Don, don't forget to eat something before you leave. And I drank too much. Stupid and drunk. Sorry if I hurt you. Don't forget your key.
He reached out to touch the piece of paper, pulled his hand back, then grabbed the note and tore it in half, in half again and tossed the pieces on the floor.
'Sorry doesn't cut it, Father,' he said as he walked into the living room and stared at Norman's chair.
A string of cars drove past the house, horns sounding, music loud and tuneless.
He looked to the ceiling. 'Why?' he asked, his throat raw and burning.
'What did I do wrong?'
In the kitchen he poured himself a large glass of milk and took the sandwiches one of them had made. After standing at the table making sure he hadn't forgotten anything, he sat, and he ate, and he stared at his transparent reflection in the back door, half expecting to see his mother walk through and shake out her hair, give him a smile and her cheek to kiss, then walk to the sink and fill it with hot water, dump in the dishes, and stand back to inspect it as if what she'd done was a work of fine art.
When he was finished, he rinsed out his glass, cleaned his plate, and turned off the light. At the table in the downstairs hall he stopped and watched his fingers curl around the handset. He dialed Tracey's number and held his breath.
She answered, and he sagged to the floor, unable to speak until she let loose with a harsh string of Spanish that startled him into saying 'What?'
'Don, is that you? Hey, I thought it was an obscene phone call.'
'Yeah, it's me. God, what did all that mean?'
She giggled. 'You don't want to know, but it sounded good, didn't it?'
'Scared the hell out of me.'
'It was supposed to. One of my father's bright ideas.' Her mother yelled shrilly at her sister, and her father yelled at them all. 'What's up?
Oh, lord, something else happened?'
He nodded, then said, 'Yes.'
'I ought to be a priest, you know.'
'Huh?'
'A priest. The last few days everybody's been finding a place on my shoulder. I'm getting pretty good at it. I should get paid, what do you think?'
He stared at the mouthpiece.
'Don,' she said solemnly, 'that was a joke.'
'Oh. I'm sorry.'
'Don't worry. Hey, look, I'm going to be late. And if I'm late, I'll have to turn in my flute and they'll strip my epaulets off.' She paused.
'That was a joke too.'
'Yeah. I know.'
Her father shouted something in Spanish, and her sister shouted back; a second later he heard the unmistakable sounds of a slap and someone crying.
'Don-'
'I heard.'
She whispered, 'I'm sorry. It really was a joke. See you later?'
Before he could answer she hung up, and he twisted the cord around both palms and pulled it taut. Now, he thought; I need you now, Tracey, goddamnit.
He sat on the couch and tried to guess the time, every few minutes going into the kitchen to check his accuracy with the clock. He was wrong.
Every time. And every time he left the room he knew his mother wouldn't be back before he left. If he left. He wasn't sure he would go. All those people, all those faces, all that noise keeping him from thinking.
He went upstairs and into Sam's room.
His mother's sewing machine was on the floor next to Sam's single bed with the Winnie-the-Pooh sheets; in the far corner she had put a small table where her art supplies were piled when she wasn't using them; the wallpaper was dusty, columns of cowboys and Indians and cactus and stagecoaches. The shade was down. There was no pillow on the mattress.
He looked around and tried to remember what his brother looked like, what his brother had said and done to make his mother remember him so clearly.
'Sam,' he said, 'you're a bastard, you know that? You're a goddamned bastard.'
Tracey hurried down the hill toward the stadium's street entrance, feeling like a jerk in her uniform when all the kids she passed were dressed for a good time, a warm time, and wouldn't have to go home to change once the game was over. Besides, she didn't care about the game, or the music, or how she looked on the field-she was worried about Donald, about what was happening to him, and why, when she spoke with him earlier, the sound of his voice hadn't caused her to tremble the way it used to.
Then someone called her name, and she turned just in time to see Jeff rushing after her. She smiled, and waited, and laughed when his cleats skidded on the pavement and he tumbled onto the grass.
'Nice,' she said, walking over to help him up. 'That's the secret play, huh?'
He stared at her morosely, sighed loudly, and reached down to retrieve his helmet. 'I tried to call,' he said as they walked toward the entrance, 'but the line was busy.'
'I was talking to Don.'
He said nothing.
She looked at him, and looked away, and felt a constriction in her chest that had nothing to do with the rapidly cooling air.
Inside the short tunnel his cleats were loud, and echoing.
'Trace?'
They stopped on the track. There were already people in the stands, and the band was off to the left, listening to last minute instructions from their leader. On the far side she could see members of the team slowly filtering into the low concrete clubhouse.
'There's something the matter with him,' she said quietly.
He took her hand and squeezed it, and didn't let go.
'I don't know.' A trumpet blared, and the bandmaster shouted an order.
She looked over, then looked quickly at Jeff. 'He scares me,' she admitted, to him and to herself. 'I don't know what's the matter with him, and he scares me.'
And the look then on his face almost made her kiss him- concern, and anger, and frustration merged and dark.
'Look,' he said at last, 'why don't we meet later, okay? After the game?
I'll walk you home or something, and we can-'
'I can't,' she said. 'I'm going to see Don.' 'Oh.'
'He needs to talk, and I guess I'm-' 'But you're afraid of him, Trace.
You just said you were afraid of him.'
'I know. But he's a friend, too, you know?'
Then she squeezed his hand and released it, waved him on and watched him break into a trot around the track toward the clubhouse. Poor Jeff, she thought, and frowned at the way the words suddenly confused her. It was Don she was supposed to feel sorry for, not Jeff; it was Don she had kissed the other day. But it was Jeff she wanted to kiss now, or hold onto, or just stand beside and listen to his mocking deflation of the game his father had forced him into.
Jeff. Don.
And she wondered if maybe she shouldn't see Don after all. At least not alone.
She hadn't been lying-he scared her.
The telephone rang.
He took his time getting down the stairs, thinking that if he hurried, it might be his mother and he wouldn't know what to say to her except come home, please come home.
