, “but you got to get ’em to that age first. It’s all good, but for fact, for a while, the game has got to suffer.”

“That’s what I hear. However, I have made sure to work basketball in my prepaternal contract.”

“Oh yeah, you’ll see about that.”

“I imagine I may disappear for a little while to tend my litter. But I will be back.” The Dragon shakes his fist at the sky. “Oh yes. I will return in all my daddy glory.”

“You gonna return all saggy-eyed and blood-drained, brother. You gonna return a broken man. But you will rise again.” Rex is laughing now, smiling. “It’s the best damn thing in the world, man, get yourself a couple beautiful babies, ’bout the only thing worth missing a game or two.” He reaches out a big hand, the two of them slap, hold, release.

“It’s my kid,” Dragon says. “A boy.”

“A boy.”

Dragon nods. “I was down in Daly City yesterday, they got this plant nursery? So that’s it, enough tree talk. I bought us a live oak.”

“Live oak? Aw man, that thing get so big? Shadow the whole court.”

“What about the bronze loquat?” Jimmy says.

“Fuck loquat. Live oak’s the original.”

“Yeah,” Dragon says. “Plus I’m buying, so we’re gonna plant that sonofabitch.”

“When?”

“Tuesday.”

“I don’t know, is this a good time for planting trees?”

“Why not? Rain’s coming.”

“Gives a shit. We’re up here three times a week, we’ll just water that bitch. It’s all about water, right?”

“My kid,” Dragon says, “he’ll be griping about this big-ass tree next to the court, throwing shade, messing with his game. I’m talking a big live oak, get all gnarled, gnarled and crafty. Nasty ants crawling all over it. I can’t wait. Why you plant that stupid tree there, dad? All us over here sitting under the branches scratching our balls and yelling at our kids to shut yer damn piehole, play some ball! This here’s your daddies’ court, you should have a little goddamned respect!”

“Respect? Shit, we’ll still be kicking their ass.”

“Who got winners?”

“We do, always.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“What about the park guys? They let us plant a tree?”

“I’ll know a guy in Park and Rec,” D-One says. “I’ll talk to him.”

“After all these years, they should know who we are.”

“I bet they do.”

“We’re probably in the official record.”

“Pictures of sexy Rexy in some file down at City Hall.”

“And we gonna have a tree now.”

“’Bout time.”

They give Dragon another round of congratulations and then begin to leave, fading off the court back to wherever it is they go. Somewhere Lou is tucking her hair back behind her ears with a thin black pen. Somewhere Samson is dead or hiding or just plain gone.

“Pick me up tomorrow,” his brother yells, as if nothing’s changed.

“Okay.” Shane realizes he’s the last one standing there, the one with nowhere else to go.

Jimmy pauses. “Really, man, you look like shit.”

“I’m all right.”

“Okay. Well. Try not to fall off the roof.”

Shane crosses himself, the force of habit. Only habit will get him through this day. “See you tomorrow,” he says.

***

He does the work. He goes back to the guy’s house and puts his hands into the guts of the house and does the work. The old lawyer doesn’t ask him why he looks like he does. The lawyer doesn’t know him and must figure that whoever he is these are the kinds of things that happen to him on a Thursday night. For the first time, Shane wishes the guy would ask. Right about now, Shane feels ready to sit in a client’s kitchen after work, drinking a cold beer, talking about his fight last night and the dude’s first wife and prostate trouble and whatever it is people talk about. He checks the time often as the day wears on, making sure to leave before any possible dinner time.

She isn’t home yet and he goes down to the store and gets stuff to make that Thai soup with shrimp that never comes out as good as the one you can buy right down the street for $7.95. The house starts smelling good, though, especially when he sautées the shrimp shells pink to start the broth. And then in go the little hard disks of lemongrass, too. While it simmers he limps around the apartment a little bit and is surprised that it doesn’t look any different to him. He looks it over piece by piece, remembering the day they decided to rent it together, the thousand things wrong with the place. I’m game, he said. Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing, she said. But it was. Three days, long weekend, he sanded floors, she painted. An argument over stains and colors. They worked hard, they both know how to work hard. Encrusted in sawdust, he’d turn off the machine and brush the yellow out of his hair and slip into the next room to watch her rolling paint. Would we do that now, he wonders, work on a rented house together? Would we suspend our disbelief?

He takes a shower and stands out on the little front porch, watching the city. He sees all the little squares of light that mean people working, there are the cars locked in traffic as they try to cross the bridge, there’s the Mission filling up with weekend fun, there’s Potrero Hill. He wonders what he’s going to say. He doesn’t know. To the south, the airplanes launch steadily west into the sun, gliding over the trembling line of hills that rip an uneven edge across the sky. Down below the fog moves in a thin low column, slipping through the hilly gaps like Pharaoh’s deadly curse. He can’t see it but he knows above his head the fog is also pouring over Twin Peaks, gathering in a wave about to break over their place. It is beautiful here, he thinks, even now. You can always see something—you can see the end of the world.

