by Tim Tingle
“Did he want to talk to you in private, Dad?” I asked.
“I think he stepped outside just to get away. But he did finally talk, and I’m so glad I was there. He said it hasn’t been easy for him. Before Lloyd started playing basketball, he did what his dad told him to do, but things are different now. Blanton admitted he used to whip Lloyd’s butt when he needed it, but now he feels like he’s gotta get Coach Robison’s approval before he does anything with his own son and he’s not happy about that.”
“He’s still mad at Coach, isn’t he Dad?”
“Yes. He said he was doing his best to hold on, but he’d like to bust Coach in the mouth. I’m afraid this isn’t over with. Stay close to Lloyd. I’m worried.”
“I will, Dad. And thank you for trusting me.”
“Have a good day, Bobby, and play well.”
CHAPTER 11
Bobby Backtalk
As I stepped into the gym, I saw Lloyd shooting free throws at the far end of the court. Coach Robison was still in his office, but he soon joined us—with a manly smile.
“Morning, boys,” he said. “Nice game last night. Well played, both of you. I hope you see how much you’re improving, Lloyd.”
“Thank you, Coach. Yes, it feels good.”
“Now,” he said, “I’m not going to ask you to forget about last night. I can’t do that, and I won’t ask you to either. But let’s agree on one thing. We tuck it away for later times, not to be ignored but to be dealt with later. Out in the open someday, just not today. Can we do that?”
“Yes sir, Coach,” I said.
“Thank you,” Lloyd said with a grateful nod.
“So, let’s keep improving that left hand, Lloyd. Start by going hard to your right, then pivot and change hands, driving to your left. Bobby, you guard Lloyd and try to knock the ball away. Steal the ball and drive in for a score.”
“I’m on it, Coach,” I said.
“Good. Both of you guys get your turn with the ball. Lloyd, you go first.” Coach usually returned to his office after giving us the day’s drill, but not this morning. He wanted to make sure we worked hard and focused on basketball. I could read his mind. Gotta focus.
No drama at school on Tuesday. Nothing abnormal. But sometime in the middle of the night, Dad came knocking at my door.
“Bobby, you wanna do something really weird?” he asked. “I mean totally weird? Wake up, Bobby. Your momma says it’s hoke, which means we can go do it. Knowing your momma, we’d get in big trouble otherwise, but she says we can go, so let’s do it.”
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
“I’m talking about crawling up outta bed, putting on your basketball shorts and T-shirt and shoes and socks, and getting out of here right now!”
“Dad, are you feeling hoke?”
“Bobby, I’ll be feeling hoke when you say, ‘Yes, sir,’ just like little boys are supposed to say when their dad tells ’em what to do. They say, ‘Yes, sir,’ and then they do it!”
“Yes, sir,” I said, in my best little boy’s voice.
In two minutes flat I was standing in the living room in my dark-blue Panther-on-the-side shorts and my light-blue Panthers T-shirt, with my basketball shoes on but no socks. I still thought this was some kind of a joke.
“Bobby, you can’t play basketball without socks. Didn’t Coach Robison teach you anything? You will never get a college basketball scholarship if you can’t remember to put your socks on first, then your shoes. Now say it with me, Bobby. Socks first, then my shoes.”
It had to be close to three o’clock in the morning. I stared at Dad. He rolled his fingers into fists and slapped his arms to his hips, glaring at me the entire time.
This was so far over the top, I decided to play along.
Once again—in my best little boy’s voice—I said, “Dad, please give me another chance to repeat it with you. I’ll do better, I promise.”
“Hoke, son. Last chance. Here we go.”
He raised his pointed fingers in front of him, like a symphony conductor, then nodded and pointed at me. We chanted in unison, “Socks first, then my shoes.”
“How’d I do, Dad?”
“You did fine, son. Now hurry up and I’ll start the truck.”
“You’re actually going through with this?” No more little boy’s voice.
“No back talk, Bobby, unless you want that to be your Choctaw name. Bobby Backtalk?”
