story post #2

Ghosts in the Paint

Another morning comes on in a hurry. But I wake up slow, a dry lump where my tongue’s supposed to be. I work it back into shape against the roof of my mouth and swallow hard. Maggie’s in the next room, getting ready for work. I can hear her. Water trickles from the spigot, her toothbrush taps the basin. Outside, the wind’s whipping. I lie in bed, listening as it moves through the trees. I drift back off to sleep.

Maggie walks back in the room, and I come to. She sits on the edge of the bed. I prop myself up on an elbow, rub my eyes clear, yawn.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

“I’m running late. How’d you sleep?”

I look at the clock. It’s ten ’til eight.

“You are late,” I say. I kiss her cheek.

“I’ll see you tonight?”

“Sure.”

“You know you don’t have to.”

“I know. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

I stay in bed until I hear her pull out of the driveway. I listen to the wind some more then go downstairs into the kitchen to get the coffee going. The machine wheezes and coughs up a cloud of steam. I sit at the table and go through the mail. Bills. Solicitations. Coupon packs.

I fry two eggs to go with my coffee, toast an English muffin. After breakfast, I slip on a pair of blue jeans and a flannel shirt. I grab my work gloves from the top tray of the toolbox. I step outside into the wind and light and make my way to the woodpile. I pull out a dozen big logs, set them up on end, and get the splitting maul. I quarter the logs and stack them on the back porch by the door. There’s a rhythm to the work, and my eardrums throb with the rush of blood. My thoughts start to run. I remember Harvey and last night’s dream.

Three years gone, but he still keeps falling.

When I dream him back, he’s standing in the choir loft, just like he did that day—gray plastic chest-plate, tin foil helmet, black press-on beard. He’s supposed to be Goliath. They’ve got him up on boxes. Below the pulpit, stands this kid—not much bigger than me. He spins the leather straps of his slingshot high above his head then lets an invisible stone fly. Just then, over near the kneeling bench, a girl in pigtails strikes a cymbal. Harvey’s head snaps back. He tips over and falls away. Clean out of sight.

That day at church, the crash of the cymbal was sharp and loud. I remember how it hurt my ears. Harvey too; I remember the sound he made—a dull thud as he landed hard, hitting the mats they’d spread out behind him.

When the program was over, my dad stood out in the parking lot, joking with some folks. He said it sounded like God dropped a sack of potatoes straight down from heaven when Harvey hit. We all laughed at that, Harvey included.

But in my dream things are different. When the girl in pigtails strikes the cymbal, I watch it flex and shimmy, but there’s no sound. When Harvey falls backwards and slips out of view, everything’s quiet. It’s like he never quite reaches the bottom. He just keeps falling.

:

I start smelling popcorn. That’s the first thing that happens. Then this guy over at the Booster Club table starts giving me the eye. I hit the jackpot on the fifty-fifty raffle at an away game about a month ago. Ever since, I’ve been a mark. It’s like they think I can’t resist another shot at big money. Only I can. So the joke’s on them.

I fiddle with the five in my hand. I smooth out the wrinkles and wait my turn in line at the ticket window. Barbara Sweeney’s taking money tonight. She’s a math teacher here at the high school. Algebra and Trigonometry. Barbara’s okay. Friendly enough. Quick to smile. Good with the kids. But tonight she looks different. She’s tired; you can see it in her eyes. It’s Friday. She’s been teaching all week.

Barbara’s the only one in the ticket booth. She’s doing her best to fend off a pack of eager kids, but they got her outnumbered five-to-one. They crowd the window, talking over top of one another. They’re smacking their bubble gum, shoving money to Barbara through the gap in the plexi-glass.

The kids bounce off down the hall and head for the gym. Barbara’s left counting ones. She nods her head each time she flips another bill through her fingers. There’s a wad of them. After a while, she quits counting and stuffs them into the cash box.

“Can you break a hundred?” I ask. I say it before she has a chance to look up to see who it is asking. When she does, she’s got this look on her face. We both laugh.

“Business is good,” I say.

