by T. D. Jakes
She and Bryson were sitting up high, in the corner behind third base. She was waving, but not, Dave realized, at him. Brock, hurrying over to his coaching position by third, was returning the greeting. Dave felt something go sour inside. He called up the leadoff batter and the on-deck man, then took his spot by first base, trying to forget he’d spotted her.
For the rest of the game, he tried to pretend the horizon ended just past the third baseline. Every now and then, he’d catch Brock glancing up toward where they were sitting. Once or twice, when the boys did something good on the field, he thought he heard Bryson’s voice hollering with the rest of the crowd. But as much as he wanted to, he didn’t allow himself to look. He didn’t need this . . . especially if she was here to see Brock.
By the top of the fifth inning, they were up by six runs. Dave took Jaylen off the mound to save his arm and give some of the other boys a little experience. It wouldn’t hurt anything if the Bears got a few hits; they could use the boost, and his fielders were kind of rocking back on their heels. It worked out pretty well. The other team got six at bats and Dave’s less-experienced pitchers walked in two runs before the Bears’ first baseman flied out to end the game. The score was a little more respectable and Dave’s boys still got the win by a handy margin. Something for everybody.
The boys were bunched around Brock’s trunk for the post-game treat when Dave felt somebody pulling on his sleeve. He turned around.
It was Bryson, and his mom was standing right behind him.
“Good game, Coach,” Bryson said, holding up his hand, palm out.
“Thanks, my man.” Dave slapped Bryson’s hand and they completed the handshake Dave had taught him, ending with the ever-popular palm-slide-snap-point combo. “Glad you could make it. Hey, I hear you’ve been tearing it up as usual in the pool.”
Bryson shrugged. “I’ve been doing okay, I guess.”
“Good enough to earn a Milky Way and a Coke?” Dave said, looking at Julie. Bryson spun to give his mom a hopeful look.
She smiled and shrugged. Bryson took off toward the mob gathered at Brock’s car.
Dave watched Bryson go for a second, then returned to sacking up the bats and other equipment. “Nice that Brock told you about the game,” he said. “I hope Bryson enjoyed it.” He didn’t look at her.
“Yeah, he’s called once or twice,” she said. “Just to check up on me.”
Dave looked at her. “I had nothing to do with—”
“It’s okay, Dave, really. He’s nice.”
Dave gave her a little smile and a nod, then leaned over to grab a handful of the catcher’s gear.
“But he’s not you.”
Dave’s hands paused, then resumed their work.
“It was good to see you, Dave,” she said. “And Bryson could hardly wait to get to you after the game was over.”
“He’s a great kid.”
“Thanks. Well, you take care, awright?”
He shot her a look. She smiled over her shoulder at him as she strolled toward Brock’s car to retrieve her son.
So how have things been this week?” Carmen asked. She was sitting in her chair with her hands folded in front of her and wearing that half-smile of hers that made Clarice think of either the Mona Lisa or Whoopi Goldberg, depending on her mood.
She stared hard at David for a few seconds, trying to get him to step up, but he wouldn’t look at her.
“Carmen, I’ve tried and tried to get David to open up to me, but he just won’t. We hardly exchange a dozen words, on the average, during the time we’re both at home.”
Carmen looked at him, and he shifted this way and that before meeting her eyes. “It’s just hard, you know what I’m saying? I’m tired when I come in at night, and I don’t always feel up to getting lectured about everything I ought to be doing.”
“Don’t always feel? How about don’t ever feel?” Clarice said. “And I don’t appreciate your use of the word lecture. Especially when I don’t get any feeling that you’re hearing a word I’m saying.”
“What do you do, Clarice, when you’re talking and you don’t think Dave is listening?” Carmen said.
Clarice stared into the empty air above Carmen’s head. She returned her eyes to Carmen’s. “Try to get some response from him, I guess. Or . . . maybe sometimes I just give up and go do something else.”
Carmen nodded. “Dave, how does it make you feel when Clarice is talking to you, say it’s about something you’d rather not hear or talk about?”
He thought for a few seconds. “Beaten, mainly. I just feel like there’s no point in answering, because anything I say is probably going to be wrong.”
Clarice looked at David. “I don’t understand. How can you say I always think you’re wrong?”
“She asked me how I feel,” he said, nodding his head toward Carmen. “I just gave the most honest answer I could.”
“Dave, if you could pick out a theme for the things Clarice says to you, what would it be? What’s the one topic that comes to mind?”
“She wants me to be in a different business and have different priorities than the ones I have.” He said it almost instantly.
Clarice was starting to feel like she was playing on somebody else’s home court. “I’ve always had high goals for myself,” she said. “I thought David had high goals, too. At least, I used to.”
“Why do my goals have to involve a bigger and better career and a higher profile in the community? What if I don’t think those are the most important things in life?”
“It’s not about bigger and better,” Clarice said. “It’s about potential, David. What’s wrong with wanting to live up to all you’re capable of being?”
“Maybe I am,” he said, his voice rising, “but it’s just not on your scorecard.”
“Clarice, you look a little surprised,” Carmen said. “May I ask why?”
