1
It was a big old pleasant high school gym, built in the twenties and not much
disturbed by renovation. The iron rafters met at a shallow angle at the
roofline, and the tall windows were made up of a dozen big panes, each
reinforced with chicken wire, and the two ancient clocks sat on opposing
brick walls, ratcheting their works forward with an audible whir, hiss, clunk.
The gym smelled nostalgically of varnish, sweat, and paint, but it was not an
obsolete or shabby place. An electronic scoreboard reading garfield
visitors quarter fouls time out had been added on the east wall, and
a recent grant from FareWatchers.com had supplied the courtside officials
with a new Huston-Marke computerized scoring system, a sleek blue box
that sat beneath the long scorers' table and extended its heavy gray cables
to an outlet hidden under the bleachers. The purple Garfield bulldog, wearing
its studded collar, snarled up from the court's center circle, and the
backboards were regulation glass, and the nets were in good repair, and
when the boys played here a riotous, explosive sort of crowd would gather,
and the breakaway rims actually got some use, and once in a while once
a decade or so someone would appear who was so obviously superior to
the rest of the boys that his future would be discussed with the frank and half-
informed calculation any phenomenon inspires. The boys' team often played
in the state tournament and had won it six years ago, and its purple banners
hung from the rafters, drifting sideways when the big purple entry doors were
left open to the hall.
But tonight the girls were playing, and very few people were there.
From his seat midway up the home bleachers Henry Moss could see almost
everyone who had come out of the rain to watch a hundred or so people,
including his wife, Ilse, and son, Darren, who sat directly in front of him, a row
below, so he was looking down into their hair; and Sandra, his daughter, who
was on the court, holding the ball with her back to the hoop, wearing the
stern and thoughtful expression of someone taking apart a complicated
bomb. The girls' team was not nearly as good as the boys' in fact, they
lost almost every game they played but Sandra herself was very good, the
starting center, and despite the team's terrible record she carried herself up
and down between the baskets with a kind of preoccupied confidence that
plucked at Henry's heart and made him lean down now and then to grasp his
wife's shoulders. She would pat his hands and hold them for a second before
letting go. It was not an uncommon gesture there; the team was so bad
so unwatchably bad at times, really that nearly everyone in the gym was
related in some way to one of the players. So it was a tender and familiar
gathering, on the home side, anyway, under the old painted roof, and Henry
was faintly conscious of the fellow feeling that surrounded him. A girl made
an unlikely shot, or rolled her eyes in some characteristic way, or wiped her
mouth in a gesture of embarrassed happiness, and somewhere in the
bleachers Henry sensed someone's heart rising; there would come a bark of
surprised laughter or a few beats of applause while the team fell back ten
points, twenty before halftime. Even Darren would applaud his sister when he
felt like it, though Henry suspected it was largely to draw attention to himself.
He cupped his hands and shouted, "Go, Moss!" when she had the ball in the
post, and when she stood at the foul line, her knees bent and the ball resting
easily in her big, practiced hands resting, resting Darren would wait in
silence until she cocked her elbows and sent the ball feathering through the
net, when he would shout down at her, "And one!" with his newly deep voice,
the voice of a stranger.
Behind them at the top of the bleachers tonight were a dozen or
so children too young to be left at home alone but old enough to throw
crumpled-up paper at each other, and occasionally at Henry. After being hit
twice in the head, not accidentally, he had had enough, and he made his
slow way up to the top of the bleachers, where the benches were deeply
gouged with graffiti, blue and black, name after name: Michelle Grigo Peeper
LaShelle VeeVee Ashlee Adam Brad LaVonn. The children, seeing that he
was there to stay, moved off to the other end of the stands and eventually
through the open purple doors into the long empty hall outside, where they
could be heard chanting, "Got no money, got no friends, got nobody that he
can " and then something he could not understand.
The crowd below him was clustered into groups of five or six, with
a small population that circulated from group to group, making the rounds. As
he watched, Darren, just turned fourteen, stood and maneuvered down beside
a clutch of three girls, who after a moment burst into laughter at something
he had said. His boy! Darren was not a handsome kid his jaw was too
long and seemed packed with teeth, and his eyes sat very deep in his skull,
as though someone had pressed them in with a thumb. Henry had looked
exactly the same at fourteen and had spent most of his adolescence staring
at girls longingly from across the room, but Darren was different. Fearless.
Henry's wife tipped her head back, looked at him strangely,
upside- down. What are you doing up there? her eyebrows asked.
He shrugged. Nothing. Enjoying the view. Up close, the iron
rafters could be seen to have been painted dozens of times, white over white
over white, and a faint tapping on the roof was rain. When he peered down
through the slats of the bleachers, he could see in the looming darkness
below a discouraging litter of potato chip bags, soda cans, miscellaneous
papers, odd articles of clothing, but it seemed to Henry a secret, alluring kind
of place, way down there and out of sight, the sort of hideout he would have
liked to investigate if he were not fifty-one, a father, and an eternal source of
potential humiliation to Sandra and Darren. So he stayed where he was.
After a few minutes the chanting children came leaking back in
from the hall, and one by one they ducked under the bleachers. Everyone
knew they were not supposed to be there, but no one stopped them from
running back and forth forty feet below him, ducking through the steel
supports and laughing at the sight of a hundred asses on display in rows
laughing and laughing, until someone's mother finally corralled them and
distributed them to their various parents in the stands.
At length Henry's wife rose and climbed to join him. She was
tall she had given Sandra her height and wore a white turtleneck and
white jeans. "I do not foresee a comeback," she announced. She was
Austrian, her accent smoothed by eighteen years of American English. "You
look very sinister up here, like that man in The Parallax View up in the
catwalk. Did you see that?"
"I think we saw it together."
"I mean Darren. Did you see him go down to those girls?" She
leaned closer. "The one on the left, farthest from him, has been looking at
him all night. Isn't she pretty?"
"That's Tanya. She was at his birthday."
She put a hand on his knee. "He's not handsome, but he is
smart," she said. "If it's done the right way, it can be very attractive."
"Does that count as a date?"
"I don't think anybody actually dates anymore, I think they just all
clump together like that and go around in a big . . ." she searched "a
big herd. He said he was going down to check on something and then he just
went right down and sat next to them!" She shook Henry's leg in
excitement. "He's so much braver than I was, Henry he must get it from
you."
"I think he gets it from your mother."
"What a terrible idea! Don't tell her, she'll just hate him all the
more. How awful it must be to have us here in the first place. I'm sure the
only reason he came was because he knew Tanya was going to be here too.
Good for him."
"What's she doing here?"
"Maybe she knew he was going to be here. Or maybe he's
developed some kind of mind control device. Henry, you should ask. I'm
going to cry if they kiss."
"She is pretty."
"He'll grow out of that poor face of his," she assured him. "He'll
end up looking normal."
They sat together in silence for a minute, listening to the rain
overhead. It was a driving, solid rain; it had been raining for weeks and
weeks. Sandra scored, then watched the other team race ahead of her for an
easy basket while Marcia Beck, the Garfield coach, looked on with her arms
folded.
"You realize if we stay too long up here together talking, people
will think we're having some kind of marital troubles."
"I like it up here. Nobody chucks stuff at my head."
"I promise I won't chuck stuff at your head. Oh, isn't it exhausting,
even thinking about being a teenager again? Please, darling." She stood,
took his hand. "Come be old with me. We'll sit far away and not disturb him."
Copyright © 2003 by Michael Byers