Segal, Jerry

by One On One (V1. 0) [Lit]

And so, in that year of 1970, the loving, reflective Eunice began her steady descent into sullen shrewishness. Her mien turned tense, wary, nervous; the soft voice hardened into either studied flatness or an angry whine. Slowly, undeniably, Eunice became Mrs. Bad around the house and, as she curdled, Jerome became Mr. Good.

  Jerome continued to drive Henry without respite, and Eunice angrily saw that the consumed boy had neither time nor energy for school, friends and church. She and Jerome fought constantly. Her vitriol was more obvious than his because she knew her cause was doubly without hope. She knew that if she won over Jerome, she was in danger of losing Henry’s love. Basketball was, by then, the boy’s staff of life. But she loved the child, wanted more than “just” basketball for him. She hated Jerome. She wanted to punish him for stealing her son. For stealing her youth.

  She was only thirty-four. Despite the hard set of her face, she was prettier than she had ever been. She had filled out in all the right places; the thin, doll-like college girl Jerome had wed was now a full-breasted, thin-waisted, head-turning woman. When she walked in public, men looked at her. Sometimes their unspoken askings set her to burning inside. She had—had always had—a huge appetite for fleshly desires. Now she tried to repress them, but everyday she ached for a man, shamed herself with her daydreams about every young buck in Elroy.

  She never fantasized about Jerome, never thought of him anymore as a man, primarily because he never indicated in any way that he thought of her or wanted her body. Eunice honestly felt that the bankruptcy and the later preoccupation with Henry’s basketball had atrophied Jerome’s manhood completely. She assumed that he was totally devoid of sexual desires. She was wrong.

  On the day of the first public basketball game in which twelve-year-old Henry played, Eunice discovered how wrong she was about Jerome.

  It was a Saturday in November, the opening game of the small-fry church league for eleven- to thirteen-year-old boys. The church gym had no grandstands. All twenty-five or so spectators—the families of the children—sat on folding chairs along the sidelines.

  Jerome was so nervous for Henry that Eunice actually felt pity for the man. At home during breakfast he had to use both hands in order to get his coffee cup to his lips without spilling it. Henry, on the other hand, was deadly calm.

  The game started. The children all looked like Charlie Chaplin in their baggy basketball shorts—except for Henry. Jerome had insisted that Eunice tailor his shorts. Henry looked trim, neat, perfectly built, even though he was one of the shortest boys on the court. But he seemed to have a bearing, a proud quality, that singled him out. Maybe it’s the shorts, thought Eunice.

  During the first part of the game, Henry seldom got the ball. When he did, he passed it off, crisply and nicely. After a few minutes, with the score nothing to nothing, the coach of Henry’s team called time out. As the little boys gathered around their coach, Jerome stood up.

  As usual, Henry was watching his daddy, looking for a nod or a smile. Jerome waved for Henry to come over to him. Henry knew it ‘was wrong to leave his coach’s huddle, but never, ever did the child disobey Jerome. Henry came over.

  “Shoot the ball,” Jerome ordered.

  Henry blinked. “Sure, Daddy.” He took a deep breath and added, “The coach said I should pass it.”

  “I said, shoot it. Ever’time you get your hands on it. Hear?” Jerome said.

  “Yes, sir,” Henry whispered.

  The first time the ball was passed to Henry, he did what he had done on his back driveway at least ten thousand times over the past seven years. He faked to his right, dribbled behind his back to his left, jumped up in the air and shot. The ball went through the basket without touching the rim. It was so quickly and brilliantly executed, so remarkable an achievement for a twelve-year-old boy, that at first there was silence; then came applause and shouts. It was the first basket of the game. It was the first basket Henry ever scored in a game. It was the beginning of a sports legend in West Texas.

  Henry scored thirty-six points that day. His team won the game, 39 to 12. Usually, Eunice had been told, small-fry games had maximum scores of less than twenty points a team. No one boy had ever scored over fourteen points in a small-fry game before. Eunice noted the strange, all-knowing look on Jerome’s face when, after Henry’s fifth basket, Henry’s coach ‘began to shout at his team, “Pass it to Henry!” And when they passed it to Henry, the coach shouted, “Shoot, son, shoot! Shoot, Henry!”

