Before the Ever After

by Jacqueline Woodson

Let’s call it a day,

  rubbing his hand over his face like he was

  the most tired man in the world.

  Like he knew all the takes in the world

  weren’t going to make this thing right.

  Good Days

  Daddy works slow, making a fire in the fireplace.

  I’m sitting on one side of him,

  Mom standing on the other like she’s afraid

  he’ll set the house on fire. But he doesn’t

  because today’s a good day. His smile

  is his same old Daddy smile

  and from where he’s crouched on the floor, he reaches over,

  hugs Mom’s legs, tells her she’s Day One Beautiful.

  Pretty as the first time I saw you,

  he says. At that crazy party Sightman threw. Bet you can’t

  remember the song I asked you to dance to.

  And Mom smiles, because she sees it too—

  that old Daddy look

  in his eyes. His headache gone. His memory home again.

  Tell me, she says. Because maybe you’re right.

  Maybe I don’t remember.

  And Daddy laughs, says

  I guess the night wasn’t so special for you.

  “I Wanna Dance with Somebody,” I say. That old Whitney Houston song.

  Now the fire’s crackling

  and Daddy puts the grate over it.

  Sparks jump out,

  glow bright orange, then fade again.

  The three of us watch it.

  That was a good song, Daddy says into the fire.

  We had some good times, didn’t we?

  And Mom nods, kneels to put her arms around his neck,

  stares into the fire and smiles.

  Apple from the Tree

  A week passes. And then another one.

  A blizzard comes. And on a snow day I write a song.

  I am sitting at the window singing when Daddy joins me,

  still in pajamas but shaved and smiling.

  So you’re writing ballads now? he says, grinning.

  You’re one of those sensitive musicians, huh?

  The song is about the snow, how softly it falls,

  and it’s about other things too. Things I haven’t

  figured out yet.

  You’re becoming one of those Rufus Wainwright kinda brothers.

  Mom looks over from reading the newspaper and laughs.

  Says Well, Mr. Tree, meet your son, Apple.

  Because Rufus Wainwright

  is one of my dad’s favorite singers.

  Just sing this part, I say, handing him the notebook with the lyrics in it.

  Be my backup.

  Your backup, huh?

  He takes the notebook from me,

  listens to me sing a minute, then joins in.

  Everybody knows that they don’t know the story.

  Everybody knows that snow knows its glory.

  And when it’s melting, the rivers run down,

  run down through the town.

  And if I had my dream, it would stay as fine as it is today.

  It would stay this way. Please stay this way.

  My dad stops singing and looks at me.

  Then, still holding my notebook, he says You got talent, ZJ,

  his voice breaking. Then he hugs me so hard

  it almost hurts but doesn’t

  because it’s all cushioned up by his words

  and by the proud look I see flash across his face,

  a look I remember from a long, long time ago.

  Birthday

  Today is Daddy’s thirty-fifth birthday.

  There’re balloons all over the dining room.

  Blue and gold streamers hanging down from the lights.

  A papier-mâché mountain in the living room.

  I made it from old newspapers,

  painted it green and brown

  and drew OVER THE HILL in bright gold letters around it.

  Soon a taxi will be pulling up with both my grandmothers

  and my daddy’s older sister,

  who I call Auntie Nan.

  Soon the house will be filled with people I’ve known forever.

  It’s been over a year since his last football game.

  I am sitting at the window

  trying not to listen to Mama talking

  to Uncle Sightman’s wife, Kim,

  but I hear them anyway,

  hear the way Mama’s voice drops down.

  He has his good days. And then he’s someone else.

  And then it’s him again.

  Day to day, I don’t know which Zachariah I’m getting.

  Hear Kim cluck her tongue, say

  Um-hmmm and I hear you and Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.

  Sightman’s one of the lucky ones, Kim says.

  But every time I turn around, seems another player

  is struggling like Zachariah.

  I stare out over the yard,

  trying not to think about Kim’s words.

  When the ball was still made of pigskin

  all those years ago, did players still

  hurt like this? Did their brains get messed up

  like this? Did they come back from over the hill

  or stay on the other side?

  Invite List

  We didn’t invite a whole ton of people to the party.

  We didn’t invite the people we don’t see anymore,

  the ones who used to fill up our house,

  their wineglasses clinking,

  their laughter echoing through the rooms. The ones

  who, one by one, stopped coming around to see Daddy.