“He . . . doesn’t usually raise his voice.”
“What does he usually do?”
“Just sits there. Or walks away, or something.”
“What did you think, just now, when he answered you the way he did?”
“I guess I thought he was saying something he felt strongly about.”
Carmen turned to Dave. “How do you feel right now, Dave?”
“I don’t know. Okay, I guess. A little angry.”
“Good! That’s honest. Do you think you could do what you just did in here today the next time you and Clarice are in a—let’s call it a discussion, all right?—and you have something you need to say? Could you put your cards on the table with Clarice? Could you trust her enough to do that?”
Dave shrugged. “I could try, I guess.”
“So I’ve been wrong all this time, is that what you’re saying?” Clarice said.
“Not exactly,” Carmen said. “But because of your strong opinions, and because of Dave’s reluctance to upset the apple cart with you, honest communication between you two has just about stopped.”
Dave was nodding.
Clarice and David looked at each other for the first time in maybe two months. She looked at her husband, and he looked at her, and the moment stretched into a crystalline silence that narrowed the whole world into the space between their eyes. At some point, Clarice realized, they were both nodding.
On the drive home, Clarice started to wonder what, exactly, she risked by allowing herself to be more vulnerable to David. Part of her wanted to be, desperately longed to be, nurtured and looked after. But it was hard to go against her raising. And, Clarice supposed, if she was honest, she had to admit that a part of her feared being abandoned as Mama had been.
Why, then, did she continue in the very behaviors that made her less appealing to the man who’d promised to stay with her forever?
David pulled into the driveway and triggered the garage door opener. He stopped just outside the garage and shut off the engine. Clarice opened her door and got out. She was barely using her cane these days, and her walking pace and
balance were getting better and better. She felt sure that the orthopedist would okay her for full weight-bearing at her next follow-up. It would be a while before she’d be ready to boogaloo, but it felt so good to be almost fully mobile.
David held the door for her as she went into the house.
“Reesie, I’ve got some stuff to take back over to Brock. I’ll just run that over there and come right back, all right?”
He went out. She heard the pickup door open and shut, then heard the engine start. She went into the bedroom, got her writing box out of the drawer in her bedside table, arranged some pillows against the headboard to lean her back against, and sat down to begin writing in her journal.
Dave felt good, he really did. He’d seen some things in a different light today at Carmen’s office, and his spirits were lighter than they’d been in a while.
And he wanted to tell Julie about it.
He knew it made no sense, but he decided he was going with it. He pressed the speed dial button and put the phone to his ear, waiting to hear her voice on the line. But after six rings, he heard her voice mail. He disconnected and dialed her home phone. Voice mail again. He looked at his watch. Where would she be this time of the day, if she wasn’t home? Maybe in the shower or out in the yard or something, he guessed. He might try again later.
He drove to Brock’s house and knocked on the door; Brock’s doorbell had been messed up for about a year now and he was still “getting around” to fixing it. Dave waited a minute, then knocked again, louder.
About the time he’d decided that God didn’t want him talking to anybody this evening, he heard the sound of bare feet slapping across hardwood toward the door. Brock opened the door, wearing a T-shirt advertising some obscure microbrewery and a pair of ratty gym shorts. He was sweating and breathing hard.
“Hey, Dave, what’s up? Sorry if you’ve been standing out here awhile; I was working out on the Bowflex.”
“Hey, no problem, dawg. Here’s the scorecard from the last game.”
“Oh, yeah. I wanted to make sure we had all the stats up-to-date before we head into these last couple of games.” He took the sheets from Dave. “You wanna come in for a minute?”
“Yeah, maybe so. Why you hitting the machine so hard all of a sudden?” Brock had a roomful of exercise paraphernalia, most of which he’d bought off the Internet or some 800 number on his TV screen. The best Dave could figure, Brock averaged using his latest gadget, whatever it was, for about two weeks before getting bored with it. Dave had told Brock he could set up a medium-sized health club with all the stuff he had gathering dust in his garage.
“Oh, I don’t know . . . just got the urge to get back in shape, you know? Want a Coke? Or a beer?”
“No thanks, man. I got to head back pretty soon.” He tossed several days’ worth of newspapers out of Brock’s low-slung black leather armchair and sat down. “I told Clarice I wouldn’t be gone long.” He looked around Brock’s apartment. “So . . . what? You got a new lady you trying to impress?”
Brock rolled his eyes. “Can’t a guy get in shape just for his own benefit?”
“Some guys can, but I never suspected you of having the instinct for it. Well, babe, I got to hit the road.” Dave pushed himself out of the chair. “Holla atcha later.”
“See ya.”
Dave was about half a block away from Brock’s house when he dialed Julie’s cell number again, and again he got voice mail. Ditto for her house phone.
Oh, well . . . probably for the best, anyway.
He drove home thinking about Brock and Julie—especially what Julie had said to him at the game: He’s not you. Dave wasn’t exactly sure what she’d meant by that, but it didn’t sound like the door was closed to him in her mind. Dave wasn’t sure that was a good thing; he really did mean to do everything he could to make it work with Clarice. You didn’t just toss out a fifteen-year marriage because you were in a tough spot.
