Blind Your Ponies Page 11

  The answer was already broadcast in the expression of pain and disappointment in Tom’s face. “I don’t know how you’re going to take this, Coach.”

  “Tell us. What did he say?” Diana asked.

  “Said I’d need arthroscopic surgery.”

  The faces and postures of all present sagged, the air in the gym crystallized.

  “Then,” Tom continued in a monotonous voice, “maybe a year of rehabilitation before I could play on it.” He paused. “Sorry, Coach.”

  The despair engulfed them. No one spoke. Sam couldn’t bear to look at anyone. They were waiting for him to speak, to say something that would make it all right, but his spirit seemed utterly void of optimistic, encouraging words.

  Then Tom grabbed the ball from under Rob’s arm and went charging across the floor, dribbling like mad and shouting. “Just kidding, you wimps!”

  Before he got to the far basket for a layup, the boys broke from their stunned paralysis and were on his trail. They hit him coming back the other way. Rob took him low, Pete hit him high, crashing him to the floor. Then in a wild, spontaneous release of anxiety and disappointment, eight of them mugged Tom at center court, pounding him with affectionate relief and happy, joyous blows.

  When they finally untangled and rolled away like kids off a playground hog pile, laughing, hooting, and catching their breaths, Diana spoke first.

  “What did the doctor really say?”

  “It’s a medial collateral ligament on the inside of the knee,” Tom said. “Says it’s been strained, overstretched, but it’s not torn. I can play.”

  The boys cheered.

  “He said icing it would help when it hurts,” Tom said.

  “You pull anything like that again and I’ll ice you,” Sam said.

  “I probably shouldn’t run much on it at practice.”

  “Aw, sure, trying to chicken out of wind sprints,” Rob said.

  “He said it heals slow. It’ll probably hurt a lot if I play.” Tom glanced at them and then focused on Sam. “I told him it would hurt a whole lot more if I didn’t.”

  That silenced them. Sam’s eyes blurred as he sat there in the middle of the basketball floor with this peculiar gathering: a scrubby-looking bunch of players, his intimidating female cohort, a jolly little manager, and a misplaced cowboy who wanted to take his stand with them. They remained there for a moment, catching their breaths, and in that instant, something in Sam’s heart warned him that he was moving out onto thin ice.

  “We thought we’d have to go on without you,” Diana said.

  “That’ll be the day,” Tom said.

  Truly Osborn entered the gym, paperwork in hand, and hesitated under the south backboard. “Can I see you a minute, Mr. Pickett?”

  Sam sprang to his feet and hurried to the superintendent. Truly’s brows furrowed, and he stared at the team lounging in the middle of the court.

  “You have the strangest practices I’ve ever seen,” Truly said.

  “We’re stretching our medial collateral ligaments.”

  “Is that important?” “It’s the most important part on our team.”

  LYING IN BED that night Sam tried to visualize a medial collateral ligament, figuring he’d never heard of that body part. It had a musical ring to it. Medial collateral ligament. It would be like buying himself an early Christmas present, the doctor’s bill, and he’d pay it with a cheery “ho ho ho.” But it sobered him to realize how his heartstrings were subtly becoming more and more entangled with the boys, and maybe even a little with Diana.

  As sleep approached on softly padded feet, his mind kept slipping from the medial collateral ligament to other body parts: up her limber thigh to her supple hip, her soft belly, her willowy waist. After falling asleep, he awoke to a faint swishing sound outside, passing his window, and he realized he’d heard it other nights, mysterious and yet strangely familiar. Before he could sleep in his rumpled bedding he heard it again, but when he hurried to the window he could see nothing in the town’s faint light. Maybe one of Willow Creek’s ghosts?

  AXEL SHOWED UP at practice the next afternoon. “I heard you needed players,” he said.

  He had confided to Sam that he had played football with a vengeance during his school days and, without ever letting on at the time, had yearned to play basketball. However, his lack of agility and the dramatic proportions of his body dictated against it, so Axel never made the team. Now he could fulfill the dreams of his bygone youth by roughhousing with these Willow Creek lads. Sam instructed Axel, with his brawny, knockabout manner, to work on Olaf inside. The Blue Willow’s proprietor proved to be as immovable in the paint as a fifty-five-gallon drum of hydraulic fluid.

