Brewster. Kind of like the undertow tugging at your feet even as the wave slams into you.
What I felt was this: an unexpected quietus of everything bad I was feeling. An extinguishing of all my anger and frustration. The numbing came just as I told off Brewster. Once I vented at him, I couldn’t hold on to my rage. By the time I had stormed back to the team, I was feeling okay about everything. But feeling “okay” was absolutely wrong—it felt like another level of fraud on my part. I saw him hurrying away then. Hurrying away in fury. Was he angry at me for being angry at him? Maybe. Or maybe it was more than that.
That’s the real reason why I don’t want to face Brewster quite yet. Because I’m not sure whether it’s just me being weird…or if that undertow is the first hint of a much more powerful riptide.
34) TRAJECTORY
Once in a while Dad and I go out to shoot some hoops. He does this because basketball is the only sport where he still has a fighting chance against me since he still has a height advantage. Early on Sunday morning I go over to Brew’s place and invite him to join us. It’s my way of apologizing, because the actual words I’m sorry don’t come easy to me— unless, of course, I’m saying it to Bronte. It seems I’m always apologizing to her.
We’re on his porch, because Uncle Hoyt is sleeping after a hard night flattening asphalt. Cody’s out in their ugly acre trying to fly a cheap cellophane kite; but the weeds are too tall, and he can’t get up enough momentum when he runs.
“Consider it the next phase of our workouts,” I tell Brew. “Basketball builds agility—you can’t get that with free-weights.”
“Aren’t you worried you’ll skin your elbows and make me bleed?”
To which I respond, “Are you calling me a klutz?” It then occurs to me for the first time why he seemed so exhausted after our weight-lifting sessions and why I didn’t. I start to feel ticked off that he never said anything; but I let it go, because anger is not our friend.
“Thanks for the invitation,” Brewster says, “but I can’t. My uncle likes weekends to be family time.” Which is ridiculous, considering the man has a night job and sleeps all day. “It’s easier for everyone if I just stay home.”
“Easier doesn’t make it right,” I point out. And then I hear a voice from behind me.
“Tell Uncle Hoyt you won’t like him no more.”
I turn to see Cody standing there holding that sorry little kite. It’s a typical thing for a little kid to say; but Brew seems to be struck by the words, like they contain divine wisdom. I have no idea why a man like Uncle Hoyt would care what Brew thought of him.
Brew reaches to a Band-Aid on his forearm. I wonder what kind of wound it conceals. He rubs the wound, mulling over what Cody said. Then he turns to me. “Which park will you be at?”
I don’t know exactly what Brew says to Uncle Hoyt, but the result is that both Brewster and Cody show up at the park. My dad and I are feeling pretty down, although we try not to show it. Mom wasn’t home when we left; I suspect she’s probably off with her boyfriend, the Muppet. I have no idea whether she’s in the process of breaking it off, making it stick, or just escaping from everything. I don’t think Dad knows either. A cloud of gloom follows us to the court, but when Brew arrives, it seems to dissipate. Maybe because there’s someone else to focus on.
Cody immediately escapes from the court, having no use whatsoever for basketball. He’s much more engaged by a malfunctioning sprinkler head in the grass.
It’s immediately clear to Dad and me that Brew’s experience in basketball is limited to the wonderful world of phys ed. He can dribble standing still, and he has just the right trajectory on his foul shots to sink some of them; but he lacks any real-world game.
“Didn’t you ever shoot around with your uncle?” Dad asks, completely oblivious to the Uncle Hoyt situation.
“My uncle is more of a baseball kind of guy.”
And that’s all my dad needs to hear. Brew is hoop impoverished. Suddenly my dad’s in his element; and for the first time in years, the teacher in him has a blank athletic slate—a new subject to whom he can impart all the family basketball moves.
“You know, I played in college,” Dad brags, doing some Globetrotter stuff that was only impressive the first hundred times—but Brew’s eating it up. Even Cody looks up from his irrigation project as Dad deftly handles the ball. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, hoping that someday my own children will return the favor.
“Stick with me,” Dad says, “and you’ll own the court in no time.”
It feels good to see my father in this altered state —actually enjoying himself, with no thoughts of Mom and the nest of termites that’s eating away at the foundation of our family. In fact, none of that seems to bother me either. It all feels far, far away.
Brew—with that photographic memory of his—is a quick study. By the time we’re done for the day, he’s got himself a respectable layup and can guard without fouling.
“Thank you, Mr. Sternberger.” His gratitude is genuine. “Not a problem, Brewster.”
“Call me Brew.”
It feels good to be out here and away from all the frustrations of life. In fact, the entire day feels abnormally good in a way I can’t quite describe. It’s that quirky kind of weekend feeling they write ridiculous sunny-day songs about. You know the ones—I’m sure they’re on your iPod even though you’d never admit it. As for my father, he’s more up than I’ve seen him in weeks.
“An hour on the court puts things into perspective,” Dad says as he hands the ball to Brew for a final shot. “I have a feeling things are just going to get better.”
It turns out he’s right. And at the same time very, very wrong.
CODY
35) STUFF
Uncle Hoyt had a bad day the next week. He hadn’t had a real bad day for a while. Sure, he was always grumpy, but grumpy wasn’t foul. There were times when he was actually nice—like the night Tri-tip had died and he read me Goodnight Moon and a bunch of other little-kid books, and actually even kissed me good night.
“Don’t you worry about Tri-tip,” he’d told me, “he’s gone to a better place.”
Well, since I heard a chain saw going for two whole hours, I knew that the “better place” didn’t take a dead bull whole; but I guess he musta meant cow heaven.
That was a side of our uncle we didn’t see all that often, but it was good to see it when we did. Those are the times I always try to hold on to when he goes foul.
Like he did when his steamroller hit a car.
I wasn’t there when it happened, since he’s not allowed to ever take me to work, even on Take Your Kid to Work Day, cuz the work is dangerous and he usually does it at night. I found out the next day, when I got home from school.
It was Thursday, and Brew was out with Bronte at the mall. I wanted to go, but Brew said I wasn’t invited this time. He wasn’t even makin’ up stories for Uncle Hoyt anymore—not since last Sunday when he’d played basketball with Tennyson and his father. Things changed a little bit on that day. See, Uncle Hoyt wasn’t gonna let us go anywhere that morning, but Brew said he was gonna go out anyway.
“Where are you going? Who you gonna be with?” Uncle Hoyt had asked, but all Brew said was “None of your business, and none of your business.”
I expected Uncle Hoyt to start yelling, but he just said, “Careful there, Brew.” I couldn’t tell whether he meant to be careful out there, or be careful of him.
