Red Baker (8 page)

Ace was down the other end of the court, putting up soft five-foot jumpers with his left hand and making them one after another. He was getting good with his left. Almost like it was natural for him. Focus on that. Get ahold of that.

I called out to him and threw my soaked sheepskin jacket over the parallel bars, the pocket with the pills in it safely buttoned up.

But what if he reached in there for something?

What if he could tell?

Don’t get crazy. Don’t get paranoid. Keep it together.

“Hey, Dad,” Ace said smiling. “What chu say?” He dribbled up the floor toward me, let the ball bounce easy and natural through his legs. Something I could never do.

“Hey, kid,” I said. “How’s it going?”

I moved toward him but tripped over my own feet, and he caught me as I was going down to the floor and held me up.

“Hey, Dad, you all right?”

“I haven’t been drinking, don’t worry,” I said, suddenly snapping at him and wishing to God I hadn’t.

“Hey, I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, well let’s just play some ball. That’s what I’m here for.”

My tone was harsh again, and I called for the ball and he gave it to me. Just shoot a few, get it down a few times and push Billy Bramdowski out of your mind. Fucking Billy Bramdowski. Shy, friendly guy, sitting in the Paradise talking about his new baby. Worried how he was going to pay for it all. Fucking pussy.

I shot the ball up and missed the whole goddamned thing. Pure airball. Then I ran in and got a rebound and dribbled to my left and shot it up again from the baseline, but it banged off the rim.

“Shit!”

“Hey, Dad,” Ace said, retrieving it and putting it in softly, “take it easy.”

“Yeah, take it easy. Who are you, Dr. Kildaire?”

He looked hurt now, and I wanted to go over and put my arm around him and tell him I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but I still felt this wild pain shooting through me, and I didn’t know what that was either, all the pill or Billy or Porter rubbing his skinny-fat stomach, and why didn’t Billy put a bullet through
his
brains?

“Let’s get a game up,” I said as other kids drifted in. “Need a little competition.”

“Hey, Mr. Baker,” Rodney Hall said. He was a black kid on the varsity, built like a medium-weight prizefighter and the best ball handler in the school. He could float or sting you with his outside jumper, and at six foot five he could stuff the ball. He and Ace made the team go. I watched him glide to the basket and knew that I never had moves like that.

I was all muscle and banging on the boards and head fakes so I could get my jumper off. White-boy ball. But it worked. I could still score, and suddenly, now, it seemed important, more important than anything else, than Billy Bramdowski with his brains on the toolshed wall or me ever getting a fucking job, just let me score and score and score again, and let us move up and down the floor, running it, throwing it up, hitting the boards … and then we were out there, and Ace was bringing the ball up against Rodney, who let him fake going around him and then reached in behind and tapped the ball down low to Joe Louve, a tall kid nicknamed Cool Ray, and Cool flipped it downcourt to Rodney, who slammed it down in the basket, and I didn’t want to say anything, it wasn’t right, don’t let it come out, but there it was anyway. “Hey, Ace, look for the pass. This isn’t a one-man show.” And Ace nodded and brought the ball up again, and this time I set a pick for him, and Rodney ran into it and let out a groan as he hit me, and my man, a big black-haired kid named Niles, went for Ace, and I stepped inside with a clear route for the give-and-go to the basket, but Ace tried forcing up the shot, and when it missed they cleared it and got another cheap dunk down court, and then I was screaming at him, “Hey, what is this, Superman time or what? This is a team game. You got to pass. I put a few baskets in too, you know.” Ace looked at me and shook his head, and I was sweating now, pouring off of me, and I got the ball on the inbounds and took it clean down the other end of the court and put my head down and went to the basket, and I made a blind side pass to Bobby Mason, who took it and gave a pump fake and then dumped the ball clean in. And I made a big deal out of slapping his hand and looking at Ace like he could learn a thing or two from Bobby, pure bullshit, which we both knew because Ace could take Bobby downtown anytime he wanted and passed better as well.

I don’t know why I did it now, as I didn’t then. I wanted to show him, to push his face in it, and it wasn’t about basketball. Of course, I know that. It was about Billy Bramdowski and eating shit week after week and getting fucking old and Wanda and Crystal, and him floating out there, up, up and putting the ball down soft through the hoop, and even Rodney saying, “Oh yeah, atta way Ace babe, we gonna kill Poly this week, you know that, baby.”