  The team practiced long hours over the Thanksgiving weekend. George Stonebreaker, who had the reputation of a hand grenade even when he was sober, came and jerked Tom out of Friday’s practice, claiming that their cattle were out on the road. And though Tom was reluctant to go, Sam made no protest at losing his power forward because he was unable to tell if George had been drinking or not.

  Sam had a close call with Thanksgiving dinner. Grandma Chapman had invited him to eat with them, and Diana had done the same only minutes before. While enjoying a sumptuous meal with Grandma, Peter, and Hazel, Sam learned that Grandma had invited Miss Murphy, but she left early and told Grandma that she had commitments for the day. He found himself imagining what being her commitments for the day would be like.

  CHAPTER 18

  Peter Strong was watching television at two in the morning when Grandma appeared. He sat in the dark with the volume low in hopes she wouldn’t discover him. On her nightly visit to the bathroom she turned the light on in the hallway ever since Pete had greased the toilet seat with margarine, nearly causing her to dismount abruptly onto the linoleum when she plunked her fanny down in the dark.

  She had short-sheeted his bed sometime after he planted a dead mouse in the toe of her Reebok after she had turned off the hot water at the water heater while he was in the shower after he had somehow snuck a handful of white popcorn kernels into her bowl of pancake batter just before she poured it into the hot skillet, scaring the hell out of her with exploding gobs of pancake splattering all over the stove and kitchen, and so forth, an inheritance of pranks whose history traced itself back to the detergent in the pancake batter—they were acting like kids at summer camp whose counselor was off necking on the beach.

  After snapping out the hall light on her return from the bathroom, she must have caught a glimmer in the darkness of the living room.

  “What’re you doing up at this hour?” she said, sleepily shuffling into the room in her NFL-monogrammed nightie and furry bear-paw slippers.

  He lay in the worn, upholstered chair. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  She glanced at the program on TV: a cheesy old western where cowboys piteously shot at each other and the camera speed increased during the horse chases. She perched on the sofa, facing him.

  “Something botherin’ you, boy?”

  “No. Just couldn’t sleep.”

  “Does this have something to do with basketball practice?”

  “I’ll go to bed when this is over.”

  “What do you think of the coach?” she asked, attempting to keep him talking.

  “He’s cool. Kinda funny. He knows his basketball and he doesn’t yell at us like our Highland coach.”

  “He yell a lot?”

  “Yeah, thinks he’s Bobby Knight or something.”

  Tripod stalked across the hardwood floor and leaped onto a small magazine-littered table. He eyed Parrot’s cage, a few feet from him, and he crouched in anticipation. Parrot, anxiously rustling about in his confinement, seemed to sense Tripod’s presence. Tripod leaped for the cage. The three-legged cat tried to grab hold of the fitted cloth cover with one paw, but he fell to the floor and miraculously landed on his padded feet.

  “Kathy said she wanted to go out with another guy while I’m away,” Peter finally said.

>   “That was the letter you got today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “ ‘Dear John.’ ”

  “What?”

  “A Dear John letter. You’re too young … it’s when a girl wants to tell her boyfriend good-bye.”

  “She told me she loved me. We planned to get married when we got out of high school.”

  “Sorry, boy. Don’t mean to give advice, but a boy your age should be going out with lots of girls, trying all the lollipops. Might be surprised at the flavors you’ll find, and the flavors you’ll like before you go making up your mind.”

  Peter’s eyes widened. “What? Grandma, I love Kathy.”

  “Of course you do! And you’ll love a half dozen more before you’re through.”

  “Kathy’s the only one I want.”

  “I know how you’re hurtin’ but it’s not good when you get too serious at your age. I did, and I ended up on the wrong train most of my life. Life is big and wide open and we go lifting iron anvils on our young backs that grind us into the dust.”

