much, not during half time when the home team band went out to strut its stuff, and not when the Braves' defense scored the second touchdown with a run from the second half kickoff. He didn't much care. If he went home, he might see his mother; but if he stayed, he'd be able to talk to Tracey after the game. Maybe she'd be able to tell him what to do next.
By the middle of the third quarter he was unable to contain his restlessness. He jumped down to the track and started walking again, passed by the band and this time saw Tracey. She grinned and waved; he pointed to the Scoreboard clock, to his watchless wrist, and then to his chest. She frowned puzzlement, then brightened and nodded quickly. His smile was only a small part of his relief, and it clung there when his gaze drifted to the spectators behind and caught his father sitting with the mayor and the mayor's wife. Joyce was beside Mrs. Garziana, the kerchief still around her hair, the dark glasses gone.
Don looked to Norman, back to his mother, who saw him and waved-a weak and apologetic wave in front of a smile so forced he thought her face would shatter with the effort. A polite smile. A public smile, not for him but for those around her.
He waved back and moved on, for the first time realizing that sooner or later he was going to have to make a choice- stay with his father, stay with his mother, either way losing out on a dream to help heal his friends.
The crowd roared to its feet.
Ignoring the field, he looked up to the Scoreboard and saw another touchdown recorded and Brian's number flash. Before he reached the far end zone it happened again; and as he passed in front of the Rebels' wooden bleachers he felt the antagonism and defeat, the growing rowdiness that comes with losing frustration.
He walked around a second time and the Rebels made their first score.
The third time, he stopped in front of the band, bracing himself against the people who were crowding around the Braves' bench, spilling onto the track, paying no attention to the police and security guards who were trying to keep a semblance of order and still watch the game.
He stared at Tracey, and felt his father staring back, in peripheral vision saw his mother laughing at something the mayor's wife said. His eyes narrowed, but she seemed not to understand that this wasn't a time for laughing, for football; it was a time for her son who wasn't named Sam.
He stayed there until, dimly, he heard the final gun and had to press against the low wall as the fans spilled over the railing and onto the field. His shoulder was punched, his back was slapped, and he did his best to keep from going down, to smile as if he were delirious at the victory they'd won, until he saw Tracey and she was pointing to the nearest steps.
'God,' she said breathlessly when he finally reached her and she fell against him. 'You'd think it was the stupid Super Bowl, for crying out loud.'
Her uniform was rough to the touch, but his arm slipped naturally around her waist, the rest of him turning to form a shield while she put her instrument away and shoved her music into whatever pockets she could reach.
'You see your folks?'
He nodded stiffly.
'You have to wait or anything?'
'Do you?'
'Nope.'
With a 'let's go, then' he held her close to his hip and moved toward the gates. It would take a while; there were kids running impromptu races, football players trying to get away so they could change and return to join the celebration, and a handful of band members playing music their teacher never let them try in practice.
'Don,' Tracey said then, 'what's wrong?'
Joyce applauded and cheered when the final gun sounded, and didn't hear a word Jean Garziana said to her as they headed up the steps toward the exit. Donald was gone, lost in the swirling bodies that spilled over the field, and she hated herself for feeling relieved. Norm was behind her and when she looked back, he gave the lifeless stare he reserved for people he did not know. Jean touched her arm, and she smiled automatically, gestured toward her ears and then at the milling crowd.
The woman nodded, and they concentrated on leaving the stadium and heading up for School Street. At the corner it wasn't quiet, but it was considerably less mobbed.
'We're going for a drink,' the woman said then. 'Would you like to join us?' When Joyce balked, she opened her raincoat to expose a nurse's uniform. 'It won't be for long, I promise. I have to go on shift at midnight.'
'But I'm not dressed,' Joyce protested, looking down at her thin blouse, her wrinkled slacks, the ballet slippers. 'I'd feel embarrassed.' A nervous laugh-you know how it is.
Anthony Garziana came up then with Norman in tow. When Jean explained the ensemble situation, he laughed heartily and slapped Norman's arm.
'No problem, ladies, no problem,' he said. 'Joyce, you go on and change.
I want you to have a good time tonight. Norm, you go with her, bring her back, and we'll have a few drinks, we'll talk, what do you say?'
He left no time for an answer. Taking his wife's arm, he turned to the curb just as a limousine pulled up. 'The Starlite, okay?' The door opened, and he was gone.
Joyce yanked the kerchief from her head as the limousine pulled away.
'I'm glad you showed,' Norman said.
'I'm not that stupid,' she told him wearily.
'Funny, I said almost the same thing to Don earlier.'
'What?' She grabbed his arm, remembered the people still pressing home, and forced her lips into a meaningless smile. 'What the hell do you mean?'
'Don and I had a talk,' he said flatly, refusing to look anywhere near her.
'What did you say?'
'That you and I had to have a talk before the night is over.' He did look, then, and she would not look away. 'We do, Joyce. You know we do, after that stunt you pulled today.'
'I-'
'Don saw you.'
Something hard and cold settled in her chest. 'Oh, shit.'
'Yeah.'
Blindly she stared at the faces moving rapidly past her, at the cars driving away. 'Do we have to go?'
'Yes, we have to.'
'Then I'm going home to change.'
His fingers curled around her waist, the pads pressing deeply until she tried to pull away. 'You'll be there, right?'
'Aren't you walking me home?'
'No,' he said. 'No. If I do, we'll never catch the mayor.'
'I see.'
'Do you?'
'Clearly, Norman. More clearly than you give me credit for.'
She twisted her wrist free and walked away, feeling the coarse pavement beneath the slippers, gasping once when a group of boys raced by and one stepped on her toes. Tears rose and vanished as she willed the pain away, willed away the limp after only three strides.
Don knows. He knows, and what was she going to do now?
It's stupid, she thought as she waited on the curb and sought a break in the traffic; I'm stupid. Oh, god, what the hell am I going to do now?
She ran across the street and huddled in the shadows, berating herself for reacting to Norman's announcement the way she had. She should have waited until he'd come home and then talked with him calmly; and if not calmly, at least with a certain logic that would show him how foolish he was being. But he kept quoting his goddamn father at her, digging in his heels the moment he sensed her resistance to his running for office-and in her panic at losing what security they had, she'd called Harold. And Harold had responded the way she'd known he would-not with sage advice or calming talk, but by kissing her cheek the minute she'd left the school behind, holding her free hand and kissing the fingers until she'd pulled into his driveway on the other side of town. And once in the apartment, when she tried to explain, he had taken her in his arms and pulled her blouse from her jeans.