  When the game ended, the coach and almost everyone else ran out on the court. The prodigious Henry was carried on jubilant shoulders over to Jerome and Eunice. Congratulations were showered upon them. Eunice was forced to admit to herself that she liked what was happening.

  The family celebrated. They walked to the Elroy Cafe and ordered pecan pie, ice cream and milk. Word spread fast in Elroy, and it was as if the Steeles were holding court. Whoever came into the cafe approached them and said nice things. During all this, Henry’s face was blank, but his eyes grew bigger and bluer than ever, and a new fire, a fierce and victorious glint, that Eunice had never seen in them before burned happily. Jerome’s joy was feverish. Whenever someone said, “I heard young Henry here really tore ‘em up today,” Jerome babbled, “Yes, sir, young Henry here really tore ’em up! Really tore ‘em up!”

  Eunice felt good. Lord knew, the Jerome Steeles had had little enough to celebrate the past twelve years, and now here they were, center stage, with their neighbors showering compliments. Oh, she still felt that basketball was just a silly game, and that Henry was leading an unbalanced life. She even knew, subconsciously, that the very success she was enjoying at that moment was going to render her defenseless in future battles with Jerome.

  While she was smiling and saying thank you to all her fellow townspeople, she knew exactly what Jerome would say to her when they got home: “I toldja so, Eunice. Toldja so. All that there work paid off! Now maybe you-all’ll get off me n‘ Henry’s back.”

  It was dark when they reached home. Henry went right to bed, exhausted. When Eunice tucked him in and kissed him goodnight, it was if he could read the confusion in her mind. He hugged her neck a little tighter and longer than usual, as if to say, “Please, Ma. I love you. But I’m on Daddy’s side.”

  She turned off the lights in Henry’s room, shut the door and went into the living room. It was empty. She went into her bedroom. He was there, sitting on the bed, looking directly at her in a way he had not looked at her for almost thirteen years.

  Her body responded immediately. She felt a hot cloud of excitement explode in her. The cloud spread to her legs, her fingers, tingling her skin, drying her lips. Gooseflesh covered her arms, made her shiver at what was about to happen. In a moment she would be surrounded and taken. Startled, she realized that somewhere, hidden deep, her love for him still lingered.

  She barely managed to say, “J’rome?”

  “Eunice,” he said, “I wantcha to be my wife again.”

  She did not trust herself to speak for fear she would cry and deflate his desire. When she did not answer, he assumed she was saying no to him.

  His voice was husky. “All these years. I—I’m sorry. But I wasn’t—I wasn’t worthy of you, Eunice. I didn’t deserve to have you. After what I did, losin‘ ever’thing. But, God, I wanted you! Ever’ minute. You follow what I’m sayin‘? Y’know how ashamed I was? How much I hated myself? How could I ask you to love me, if I hated myself?”

  Her back was to him. She unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.

  “When I went under,” he continued, “I started to kill myself. Y’know why I didn’t kill myself, Eunice?”

  She unbuttoned the second button of her blouse. The fire inside her was roaring; she was at the point of suffocation. She imagined his rough hands on her breasts, his strong lips against her own.

  “I needed to be punished. For losin‘ ever’thing. I didn’t kill myself because that would’ve been the easy way. Livin’! That was the worst punishment I could t
hink of. Livin‘! Facin! folks. Folks who knew how ignorant and prideful and foolish I’d been. And doin’ without you, Eunice. That was my punishment for failin‘, for losin’ ever’thing.”

  He was almost choking in his effort not to sob. She could hardly wait to hold him, to comfort bun. But despite her certain surrender, she was determined that he should make the first move. Oh, if he would only touch her! She would do the rest.

  “The night you gave birth,” he said, “that night I wasn’t worthy of bein‘ there. You follow what I’m sayin’? I stayed out of your bedroom because I couldn’t face you, Eunice. Because—I didn’t want my son to see a piece o‘ crud like me his first night on God’s earth.

  The bedspring creaked. She knew he had risen, was standing right behind her. She could feel the warmth of his body. She turned and faced him. Deliberately, she took off her blouse.

  But he continued to talk. “Now that’s all over, though. I’m a man again, Eunice. Because o‘ Henry!”

  Henry!

  Once, as a child, she had seen a dog get hung up in a bitch. Her papa had poured ice water over the dogs and the pair “got unhung pronto,” as Papa Sowers had put it. She felt as if Jerome had just poured ice water over her. She began putting her blouse back on.

