Stick

by Michael Harmon

  I looked back at him, weirded out by his stare. “Do you know when he’ll be home? We were—” I said, but he cut me off, calling back over his shoulder.

  “Diane, your kid has a friend at the door.”

  By the way this guy was acting, the first thing that came to mind was the black eye Preston had had yesterday. I nodded. “I can come back later. No problem.” But then I heard shoes clattering across the marble entry.

  Preston’s mom wasn’t what I imagined. She was dressed in a light blue silk blouse and a pair of those super-expensive jeans laced with white stitching. She had highlighted blond hair and wore too much makeup. My first impression was that she was a fifty-year-old woman doing everything she could to not be fifty. It wasn’t overboard, but she easily fit into the cougar category. She looked me up and down, then smiled. “You’re one of Preston’s friends?”

  Her eyes were kind. Warm. I nodded. “Uh, yes. He’s helping me with math, and I missed him at school,” I said, not adding that the reason was that my dad had stolen my car.

  She held her hand out, smiling again. “Well, I’m Diane, Preston’s mother. And you are…?”

  “Sti—” I began, then stopped. “Brett Patterson.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Stick Patterson? Of the Saxons?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  He smiled, his face opening up like a jack-o’-lantern. “Well, damn, come on in! I didn’t figure that kid had a friend in the entire world, and now I’ve got the best receiver in the state standing here.”

  Diane looked down and wiped her hands on her jeans. Then she took a breath. “Yes, Brett, please come in. It’s nice to meet one of Preston’s friends.”

  I followed them to the living room, and Preston’s mom showed me to a leather loveseat. The man sat across from me in a matching leather recliner. He slapped the arm, shaking his head. “Stick Patterson,” he said again, grinning. “You know, I went to Hamilton years ago. Played ball, too. Great school. Best in the city. By the way, the name is Tom. Tom Clarkston. I’m an attorney.” He winked at me. “If you ever need anything, you just call me up.”

  Preston’s mom offered me a glass of water, which I accepted. “Thank you.” I wondered how many ambulances Tom had chased in his career.

  Preston’s mom sat on the other couch. “So, how long have you and Preston known each other? I’m afraid he’s not much of a talker.”

  I felt like I was being interrogated, but nicely. “A little while. We met in the guidance office. I’m horrible at math, and he’s really smart. Actually, like a genius or something.”

  Tom crossed his ankle over his knee, fiddling with the leather tassel on his shoe. “So, Stick, tell me about the season. It looks like you’ll nab the title again. Great team, great team. Even read you might have some scholarships coming your way.” He nodded like he was going to endow me with some sort of old-guy wisdom. And of course, he did. “You just be picky, huh? To be the best, you’ve got to go with the best. Definitely stay West Coast, though,” he said, then leaned over and patted Preston’s mom’s knee. “Better-looking women, you know?”

  I drank the water, remembering that Preston and his mother came from Chicago. “Thanks,” I said, then looked at Preston’s mom. “You don’t know where Preston is, then?”

  Tom straightened his neck, glancing at Diane with a glint in his eye. “Didn’t he say something about playing with his little comic book things?” He grinned at me. “Hey, Stick, you still play with dolls?”

  Diane cleared her throat. “Tom, please.”

  He nodded. “Fine, Diane, but you know how I feel about it. It’s just not normal. What is he, fifteen? And he still pretends? Hell, I was working at a burger joint and smashing offensive linemen into the turf when I was his age.” He winked again, smug and satisfied. “Defensive lineman. I was the guy going after your quarterback.”

  I wondered what it would be like to hook a car battery to his testicles and pull the switch, and I could easily imagine that Preston hated his guts. “Yeah, I’ve heard that’s what defensive linemen do.”

  “You know, I’ve got a thousand dollars on the Saxons winning this week. Pretty big money, huh?”

  “That’s awesome, sir.” I gave him a nod. “In fact, if I were you, I’d put two thousand on it.”

  He slapped the arm of the recliner again. “That’s what I like. Confidence. I’m going to do just that.”