“Too good,” she says, wiping a loose strand of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand.

I’m still holding the five in my hand. She looks at it then waves me through.

“She’s in there somewhere,” she says.

“I’ll find her,” I say. “Think June,” I add, as I slip past the window.

The Boosters are pumping the crowd for ones. They’ve got a plastic ice cream tub, “50/50” written on the side in thick, black magic marker. They’re making their pitch to a couple of folks, holding the tub out in front of them with both hands like it’s a newborn baby or something. I avoid eye contact, pretend to look at something way off down the hallway, and shoot right past them. There’s a wash of sound filling the hallway. The echo of dribbling. The squeak of clean rubber gripping hardwood.

Deputy Underwood’s standing by the entrance to the gym. We nod at one another silently when I walk in. He’s watching the crowd, looking solemn, official. Across the way—over in the student section—this kid strips a ball cap off somebody’s head and runs up to the top row of the bleachers. The second kid goes after the first, tackles him, punches him in the ribs, then walks back to his seat with his hat. Underwood hooks his thumbs in his belt and shakes his head.

The cheerleaders are standing by the locker room door. They lean in close as they talk to one another, their faces wide with expression. I take a seat on the front row of the bleachers where I like to sit. You get a better sense of the game down there. You can read the player’s faces, hear them jaw back and forth with one another. You can watch the coaches call plays or listen to them chew ass. It doesn’t really matter who you’re watching—The Knicks or The Knick-Knacks—court side’s the way to go.

The visiting team’s already hit the court to warm-up. They run the tip drill then branch off for lay-ups. Our guys are still in the locker room, doing God-knows-what. Primping, that’d be my guess. They play like shit but make a point of looking their best while they do it. Real heart-throbs, our guys.

Maggie comes in the same way I did. She walks by Underwood. He says something to her. She says something back. They both smile politely. She walks down the sideline with her arms folded. It’s something she does, but it doesn’t mean anything.

The cheerleaders are still bunched up by the locker room door. Maggie gets them separated and lined up the way they’re supposed to be, four on either side of the doorway. There’s a commotion coming from inside. Somebody starts bouncing a ball. The girls go into a little cheer, and Bobby Newman, the team captain, leads the squad out onto the floor. They charge past the cheerleaders. A few parents make some noise behind me, but the clapping is weak and sporadic—like a small engine with a bad plug. No surprise, really. We’re two-and-twelve overall. Last in the district. The games are getting to be a chore for everyone. I would have quit coming a long time ago if it weren’t for Maggie. She’s got to be here. So I come too.

Maggie got hired on to teach English here a few years back. She hadn’t been out of college very long but had worked some in the school system. A few days here and there as a sub, but no real steady work to speak of. Then this thing came along. The answer to our prayers. That’s what we thought, anyhow. But they roped her into coaching the cheerleaders too. A package deal. It was “the tail they tied to the kite.” That’s what the fellow who hired her said. His words exactly.

The girls line up behind the backboard. Maggie scans the crowd. She smiles when she spots me and walks over to where I’m sitting. She smells like cookies. It’s from the coconut cream rinse and vanilla hand lotion she uses.

We talk some. Nothing big. Pleasantries. After a short while, she sees something she doesn’t like—some little fire that needs putting out. She reaches over, grabs my hand, gives a quick squeeze.

“Bye. I love you,” she says and then runs off. But her words come out
rushed—all mashed together and funny-sounding. Bile of you.

Jessica Davis is a senior. She’s co-captain of the cheerleading squad and sings the National Anthem before every home game. She’s a buck-ten soaking wet. But when she opens up on the high notes, it’s like she’s a giant. Etta James in a letter sweater. Unbelievable. This stick-of-a-girl with a voice like that. I’ve heard her sing a bunch this season, but it gets me each time. The way the music just pours out of her, like water from a busted pipe. That kind of force. Usually, it’s the only thing the crowd has to cheer about all night. And they go crazy. I like watching the visiting crowd too, the way they perk up, turn to one another, and nod when she’s finished.

