How Evan Broke His Head and Other Secrets (19 page)

“No, Grandpa, ” Evan smiled.“Nothing.”

“Come, Evie, there must be something. When I die, I want to leave you something. What will it be?”

Evan looked at him and felt so horribly sad that he felt ill. His face must have registered powerfully, for his grandfather didn’t wait for an answer.

“That wasn’t a very good question, was it, Evie?” he said quickly. “Let’s pretend I didn’t ask it.”

That was on a Monday. The following Monday, Evan let himself into the apartment with his key. He found his grandfather lying on the carpet next to the coffee table. He was dead. Around his head was a dark, circular stain.

Evan was overcome. He didn’t know what to do. He called 911. Then he called his father.

“You didn’t call emergency, did you?” Carl asked.

“Yes.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Evan didn’t know why. He thought that was what he was supposed to do.

“I’ll be right there. Don’t let them in if they get there first.”

Thankfully, Carl arrived before the ambulance. He immediately started in with the questions. When did you find him? When was the last time you spoke with him? Did you move the body? So many questions.

“It was an accident, ” Carl then announced to Evan.“He fell and hit his head. A terrible accident.”

The intercom buzzed. Carl let the medics in. Then he took Evan by the arm and led him into Grandpa’s room. He shut the door on Evan.

Evan could hear them through the door. The medics, the police. A lot of talk. Carl telling them that he was a doctor and he had already examined the body. Carl telling the ambulance guys that he would ride with them to the hospital and sign the death certificate. The police not really caring, going back to work. Evan could hear them hoist the body onto a gurney, take it outside, and then the door closing and everyone was gone.

Everyone.

After a few minutes, Evan realized no one was coming back. He had been left there. His father had forgotten him.

He waited for an hour before he went outside to catch a bus. An hour after that, he got home. When he walked in the house, he found his mother and father and Charlie together in the kitchen, crying. His mother looked up with tears in her eyes and said, “Grandpa is dead, ” and Evan could do nothing but stare at them blankly. He couldn’t join them. He couldn’t cry with them. He wasn’t a part of them, he wasn’t one of their group. He retreated to his room to play his guitar, as he had planned to do that afternoon, for his grandfather.

Evan never knew what happened. He wondered if his father ever remembered how he had forgotten Evan that afternoon. He didn’t even know if his father remembered who had found Grandpa. His father never said a word about it. Neither did Evan.

“WHAT ARE YOU doing?” Dean asks.

“Setting up the bed, ” Evan replies. And, indeed, that is what he’s doing. He’s in the study, the office, whatever you might call it, unfolding a sofa bed, tucking sheets around a three-inch-thick foam mattress.

“Why?”

“So I can sleep. I’m tired.”

Evan knows that’s a false answer. It’s true, but it doesn’t answer the real question, which is, why are you sleeping in here and not in Tracy’s room? And that answer is a bit too complicated to tackle at this time. It’s probably something like, because he’s afraid of Tracy’s ghost, he’s afraid of Dean, and he’s afraid of himself. In a den on a sofa bed, at least he can concentrate his energy on his own discomfort and thereby avoid becoming overwhelmed by other things.

“You can sleep in her room.”

“Thanks, Dean, that’s a generous offer, but—”

“I’ll help you change the sheets.”

Dean turns and walks away from Evan, stops at the linen closet to pick up clean sheets, and then heads off toward Tracy’s room. Evan follows him; they make the bed together.

“Thanks, Dean, ” Evan says when they’ve finished, but Dean doesn’t make a move to leave. He lingers by the bed.

“You want to watch some TV with me?” Evan asks.

Dean shrugs a yes. Evan turns on the TV and the two of them slip off their shoes and sit back on Tracy’s bed. Evan takes control of the remote and puts on MTV for some mindless programming, then they watch
Iron Chef
, then Letterman. Sleep sneaks up the side of the bed and takes them both by surprise, first one, then the other; they drift off silently; neither stirs all night.

E
VAN THROWS TOGETHER a little barbecue dinner for two. A grilled, marinated chicken recipe he picked up from his buddy, Emeril, who has a TV show and often talks about how to cook dead things. They sit on the back patio and eat off of paper plates because eating off of paper is cool; they drink out of glasses, however because beverages taste better out of a glass.

