Playing Without the Ball (11 page)

He looks at me. “Jay,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“You’re not on the list. Can you be here?”

“I would,” I say, and I mean it. “But I work every Saturday night. I have to.”

“Oh. Well, you could help set up tables and chairs in the afternoon. You up for that?”

“Sure.” Sounds painless to me.

“About three o’clock.”

The youth minister says a few things about the infiltration of drugs into the community, even among kids a lot younger than we are. He asks Alan and one of the girls if they’d be willing to speak at a meeting of the local clergy association—he calls it the Ministerium—about drug use among high school kids. They agree to do it. Then we say a prayer and adjourn.

I play another game of eight ball with Peter and the two freshmen from the team. Alan, Robin, and Beth are among a group talking at a table with the minister guy. Eventually, they get up and start putting on their coats. Alan waves me over.

“Want to hang out awhile?” he says.

“Sure.” The group standing near the door to leave is juniors and seniors: Anthony, Beth, Robin, two other girls.

We cross over to the park in front of the courthouse. There’s one of those big wooden climb-on playground things for children, made from beams and steel and old tires. We sit in a tight bunch. The air is cold but still, and you can see your breath.

“So, Alan,” says Tracy, who I think is vice president of the youth group. “You got any research material?”

“What, you mean that infiltration stuff?” He smirks and reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulls out two joints. He lights one and hands it to Tracy, then lights the other and gives it to Anthony.

I put up my hand when the first one reaches me. “I can’t,” I say. “Asthma.”

Alan gives me a look. “Get out.”

“Well, okay. Not asthma. But smoke kills my throat. So I’ll pass.”

I’ve managed to avoid smoking, drinking, and otherwise ingesting every substance Spit has offered me without feeling embarrassed. Ironic that I should get put in this spot by the church group. Nobody seems to care, though. They just reach past me as they pass around the joints.

The conversation centers around parents and music and who’s in trouble in school. The subject of basketball does not come up.

I say about as much as I did before, but I don’t feel all that uncomfortable. Brenda told me this morning after she brushed her teeth that she’d decided to go back to her parents in Doylestown. There’s nothing for her here. She said she came by last night out of curiosity—she’d never drank in a bar before. Plus she figured she had nothing to lose with me.

I guess I could feel used. I don’t. I feel grateful. It felt great—not just physically—to be with someone like that. Kind of like a big meal with gravy and mashed potatoes when you haven’t eaten all day.

Beth nudges me and holds a joint toward me. I put my hand between my face and her hand and smile. She sticks her tongue out at me, then leans over to Anthony and gives the joint to him. “Wuss,” she whispers as she turns back to me, but she’s all smiles.

“Junkie,” I whisper back.

She punches my arm. I nudge her with my elbow. “There’s a first time for everything,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

I
guess I need to get used to being alone on the big days. Christmas Eve I stay up late, sitting by my window watching cars go by. I try to ignore the passing of midnight, but suddenly I have to face the fact that it’s Christmas Day and there’s no one here to wish me a merry one.

It’s cold and it’s raining, and the cars going by have their wipers on. There are lots of colored lights downtown, and Santas and reindeer decorations. I didn’t get a tree for my room or anything.

I wish I was tired, but I’m not. I lie on my mattress and look at the ceiling.

It’s stopped raining by the time I wake up. We play tomorrow night, but that’s a long way off. The Y is closed, the supermarket is closed. Everybody’s with their families; even Spit’s staying home with her mom today.

So I’ve got about thirty-six hours to kill before the game. I decide to go for a walk.

It’s 8:30 in the morning. I walk along Church Street, with
its rutted sidewalk and big puddles. And it dawns on me that I don’t have to be alone the entire day.

I cross the street and check the message board outside the Methodist Church. “Christmas Service, 10 A.M.: A Child Is Born.” Good deal.

I head up to Main Street on a hunch that the Turkey Hill store will be open. It is. I get a carton of orange juice and some Twinkies and sit on a bench to have breakfast. It’s good to be out. I’m hoping Beth will show up at church. Or Alan or Robin or anybody.