We got the ball again, and I made a dumb pass to Ace, who watched as Rodney stole it, went down, faked twice, and passed the ball off to Tony, who popped it home, and I started screaming at Ace then right there in the gleaming green tiles, and my voice going higher and higher—what if he looked inside my coat?—saying, “You got to come out and meet those passes,” and Ace saying, “Jesus Christ, if you weren’t so goddamned drunk … you’d be able to play,” and me wanting to go at him then, not knowing what I wanted to do, break his nose (my son) or hug him and have him hold me, but just keep playing, keep playing, and when a young kid beats you, maybe hook him with your foot to show him that it’s not fair, see it’s not ever going to be fair, so why here, mutherfucker, why here?

“Mr. Baker, take it easy.”

“Hey, come on, Mr. Baker, you’re holding on to me.”

And then Ace going up for a turnaround, missing it, grabbing the ‘bound, and going inside with a reverse left-handed lay-up, and me screaming that he didn’t pass to me, even though he made the shot.

“Dad, for God’s sake, we’re just having fun.”

“Fun? You want to be a champion, you gotta take the game serious.”

Talking like that. Talking shit I knew was garbage. Talking to keep from seeing Billy in the toolshed. Jesus, holding the smoking gun in his raw red hands.

“Well, maybe I don’t want to be a goddamned champion, Dad. Maybe I just don’t care about that!”

And then I turned and looked at Rodney Hall and Bobby Mason, and they were staring at the floor, and Ace looked as though he was going to cry or, worse, go for me, and I turned and walked toward the parallel bars and grabbed my coat, and it felt red-hot, like a bar of steel up on the twenty table.

If he looked in my pockets. If he knew. Blazek might tell him. If he did, I’d kill him. Break his head. Take
him
in the toolshed.

“Dad, are you all right?”

“Yeah, look, I’m sorry … I’m sorry as hell. I’m acting like an asshole. You go ahead and play.”

“Dad … is it anything I can—”

“No. You just play, kid. You’re doing great. Hey, see you later.”

“Later, Mr. Baker.”

“Bye, Rodney. See you, Bobby. Gotta get home. Let you kids play. Yeah, see you later.”

I walked out the long hallway. Here in this tiled building I scored thirty-four points once. Here in this crowd Wanda and Doggie and Carol and maybe Billy Bramdowski cheered my shots. Back then, when you woke up and put on your uniform and there it was. The touch.

• • •

By the time I got home I was soaked in sweat. Felt my jaw ache as I ground my teeth together. I chain-smoked cigarettes, stopped in Slap’s and had two quick Wild Turkeys, standing at the bar. Everyone in the place was saying the same words over and over. “Billy Bramdowski. Four kids. Jennie’s going crazy. Billy Bramdowski.” I walked out of there and looked down at the harbor where they were building the new condos. Nice, smooth, poured concrete for nice, smooth lawyers with their hanging plants and sailboats. I kicked through the snow and saw a wire trash can with “Balmere Is Best” on it and picked it up and threw it with all my might down the snowy hill toward the docks. It bounced twice, slammed into a parked BMW, and then rolled on until it came to rest by a huge, impassable hill of snow.

Suddenly, even though the pill was still working in me, sending the electricity through my arms, legs, face, I felt wiped out. Dead, gone. I made it up to the house, fumbled with my keys, and then pushed the door open, and after throwing my coat toward the hanging peg and missing it, I fell on the sofa, facedown. The images flashed on in my brain, Billy and Vinnie and Ruby. No-Nose kicking in the trashy snow. Maybe he was there to warn me about Billy, but I hadn’t known the signs, hadn’t listened to what he said.

• • •

I knew this was drugs. This had to be drugs.

I wanted to blot it out, send it away, so I turned on the TV, but it was this new Spanish-speaking station, and in front of me were the Three Stooges speaking idiot babble and bonking each other on the head with lead pipes.

I shut my eyes, let the drug wear off some, felt my face and neck collapse, and fell into a nightmare sleep.

• • •

By the time Wanda shook me awake it was dark outside. There was crust on my eyelids, and my temples felt like someone had squeezed a pair of tongs around them. I looked up through the haze at Wanda, at her orange waitress uniform with cocktail sauce stains all over it, at her blond hair, which was falling down over one bloodshot eye, at the lines in her forehead.

“Red, are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Better than Billy Bramdowski.”

“I heard. Oh God, Red, isn’t it awful? What will Jennie do?”

I shook my head without saying anything, and she suddenly fell into my arms.

“Red, hold me some, will you? I don’t care if you’ve been drinking. I just need you now.”