He’s back in the kitchen draining the broth and putting it back to simmer when he hears the front door open and slam shut and the clip clip clip of heels on the stairs that slow as they get closer. Clip. Clip. She hesitates and then turns before she hits the kitchen, her steps turning silent on the soft carpet of their bedroom. He watches the discarded solids steaming in the colander, dripping to the sink. He seasons the broth. She stands in the kitchen doorway, examining him.

“And there you are,” she says. She’s taken off her shoes and socks.

“I’m sorry.” They seem like the only words he knows.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not really. I’m sorry,” he says again.

She keeps looking at him, eyes to mouth and back again. He can’t look at her but he can’t look away from her either.

“What the fuck, Shane?” she says, finally. “What the fuck?”

“I got robbed. They took my cell phone. My wallet.”

“Where were you?”

“They beat me up.”

“Where?”

“The projects. I went to the projects.”

Eyes. Mouth. Eyes. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” It’s true, he can see it, his words mean nothing. “What the hell are you saying? Look at me.”

He looks at her. “I went to see Debra Marks. That’s where I went.”

“You went. Ah. Okay.”

He wonders why they don’t have a pet. They could have a pet right now and it could trot up loving innocent between them, their hands dropping to its sleek fur flank. They could stroke its head and butt and watch it wiggle hedonistically oblivious, taking all the love it could get. It’d start purring now. It’d start barking hard when things go wrong.

“Why couldn’t you just.” He wants to hit her and hit himself, he wants to hit. “The woman. You interviewed.”

“I know who Debra Marks is.”

“No,” he says. “You don’t. You have no idea.” He tastes the broth. He has to put something in his mouth. It’s his best one that he can remember, with enough sweet and sour and spice and salt.

She takes the two steps across the room and knocks the spoon out of his hand and grabs the pot with both hands. He sees it in her eyes: the reflexive panic of dousing a fire, the boiling caldron splashing over him, bubbling his flesh up in welts. Do it, he thinks. Just do it. She hesitates, she’s almost going to do it and then in one sudden movement she dumps it into the sink. The hot broth spills up over the sink, sprinkling his arm and splattering onto the floor. She jumps back with her bare feet, yelping twice. He watches her through the sudden cloud of steam, not moving to change anything at all.

She runs. She runs down the hall with a wordless high-pitched whine and slips into the bathroom and slams the door behind her. The faucet of the bathtub comes on. He stands outside the door and listens to the water and her crying. It’s a deep sound, deeper than he remembers, air groaning out of the chest and stomach. He goes back to the kitchen and gets some ice out of the freezer and wraps it up in a plastic bag. There’s no way for her to lock the door.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub, her feet in the tub under the running water. Her back to him. She doesn’t turn around.

“Are you all right?”

“Get out.”

“There’s some ice.”

“Get out.”

“I’m going to. I brought you some ice.” He drops it into the tub and it clangs loudly, sliding down the incline toward her feet.

“Don’t you dare,” she says, “don’t you dare take care of me.” She spins around to face him, her feet dripping water onto the white tile floor. Her feet are splotchy red in places. He feels relief. They don’t look too badly burned. “Ever again,” she says.

“I have to.”

“Bullshit. Get out of here. Out!”

He takes a step back. He’s getting out. He doesn’t want to go but he doesn’t know how to stay either.

“Say something,” she says, “for chrissake open that fucking mouth of yours and say something! What’s wrong with you?”

He shakes his head. He wants to ask her the same thing. “You don’t need me,” he says instead.

“That’s what’s wrong with you? That’s what you came back to tell me? To tell me what I need?”

He hasn’t come back to tell her that. He’s come back to tell her all the other things, about how he’s missed her, how he’s lost her, how he’s been longing for the present to end and for the future or past to begin or return. He’s come back to lie about where he’s been and what he’s done and felt. He’s come back to tell her what he needs.

And instead he says, “No. But you don’t.”

***

He is playing basketball in the dark, alone, at the Firehouse court. Never been there at night. There are no lights except for the ones from the street and a little something from the undulating city all around. The city is one sexy little critter from here, with the white and yellow lights in all its hilly directions, and the fireflies of the cars on the 101 cutting north and south through town. If they’d known about this court in high school, they would have come up here, he and his buddies, to get high and drink beer and huddle up to girls who’d want to go somewhere warm inside. Maybe on the weekends, maybe if he came up Saturday night there’d be some troubled teens doing just that.

He’s working on his jump shot. It’s a decent jumper, but one of the things he realized during his recovery was that his mechanics aren’t all they could be. He’s learned that when he jumps his body contracts and then expands but forgets to contract again when he hits the ground, so he hits the ground too straight, an iron pole absorbing the full force of weight and gravity through his feet and knees and back. This is probably why he got hurt, eventually. So he works on that. Crouches down and jumps, expands his body all the way, reaches for the rim and lets the ball go, and then begins contracting even before he touches down. His feet hit toe to heel and his knees bend and his hips sink down a little and then he’s ready to jump again. His knee hurts plenty when he does this, but as he gets warm the pain starts to blend in and fade away.