I go back and change clothes and kill another hour. Then I walk up to the church. There are more people than last time. In fact, it’s full. I squeeze into a pew near the back and catch Alan’s eye. He waves.

There’s a lot more music this time, mostly Christmas music, of course, like “O Holy Night” and “The First Noel.” I spend a lot of the time scanning the backs of people’s heads, looking for anyone I know. I see Beth and Robin up near the front with their families.

I’ve heard this story before, how Christ was born in a manger and came here as the son of God to set us straight and redeem us. And it’s a nice story, but I’ve always wondered how anyone could buy it so wholeheartedly, to accept without question that there’s this being up there who loves us and forgives us, and waits for us to join him in Heaven.

There’s an old couple on my right, the woman in a flowery blue dress—she seems to be just about blind—and the guy in a brown corduroy jacket over gray flannel pants. And you know they believe with all their hearts.

Next to me is a quiet guy about thirty, who keeps his eyes
closed most of the service, like he’s concentrating on every word, nodding slowly with his lips pursed tight.

And the minister says something about following Jesus’ light by lighting the way for others. And I swallow hard and look around. The lady next to me gives me a warm smile and I smile back. We all stand for another song—“O Come, All Ye Faithful”—and I get a bit of a surge, like stepping to the free-throw line or something.

I don’t quite believe the story. I don’t see the connection from God to Jesus to me and back again. But I’m glad these people do. “Joyful and triumphant” fits the mood in here today, and it fills me, too. I’m glad I came here. And a part of me wishes I could believe. Part of me thinks I might come back sometime.

I hang around outside the church for a while after the service, talking to Alan and some others. When they start to disperse, I walk back to Shorty’s.

I’m feeling all right, so I’ll get this over with. I go into the bar—Christmas is the only day of the year that Shorty doesn’t open for at least a few hours—and sit at the pay phone. I take a deep breath and punch in the numbers.

“Mom.”

“Jay,” she says brightly.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, Merry Christmas to you, sweetheart.”

“Having a good day?” I ask, not really wanting to know.

“Yes. Wonderful. How about you? You’re not alone, are you?”

“Some,” I answer. “But not entirely. I hung out with some friends for a while. Went to church.”

“Church?”

“Yeah. I go once in a while. Some of my friends do. You know.” I’ve let her think over the years that I have a bunch of friends, that I’m relatively popular. Why should she be concerned that I’m a loner? She’s barely been part of my life.

“Well, I sure miss you, honey.” She always says shit like that. But we avoid each other like the flu.

“Thanks,” I say. “I know.”

“You’ve got to come see us soon.”

“Yeah. I will.” “Us” means her and Norm, the guy she lives with in New Jersey. I’ve met him twice. He plays a lot of golf. Cares a lot about his car. Smokes cigars. Wheezes.

“Did you get my card?” she asks.

“Yeah. Thanks.” A Christmas card with a puppy wearing a Santa Claus hat on the front, and a check for twenty-five dollars.

“Oh,” she says. “Well, I miss you.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry you’re alone,” she says.

“It’s all right.”

“No. It isn’t,” she says.

I wince a little, because her tone is starting to change. That’s inevitable, but I’d hoped we could feign togetherness for a few minutes longer.

I hear her sigh. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“It’s not a big deal, Mom.”

“I don’t just mean today,” she says.

“Mom …”

“No. Why the hell did he have to leave you like that?” she says. “He had no right.”

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I’m fine.”

“I guess he used up all the whores in the county,” she says. “Had to start looking elsewhere.”

Jesus, this is all I need. “I’m not sure you’re being fair,” I say.

“Oh, don’t go sticking up for him again,” she says. “He abandoned you, Jay. He’s scum.”

I let out my breath, which I guess I’ve been holding. “He didn’t abandon me. He just got on with his life. It’s not like I’m nine years old again.”

Everything ices up with that comment. I try an abrupt change of subject, which at least will end the conversation in a hurry. “So,” I say. “Did he get you some nice presents?”

“Did who get me nice presents?”

Huh? “Norm.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Oh,” I say. “Like what?”

“Gifts.”

“I see.” We don’t say anything for a few seconds, which seems like an hour. “Well,” I say. “You probably have a lot to do.”