  The cowboys had the desperados trapped in some big boulders and gun smoke hung in the air. Tripod made another grab for Parrot’s cage, rocking it sideways before dropping to the floor, bringing forth angry croaks and squawks from the besieged bird.

  “Guess it’s a good thing I saddled up with your grandfather, though. You’d have never showed up if I hadn’t.”

  Forgetting the Beverly Hills cowboys and their formula blank-cartridge drama, they watched Tripod try to figure another route to the birdcage.

  “One day I found your grandpa comatose, lying right on this sofa.” She gently patted the cushion beside her. “He’d taken a handful of pills with his booze and left me a note. All it said was don’t send for help. That’s all, after forty years together. Don’t send for help.”

  “What did you do?” Peter asked.

  “He was still breathing when I found the note. All my life I’d been trying to save him, but he never changed. Oh, he always claimed he would when he’d sober up and feel bad about himself. I was scared to death.” Grandma slowly shook her head and looked at Peter.

  “Picked up the phone and started to dial 911, but I put it down. Must have done that a dozen times, checking on him, going back to the phone. I cried and screamed at him, beat my fist on the wall. I was so scared and so angry. I wanted to get in the car and drive for hours, pretending I’d never found him or the note. Instead, I sat down beside him and held his hand while he finished the job.”

  Grandma wiped a hand across her cheek. “Don’t know why I’m telling you this, never told a soul. It was the one time I could’ve really saved him and I didn’t. Guess I thought it was best for him, that his life had become unbearable and that he honestly wanted out. I sat with him for half an hour before he quit breathing. They could hang me for murder.”

  The room took on a heavy silence despite the faint gibberish from a television ad, something about calling a 900 number to talk with a gorgeous woman if you were lonely, two dollars for the first minute and seventy-five cents a minute thereafter. Grandma watched for a moment, the flickering hues off the screen giving her jutting chin and furrowed face a somber cast.

  “Should’ve called an ambulance … wish I had.” She sighed. “You know, I had a mind to have his last words chiseled on his tombstone: Don’t send for help.”

  Peter couldn’t think of anything to say, though he wished he could. They both watched the persevering cat, perched on the windowsill, measuring the distance to the parrot’s cage, calculating how far he could leap and what he would do with only one paw if he made it.

  “I turned out like the cat,” Grandma said.

  Peter had no idea what she meant.

  When she shuffled off to her bedroom, he sensed they had traded wounds. He wanted to say something to her, some offering, anything that might absolve her, but he came up empty.

  “Good night, Grandma.” She didn’t respond.

  When he turned off the TV, leaving the house in total darkness, he heard the cage squeak on its spring and the three-legged cat hit the floor.

  CHAPTER 19

  December blew into the broad valley between the Tobacco Roots and the Madison Range, dumping so much snow onto Willow Creek that the weather became the only topic of local television coverage and coffee-cup conversation.

  The world took little note of the all-consuming preparations of six boys and their win-less coach. Actually, there were two coaches now, since Diana had appointed herself assistant and showed up every practice. She proved to be extremely helpful: scrimmaging on the court with the players, chasing, rebounding, whatever was needed.

  Most important, Diana introduced the team to a stretching program so as to prevent injury. Sam realized he had been lax in that matter for the past few years, but it seemed ludicrous to stretch before going out and getting the mothballs beat out of you, like a caught-in-the-act rustler wanting to do his neck stretches before the vigilantes hung him. Diana checked their feet, knew how to properly tape a sprain, covered hot spots with moleskin, and recognized problems before they became serious. Her large first-aid box was crammed with tape, Tuf-Skin, Cold Spray, an ice pack, Tylenol, Rolaids, elastic wraps, spare mouth guards, extra socks, shoelaces, and even a spare jockstrap, anticipating youth’s forgetfulness. Sam was grateful. He knew that an injury to one of his players would render their chances to win next to none, and it was comforting to have someone around who knew what she was doing.

  GRANDMA CHAPMAN SAW Denise Cutter in the red pickup parked in front of the D & D grocery store in Three Forks. Grandma climbed out of her VW bus and knocked on the partially frosted passenger window of the battered Ford. “Hello, Denise. Your mom shopping?”

