by M. E. Carter
“He’s worked hard. He deserves it,” Amanda says with a shrug as she walks toward the front door, probably to hide her new treasure in the trunk of her car. “Now if he could pass some of that motivation off to my kid, that would be great.”
Poor Amanda. Her son, Nicholas, hasn’t fared very well in college. He decided not to play ball, instead focusing on his studies. So far, he’s been on academic probation twice and had one pregnancy test taken by his girlfriend. That’s the only time we cheered for him failing a test.
Amanda opens the door and startles. “Oh! You scared me!” she says to one of our friends who was getting ready to knock.
Several women laugh as they make their way into my house, Drea handing me a container full of cake balls. Drea is my favorite.
Within minutes, a couple dozen women gather around the various tables, plates full of snacks and drinks in their hand. Some card game is making people laugh across the room. And someone brought dominos for a rousing game of Chicken Foot in my kitchen.
But Bunco . . . Bunco is where it’s at tonight. Three tables are set up on our side of the room and the dice start to roll.
Within minutes, the fast-paced game of chance is going at full speed. We roll for 1’s. Then 2’s. By the time we move up to 3’s, we’re moving fast and no one is talking.
I watch as Amanda shakes the cubes up and drops them on the table. They bounce once, twice, three times and slide to a stop.
“Bunco!” Amanda yells, and the scramble is on, each person around our table grabbing for the dice. Brenda launches herself across the table, reaching as far as she can, with me right behind her. The upper half of my body lands next to her and a loud crack echoes around the room.
Suddenly, the room is in slow motion as the table wobbles underneath us . . .
And collapses.
Drat! I hate celery and peanut butter.
You wouldn’t think games could take a lot of out me, since I’m not the one running up and down the field. But you’d be surprised how exhausting standing in the heat for several hours at a time can be. Add onto it the anticipation of game-day mornings, followed by the adrenaline rush during the game, and yeah . . . Once the stadium empties out and the cameras stop rolling, I’m like a dead man walking. I just want to drive home and grab a cold beer, a pizza, and some SportsCenter. No going anywhere. No doing anything. No talking to anyone.
The one exception is my baby sister, Greer. She’s had it rough lately with her asshole of an ex-husband going to prison for some sort of tax fraud. It’s put her in a huge bind financially, because she no longer gets child support. Not to mention all the liquid assets she had obtained in the divorce were confiscated because the feds said they weren’t his to divvy out in the first place. Thank goodness my parents had left us both a decent-sized inheritance he couldn’t touch. It’s the only reason my sister is staying afloat.
But possibly the hardest part of the whole situation is how it’s affected her kids, my niece and nephew. Julie and Oliver are fourteen and sixteen years old. While Julie is the picture of a normal teenager, Oliver is not.
Born with a double cord wrapped around his neck, forcing an emergency C-section, doctors suspect Oliver has significant brain damage. More damage than they originally realized. Up until he was about six, he seemed perfectly normal. But once he started school and the other kids matured, he just . . . didn’t. He began having a hard time with his impulse control and the left side of his body seemed unusually weak. That’s what tipped off the doctors to potential right brain neurological damage. Add on that he has a high-functioning autism diagnosis.
Needless to say, when Greer and the asshole divorced, it was hardest on Oli. The change of structure and dynamic took some getting used to, as did transitioning back and forth on his dad’s weekends. They finally seemed to have Oli in a good place when the feds stepped in and threw it all into an uproar again. The loss of his dad, however crappy of a dad he was anyway, has thrown Oli into a really bad place. Even if Greer won’t admit it.
“We’re fine, Jack. I promise.”
“Based on how wobbly your voice sounds, I seriously doubt that,” I quip back. “Wanna tell me how it’s really going?”
She sighs, and I can tell she’s on the verge of tears. “Oli got suspended again.”
“Shit,” I mutter.
“I can’t keep doing this, ya know? Thank goodness I work for myself and can set my own hours, but I have to be able to concentrate in order to edit proficiently. I can’t do that when he’s around. He needs too much supervision.” She sighs again. “I don’t know how to help him, and I feel like I’m drowning sometimes.”
“Why don’t you move here?” I suggest for the umpteenth time. I’d love to have her down here, but she’s resistant. “We could use the money from the sale of Mom and Dad’s house and get you something here that’ll work.”
“And uproot Oliver again? I’m not sure he’d survive any more transition.”
I shrug, even though she can’t see me. “Maybe. But at least I could help get him off your hands sometimes. A little Uncle Jack time might do him some good. We could go fishing, or I could take him to tour the stadium. I know a guy who might be able to get us in,” I joke.
She giggles, which relieves some of my worry. When all she needs is to vent, she still has her sense of humor. When she’s really hit her limit and needs help, that humor is gone.
“I don’t think he cares about seeing a football stadium right now.”
“What? What are you teaching him?” I rant playfully. “No nephew of mine is going to miss out on the love of the game. It’s a Texas tradition.”
“Sorry. He’s obsessed with Pokémon right now.”
“The little yellow thinga-ma-bobber?”
“That’s the one.”