  I turned to Preston’s mom. “I’d better get going. Could you tell Preston I stopped by?”

  She stood, smiling at me. “Yes. And it’s nice meeting you, Brett. Maybe we could have you over for dinner sometime?”

  “Sure. That sounds great.” I walked to the door.

  Tom called out from the living room, “You take care of those hands, boy. They’re golden!”

  My dad was sitting in one of the chairs on our front porch when I got home. It was a bit after five. A half-empty beer sat on the little table next to him, and he held a football in his hands.

  I walked up the steps. “Hi.”

  He stared at the lawn. “You said you missed playing catch. Like we used to.”

  “Yeah.”

  He stood and tossed me the ball. “Well, then, come on. Let’s play.”

  It took a second for me to register that he was serious, but when I did, I brightened. He’d listened. Finally. I set my pack down and we spread out on the grass, just like we used to. Start close to warm up, then move back farther and farther. He lobbed the ball to me, stretching his arm. “How was school?”

  I threw it back. “Weird.”

  He took a step back, throwing me a wobbly spiral. “Figured it would be.”

  I caught it, the skin of the ball warm in my hands. We’d do this after school all the time before things got serious. Just him and me, throwing and catching and talking. I threw. “Yeah.”

  He caught the ball and spun it in his hands. “You see Coach?”

  “No.”

  He threw, this time harder, a true spiral. The ball felt good in my hands, and suddenly a twinge of remorse coursed through me. I loved football. “I don’t know if I want to see him.” I took a step back, throwing.

  He caught it. “I know. It’s hard to face people when you’re ashamed,” he said, then threw.

  I felt the grain of the leather and gripped the ball tighter. “I’m not ashamed, Dad. I’m like a black sheep at school now anyway, so it doesn’t matter. It’s done.” I threw him a lollipop pass.

  He caught it, then took a step forward. “What’s your plan now? Graduate, get a job?” he said, unwinding and throwing me a nail.

  The ball hit my hands just like it should, the shock running up my forearms. “I don’t know. Probably. Maybe I can enroll in community college. I’ve always liked art, you know? Remember that gallery downtown I used to go to?” I said before taking a step back and throwing.

  He caught the ball. “So, you’ve dropped every plan you’ve had since you were twelve years old, and you don’t know what you’re going to do.” He took another step forward, preparing to throw. “Is that smart?” He really unwound this time, giving me a bullet from ten yards away.

  I clenched my teeth, and threw the ball back.

  He threw it back, harder than before. His eyes were flat, his expression stone-faced. “You having a good time, Brett? This fun?”

  I caught it. “Yeah, Dad. Great time.” I jetted the ball to him, and it hit his chest as he caught it.

  He took a stance, the ball in his hands and up by his ear. “You might want to get that job first, because…,” he said, then unleashed another bullet at me, “I’m not paying for a single thing you do from now on.”

  I caught the ball easily, but it was way too hard for how close we were. I realized we weren’t playing catch. Not the way I thought we were. “I didn’t ask, did I?” I said, throwing him the ball.

  He caught it, glowering, his eyes intense. “This is what it’s about, right? Just having some fun. Everything should just be fun,” he s
aid, then put everything in it that he had. The ball flashed toward my head.

  They didn’t call me Stick for nothing, I thought, laughing to myself as the ball slapped into my hands. I looked at him, at the other side of the yard, and knew things had changed between us. But I was pissed. I felt like screaming my lungs out at him or crumpling to the ground in a heap of tears. I took a breath, staring at the grass at my feet and feeling like I was trapped. Fine. He wanted it? He’d get it. I lifted my chin, staring at him. “That all you got, Dad? You might be a washed-up football player, but I didn’t think you were washed out,” I said, then tossed him the ball underhand.

  He stood there, his chest heaving. I’d never seen the look in his eyes before. “You watch your mouth, Brett. You watch it.”

  “What? You don’t like the truth? You couldn’t hack it, could you? You could never be what you wanted, so you tried to make me be it. Well, you know what? I am better than you, and I’m not going to spend my life drinking myself to sleep every night because I live a life I hate.”