  “You want me because of Henry?” she said.

  “Y’know what I mean. I’ve got my self-respect back, Eunice. I’ve been successful with my son.”

  Thirteen years of fighting had done terrible things to her. This man had stolen her son. She wanted to hurt him.

  “All right,” she said, “I’ll be your wife again. On one condition.”

  He knew what the condition was, but he whispered anyway, “What?”

  “My boy,” she shouted. “I want my boy back! I want him to have friends. And study his schoolbooks. And go to church. AND NOT PLAY SO GOD-DAMNED MUCH BASKETBALL! I want my boy to be normal. He’s only twelve, J’rome! God damn you! I want my boy back!”

  She thought he was going to kill her. Really kill her. His bulging eyes went past her for a second, and she knew what he was looking at. He was looking through the doorway, into the livingroom, at the wall over the mantel. A 30-30 Winchester was mounted there.

  He killed her in another way. His teeth gnashing, the veins in his neck standing out, he roared, “Not ever, you dumb bitch! He’s mine. He’s my only reason for livin‘. Not ever! Henry ain’t makin’ the same mistakes in life I made. When my chance come, I wasn’t ready. I was ignorant. I wasn’t sharp. So they was able to come up behind me and whup me. Well, Henry’s gonna be ready! YOU HEAR! He ain’t gonna be like me! He’s gonna work hard! God’s given him a gift! I’m gonna see to it he uses that there gift to get to the top! And when he gets there, by Jesus, he’s gonna stay there! YOU HEAR ME! You get in my way, and I’ll—!”

  He did not finish. There was no need. She knew what he would certainly do to her and to himself if she got in his way.

  He stormed out of her bedroom and never came back again.

  ==========

  The next afternoon Henry came home from school and went straight outside to practice basketball in the driveway. From three to six-thirty. Like a machine, a robot. Fake. Dribble. Jump. Shoot. Swish! Fetch the ball. And do it again. And again. She watched him through the window as she prepared dinner.

  Some children were playing tag across the street in the park, shouting and laughing, unaware of Henry’s existence. Through the kitchen window, Eunice saw Henry stop practicing for a moment and stand there, watching the children in the park. He smiled a little as they ran and laughed and enjoyed each other. A quick shadow clouded the boy’s face, a hungry, envious look. A lonely look. Then it was gone. Henry’s face went blank.

  Eunice knew she was right and Jerome was wrong. But when Henry whirled and, like an automaton, returned to his basketball practice, she knew also that no matter how right she was, it was too late. The war was over. She had lost.

  Jerome came home at six-thirty. He ignored her.

  Just as the sun was about to set, Eunice called through the window, “Henry, come on in the house now, darlin‘. It’s gettin’ late.”

  She saw Henry relax in the middle of a dribble, take a step toward the house.

  “Eunice! The ‘boy is practicin’!”

  Jerome rushed past her and snapped on the spotlight he had hung outside so that Henry could practice at night. He stepped out the back door.

  “Son!” he barked. “You jus’ keep right on. You’re doin‘ fine, Henry!”

  Henry stood at attention, smiled back. The night light turned the yard, turned Eunice’s entire world, into an eerie, sickly yellow.

  Henry faked, dribbled, shot. The ball went in. Jerome gave a deep laugh and came back into the house. He swept through the kitchen without looking at Eunice, went into the living room and turned on the tv. She heard Walter Cronkite. From outside on the driveway, she heard the hollow thump-thurnp-thump of the basketball, the squeaking and scraping of Henry’s sneakers. She felt as if she were going mad.

  * * *

  III

  The game had been over for an hour, and the gymnasium was now dark and quiet. The parking lot and nearby streets were bare; the cars and pickups that had gathered from a radius of a hundred miles had dispersed in noisy, bumper-to-bumper confusion. Their heat radiated quickly skyward, leaving the March night cool and empty.

  Tonight had been a special night. Tonight had been Henry Steele’s last home game as an Elroy High School basketball player. Only the state championship tournament in Austin, nearly three hundred miles away, lay ahead, then his high-school career, the most brilliant in Texas schoolboy basketball history, would be over. And it seemed unlikely that Elroy would ever again spawn a champion of Henry’s stature, one who would move West Texans to shake buildings with their roars.