“No way, Dad. I’m on it.” As I dashed to the bedroom for my socks, I thought, No Name is a better name than Bobby Backtalk!
Dad must have been reading my mind. He had a big grin on his face when I returned. “No more No Name. Right, Bobby?”
“Right, Dad,” I said. “I’ll put my socks on in the truck. Let’s go!”
Dad paused at the door, then slowly turned his head around facing me. “What did you say?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Dad. Of course I meant to say, ‘May I please put my socks on in the truck, Dad?’”
“That’s better, Bobby. Yes, you may.”
I hopped in the truck, Dad started the engine, and Mom waved at us from their bedroom window. I waited till we reached the end of the block before speaking in my real-life Bobby Byington voice.
“I’m enjoying the play, Dad, don’t get me wrong. But can we say it’s intermission?”
“Yeah, I’m getting a little tired of playing mean man, drunk Daddy. Or even mean man, sober Dad.”
“Yeah, I’ve grown to like the nice guy. So which is real and which is the act?” I asked, then wished I hadn’t.
Dad drove without answering for several blocks. He turned down the road to the park and said, “I’m just glad we’re able to joke about the mean dad I used to be, Bobby. I think it hurts me more than anybody to remember what I used to be like.”
“Dad, Mom came back, and so did I, because we know you’re a good guy. And you proved us right.”
“Oh, son, how many Mr. Blantons are there in the world that may never hear that?”
“I’m proud of you and Coach for doing all you can to help Lloyd’s family.”
Dad pulled to the curb by the park and turned to me. “You’re proud of us, Bobby?” He smiled and shook his head. “What does an old man say when his son says he’s proud of him?”
That needed no answer. I hopped from the truck as Dad reached behind the seat for his basketball.
“Think you can shoot in the dark, son?”
“I don’t know, Dad,” I said. “It’s not easy playing without a few hundred people cheering your every move. What happens when I nail a three-pointer and nobody cares?”
I stepped to the corner of the court as Dad tossed me a long pass. I caught it over my shoulder, took two quick dribbles, and launched a long ball.
Nothing but net! Or more accurately, nothing but chains, as outdoor goals don’t have nets.
“Bobby scores a bucket, and Daddy gets the dime,” he called out, then slapped his hand over his mouth. “Oops,” he said, in a quieter voice. “Folks in the neighborhood are trying to sleep. I guess we better keep it down.”
“Good idea, Dad.”
By now the ball had rolled off the court and under a tree. I ran and grabbed it and tossed it to Dad. “Let’s see your long ball, old man.”
Dad stood in the grass, ten feet from the court. He lowered the basketball almost to his waist and flung it to the rim. Not even close. I caught the ball before it hit the court and dribbled away from the basket. Without looking, I tossed it backward over my shoulder, high and slow, giving Dad time to make the running catch. He did, and also made the lay-up.
“Yo, Dad,” I said. “I get the dime, and you get the bucket.”
“Way to keep it in the family, Bobby.”
We carried on with our father-son foolishness for another twenty minutes or so. I had yet to ask the key question.
What in blazes are we doing here?
CHAPTER 12
Leafy Dad Comes Clean
I knew Da
d would tell me when he was ready, and finally the time came. The moon hid behind the clouds and the court was cast in darkness. I tucked the ball under my arm and sat against the tree.
“Yeah, time to take it easy,” Dad said, and I could hear his heavy breathing. He joined me, back against the trunk. I waited.
“The memories, the memories,” he said in almost a whisper. “There’s a lot about drinking that sober people never understand. Even though we all have our drinking buddies, maybe a dozen close friends, we’re all very much alone. We try to love our wives, our kids, but nothing works. When the bar closes and we head to the house, we go alone.
“Many times, Bobby, I’d drive down here, to this outdoor playground, and shoot some hoops. All by myself, sometimes too drunk to hit the backboard. Sometimes I’d throw up in the bushes and hope nobody would notice.”
“Did Mom know?”
“No, Bobby. She was always asleep when I got home.”