This ain’t my school, but I played here a few times back in the day. I remember the team they had then. Everybody remembers. Back when Boo Dixon was still playing.

I’d gone head to head with Boo ever since rec-league. We were both power forwards, only Boo was the real deal. A baller. No one could touch him, least of all me. The guy was dunking by eighth grade. In high school, he’d pull triple-double’s almost every night. Then they put the three point shot in, mid-way through his junior year, and all hell broke loose. After that, he’d average thirty-plus a night. Scouts and recruiters started packing the stands. Offers came rolling in. Boo’s mamma used to talk about all the college coaches that came to visit. She said they just about wore the carpet in her living room bald.

After he brought the state championship home, we all figured Boo would end up playing for Dean Smith or something. We knew he’d go Division One, at least. But for some reason, he ended up signing with this little school up in Ohio. Some place we’d never even heard of. It seemed a waste.

But, in the long run, it didn’t matter much. One day in practice, Boo made a cut to the basket and blew out a knee. His foot caught or something and he went down hard. After a couple months of therapy, he came back and played a few games with a brace, but it never was the same for him. His game went flat and stayed that way. It wasn’t long before he lost his starting position. Next thing you know, he’s back home, living with his mamma again, playing pick-up games down at the armory.

There’s a picture of Boo out in the trophy case. It’s the same one the newspaper ran the week after the state championship. The photographer snapped it just as Boo was about to cut the net. He’s up on a step ladder, gripping a pair of scissors with one hand, flashing the victory sign with the other. He’s smiling.

There’s a banner too that still hangs in the gym. It’s got the names of each one of the players from that team on it. Sometimes when Jessica’s singing, I look at it instead of the flag.

Tonight we’re playing a team from two counties over. The Rockets. They’re second in the district behind Wilson County where Eddie Richards is the coach and has been since the peach basket.

Me and Harvey both played against Eddie’s teams. Coach Richards is old school. A regular field-general. Suit and tie, red face—the works. He’s built up a hell of a program over the years, and a reputation to match. The paper put out an article on him this year, right before the season started. “The John Wooden of the Big Pines District.” That’s what it said. The man’s good; I won’t deny it. But, if you ask me, the paper took it a little too far. You win a couple big ones, and people start talking, I guess.

Anyhow, The Rockets—the team we’re playing tonight—have some new guy on the bench. A real baby-face. A first year coach is what I figure. He’s wearing pleated slacks and a crew shirt, like he just came off the back nine or something. Still, when half-time rolls around, he’s got us by fifteen.

Maggie’s been sitting with me through the first half of the game. I was half-asleep when she left the house this morning, so it’s the first time we’ve had a chance to talk today. We do our best to catch up. She tries to tell me about her day, but it’s hard. There’s a lot I don’t know. She’s always having to back up to give me more info—the story behind the story. Usually, I just end up getting lost in all the details. She can tell when it happens. My eyes give me away. It’s frustrating.

When the half-time buzzer sounds, Maggie moves over to the scorer’s table where they’ve got a boom box and microphone rigged up. It’s for the dance routine the girls do. They take a lot of pride in the thing. They’ve practiced hard all week long. Their moves are good and sharp. Their timing is right on the money. Part of me wants to stand up and cheer for them, but another part of me feels uncomfortable with the whole thing. It’s hard to explain, but, being down there on the front row, watching them that way…. It’s complicated. I was raised Baptist, see.

You’ve heard the old joke:

Why can’t Baptists have sex standing up? It might lead to dancing.

That’s more or less where I’m coming from.

When the girls finish their routine, I clap real quick then shift my attention to the stats I’ve been keeping. We’re getting killed on the boards tonight. Second shots on the offensive end; that’s what’s doing it. Our big guys have got to belly up or we’re sunk.

We’re choking at the foul line too. It’s a nightmare, the way these kids shoot. Elbows all jacked out, legs stiff as a board. They go at it like they’re chucking hay bales or something. They’re practically throwing the ball.