  Henry and Chris emerged from a dimly lit back door of the gym and walked through the darkness of the parking lot toward the park across the street. Beyond the small park was Henry’s house; two doors beyond was Chris’ house. Henry wore his green-and white Elroy High School letterman’s jacket. An army of patches adorned the sleeves and chest of the garment. The patches proclaimed Henry to have been All-District three times, All-State three times, a member of the district championship team three times, a member of the state championship team twice, captain of his team three years, the Most Valuable Player in the state champion-ship tournament two years—and, finally, in proud purple letters on an iridescent gold background, High School Ail-American, 1975.

  “What a game, Henry!” Chris said. “You went out like a lion. Congratulations, man!”

  “Thanks.” Henry’s voice was boyish, but surprisingly deep.

  “No, I really mean it! Wow, that one lay-up! You hung in the air for an hour and put the ball behind your back eighty-four times on the way up!”

  Henry laughed. Chris’ hyperbole was a fact of life in Elroy.

  They walked a few steps in silence, each boy retreating into his thoughts.

  “Henry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry I popped my cork the other night.”

  “Hey, it’s okay.” Henry smiled at his friend. With Chris he was relaxed, a normal young man who smiled and laughed frequently. With others, his sober demeanor was as much a part of him as his letter jacket.

  “No, I really mean it! It wasn’t your fault. There’s no excuse for an infantile tantrum like I threw. It’s just that, hell, I found myself trapped in an untenable Kafkaesque dilemma. And like an equine’s posterior, I took it out on my amigo numero uno.”

  Henry laughed. Christopher Blair’s verbosity was also a notorious fact of life in Elroy, a community whose natives spoke with monosyllabic economy.

  “Now what the crud does a… uh… Kafkaesque whatever-you-said mean?” he asked.

  “It means that forces over which I have no control are ruinin‘ my life, man.”

  “Oh.”

  ==========

  Chris’ “infantile t
antrum” had occurred two weeks earlier.

  That night Henry had phoned Chris around nine o’clock, as soon as he arrived home from his after-dinner basketball practice at the gym.

  “Hey, Chrissie, how’ya doin‘?”

  “I’ll get my algebra book and be right there, amigo numero unol”

  Henry laughed. “How’d you know what I wanted, man?”

  In his most sinister Bela Lugosi voice, Chris intoned, “Is not there an algebra test tomorrow, Hendry Shteele?”

  Groucho Marx, W.C. Fields, Dr. Strangelove, Boris Karloff, Mr. Peepers, Donald Duck—Chris’ arsenal was considerable and unpredictable. Because he was a brilliant student, his English teacher had once allowed him to continue reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy as Woody Woodpecker. Another time he had done the first lines of Beowulf in old English as Porky Pig might have delivered them.

  That night, as he had done countless times, Chris came over to prepare his friend for a test. All through junior and senior high school, as Henry’s jock-star had risen, Chris alone had kept him from flunking scholastically.

  Chris was an intuitive genius in anticipating and encapsulating what subject matter Henry should memorize at the last minute, and coupled with his ability to anticipate the test questions was the fact that he spent as much time studying as Henry spent playing basketball. He was the brightest and best student in Elroy High School, and he took devilish pride in what he and Henry called The Christopher Blair Method—the teaching, by rote, of enough facts to enable Henry to pass.

  It helped, of course, that Henry had an adhesive mind. Random facts stuck to his brain as he himself stuck to the man he was guarding on a basketball court. He had no interest whatsoever in what he learned, allowing the material to slip from his mind as soon as he no longer needed it. In fact, Henry was anti-intellectual. He regarded books and data and abstractions as enemies to be overcome only in order, as Chris put it, “to obey the commandment, ‘Thou Shalt Flunknot.’ ”

  To many people, the deep friendship between these two boys was unlikely. Yet the proximity of their houses and Chris’ sensitive, perceptive mind had made him seek out Henry from the time they were in church kindergarten together. As Chris said, “Maybe I made friends with you, Henry, because I’ve always had a proclivity for the unique, and being little Henry Steele’s friend was certainly unique.” And perhaps Henry had been so hungry for a friend that sheer loneliness drove him to accept Chris’ overtures. Whatever the explanation, the truth was that the two boys had immediately liked the qualities they perceived in each other.