I knew Dad wanted to share something with me. I had a feeling that although I was still very much his son, I was also becoming a good friend—to my own dad.
“I’ll never forget one night,” Dad said. “I drove down here after drinking with Blanton and a tableful of other drunks. You were maybe two years old. I was mad about something somebody said at the bar. Don’t ask me what. But whatever it was, it really got under my skin.
“I was driving way too fast and slammed on the brakes. Skidded against the curb. I do remember jumping out and slamming the door. I ran to the court and pounded the ball hard. I tried dribble-driving from one end to the other, but I was too drunk.
“I stumbled and rolled up against a tree. When I tried to get up, I was too dizzy to even stand. I finally flopped on the ground and fell asleep. I didn’t wake up till maybe an hour before sunrise. You still with me, Bobby?” Dad asked, glancing my way.
“Sure, Dad. Always.”
“That’s my Bobby,” he said laughing. “Yeah. Well, I hurried home before I realized it was a Saturday and I didn’t have to go to work. But I was getting home four hours later than usual, at least. And your mom was up.”
“Did she stay up waiting for you?”
“She might have, Bobby. I never asked her. But her eyes were bloodshot and she’d been crying, I could tell that for sure. As soon as I stepped through the door, she stood up to meet me. She’d been waiting in the living room, and she had her robe on.”
I buried my face in my palms. This was hard to hear, but easy to imagine—Dad stumbling into the house, and Mom sipping coffee and waiting for him.
“You hoke, Bobby?”
“Yeah, Dad. Please go on,” I said, never lifting my face. Dad understood. Truth hurts but must be told. He’d said it himself many times in the past year.
“Your mom didn’t let me walk in the house like nothing had happened. Not this morning. ‘You think I don’t know where you’ve been?’ she asked me.”
“Wow. Mom said that?”
“Yes, she did, Bobby. And that’s just the beginning. ‘You’ve been to the park,’ she said, pointing to my shirt. ‘You’ve got leaves all over you. You spent the night in the park. And you wouldn’t be out this late by yourself.’ She walked past me to the bedroom and shut the door behind her.”
“So Mom thought you spent the night at the park with someone else?” I had to ask.
Dad sighed and shook his head. “Yes, son. That’s what she still thinks, if she ever remembers that night.”
“You never told her the truth?”
“No, Bobby. I didn’t want to go there again. We had too many things to fight about without digging up the past.”
“But, Dad, things have changed now. You’ve got to tell her.”
Dad wasn’t convinced, I could tell. “Let’s head to the house, Bobby. We can both use some sleep.”
I followed him to the truck and acted cool. No probs. But I had a plan, a good one. When we pulled into the driveway, I didn’t wait for Dad to put it in park. Nope. I dashed to the door, leaving it open behind me so Dad could hear everything I said.
I opened the door to their bedroom, which I never did. I flicked on the light and shouted, “Mom, get up! Come on! Dad’s got the biggest surprise of the year. He’s got a story to tell you. Time to wake up, Mom.”
She lifted her face from the pillow and rubbed her eyes.
“Bobby, this better be good,” she said. “And if it’s your dad’s story, why are you waking me up at…” She glanced at the bedside alarm clock. “Three thirty a.m.?”
“You’re right, Mom. I’ll let Dad tell you. Oh, here he is!”
Dad stood behind me with a serious look on his face. “You will pay for this, son,” he whispered.
“I think I better hit the sack,” I said.
Dad shut the door and flicked the light off. But I’m sure he told her the story of his leafy night at the park, with much more detail than the version he had shared with me.
Good night, I thought, as I fluffed my pillow up and buried my head in it. But before I drifted off to sleep, I had a realization.
Dad knew I would say something to Mom about that night. Maybe that’s why we went to the park in the first place. I was his intro man. Yeah. That’s me. No more No Name.
Now I’m Bobby Backtalk!
And that was only Wednesday.
CHAPTER 13
Baldy Lady Faye
School-day Wednesday was a day to remember.