“I do.”

“Okay, then. Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you.”

“And to Norm.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Okay, then.”

“Bye.”

I stare at the phone. And to all a good night.

When Spit shows up, I’m in my underwear, eating sardines out of a can.

“My mother said I should come check on you,” she says, leaning against the door frame.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She’s got her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a look I’ve never seen on her. “She said to drag you out of this hole and haul you over to our house.”

“What made her say that?” I set the sardines on the radiator and look around for my pants. I’m uneasy about this. A big part of me would rather be by myself than have anyone feeling sorry for me.

“We were just sitting around and I said, ‘Shit. Jay must be all alone.’ So she sent me over here.”

“That’s nice of her. She doesn’t even know me.”

“She’s a great mom. She asks about you.” She gives me a sweet smile. “Ever since you rescued me.”

“I should bring her something.”

“Forget it. We did the big gift thing last night. Today we mostly eat.”

“Okay.” I don’t have anything to bring anyway. Pop-Tarts, maybe. Or potato chips.

It’s late afternoon and the streets are empty. We walk up Main Street and turn toward the hospital. They rent the first floor of a house back here.

Her mother greets me at the door in a green dress and bare feet. They have a tree; it’s small but real, decorated with a string of tiny blue lights and wooden figurines.

“Jay,” her mom says. “We were ready to eat, and Sarita mentioned that you were likely to be alone.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “I called my mother …. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thank you for coming.”

There’s braided bread on the table, which is set for four. “Can I help with anything?” I ask.

“Would you like to pour some cider for us?” she asks.

“Sure. Three of us?”

“Yeah,” Spit says. “That fourth one is for the ancestors. They all crowd in there together.”

“I see.”

Her mom gives her a playful slap on the wrist. “It’s a tradition to set a place for our ancestors at Christmas dinner, Jay.”

“Sounds nice.”

So I go into the kitchen, which is painted in warm colors and has big ladles and tongs and things hanging from the wall, and garlic and other spices. Great kitchen. Not like Shorty’s.

We eat a salad with mangoes and spinach, and then stewed fruit. Spit goes out to the kitchen and brings back a platter of fish. “It’s haddock,” she says. “Have to spill some blood on a holiday, you know.”

“Sarita.”

“Sorry, Mommy,” Spit says, and she takes a little piece anyway.

A small black-and-white cat comes into the room and stops at Spit’s chair, mewing up at her. “Hi, Katie,” Spit says. “You can have some.” She reaches down and gives the cat a fragment of the fish. The cat eats it and then plops down under the table.

“Your mother,” Spit’s mother asks me after a while, “is she … well?”

“Yeah …. No. Physically, I guess. She’s hard to explain. I guess I don’t even know her.” I look down at my plate, blink a couple of times. I don’t know her, so I don’t miss her. But sometimes,
like here, I catch a glimpse of what I might be missing.

“Maybe when you’re older you’ll find a way to … reconnect. Sarita told me a little.” She smiles at me like the older waitress at the diner, the breakfast lady. “Sarita’s father is ill … in that same way, I think.” She’s rubbing Spit’s arm kind of tenderly. Spit looks, what, sweet? Young. Comfortable.

And I suddenly feel very grateful to be here. Nobody’s rubbed my arm like that for a long, long time, if ever, but somebody will.

I say, “I think, when my father was here looking out for me, she could pretend that I was okay. So we could at least talk sometimes. Now she knows I’m on my own, so she gets pissed at my father all over again. Like it’s all his fault.”

Spit reaches over and rubs my hand. The food is good. We stop talking about distant parents, and Spit’s mother tells me about her early childhood in Portugal, the way her own parents loved their five children, how her father worked in a cannery. I stay until late in the evening. We play cards. They teach me a carol about a farmer who is awakened by a bird and told to make preparations for the arrival of three guests.

I mean, I have guilt, too, about not being able to talk to my mother, but part of that is loyalty to my father. As big a screwup as he’s been, at least he tried. He tried for a good long time.

He’s still trying, I guess. I know he is.

It’s snowing lightly when I leave, but there’s no wind. A good night for sleeping after all.