“Can I go out?” Dean asks as they clean up.

“Did your mom let you go out on weeknights?”

“There’s no school tomorrow.”

“So that’s the criterion?” Evan asks.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Be back before dark?”

“Mom always said I had to be back by nine-thirty.”

“Okay, ” Evan says. “I’ll believe you. Where are you going?”

“To play street hockey.”

“Street hockey? That’s a little rough, isn’t it? You’re injured.”

“It’s not rough. Plus, I feel all right.”

“Let me see the bruises, ” Evan says.

Dean pulls down his jeans and displays the bruise on this hip. Not that bad. He lifts his shirt and reveals the larger bruise on his lower back.

“That doesn’t look good.”

“It looks bad, but it doesn’t hurt, ” Dean says, sensing Evan’s reluctance. “Matthew’s dad puts up cones. We wear helmets. It’s really safe.”

“Well . . . I guess. Can I come and watch?”

Dean doesn’t answer. What kind of question is that, anyway?
Can I come watch?
A bit dorky. Surely the answer will be no.

“I don’t care, ”Dean shrugs and leaves the room; Evan continues cleaning up. Dean reappears two minutes later holding his stick, pads, and skates.

“I don’t want to be late.”

“I’m ready, ” Evan says, surprised, quickly drying his hands.“I’m ready.”

AT THE BOTTOM of the cul-de-sac are fifteen or twenty kids on Rollerblades. They’re carrying hockey sticks and wearing helmets. Half of them are wearing orange vests, like soccer kids wear. There is a man on Rollerblades, too. This must be Matthew’s father. He wears a whistle around his neck.

The street is blocked off by orange cones, as Dean had said. Two portable nets are set out. White lines indicating the playing area are painted on the street, as is a center line and two off-sides lines. No doubt the paint job is courtesy of Matthew’s father, who seems to take his officiating rather seriously. Dean slips on an orange vest and takes his place on the sidelines, waiting to be rotated in.

Evan leans against one of the cars parked adjacent to the hockey field. Most of the cars have been moved away, probably to avoid being smashed by a flying kid with a stick. And they
are
flying, these kids. Spinning and weaving, firing an orange ball among them. It’s a fast game. When a ball shoots out of bounds into the low ivy that surrounds the cul-de-sac, Matthew’s dad simply dips into a bag he wears around his neck that holds an apparently endless supply of new balls. No time to search for the errant ball. We’ll gather them up later.

And Dean is in. He is one of the smaller boys, some of them being older, sixteen, maybe, much more muscular, football players, probably, but made to look Neanderthal by Dean, so agile and quick as he darts around them like a little bug, flicking the ball this way and that, the unselfish guy, flick, flick, flick, it’s off his stick and—

Goal! Goal! Goal!

Dean has scored. Fresh into the game, and he’s changed the entire complexion of it.

He does a dance. His comrades beat on him. High fives. High tens. Hugs. Jumping.

“Good to have you back, Smith, ” Matthew’s dad bellows across the pavement, smiling, his deep voice booming off the houses that encircle them, the dark houses, residents obviously knowing of the daily, weekly, or monthly game and clearing the heck out of there, diving into the local Red Lobster for the nine-ninety-five all-you-can-eat special on batter-fried-prawns, hoping against hope that there is no overtime.

Ssshhhheeeeeee!

The shrill squeal of a whistle and the attention is back at center ice.

“Rotate!”

One boy from each team reluctantly skates to the sideline, replaced by someone new and energetic. What a system. Matthew’s father runs it all. Rules, a judge, painted lines, a rotation system— what’s that?—Evan realizes that Matthew’s dad has a stopwatch. Brilliant. He’s timing the rotations. Maybe on a goal they automatically rotate. Who knows? Dean is still in.

Swish, swish, flick, flick. The ball skirts along, hits a rock and bounces up a bit, a foot off the pavement; the big guy, the one on the other team wearing a New York Rangers jersey, takes a swipe at it. Why not?
Swack!
Misses the ball and catches nothing but shin. Dean’s shin.

Dean crumples to the ground. Evan moves toward him, but holds back. Dean’s big enough to take care of himself. He clutches his leg. The other boys stay away, skating in circles. Matthew’s father skates to Dean and examines his shin.