Faye met me on the sidewalk outside the gym, and something about her was different. When she saw me scrunching up my face in a question, she flipped her hair.
“Do you like it, Bobby?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah. I guess so. What did you do?”
“I fluffed it up a little and gave it a few blonde streaks. What do you think?”
Hoke. That was weird enough, for Faye to even care what her hair looked like. But what she did next made me wonder if this was my next-door neighbor or some imposter.
Faye, Mystery Lady Faye, shy neighbor Faye, planted her chin on her left shoulder and turned around so slowly she looked like a model on a reality show.
“Well,” I stammered, “I don’t know what to say. You mind telling me why you did that?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” she said, flipping her hair one final time as we entered the hallway. “See you later. If you’re lucky!”
I laughed so loud everybody turned to stare at me. “Sorry,” I said, slapping my hands over my mouth. I didn’t have long to wait for the answer to my question.
An hour later, as we stood in the hallway between classes, Faye told me the whole story.
“Heather and I had an early morning tutoring session,” she said, “and I planned a special surprise for her. If we’re going to really get along, we needed a breakthrough moment.”
“A breakthrough moment? With Heather that sounds like broken bones.”
“That was before. Things are different now. Heather still screeches at me in the library, but she’s much quieter than before. And when she yanks my hair, she does it playfully.”
“I bet she loved your new hairdo,” I said.
“Oh yes. I knew she would. I also knew she would yank it extra hard, since my hair looks better than hers!”
“And you wanted her to yank hard?”
“Yes, Bobby,” Faye said quietly. “But I have a secret.” She glanced up and down the hallway, then placed her fingers to her lips. “Shhh,” she whispered.
I’m glad she warned me, or else I would have hollered loud enough to shake the building. Faye lifted her hair from her head and handed it to me. My jaw dropped as I stared at Faye’s bald, pink head, without a single hair on it.
“Ohhh, Faye. What happened to you?”
Faye covered her mouth with her fist and laughed, rocking back and forth against the wall. “It’s hoke, Bobby. Go ahead and touch my bald head. You know you want to.”
Of course I didn’t want to, but when she leaned over and nudged me in the ch
est, I had to touch it. It felt weird and rubbery!
“Hoke, Faye, time for some truth telling,” I said.
“So you think you’re the only one who can fool the world? Huh, Bobby? You with your underground hole that you lived in for a summer.”
I shrugged my shoulders and didn’t know what to say.
“Bug-eyed Bobby, maybe that’s your new name,” Faye said, still laughing. “Hoke, so I bought a swimmer’s head cap and colored it with makeup to match my skin. Then I found this wig in a beauty salon—almost my hair color, except for the blonde streaks. I cut my hair shorter than usual, tucked it under the cap, put on the wig, and pranced my way to school.
“When you didn’t guess it was a wig this morning, I knew I would fool Heather. And man, did I fool Heather!”
“And you’re still alive to tell about it,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s what surprises me.”
“You should have seen her in the library. I arrived early for our session, and when she saw my hairdo, she practically ran across the floor, grabbed my hair, and screeched, ‘You think you’re the pretty girl now? Let’s see if you like how pretty feels!’
“She yanked on my hair so hard she almost fell over backwards. Everyone in the library was watching, and when they saw her holding my hair in her hand, they all started screaming! It was a once-in-a-lifetime happening, Bobby! You should have been there!”
“And then?” I asked, still feeling like Bobby Bug-Eyed.
“The librarian hurried over, and when she saw me, and Heather, and my hair, and my bald head, she grabbed a chair to keep from falling. ‘Should I call someone?’ she asked.
“I took my wig from Heather, very matter-of-factly. ‘No, everything is fine,’ I told her. ‘I just hope my hair grows back.’ I turned to Heather and said, ‘Are you ready for some tutoring?’
“Heather took her seat and gave me the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face. ‘For my first lesson,’ she said, ‘I want to know exactly how you did that. I want to borrow that trick. Not for school, but for a nasty stepmother who grabs my hair.’”