  The ball flew from his hand like a bolt of lightning, just like I knew it would. I didn’t raise my hands. Just stood there, staring at him. The ball slammed into my chest like a torpedo, and the air exploded from my lungs. Pain shattered through me, but I stood there, my eyes never leaving his, my arms down. He took a halting step forward, coming toward me, the look in his eyes softening. Then he stopped, the ice returning. I felt like I was going to pass out.

  He shook his head and began walking to the house. “There you go, Mr. Man. There you go.”

  I sucked in a breath of air. “I’m never going to catch another ball again,” I called to him.

  He didn’t answer. Didn’t look at me. Just went inside and slammed the door shut behind him.

  In the bathroom, I pulled my shirt up and looked at the bruise. It was already turning a sick shade of purple. It looked like I’d been kicked by a mule. Every time I took a deep breath, shooting pain hit my chest, spreading through my lungs and around my rib cage.

  I stood there, staring at myself. The game. All the times he’d made me wash his car or dig weeds out of the garden after I had missed a pass. Hard work pays off, son. Remember that, he’d say. The only reason I’m making you do this is to show you what happens when you waste your talent. You want to wash cars for the rest of your life? Be a loser? I didn’t think so. Think about that.

  Then he’d walk back into the house and crack a beer. Do as I say, not as I do, I thought. I shook my head, lowering my shirt. The fact was that I had no idea what I wanted to do other than football. I’d never had time to figure out anything other than the playbook.

  I walked into the living room, glancing at the clock. Ten-fifteen. Dad was snoring in his recliner, the television news droning on about some vigilante in the city. Crime was rampant in Spokane, and people were getting fed up. I clicked the set off and stood in the middle of the room, looking around.

  Screw him.

  If I was my dad and I was going to hide a set of keys, where would I hide them? I looked at him sleeping. Then it hit me. He wouldn’t hide them, because Stick Patterson would never even think of doing the unthinkable.

  I walked into his bedroom, and there, right on the dresser, were my keys. I stared at them for a moment, then took them. For some reason, they felt lighter than they ever had. As I turned to leave, I glanced at myself in the mirror. Stealing now, you idiot? When I looked, I saw me. The same person I’d looked at every day since I could remember. Brownish blond hair cut tight. A decent tan. White teeth. Nothing stunning or Hollywood about me in the least, but not ugly as a stone. A person among billions, I thought. But now I was different. Stick Patterson didn’t exist anymore. Brett Patterson did.

  And he was stealing his own car.

  I drove to drive, hitting the Palouse Highway and winding my way through the midnight wheat fields on the outskirts of town. It felt good to be going, even if I had nowhere to go. An hour later, I drove from the valley and entered the downtown core, aimlessly circling among the one-way streets. I passed the bus station and noticed a few guys standing outside under a streetlight, smoking and talking. They all stared as I passed.

  The core was almost a ghost town this late on a weeknight, and I headed west before turning right onto the Monroe Street Bridge. As my lights cut through the river mist that was flowing over the concrete railing, with the water below roiling over the falls, I saw a figure up ahead. I slowed as I neared.

  He stood on the ledge, the river rushing a hundred and fifty feet below. A strong breeze would take him over. A jumper. Suicide. He wore a hoodie, had a small backpack on, and held his arms out like wings. As I passed, he turned his head toward me.

  Preston.

  I hit the brakes, put the car in park, and got out in the middle of the street.

  He stared at me, his face shadowed by the hood over his head, reminding me of death. I shut the door. “What are you doing?”

  Standing on the six-inch-wide barrier, he pointed. “You should turn your hazards on. People don’t expect cars to be stopped in the middle of the lane.”

  His mom’s boyfriend, who I was almost sure had given him the black eye, flashed through my mind. “Don’t jump, Preston. Please.”

  “Don’t jump where?”

  “Off the bridge. Don’t. Just get down.”

  Mist coiled around his feet in the darkness, and he lowered his arms. “Why would I jump off the bridge?”

