by Jamie Knight
He at least hugged me. But I held myself purposefully strict, sending strong signals that it was not cool at all for him to be there.
Nevertheless, I understood – she loved him, my mother, and treated him like a son. Had he made a move at any point, I would have objected with a fervor he’d not probably seen from me.
Perhaps that was why he didn’t make a move – or at least that’s what I told myself. And I told myself I really would have objected, but who knows what I would actually have done? I had never been able to not give into him before, so where would I have found the strength at my weakest point?
Luckily, he didn’t test my theory and try anything. But maybe I had wanted him to and I was just preparing myself to resist something that I truly desired and which never ended up happening.
I hated how my mind would play tricks on me during trying times like this. I had no idea what I wanted or didn’t want. But it never became a decision I had to make.
I tried to focus on the fact that my mother did truly love him. She would have been glad he came to her funeral, so I did my best to concentrate on the present things that mattered, rather than on past hurts. I knew that that was not the time for that.
The week of the funeral was a blur. I had to sit with so many lawyers to handle my mother’s estate.
I would be inheriting her beautiful New York city apartment as well as a small fortune, but it didn’t make up for the fact that my mother, my life, my only living relative except my brother and our aunt and cousins in the Bronx with whom I wasn’t close and who in fact liked to piss me off – probably because she was jealous that my mother had had a daughter and she herself had had four boys and no girls – was gone.
I was in a fog. It had all happened so fast. To say I wasn’t ready to be motherless was downplaying the event.
Her whole illness and treatment were a blur. By that time, having already completed my teaching degree from Michigan State, I had returned to New York for one purpose only, which was to take care of my mother in her final days and ultimately to bury her.
Dillon stayed in a hotel at my request. I wasn’t sure why at the time, but I wanted to be alone. I asked that he not even attend the burial.
Once the ceremonial death rituals were finished, there was no need to stay. Nor did I want to be there anymore. New York hadn’t been kind to me in recent years thanks to everything that had happened to me mother there, and it held bad memories for me after she was gone, so I decided to rent the place to Roxanne until my return.
So, shortly after the most difficult moment of my life, I left New York to go live with Dillon in London. At that time, six months in only, I thought he hung the moon. He was everything to me. Looking back, I am not sure how much of that was real, either.
He was my first actual relationship after Marvin. I think I just felt loved. How much I loved him back, is debatable. In truth, I didn’t think I had loved anyone except for Marvin in my life.
The rapport I had built with Dillon was so easy, though. We could laugh and talk about everything. It made sense to keep the relationship going even though I didn’t feel passionate about it.
Then about four months after I arrived in London, Dillon’s job seemed to be causing him a great deal of stress and I started to feel the cracks. We wanted different things.
Not to mention, sex was becoming almost non-existent. Not that I had ever experienced good sex after Marvin. It had been so hot with him that it had ruined it for me with any other guy after that.
Finally, Dillon and I split. There was never an actual discussion about it, though. In a moment that seemed to me to represent us having come full circle, my bookish boyfriend, who was quite the role reversal from Marvin, and I, were just over.
But just like every other man I had chosen after Marvin, Dillon was the same. A lying cheat. Before we finished arguing, he exclaimed some nonsense about how he had been with other girls the whole time we were together.
I didn’t even care. I guess maybe part of me had sensed it all along. But I didn’t even know if that was what had really caused the split. It was just that I wasn’t actually in love with him.
He was a security blanket, plain and simple. If I had wanted the opposite of Marvin in terms of personality at least – which I guess I had, at least sub-consciously – I had found it.
But he was a just a sheep in a different wolf’s clothing, with the same tail and the same dangerous teeth. Basically, though, it was as if I was just trying to replace Marvin, and failing miserably.
Although Dillon and I separated amicably, we didn’t remain friends. At one point, I heard he was gay. But it may have only been a rumor.
In the end, it didn’t matter. The truth is, I was never over the moon in love with Dillon the way I was Marvin. And such a thing would have been impossible, because I kept finding it was impossible for me to feel that way about anyone other than him.
Chapter 7
Olivia
London was all about proving I was better than Simmons High School or even Michigan State. I was worldly.
Suffice it to say, I stayed another six months without my boyfriend, and I did a lot more proving – a lot. It was my turn to sow my wild oats, to wander aimlessly through life without coming up with a plan to steady myself for a while.
Until finally it was clear that New York and I had done enough running from each other.
One might think you get over your first love. High school is no big thing, right? But everything is so magnified in high school, the love and the hurt.
There hadn’t been any other humiliation like that – like Marvin and I breaking up – through the rest of my life so far. So, I had definitely come to believe that there was nothing as big and as painful as the event where your heart is shattered by your first love in high school, the kind that happens in those formative years.
Many times, I would ask myself, had I really become this incredibly adventurous woman because I liked being that way, or was I trying to prove to myself and Marvin that I was good enough? That he should have fought for me and stayed with me, even though I had said we should go our separate ways?