I remember the way Harvey taught me. We were out in the driveway, the wind howling like crazy, leaves skittering in circles all across the concrete. He kept talking about the sound you should hear when the ball leaves your fingertips—a little flicking sound. You really had to listen for it. But Harvey said, if you heard that sound, then you’d know you had the right rotation on the ball. I took a few practice shots. I kept listening for that sound. But in all that wind, I couldn’t hear a thing—no matter how hard I tried.

Both teams are back on the court, taking practice shots at opposite ends, getting a feel for the rims. I need some air before the second half starts so I go outside for a smoke. The lobby’s pretty much empty when I walk through. The Boosters are all packed up and gone. The ticket window is dark. There’s a kid looking out the window, talking into a cell phone. But that’s about it.

I zip up my jacket and step through the double doors. The flood lights are shining across the front of the school. I lift a hand to shield my eyes from the glare, then step into the shadows. There’s a low wall running parallel to the front of the building. I take a seat there and light up. The moon’s out tonight, nearly full. A single thread of cloud hangs in the sky. It’s like something straight out of the movies. Creepy almost.

I sit there smoking and my eyes start to adjust. After a while, the darkness doesn’t seem so dark. It’s pretty actually, the way the moon’s got everything looking silver. I can hear the traffic out on 43. The tires on the asphalt sound soft, like waves at low-tide.

I hear the buzzer sound for the second half. It’s muffled and distant, but I hear it. My cigarette’s almost gone. I’m down to the filter so I flick what’s left out into the damp grass. It’s just a tiny speck of orange light when it lands. I watch it smolder and fade to nothing. I should go back in. It’s time. But I fire up another smoke instead.

I watch these kids sometimes—these ball players—and it’s eerie, the way things can change and yet still be the same. That sounds cheesy, but it’s the way it is. This one kid, for example. He’s a post player. Big corn-fed fellow, broad in the chest. Jimmy Scott. He plays just like Harvey used to. Sets up low and holds his ground. There’s no moving the guy. He’s like a hickory stump, and, if they dish it to him inside, he’ll draw a foul or nail a stick-back every time. Of course from any more than ten feet out, he’s useless. Still.

And then there’s his smile. When things start getting ugly underneath, when the elbows are flying and he’s banging for position, the kid smiles. Harvey did that. I watched him do it a hundred times. But tonight, when I saw Jimmy do it, it hit me.

Harvey won a buzzer beater his senior year. I’ll never forget it. It was the last game of a Christmas invitational, so the win didn’t count as far as the regular season record went. Still, it was something to see. A regular barn burner.

It was all tied up with nine ticks left on the clock and our team had the ball. They came across half-court and the coach for the other team—once he got a look at our offense—called a time out.
Everybody in the building figured Jesse Silcox would end up with the ball. He’d had the hot hand all night—something like seventy percent from the field. He was murder at the foul line too. If they hacked him, he’d be automatic. Game over.

The buzzer sounded and both teams hit the court. The crowd went nuts, everybody on their feet, screaming. It was so loud, for a moment, it almost seemed quiet. Harvey got the in-bound pass to Eugene Randall who drove to the top of the key. Jesse slashed base line and Harvey set a pick for him. Jesse made a break for the corner and Eugene fired the ball over to him. Two defenders moved out to cover Jesse, but the zone didn’t shift. Nobody dropped down to cover Harvey. They left him wide open in the paint. So Jesse lobs it in to him, Harvey chips in the game-winning deuce, and the buzzer sounds.

The place exploded. Fans rushed the court. They tackled Harvey, knocked him down and piled on top. Then they got him to his feet and carried him off on their shoulders. He never once stopped smiling.

What happened next—the story of how we lost Harvey—came to me second-hand. The way I heard it, was the way Jesse told it to the cops. Then there’s the stuff I imagine. But it’s all bled together now. It’s all one story.