  We didn’t invite the people who called Mama saying

  they would come by sometime and see what we needed,

  then didn’t.

  Didn’t invite the people who talked to the press

  and said things like

  He’s not the same Zachariah Johnson

  and

  I doubt he’ll ever play again

  and

  I hear he’s gotten violent

  and—

  We didn’t invite the people who stopped inviting us over

  for dinner, for brunch, for their own parties.

  We invited the people who keep coming around,

  the few friends who ask How are y’all doing and wait

  for our honest answers.

  The Party

  I sit on the cushions in the window seat

  watching people arrive, hoping

  my boys show up. But each time a car

  pulls into the driveway

  it isn’t them.

  First a bunch of the guys Dad played football with,

  their thick necks and shoulders,

  their size fourteen shoes and too-tight dress shirts.

  And their wives, who are all dressed up pretty,

  their long hair tossing over their shoulders, their

  high heels clicking across the floor.

  All of them oohing and aahing

  the decorations, the food, the lights, the bar.

  All of them saying again

  and again Everything looks so lovely and asking

  How are you all holding up and

  Zachariah 44—man! You looking good!

  I keep watching the window,

  waiting for my boys to show up.

  But no bikes roll up. No taxis with one of them inside.

  No mom or dad dropping anybody off in front.

  Not even Bernadette alone.

  My mom hired people to take coats an
d serve

  glasses of champagne.

  The server people wear all black

  and stand holding their trays of glasses

  with one hand, the other one behind their backs.

  Football players, managers

  and some people who wrote nice things

  about my dad for newspapers and magazines.

  Even his old tailor who one time made me and my dad

  matching suits that we wore to some awards dinner

  in New York City.

  Feels like a long time ago,

  when everybody we met wanted an autograph or

  to shake my daddy’s hand,

  take a picture with him, ask again and again and again

  if I was a football player too.

  It’s cold tonight. From here, I can see the moon.

  Bright. Full. A thousand moons old.

  Then just as I’m climbing down from the window seat,

  giving up on my boys coming, Ollie skids up on his bike.

  Takes off his helmet, says

  My mom’s too busy getting herself all cute to be on time.

  I had to leave her.

  And right behind him come Daniel and Darry,

  pulling up in Darry’s mom’s car,

  running toward the house, yelling

  Let’s get this party started, y’all.

  My smile is the whole moon.

  That bright.

  That big.

  After Midnight

  After midnight, the music slows down

  and the grown-ups lean into each other to slow dance.

  Me and Ollie are the last two of the Fantastic Four

  left at the party.

  We sit on the couch, drinking soda and eating cake.

  My dad’s had a good night. He’s hugging Mama from behind,

  his chin on her shoulder, his eyes closed.

  They’re both smiling.

  Even though she started the party off wearing high heels,

  she’s barefoot now.

  So is Bernadette and some of the other ladies.

  Then Ollie gets up and starts swaying to the music,

  his eyes closed, his arms out like

  he’s hugging someone. Only thing is, the way he’s dancing,

  you can believe that he really is.

  When he lifts his arm up and lets his invisible partner spin beneath it

  the way some of the grown-ups are doing,

  I laugh so hard, soda sprays out of my nose and burns.

  Then Ollie is laughing too. But he keeps on dancing.

  He just keeps on dancing.

  Football

  I got Ollie!

  We’re on the field pulling sides for a pickup game.

  It’s my daddy’s football, so I get first choosing.

  There’s a dude named Everett who’s in eighth grade,

  way bigger than any of us, and I know it’s because

  he was in eighth grade last year too!

  I got Randy, Everett says.

  I got Daniel.

  I got Sam.

  I got Darry.

  I got Jet. And it doesn’t matter who I got, Everett says.

  We’re gonna crush y’all anyway.

  Blah, blah, blah, Darry says. He’s standing

  next to me now.

  Besides being fast,

  Darry’s got a good throwing arm,

  and me, I can catch.

  But I’m still too skinny

  to do much more than that.

  Ollie’s good at all of it. And Daniel’s pretty good too.

  Everett, he likes to tackle even though

  we’re supposed to be playing two-hand touch.

  So my only real job

  is staying out of his way.

  But at the 20-yard line, I lift my arm to throw the ball

  the way I’ve seen my dad do a thousand times

  the way he’s always told me to do.

  Get the wind under it, ZJ, my daddy said.

  Use every single muscle you got to send it flying.

  Love the game, my daddy used to say to me.

  Love the game!