I held on to her, wanting to comfort her, but she smelled like crabs and her arms felt soft, the flesh hanging loose off of them, and suddenly I couldn’t help but think of Crystal and that white road into the green leaves and the sun.

“How was it today, hon?” she said, nuzzling her head into my shoulder.

“Okay. Nothing yet, but something will turn up.”

She reached up and held my chin with her raw, scratched-up palm.

“You look tired, Red. You’re holding something back. Maybe it would help if you told me.”

“Hey, there’s nothing to tell, except I heard there was a job over at Shaw’s and guess who the employment counselor was?”

She shook her head and rubbed her hand across my cheek.

“Peter Porter,” I said.

“From Patterson?”

“That’s right. He played a little game with me, brought up my record. Knew all about it, and then after he twisted it in for a good long time, he admitted there never was a job. Nice, huh?”

“Oh, Red, I’m sorry. Come here, honey. Let me make you feel better.”

She reached down for my fly, and I jerked back as if I was bitten by a snake. I didn’t want to do that. I’d fucked up badly enough for one day.

“Hey,” I said, trying to make a joke out of it, “what if Ace comes in?”

“He’s over at Spencer’s house. He’s having dinner there. He won’t be home until later. They’re studying for a test together.”

“But, Wanda, I’m beat, I mean …”

“Red, I need you. I really do.”

She fell into my lap then, putting her head on my knees, and I stroked the soft hair on the back of her neck, small golden curls of hair, which made me think of her like I did when we were kids, sweet and helpless and innocent, and suddenly I felt this old rush of affection for her.

“My girl,” I said softly. “My lovely girl.” She clung to me as I rubbed my hand down her back, and she started to sigh, “That feels so good, Red, so good. I thought of you today, hon. You know that I thought of you all day today.”

“You did?” I said, holding her as the television flickered weird lights across the room and somebody sang about Pimlico being Balmere’s best racetrack.

“I did, Red,” she said. “I was on a break, and I thought about how you and I were in the booth of that restaurant out in the country, what was the name of it, where your supervisor Norman took us?”

“The Horse’s Head Inn?” I said, and I knew the whole story and held her closer.

“Remember when we just sat there and Norman was talking about the plant … and I just looked at you and I felt myself getting so excited and you put your foot up under the table and touched my thigh … Do you remember that, Red?”

She was starting to breathe heavier now, and I felt icy, filled with dread.

“Do you remember what you used to say about my thighs, Red? How they felt? How they were hard and soft at the same time? Do you think they’re still pretty, Red?”

She took my hand and put it under her dress, and I shut my eyes and felt like I was in the trash barrel, spinning down the street, smashing into the wheels of flashy cars. Billy Bramdowski in there with me, blood pouring from his eyes …

“Sure,” I said, “I remember that.”

“But am I still pretty, Red …?”

“You know you are, Wanda,” I said. “You know you are.”

She sat up next to me, then rubbed her hand on my cock, and I thought of Crystal as much as I could, thought of her bending over, and I began to get hard.

“You still like me, Red?”

“Yes, Wanda,” I said.

“Red, oh Red … is it going to be all right?”

“It
is
all right …”

“Red, take me upstairs. Right now.”

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stand to see her breasts sagging and the way her stomach looked.

“Wanda,” I said. “I feel …”

But she was gone now, rubbing me, moaning. “Red. Please … come on, baby … Red … “

I held my breath and thought of Crystal, and of Wanda in bed, her clothes off, wanting it to be romantic, and I said, “I want to make love to you right here, Wanda, right here …”

And I reached under her dress and put my finger on the inside of her pants and shut my eyes and thought of Crystal and kept thinking of her when Wanda unzipped my pants, and then we were sitting on the couch, and she was down on the floor in front of me, taking my cock in her mouth, and I felt embarrassed, I don’t know why, just embarrassed, like I was too old for this kind of shit with my wife, and my cock just wouldn’t get hard, and I brought her up to me, and she sat on my lap, and I thought of Crystal, and then finally it got hard enough to go inside of her, and she began to rock back and forth, holding on to me, and I could feel the tenderness in her and how much she really did love me. I could feel it, and I knew she had worked all day down there for me, and she smelled like fish, crabmeat, and it made me sick, but she had done it for me and Ace. This is your wife, Wanda, and you have to keep thinking of Crystal to keep it up and not Billy and his kid in the backyard, no, no way … And then she threw her head back and came and held her hands around my neck and put her head on my shoulder and said, “Red, you know I love you. We’ll get through this together. We will, thank you, Red.”