“Huh.” I think for a second while I turn on my blinker and turn onto my street. “I mean, I guess I can play that Pokémon Go crap or whatever. I don’t understand it at all, but I’m sure he could show me.”
“Shut up.” She laughs. “Just keep your ears to the ground for any amazing residential or educational programs that might meet his needs. Something’s gotta give one of these days.”
Pulling into my complex, I navigate my way through the parking lot to my spot. “If I come up with anything, I’ll let you know. And you tell Oli he better not be disrespecting my sister, or I’ll show up to have a man-to-man talk with him.”
“Would you quit with that? Last time you had a man-to-man talk, you took him for ice cream and brought him home sugared up.”
“But he was respectful when he came home, right?”
She huffs. “Uh huh. Until the sugar crash when he started crying.”
Yeah, that part I didn’t anticipate. I’ve never had kids. How would I know?
“Anyway,” she continues, “I’m gonna go work for a couple hours while I wait for Julie to get home from the movies and Oli is sleeping. The game went okay today?”
“As okay as can be.” I pull the car into my spot and cut the engine. “Just exhausting as always.”
“Don’t push yourself too hard. You’re an old man now. I don’t want you to break a hip or something.”
My sister the comedian.
Running my finger through my hair, I argue, “I am not that old.”
“Uh huh. That salt-and-pepper mop on your head is a choice?”
My hand stills. Damn. She got me on that one.
“Okay, okay, whipper-snapper. I gotta go.” I clamber out of the car, struggling to carry my phone, keys, and the pizza I stopped to get. “Beer and pizza are calling my name.”
“All right. I love you, big brother. Thanks for letting me vent.”
“Love you, too. Anytime.”
We disconnect and I perform a balancing act as I climb the stairs to my unit. Once inside, I immediately drop everything on the coffee table and head toward the kitchen for a beer.
On the way, I pass another empty pizza box, four empty beer bottles, a b
ag of McDonald’s trash, and a six pack of toilet paper sitting on the counter. It’s opened and only has two rolls left it in.
Damn. When did I become such a slob?
My eyes gravitate to the picture of Sheila and me on the fridge, and I know exactly when things became disorganized around here.
In the photo, we’re standing in front of the Karekare Falls on the North Island of New Zealand. It’s the last trip we took before she died . . . her bucket-list vacation. We had a full month in Australia and New Zealand. Everything she wanted to see, we saw. Everything she wanted to do, we tried. I didn’t have a bucket list, but if I had, that trip definitely would have fulfilled it.
Three days after we came home, her best girlfriends threw her a surprise party. All our friends and family came. People from the law firm she used to work for. People from college. Cousins she hadn’t seen in years. It was an amazing night.
A month later, they all came back to help me bury her. That was a rough time in my life, but when the cancer came back for a third time, I knew she didn’t have any fight left in her. And it was okay. She went on her dream vacation, she partied with her friends, and she passed on at home in her bed. I’ll never regret any of it.
But of the two of us, she was the housekeeper. Even three years later, I still have to remember where I store the vacuum when I actually use it. I guess with it just being me, I don’t think about it. As long as there aren’t bugs running around, picking up isn’t my priority.
“I really need to spring for a maid,” I say out loud, as I pop the top off my beer and take a swig, meandering back to my favorite chair and plopping down in it. Turning on SportsCenter, I grab my dinner and sit back to relax.
A razor commercial comes on. You know the kind I’m talking about . . . the guy shaves with the magical razor blades and suddenly a hot woman shows up out of nowhere, attracted to his clean-shaven baby face.
It’s a stupid commercial, but suddenly the woman I ran into the other day crosses my mind. She was cute. Really cute. Tan skin and a bright smile. Her dark eyes crinkled a bit at the corners when she flashed her grin at me. She was obviously older than most of the other students, which was nice to see. Reminds me that it’s never too late to start over.
I peek over at a framed photo of my wedding day all those years ago. We were young and idealistic. Ready to face our future head-on, no holds barred. Life had different plans for us, though. But we made do and loved each other through it all.
Before she died, Sheila made me promise I wouldn’t pine over her loss forever. That I’d find love, someone to start a new life with. Up until this week, I’ve never considered it because no one has caught my eye, but for some reason, the woman I bumped into the other day has.
It’s been three years. I’m not really grieving the loss of Sheila anymore, even though I miss her every day. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need to find companionship.
I think on it a moment longer before making up my mind with a single nod of determination.
It appears Jack Pride is going out into the dating world again.
I hate science with a passion. Which Isaac thinks is weird because I like doing things like putting Mentos in Coca-Cola bottles to see the explosion and making homemade slime. But I guess those don’t really count as college-level experiments as much as they’re considered kindergarten games.
In order to play those games with five-year-olds in an educational setting, however, I have to pass the college-level part. That includes my very first biology exam, which I don’t feel prepared for. Hence, why I’m studying Mendel’s Laws and genetics vocabulary while my lit professor is talking about Dante’s Inferno.
Wait. That’s not right. We finished that last week. He’s talking about Everyman, a 15th century play that examines the Christian faith and what man must to do obtain eternal life.
It’s not a bad play. I didn’t fall asleep while reading it over the weekend. But it wasn’t riveting either, which actually works to my advantage because I don’t want to pay attention to the discussion anyway. I have the principle of segregation to brush up on.