“Shake it off, Smith, ” Matthew’s father commands.“Shake it off. No blood, no pain. You want out?”

“High sticking, ” Dean blurts out through his gritted teeth.

“I saw it, Smith. Not intentional. No penalty. You want out?”

“No, ” Dean responds loud and clear.

“Shake it off, then. The clock doesn’t stop for injuries.”

Dean shakes it off and keeps skating. They play on.

A few moments of affected limp, and then Dean is at full speed, calling for the ball. Swish, swish, flick, smack—

JUST WIDE!!!

Good shot, though. Good shot. Dean is the man. He is obviously the talent. It makes Evan so happy to watch him. How clever he is skating through the other boys, dodging, head-faking. Feint, feint, spin move, he sends the ball to another boy, wide open,
swack
—

Misses completely. Whiffle Ball City.

Matthew’s father wings around, skates up beside Dean and grabs him affectionately around the neck.

Ssshhhheeeeeee!

“ROTATE!” Matthew’s father bellows, releasing Dean and preparing for a face-off.

Dean is still in. He’s a ball magnet. The other kids look for him. They send it to him. Everyone wants the ball on Dean’s stick. He directs. He motions. He’s setting something up. Off he goes, up the left sideline.

Whack!

The big kid—the Rangers kid, the one who nearly broke Dean’s shin—whacks at the ball and catches Dean’s skate. Dean flies forward, face first, and lands hard, skinning his forearm on the asphalt. This time there’s blood. Road rash.

Matthew’s father skates over.

“Tripping, ” Dean complains.

“He was going for the ball, ” Matthew’s dad says.

“He did it on purpose. Tripping.”

“I didn’t see it that way, Smith. You want out?”

“No.”

“Take a breather, Smith. Settle down. You just got back, you’re getting tired. Rotate out, Smith.”

“No.”

Ssshhhheeeeeee!

Another face-off. This time Ranger wins the battle. He has the ball. Dean skates over to him. Bumps him. Ranger bumps back. They skate up the sideline, jostling. But Ranger is much bigger. He’s shoving Dean around. Dean is quicker and dodges for the ball. There’s confusion. Who has control? An elbow. Dean is caught in the mouth. He hesitates momentarily, feeling his bloodied lip, then wheels around, his stick at shoulder height, and slashes at Ranger, cracking down on Ranger’s forearms with such force Ranger screams horribly and falls. Dean stands over him.

“Don’t fuck with me, Matthew!” Dean yells. “Don’t fuck with me! Quit with the cheap shots, Matthew! I’ll take you out!”

Matthew’s father is there in a second, shoving Dean out of the way. He attends to his son. (His son!)

“You’re out, Smith!” Matthew’s father shouts. “You’re out. Misconduct! Ejection and two-game suspension. Think about that, Smith. You’re better than that.”

“He tripped me, ” Dean says in his defense.

“He was going for the ball, Smith. Game misconduct. You’re outta here.”

Evan can’t take it any more. He rushes the playing field.

“I saw the whole thing, ” Evan yells.“Your son tripped my son because he scored.”

Silence hits the cul-de-sac like a tornado, swift and sudden. All faces turn, small faces tucked into hard plastic shells; smooth, round faces with dark circles under their eyes, the first signs of sleep deprivation and sugar addiction showing. Evan realizes that they’ve been expecting him.

“You’re Dean’s father?” Matthew’s father asks, rising. He is the first to regain his composure. He voices the question they all want answered. He is the Lord of the Flies. He puts the pig’s head on the stick.

“Yes, ” Evan confirms.

There is no response. Evan is not sure where this is going. He turns to see Dean, his equipment in hand, slowly skating off. Evan starts after him.

“Hey, ” Matthew’s father barks, leaving his son, Matthew, writhing on the street, still in agony. He follows Evan.“Hey.”

Evan doesn’t stop.

“Hey, ” Matthew’s father says again, skating up to and catching Evan, laying a thick hand on Evan’s shoulder.“You probably know Dean better than I do, but he doesn’t play like that.”

He waits for a response from Evan. None is forthcoming.

“He’s the best kid out here. He’s too good to take cheap shots like that.”

“Your son took a cheap shot first, ” Evan complains.