  But I don’t love it.

  And maybe that’s why

  before the ball leaves my hand, Everett is on me

  and I’m going down, tasting snow and dirt and spit

  and something else too.

  Blood.

  Everett gets up off of me.

  Sees me put my hand to my mouth

  sees my hand come away with blood on it.

  Sorry, dude, he says, reaching to help me up.

  It’s nothing, bruh, I say back. Just football.

  I wipe the blood from my lips.

  Check to make sure none of my teeth are loose.

  Let Everett pull me to my feet and keep on playing.

  Then I think about my daddy again,

  and without saying a word to anyone,

  without even taking my ball back from them,

  I walk off the field.

  Swearing this time it’ll be forever.

  Everett

  Yo, Everett says, catching me up in the boys’ room.

  Yo back, I say. My lip is a little swollen.

  Inside my mouth, I can feel some ripped skin

  where my tooth dug in. Doesn’t hurt, though.

  Just tastes and feels weird.

  I look in the bathroom mirror, pull my lip down to see.

  Sorry about that, Everett says.

  You don’t understand touch, obviously.

  I do, Everett says. Tackle’s more fun, though.

  Then he just stands there, looking at me.

  So your daddy used to be a football star.

  Yeah.

  How come he don’t play anymore?

  I shrug, wash my hands and, since

  there aren’t any paper towels,

  dry them on my jeans.

  Cuz he got tackled one too many times, I say.

  Everett blinks. Then says That’s not a reason, son.

  You got a better one?

  Everett shrugs. He looks a little bit stung

  and I know this thing.

  He doesn’t want me to be mad at him.

  He wants me to be his friend.

  He wants Zachariah Johnson’s son to be his friend.

  I’m gonna go pro one day, Everett says.

  Make that money. Live that dream.

  He has my dad’s same broad shoulders,

  same light-brown skin and too-big hands.

  Maybe in another life

  he could have been my daddy’s son.

  Or my dad as a kid, dreaming football dreams.

  We don’t know the reason, I say after a minute passes.

  His head’s just not right anymore.

  I hope it gets better, Everett says.

  And from the way he’s looking at me,

  I know he means it.

  Thanks.

  I walk out of the bathroom.

  Put my damp hands in my pockets.

  I hear the bell ringing and walk slow to science

  while kids run and bump against me to get

  where they’re going.

  His head’s just not right anymore.

  I’m gonna go pro one day.

  We don’t know the reason.

  I hope it gets better.

  The words move around in my head.

  Sounding heavy

  and hard

  and forever.

  Waiting

  We’re always waiting.

  Waiting for another
doctor.

  Waiting for more tests. Waiting for test results.

  Waiting for new treatments.

  We’re waiting for an appointment for a thing called an MRI,

  where a machine looks at my dad’s brain to see

  if there’s a tumor there.

  We’re waiting to see if getting a thing called

  acupuncture works. Waiting to try a thing called

  a hyperbaric oxygen chamber. Waiting to see if

  meditation can help his hands stop shaking.

  These things take time, the doctors say again and again.

  These things take time—like an awful chorus

  to a really bad song.

  Then, early Sunday morning, in the first week of spring,

  my daddy comes downstairs

  and he’s dressed and he’s whistling a tune he hasn’t whistled in a long time.

  I’m sitting in the window seat, softly strumming my guitar.

  I woke up with a song in my head this morning,

  little man.

  He sits across from me, hands me the pad that’s filled with so many of our songs

  and says

  You ready to get to writing?

  I take the pad and pen from him.

  Open it to the back,

  where there are still some blank pages.

  Look up at him and smile because,

  at least for today,

  maybe the waiting is over.

  Jazz

  Music turned way down low

  always makes my daddy smile.

  I wish I could sing like that, he says.

  We’re listening to a lady named Minnie Riperton sing

  a song called “Memory Lane,” her voice

  getting high and holding notes

  for so long, it feels like my chest is gonna break open.

  Somebody needs to sing me a song like that all the time,

  my daddy says.

  Mama is sitting across from him.

  She has her feet up on a stool and he’s rubbing them,

  his big hands

  moving gently from her toes to her heel.

  She has her eyes closed

  and is smiling.

  Everything feels real clear now, my daddy says. Feels like

  some kind of blanket

  just lifted off my head.

  Then he turns, sees me and says

  Come over here with us, little man.

  I come closer, sit on the arm of his chair.

  The living room window looks out over the side yard