After the game, Harvey, Jesse, and Jesse’s cousin, Nelson, decided to head for The Squeeze, this spot along the river where the water takes a sharp turn. It’s narrow, but the water’s fast and deep there. Anytime Harvey and his buddies got a mind to make mischief, The Squeeze was where they’d usually end up. Sometimes they’d just fish. Other times they’d climb out onto the rocks nestled in the crook of the bend, drink beer, watch the water, and talk into the night. The place was out in the middle of nowhere so they could pretty much do as they pleased.

That night—once the team got back to the high school—the three of them piled into Jesse’s Nova and made for the back roads. They stopped at a store along the way and Harvey iced down the case of beer he’d scored a couple of days earlier on a fake I.D. Nelson brought along a pint of Johnny Walker from his old man’s liquor cabinet. A buzz was about the only thing they were looking to catch, so nobody bothered with tackle or fishing poles.

When they made it out to The Squeeze, the sky was clear and the river was up. The water glowed under the full light of the moon. They spent an hour or so drinking on the case. Then Nelson broke out the pint, took a slug, passed it down the line. That’s when Harvey pulled the .38 from his coat pocket and started blasting empties off the rocks at the water’s edge. The ones he hit exploded in a cloud of dark brown glass shards. Jesse said the pieces sounded like raindrops when they hit the water.

They were all feeling pretty big that night, I guess. The drinking and the talk went on and on. After a while, Harvey stood up—a bottle in one hand, the .38 in the other. He started going over the last play of the game, reliving the whole thing. He didn’t skip a single detail. Even though Nelson had been there through it all. Even though Jesse had been the one to dish the ball to him. It didn’t matter. Harvey kept telling the story over and over, like each time it was something brand new.

He climbed up on the big rocks until he was practically hovering over them. The moon was just above his left shoulder, perched like a bird. The story took shape and grew. Harvey was swaying on his feet, unsteady. He popped off a few rounds at the bottles near the water. One exploded and he started playing gunslinger, spinning the .38 in small circles on the tip of his index finger. Gun metal flashed in the moonlight, another shot rang out, and Harvey dropped to his knees.

There wasn’t much they could do for him. It was a long way back into town and he was bleeding hard, gut shot. They carried him off the rocks and laid him down in the backseat once they’d made it to the car. Jesse drove fast while Nelson pulled his sweatshirt off and packed Harvey’s wound. They told him it wasn’t that bad. They made jokes, talked to him about other things as, outside, the dark trees and fence posts whipped past. But it was no use. They never made town and Harvey bled to death that night, sprawled out in Jesse’s backseat.

They took it pretty hard—Nelson especially. For a long time he wouldn’t talk. He didn’t show at Harvey’s service either. His folks were there, two of about a thousand people to file past, offering their condolences. They said a few words to my parents—explained why Nelson hadn’t come—then they walked by the casket and made their way out into the crowded lobby.

But we never blamed Nelson. We didn’t blame Jesse. They did the best they could, considering. It was boys being boys. No blame to it.

Still, they kept their distance. And months later, whenever I’d see them in town, they’d find a reason to head off in the other direction. I was a ghost to them, a bad memory.

My second smoke is going fast. I’m holding it with my thumb and index finger. I take another drag and stare up at the moon. Something funny comes to mind. Maybe the moon’s not like we think it is. Maybe the science books got it all wrong. Maybe the Apollo mission was really just a lousy sci-fi flick (a lot of people say that, you know). Maybe what we call the moon is really just a plug-hole, a way to the light behind the darkness. Sometimes the hole opens up—wide and inviting—other times it closes off completely.

It doesn’t really last, but for a split-second, that’s what I’m thinking.

Inside, the crowd’s making a racket. Who knows—maybe we’ve come out hot. Maybe we’re gaining. It’s a funny game this time of year. People start looking ahead to the district tournament, and there’s always one last flicker of hope for a team that’s spent a season in the tank the way we have. It’s something to hold onto, the promise of a second chance, a new beginning. And it might take a minor miracle, but you can come back from nothing. I should know. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.

The buzzer sounds again, short and quick this time. Someone’s rotating in.


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© 2009, Curt Alderson. All rights reserved in accordance with the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works.