But was that all this was? Was there really any chance Clarice would be able to give some weight to the things that were important to Dave? He just didn’t see it happening. The farther she went in her career, the farther she was from being able to consider ever having children, for example. The desire to be a father was a deep ache in Dave’s soul; could Clarice ever understand that? And even if she did, would she be willing or able to do anything about it?
Dave pulled into his garage and went in the house. He tossed his keys on the kitchen counter and started to dig around in the freezer until he found the carton of premium ice cream he’d bought earlier in the week.
“Reesie? I’m getting some ice cream. You want some?”
No answer. Dave looked out into the living room. She was on the couch; hadn’t she heard him?
“Reesie? You want some ice cream?”
She was acting like he wasn’t even talking. What was going on? Dave straightened up for a better look. The news had started and Clarice appeared to be fixated on the screen. Dave looked at the screen to see what could be so gripping.
There, behind the attractive blonde anchorwoman, was a backdrop: a school picture of Bryson Sawyer. The headline across the top of the backdrop read “Pool Tragedy.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dave walked toward the TV like a zombie, his heart freezing in his chest.
“. . . struck his head on a diving board, according to witnesses. By the time EMT personnel arrived at the scene, Sawyer, age eleven, hadn’t been breathing for several minutes, despite resuscitation efforts attempted by others poolside. The boy was pronounced dead upon arrival at St. Joseph’s trauma center just after eight o’clock this evening. Funeral arrangements are pending.”
The TV stayed on, but Dave didn’t hear anything else; the newscast droned on and the sound was as meaningless to him as the buzzing of insects. He felt as if all the air had been sucked out of his chest, as if he had just been shot with some kind of paralyzing radiation. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears, but that was the only way he knew he was still breathing.
Bryson—dead? How was that possible? How could a kid drown when he could swim fifty meters in thirty seconds? There had to be some mistake, a wrong identity, something. There was no way Julie’s son could have been jostling the boys around Brock’s car at the game last week and be lying dead on some steel table right now. The world could not turn upside down this quickly without his noticing. Could it?
“Oh, David. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.”
He looked at Clarice. She was still sitting on the couch, looking back at him, her hand over her mouth. He could feel the confusion on his face, saw it reflected in the way she looked back at him. So she’d heard it too? It wasn’t some cruel hoax meant for his ears only?
“Bryson?”
“Yes, honey. That’s what they just said.”
“I can’t . . . it’s not possible, Clarice. That boy can’t drown. He swims like a fish.”
“Baby, I don’t know, but that’s what they said. He hit his head or something.” She looked like she wanted to come to him, but didn’t know how. Dave wished he could tell her, give her some opening, but right now he was trying to figure out how to keep his feet in a landscape tilting madly out of control.
A thought began to coalesce slowly from the swirling fog in his brain: Julie. He had to go to Julie. She needed him, and he had to go to her.
“She’s . . . I’ve got to go,” he said, when he was finally able to make his voice respond.
“David, are you sure that’s a good idea?”
He looked at Clarice as if she’d just sprouted another head. “What?”
“I said, are you sure you should go? Go to her?”
“Clarice, the woman has just lost her son! Yes, I’m sure.”
She got up and came to him, reaching for him with both her hands. “Then let me go too, David. I’ll go with you. We’ll do this together.”
He pulled his hand out of her grasp. “You don’t trust me, do you? You think I’m going to hit on
her, right there in the emergency room. Good Lord, Clarice. How sick do you think I am?”
“David, I don’t think you should go to her by yourself. If you won’t let me go, then take Brock. He cared about that boy, too.”
“That boy? Is that all you can come up with? You didn’t even know this kid, Clarice; he was special. He needed me. I was good for him and—”
“And his mother?”
“Don’t even say that, damn it! Do not say that to me, do you hear?”
“David, listen to me—”
“No, Clarice! Forget that mess you thinking! I been listening to you for the last fifteen years. All I been doing all day, every day, is listening to you. And you know what, Clarice? It’s all one way. You talk, and I listen. I’m tired of listening, can you hear what I’m saying? Tired! And I’m not standing around here arguing with you about it anymore. I’m going to the hospital and I’ll be back whenever, and you can just deal.”
He whirled away from her, striding toward the kitchen counter and his keys. He’d just swiped them up when he heard her speak.
“David.”
Clenching his jaw, he turned to face her.
“You need to know something, David.” Her voice was low and calm—almost scary. She was holding her elbows, as if trying to keep herself in control. “If you go see Julie and refuse to take anybody with you, I won’t be here when you come back.”
He stared hard at her for several seconds. Was she actually threatening him at a time like this?
“You do what you got to do, Clarice,” he said. “And I’ll do the same.” And then he was out the door.
Dave drove through three red lights on the way to the hospital. He screeched to a stop in the parking lot and ran toward the doorway into the trauma center; the automatic doors barely swished back in time.
Inside, he went quickly toward the first desk he saw. “Julie Sawyer, Bryson Sawyer—the boy that came in from the YMCA pool. Where are they?”