Now, staring at the roster, I was catatonic again. Marvin had done it to me again.
Why did he have this effect on me?
There had certainly been other lovers and boyfriends since him. Especially while I was in London. I slumped back in my chair.
But who was I kidding? No one had ever rocked me to my core the way he had.
My friends, all except for my bestie Roxanne, of course, who was too honest and practical to fool me with false platitudes, would assure me from time to time that my yearning had nothing to do with real feelings. Whenever I would find myself nostalgic at a holiday function or at the occasional mention of Marvin’s name, most of my girlfriends would simply say that it was because he was my first, my first everything.
Most of the time I agreed, but if I was asked to deliver my version of the story under oath, I’d have to add that as much as I hated him, as much as I still hate him, part of me has always pined for my long-ago boyfriend.
Not the one who agreed with me that we should go our separate ways – no, not that Marvin. But the Marvin who told me how much he loved me every morning before school and every night before I went to bed.
The Marvin who held me like I was the only person he could ever love.
The Marvin who would slide his hand over my blonde, shiny hair and look into my eyes with such passion.
The Marvin who could make me cum with just his fingers, and then his mouth, and then his cock… and then all three at once.
Him – that guy – I missed him.
That wasn’t even real, I told myself now, as I pondered whether or not I should make the call to Candy, and as I mulled over all the scenarios. Maybe none of it, his love for me, maybe none of it was real.
Then I surmised that it was quite possible, highly probable, that today was probably not the right day to reach out to Kylie’s mom.
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As the long arm on the industrial 1950s, black and white school clock hanging on the wall moved to three o’clock, I reminded myself to remain professional. A good twenty minutes had already passed since the kids had left school. What was I doing still deciding?
In what I thought was my final analysis, I decided it would be better to wait and weigh the severity of Kylie’s actions before calling her mom. Was it truly so egregious, what Kylie had done?
She was only a six-year old, after all. Not really – it wasn’t that egregious, I decided.
Certainly, up against this stellar group of kids, she looked like a little devil, but all she had done was smack some paint in Michaela’s hair and do a little shoving. Maybe this didn’t warrant alerting the parents.
Then I panicked. Was I losing all objectivity in the space of half an hour? Were all the wits I had had about me gone already, because of Marvin, some old flame years ago?
No, I thought, I would not let this man take another minute from me.
It wasn’t happening today. I wasn’t in the right place to call Candy anyway, at least not yet. It was Friday.
My hand was on my briefcase before I could give this another ounce of my attention. Kylie, Candy and the paint fiasco would have to wait. The only thing on my mind now was escaping work and relaxing with some delicious white wine.
But as I was about to walk out the door of my classroom, I pictured Kylie’s little round face and her disheveled, tangled brown hair. I couldn’t let her down for professional reasons just because I had my personal hang-ups. Those were hardly her fault.
If calling her mother would help make things better, I knew it was what I needed to do, despite my own reluctance about wanting to. Finally, in the end, I decided to make the call.
And to my delight, I reached Candy’s voicemail. It made things easy on me, to just have to leave a message instead of having to have a long explanatory talk right now.
“Ms. Roberts, this is Olivia,” I said after the beep. “I’m your daughter Kylie’s first grade teacher. Would it be possible for us to chat? I could arrange for a very informal meeting sometime next week. Kylie seems to be having some small issues that I’d love to discuss with you. Thank you and I look forward to hearing from you. Kylie is a doll, by the way.”
And with that, I exhaled, gave my number, and left work, determined to follow that old saying and “leave work at work.”
Or at least, as much as I had ever been able to do that – which wasn’t a lot, because work seemed to be my whole life, and to follow me wherever I went.
How I wished to have a personal life of my own, but alas, so far it had not been meant to be, so at least I had work to throw myself into, which was usually a good thing. But after this shocking revelation that tied my current professional life in with my former personal life, I wanted to distance myself as far from it as I possibly could.
Chapter 8
Marvin
The taxis honked on Newbury Street in the heart of rush hour on this clear September Monday eve. Football season was heating up and I had thrown, as in choked, at least four of the last five games.
The travel was killing me this year and my daughter Kylie was intentionally trying to destroy me, it seemed. If I received one more crying message on my phone, I was ready to scream.
How was I to be everything to every person? Was it not enough that I provided the best life for my daughter and her mother that I possibly could? When would it be enough?
I had Kylie in the best school had and even hired a full time nanny for her. Sure, Sasha was batshit crazy, but she took good care of Kylie and was provided a decent living in exchange for it.
It seemed like with everyone in my life, nothing I did was ever fucking good enough. Not back when I was a hometown football hero and definitely, not now.
When would I be good enough?
Three Super Bowl rings, a mansion in Westchester?
When would it ever be enough?