  “I don’t know, but don’t do it,” I said, my mind scrambling for the right words. “Nothing can be that bad. Come on, just get down.”

  “You think I want to kill myself?”

  “Well, you’re standing on the railing of a bridge like you want to jump.”

  “If I wanted to kill myself, I wouldn’t be talking to you. I’d be jumping.”

  “Then why are you—” I began.

  He cut me off. “You never do anything dangerous, do you?”

  “If you mean like standing on the railing of a bridge, no, I don’t.”

  He looked down at his feet, then started walking, slowly placing one foot in front of the other like a tightrope walker. “Most people never do.”

  “You get a thrill from it, then?” I said, walking beside him.

  He ignored me. “I’m not talking about standing on the rail, Brett. I’m talking about life. Most people do the same thing every day, but they don’t do it because they like it. They do it because they’re afraid to do anything else. It’s dangerous.”

  “Maybe.”

  He stopped walking, then hopped down from the ledge. “You hungry?”

  “What?”

  “Food. Eat. Hungry. Are you?”

  Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in the parking lot of a Taco Bell, chowing down on burritos from the all-night drive-through. I took a swig of Mountain Dew. “Why were you up there?” I asked.

  He took a bite, chewed slowly, swallowed, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and folded it neatly on his lap. “I always thought fear was a good reason not to do something. It’s not, though. Usually it’s the opposite.”

  “Like being afraid of the dark?”

  He looked at me. “I’m not talking about irrational fear. I’m talking about real fear.”

  “What’s real fear, then?”

  I noticed a deep scratch above his eyebrow. His black eye had turned purple. He took a sip of his soda. “Why didn’t you do anything when your friends egged me?”

  “Because I’m an idiot.”

  He shook his head. “You were afraid. Of what would happen to you and your life and where you fit into it if you did something to stop what was wrong. We’re conditioned to be afraid to stand alone.” He smirked. “Contrary to what you might think about me and my pitiful and lonely life, Brett, I believe that most people are good. They’re just afraid to do what they know is right.”

  “Your dad must have been really cool, huh?”

  “Yeah. Why do you say that?”

  “Becau
se he must have taught you that.”

  Silence followed, almost a full minute as we sat in the dark. His voice came soft and low. “Have you ever hated something so much that you’d do anything to get rid of it? That you’d kill it if you could?”

  I bit my lip, furrowing my brow. Tom, the boyfriend, came to mind, and I wondered if Preston was talking about him. “What are you saying, Preston?”

  “When my dad and I came out of the museum that night six months ago, a guy walked up to us and pulled a knife. I just stood there. I was so scared. I didn’t know what to do. He told us to hand over our wallets, which my dad did, all the while begging the mugger not to hurt us. Then the guy told me to hand mine over. I couldn’t move, so the guy moved toward me. My dad stepped between us.”

  I saw them there. Saw Preston’s dad protect his son. Saw the knife flash, sinking into his chest. I saw a dead father on the sidewalk, his son kneeling over him, and I shuddered. “You hate the guy who killed him that much?”

  “No.”

  I looked over at him in the dim. “Who, then?”

  “I couldn’t move, Brett. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Just like always. I could never do anything.”

  “It’s not your fault, Preston.”

  “My dad died because I am what I am, Brett.”

  I looked at him. “No.”

  He stared at his hands, clenching them. “Most people get a chance to fix what they hate about themselves. Nobody gets killed.” He glanced at me. “They just quit the team or switch schools or find new friends or get grounded, and they try to change. Nobody dies. Nothing is taken away forever.”

  Tears welled in my eyes, and I felt like the biggest loser idiot in the world. I thought about that day with Tilly and the eggs. The first time I’d noticed Preston. They didn’t know what they were doing. Just a prank. Just some eggs. No harm, no foul, except that the kid they did it to was in more pain than any human being I’d ever known. The world had taken a shit on him, and the clouds just kept gathering, raining and raining in a torrential downpour of crap. I fought back my tears, feeling the warmth of rage course through me. “You can’t do that to yourself, Preston. It’s not your fault.”