  The girl turned her head and stared at Grandma with her summer-blue eyes. A thin string of drool hung from the corner of her mouth and soaked a spot on the shoulder strap that held her upright. She wore a brightly colored stocking cap and an oversized insulated jacket. Grandma opened the door and patted Denise’s mittened hand.

  “It’s nice to see you. You look beautiful this morning.”

  Denise made a sound in her throat and Grandma nodded.

  “I’ll catch your mom inside. See you later, sweetheart.”

  Grandma shut the truck door and cautiously shuffled across the icy sidewalk. She found Sally Cutter in the produce section and noticed the skimpy purchases in her basket. The aroma of ripe bananas hung in the market.

  “Morning, Sally.”

  Sally hadn’t seen Grandma coming and glanced up, wide-eyed. “Mornin’. Didn’t expect to see anyone today. Roads out our way are a fright.”

  “Talked to Denise. She looks so pretty today.”

  “Can’t leave her home alone.”

  Grandma noticed Sally’s weary face and realized she’d never seen this woman smile. Sally held on to the grocery cart and Grandma put her hand on Sally’s arm.

  “You doin’ all right? Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, thank you. Nothin’ anybody can do.”

  “Is it terribly hard for you taking care of Denise?”

  “It’s not the caring that’s hard.”

  “Is it the worry?”

  Sally looked into Grandma’s eyes with a plea for understanding. “It’s God’s way of punishing me.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “My girl is God’s way of punishing me.”

  Grandma moved back a step. “If he’d wanted to punish you, he’d have put you in the wheelchair.”

  “Ooh, nooo.” Sally’s face twisted. “Don’t you see? It’s much worse if it happens to your children.”

  “Why, I wouldn’t have anything to do with such a God,” Grandma said.

  “Don’t you believe that the father’s iniquity is passed down to the children and the children’s children?”

  “Not the way you’re meaning it.”

  “That’s what the Bible says.”

  “Sally, you can’t believe that God
struck down that precious child to punish you.”

  Sally Cutter gazed into Grandma’s eyes as if out of a torture chamber, a woman being consumed in the furnace of her own guilt.

  “I know exactly what I did,” the woman said, “and my baby has to pay for it.”

  A young woman with two bundled children in her shopping cart pushed down the narrow aisle. Grandma stepped aside and lowered her voice as the shopper and jabbering youngsters passed.

  “Well, I think you’ve got it all wrong. No one’s paying for anything here. That little darling is God’s gift to you, to all of us. You think about that. I won’t hold you up any longer; that little lamb will be freezing out in the truck.”

  Grandma squeezed Sally’s arm. She walked down the aisle and for a moment had forgotten what she had come for. All she could think of was what Sally could have done to believe she’d brought down that insufferable life sentence on her daughter’s head as well as her own.

  “PLEASE DON’T TELL anyone about Kathy’s letter,” Peter said one morning before school.

  “I wouldn’t do that, sweetheart,” Grandma said. “It’s nobody’s business. Besides, she could change her mind again this afternoon.”

  “I just don’t want the kids to know.” He picked up his basketball, then hurried out the door.

  Grandma held the door open and sent Tripod out. “Go on, catch up to him.”

  The tomcat bounded from the step and, in a lurching scamper, followed Peter in the morning’s reluctant light. In the front room, Grandma lifted the cover off Parrot’s cage.

  “Hairy old bitch,” he squawked.

  Peering up the street in the half-light, she could still see them halfway to school, Peter dribbling the basketball, left hand, right hand, left hand, right hand, with the three-legged cat draped on his shoulders. It was as though all the people Peter loved had Dear Johned him one way or another. It would be too painful to have his classmates know, to see him abandoned as though he were lost baggage no one came to claim. He assumed a sweetheart in Saint Paul gave him some measure of value in their eyes and therefore a scrap of self-respect in his own. And so her grandson went off to school to fake it with his peers and pretend he still had an affectionate and devoted girlfriend languishing for his return to Minnesota.