“Look, if he gets his wrist broken because he’s an asshole, that only hurts
him
. He’s quarterback of JV. He should be more careful than that. I’ll deal with him later.”

Evan, settles down a bit, turns away.

“Hey.”

Evan looks back.

“I’m sorry about your . . .”

His what? Wife? Ex-wife? Girlfriend? What? Evan nods.

“But this is a place for everyone to have fun. You tell Dean that if he wants to appeal the suspension, he can come to me. I’ll listen to him. But Dean doesn’t play like that. I don’t allow that.”

Evan nods and walks away.

“Nice to meet you, ” Matthew’s father calls out. “My name is Brian.”

Evan turns.“Evan.”

“Nice to meet you, Evan. I wish we could have met under better circumstances.”

They look at each other, Evan and Brian, for a moment, as fathers look at each other, imagining themselves in each other’s shoes, wondering what it would be like to be father to a different child. Or are children all the same? Just different names and hair colors and sizes, but all the same on the inside, nascent souls fighting against the terms of their confinement: a lifetime imprisoned in a fleshy container.

“I have to get back to the game, ” Brian says.

“I hope your son is all right, ” Evan offers.

“I hope
your
son is all right, ” Brian says.

Ssshhhheeeeeee!

The whistle blows. The game is on.

EVAN WALKS QUICKLY, hoping to overtake Dean, but he’s too far ahead and Evan can’t see him.

He feels something like a father now, having stood up for Dean in a pinch. Having experienced irrational defensiveness, he thinks that must be what separates real parents from pretend parents: the ability to set aside reason in order to protect your kin. Something with which he has had prior experience, having run in front of a car to protect his brother, though his brother was in no imminent danger at the time. Still, he responded in a visceral way to the possibility of Charlie getting hurt and acted by throwing himself in front of the bullet. In this hockey incident, too, the danger wasn’t imminent, but if it had been, Evan would have been there for Dean.

He sees him up the block, skating slowly—more slowly than he needs to. Evan picks up his pace and catches up to him.

“Wait up.”

“Why, so you can yell at me?”

Evan doesn’t take the bait; they continue along in silence. Dusk is creeping into the neighborhood, the trees are dark.

“So, start yelling, ” Dean says after a block or so.

“Why do you want me to yell at you?”

“I don’t
want
you to yell at me.”

“So?”

“So, ” Dean says, considering. “You’re
supposed
to yell at me. You’re a father now. Fathers yell.”

“Ah. Well, I’m not very good at it, apparently. Maybe I should get some Oprah tapes. Study up.”

Dean cracks a smile.

“I don’t get it, ” he says.“Did you read a book on how to come to terms with the child you abandoned at birth or some thing?”

“No.”

“No, you’re not a reader. An audio book.”

“No.”

“No. That would take too long. You read an article in
Newsweek
, one of the little sidebar things that’s in the gray box?”

“No.”

“Saw it on
20/20
?”

“No.”

“I give.”

“I just don’t feel like yelling at you, ” Evan says.

“You’re going to yell later?”

“I’m not going to yell at all, Dean. You didn’t do anything that deserves yelling.”

“But I slashed Matthew. I did it on purpose.”

“He took two or three shots at you first.”

“But I shouldn’t have retaliated. I should have turned the other cheek.”

“Sometimes you run out of cheeks to turn, Dean. I understand that.”

“But I lost.”

“You lost because you’re still a kid, Dean. For some reason you think that because Matthew’s father saw it all and knew what was going on he was going to be fair. But the fact is, you slashed his kid. He’s not going to be fair. He told me his kid deserved it. He said that to my face. But it’s his kid. You can’t fight that kind of power structure. You shouldn’t fight it. You’ll lose every time.”

“So you
are
yelling at me.”

“I’m not yelling. I’m just pointing out that things aren’t always fair, and things are often loaded up in someone else’s favor, and when that happens, you have to decide how you’re going to handle it. I mean, what did you get? You got beat up and suspended for two games. Do you think Matthew got suspended? No. So you lost.”

“My mom didn’t lose, ” Dean says quickly.

Evan is taken off guard. So confident he was with his sociological assessment that he is nonplussed.

“I don’t know . . .” he stumbles.

“When she worked for the union, she fought and won, ” Dean challenges, sensing Evan’s confusion, pushing on.