I stood outside of the Four Seasons Hotel in Boston, smoking a cigar. No one bothered me while I was out here doing it. After all, I was legend, even if I was in enemy territory.
The skyline looked beautiful, but it couldn’t soothe my spirit. I was restless. Things weren’t working like they used to – my life, it had always had a magical rhythm.
But now, I was out of step. The gifted quarterback was suddenly awkward.
As the Custom House clock turned to half past six, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen in the game on Wednesday against the Boston Flags.
I couldn’t visualize the wins anymore. The feeling of being “washed up” was starting to overwhelm me.
My dad, the great assaholic David Ward, had always told me as a boy, “a man is only as good as his last play.”
He’d also always add, “…and his last ‘lay’.”
That said tons about his character, I regretted to admit. But if what he said was true, then that would then mean I was truly not worth the shit that Kylie dragged in from her sneakers yesterday.
My dad also always said, “Learn to be a great quarterback, since they have longer careers.”
I had listened to him and I guess that when it came to that, he was right, even though he wasn’t right about much else. Still, I was beginning to feel the end approaching. My passing game wasn’t as sharp, hell, my eyes weren’t even as sharp.
In the event that I allowed a tackle, which I vehemently tried to avoid, I would inevitably be sore for a week instead of a day. I had hoped to make it to age thirty-five in the game that had come to define my life, but already, even twenty-eight was looking fucking hopeless.
At least for the past three years, I had managed to get us to the Super Bowl. It was a save I needed every time, because even if my game smelled like horse’s ass for most of the season, if I managed to get us to the final two, no one gave two flying fucks about my earlier record.
I had always gotten by by sliding under the wire at the last minute. Just by the hair of my teeth. But finally, it seemed that pattern was catching up to me, and that was depressing.
Now I heard a holler from a teenage Flags fan, clearly by his team jersey. He interrupted my moment of thought with…
“Hey asswipe, you ain’t gonna win diddly squat against us Wednesday. Ya never do. And you especially won’t against us. So, ya better keep smokin’ that blunt. You’re finished, Ward. Marvin Ward is a has-been, washed up player, you get it?”
I nodded and laughed. My skin was thick, and even I had to admit he could be speaking the fucking truth. I sucked on the cigar as hard as I could, the same one I was determined to enjoy and which I had tightly rolled so that it would last.
The breeze smelled like the hot dog vendors that always strolled up and down the Charles. I could smell a mix of candied chestnuts too. I figured there must be a vendor around the corner and the wind was carrying the steam.
And then I had flashback in my mind to my old girlfriend, Olivia Phillips. She used to always say I smelled like cologne and man steam.
I chuckled to myself. I hadn’t spoken to her in years. It seemed now like a lifetime ago. But I still thought of her all the fucking time.
Who wouldn’t? She was fucking gorgeous, and great in the sack, too. Not to mention, she was actually good company.
I never should have let her get away. We had both agreed we had to go our separate ways due to our different career goals and life plans, and mainly due to the fact that she told me we should break up because she still had two years of high school left when it was time for me to start playing college ball.
But, damn, that was dumb of me back then, to not have fought for her. Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. Olivia had always been very stubborn – which was one of the things I had loved about her – so I doubt she would have listened had I said we shouldn’t break up.
But at least I could have tried, so that I wouldn’t have these second thoughts and doubts and regrets for the rest of my fucking life, like I do
now.
Chapter 9
Marvin
The cool breeze and the skyline, old memories and new worries, kept me composed on this Monday before the big game. Although I refused to let the awful comments from that kid in my head get to me, I didn’t really have a way out.
Things were indeed bleak.
He was right, as much as I hated to admit it.
Coach Kramer was a douche, in my opinion. He had only taken over in late August, as it was rumored that Coach Hunter had the beginning stages of dementia. The press was told he took another offer at some faraway college, but as with most things in the league, it was all a bunch of propaganda, if not straight up bullshit.
Kramer seemed to be in this for the love of money, whereas Hunter had been in it for love of the game. As for me, well, sure I loved the money, but I also loved the game, always had.
It wasn’t that I had lost the love of the game. But I was a winning player. Football was all I knew and here I was facing a fucking mid-life crisis at age twenty-eight.
For the first time in ten years, I was feeling fractured. That was if I excluded the craziness that is Candy – I was always feeling fractured when it came to dealing with her, but never when it came to football.
Right then, speaking of the devil, as if it couldn’t get any worse, I looked down at my phone and there was a text from Candy.
It read:
“Marvin, I need to speak to you about Kylie. I received a call from her teacher on Friday night. Can you call me?”
No was the obvious answer, but for shit’s sake, why was it always something? And why was I just hearing about this now? I dampened the blunt and rode the elevator to my penthouse suite.
Once inside, I reluctantly dialed the number of the most insane woman I had ever known, who, unfortunately for me, was Kylie’s mother.
“Oh good, you got my text,” she said, as soon as she answered.