Which I don’t understand. At all.
I am in so much trouble.
“I don’t remember a guy named Mendel in the play.” Mia keeps her eyes on the professor as she whispers to me. She’s practically bundled up like an Eskimo today—thick jacket, scarf, beanie with a pompom on top, pulled low over her ears. It’s always cold in here, but she’s taking it a little too far.
“It’s Mendel’s Laws,” I whisper back. She blinks at me, my words obviously not computing. “The analysis of genetics?” Still nothing. “Didn’t you take Biology I?”
She peeks over at my notes. “Oh!” And there’s the lightbulb. “I knew the name was familiar. I hated that class.”
“Is there a problem, ladies?”
Mia snaps to attention, her spine pencil-straight at the boom of our professor’s voice startling her.
I shake my head and smile. “No sir. Just making sure we caught it all. I got Fellowship and Goods. I missed Knowledge.”
He squints his eyes and pauses, trying to determine if I’m lying. We both know that I am, but even I’m impressed with how fast I’m able to pull those key points out of thin air. Unless he wants to come up here and see what I’m writing to prove I’m not really paying attention, we both know it’s not worth calling my bluff. Quickly, he comes to that same conclusion and continues on with the lecture.
As he paces to the other side of the room, Mia breathes out slowly. “Thanks. I can’t get kicked out of class again. I almost lost three credit hours last semester for that.”
Fantastic. I’m sitting next to the one person at this whole university who gets dropped from classes because she can’t stop talking.
I don’t respond, hoping she catches the hint that I don’t want to chit-chat right now. I want to pretend to listen to the lecture while I study and stay in the professor’s good graces. Unfortunately, I have no such luck when she leans back to stretch.
I hear her soft gasp and know something exciting just happened in her world, and I’m about to learn all about it, whether I want to or not.
“You know Isaac Stevens?”
Glancing up from my notes, I take in the excitement on her face.
“Only someone really important to a player, like, really important, like a girlfriend gets to wear a player’s team sweatshirt,” she practically hisses, grabbing my arm. I pull away slowly and take in my outfit.
It never occurred to me when I grabbed Isaac’s old hoodie from freshman year, the one he grew out of, that anyone would think anything about it. It’s nothing special. Just the ratty one I wear around the house when I feel chilled. I thought I was showing school spirit like a normal student who buys clothes from one of the university stores. Guess not.
“How did you know that? It’s just a hoodie,” I whisper.
“It has his name and number embroidered right on the front.” She points at the emblem, getting awfully close to my boob. Slow down there, tiger. “Only the uniforms worn by the players have that.”
Huh. I never put that together. Before I can get another word out, she squeals quietly and grabs my arm again. Does this girl have no boundaries?
Actually, I know the answer to that. I’ve been sitting next to her for over a week now. She’s not hard to peg.
“Are you dating him?” she pries excitedly. I open my mouth, but she keeps going before I can answer. “I didn’t know he was into older women. I bet there’s so much you can teach him, if you know what I mean.” She wiggles her eyebrows, making me grimace at her implications. “I hear football players have a lot of stamina.”
“Okay, stop,” I interrupt, putting my hand on top of hers. “Yes, I know him. No, I’m not dating him. I’ll tell you more later, but stop talking before you get us kicked out.”
She sits up and mimics zipping her lips, just as the man in charge turns again and begins walking to our side of the room again. I go back
to pretending to listen while I study, and Mia goes back to doing whatever she does when she’s not using up all the oxygen in the room.
Her silence is practically deafening. Unfortunately, it does nothing to help me feel like I’m accomplishing any sort of learning. Science just isn’t my thing.
The sounds of bags being packed breaks my concentration, and I realize my time is up. I have about fifteen minutes until my first college biology exam and nervous doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel. Mia, however, despite the fact that she can probably spot a football player’s embroidery from a hundred yards away, isn’t astute enough to notice my attempt at a mad dash. Go figure.
“So, if you’re not dating him, how do you know Isaac Stevens?” I should have known she wouldn’t let it go.
I smile brightly at her, even though I don’t really want to go there, knowing once the rumor mill starts, I’ll be getting a call from my son. He’s not ashamed of me, quite the opposite. He just doesn’t want to be razzed by his teammates. I get it.
No, I don’t. I’ve never been a twenty-year-old boy. But I understand his reasoning for not making a production out of it. Mia here, she will definitely be making a production out of it. I just smile politely, like my lovely mother taught me, and answer her.
“He’s my son.”
Mia squeals and throws her hands over her mouth, bouncing on her toes. “Ohmygod, are you kidding me?” She grabs my arm again, her mouth dropping open like an amazing thought just crossed her mind. “I’ve been hanging out with Isaac Stevens’s mother?”
I quickly shrug her off again, reaching for my things. I have fifteen minutes to cram while walking. I don’t have time for this conversation. Actually, I wouldn’t want to have this conversation even if I didn’t have a test to get to.
“I wouldn’t say we’ve been hanging out, Mia. We’re in a class together.” I maintain my smile for politeness as I try to refocus her.
