In the Shape of a Man

by Paul Clayton

  Fidel dribbled the ball forward. He knelt and conferred with Reynaldo again, showing him how to line up a shot. Reynaldo’s little body constricted then sprang. The ball shot up into a seemingly perfect arc, headed for the hoop, and then banged off the rim. Allen sighed. Reynaldo was too little. Give him a few years. What was the point?

  Fidel again took the ball and ran at the hoop. His face focused on victory, he dribbled expertly, evading an imaginary opponent, and shot. The ball sailed up and dropped neatly through the hoop. Fidel passed the ball to Reynaldo, who again began dribbling it forward. As Allen watched them, he thought sadly how Fidel and Reynaldo looked more like father and son than he and Reynaldo did. The realization was so stark and undeniable that he had to look away. He was forty-six. Reynaldo was eight. Fidel was probably thirty-one, maybe thirty-two, a more fitting age match. And their skin tones were the same attractive nut-brown shade. Allen went back under the shade of the arbor and helped himself to another beer. Tina came over and stood with him for a moment. The slap and squeak of Nike shoes echoed off the court. “Do you want anything, Hon?” Tina said.

  Allen no longer had an appetite. But before he could answer he heard David Wu shout loudly and excitedly, “All Right!”

  “Yeah!” Fidel shouted.

  Allen turned. Reynaldo was sitting on Fidel’s shoulders, Fidel holding Reynaldo’s ankles tightly. The little guy had evidently just sunk a shot from his new vantage. Fidel turned their way and waved. Reynaldo smiled, beaming with pride and excitement. Allen nodded encouragingly and took a pull at his beer to hide his pain at the sight. He thought if he had ever put Reynaldo on his own shoulders at home, Tina would freak out, complaining that it was too dangerous. As David Wu tossed the ball up to Reynaldo, Allen thought sadly how he never had the chance to play with Reynaldo like that. It seemed as if every time he wrestled with him on the rug or chased him playfully around the house, Tina immediately complained that Reynaldo might fall or that he was becoming too sweaty and might catch cold or that he was getting too excited and would have a hard time sleeping or that they might hurt Christine. Whatever. Tina would always find a reason to put a stop to it. Sometimes it seemed like she just didn’t want him and Reynaldo to have any fun together. He had thought at first that maybe Tina felt he didn’t play enough with Christine. But he did, sitting down with her and her dolls, reading to her on occasion. He loved Christine as much as any father loved his daughter. But no, there was something else going on with Tina about Reynaldo. Allen had always put it down to another of her idiosyncrasies. But now—watching Fidel running about with a squealing Reynaldo perched on his shoulders six feet above the concrete of the driveway—and hearing nothing out of Tina about it, he felt very bad.

  “Allen,” Dolores called over to him. “What do you want on your burger?” Allen suspected that Dolores had somehow picked up on his discomfort and pain while his own wife could not. He felt he had to get as far away from the basketball players as possible and so he went over to her. “Ketchup and onions.”

  Dolores handed him a burger on a bun on a paper plate. Allen thanked her and got himself some potato salad. He plodded over to the picnic table. Tina had wandered off again to talk to one of her other office friends. A few minutes later Fidel and David came over. Both men were sweating. Fidel lowered Reynaldo carefully to the ground. They exchanged high fives and Reynaldo ran out onto the lawn again. He and Christine and the other girl began kicking the basketball about, soccer fashion.

  Fidel looked at Allen. “He can sink them, man!” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a napkin. “With a little help in the height department, he can sink them.”

  Allen nodded. “Yeah. I saw that. Thanks a lot. He got a big kick out of it.”

  David pulled three bottles of beer from the tub, twisted the tops and handed one to Fidel and one to Allen. David took a long pull of his, then looked at it appreciatively. “Man, that’s good! I don’t usually drink. I hardly ever go to bars. But this stuff really hits the spot now.”

  “Yeah,” said Allen. “I’ve never been much on the bar scene either. But you know, I found this old fashioned Irish bar in an old hotel near the cemeteries. It’s called McCoy’s.”

  “I thought that place was torn down years ago,” David said.

  “No,” said Fidel, “the lumber and feed store next door got torn down. They were both part of the same complex, the oldest buildings in San Mateo County.”

  David Wu shook his head. “No. I’m pretty sure it was the bar.”

  Allen laughed. “I think Fidel’s right, David,” he said. “I mean, I don’t think I had that beer in the lumber and feed store…”

  David turned to Allen, his face serious.

  “David!” someone called, before he could respond.

  Dolores Castillo approached. “David, sorry to interrupt. But can you come over and talk about the reorganization? Tina says we’re going to start reporting to Cabral now. Is that right?”

  “Excuse me a minute,” David said to Allen and Fidel as he walked off with Dolores.

  On the ride home, Allen turned philosophical. Yes, he told himself, Fidel had bonded more with Reynaldo today than he had. But he would have lots more opportunities than Fidel. And at least now he had some ammunition for trying to convince Tina to give Reynaldo more leash. Allen had long felt that the notes Reynaldo brought home from school for not staying in his seat, for talking out loud and all his other little misbehaviors at home, like drilling holes in the wood of his desk, or taking candy—all of it stemmed from his not having an outlet for his energy. Sometimes it seemed as if Tina expected Reynaldo to behave like Christine. Christine was perfectly okay with staying indoors all day and playing quietly with her dolls or watching TV. But Reynaldo needed to get out and run around, to burn up his boyish energy. Then he would be able to focus better on his schoolwork. Allen decided he would work on Tina in another few days.

  Allen turned down Skyview. He looked over at 1030 as they rolled past. Raggedy Anne and Andy sat on their front steps. Allen had just received a letter back from the city with the address of the house’s owners. He made a mental note to write them tonight. They had to get their tenants to fix the place up and get the truck off the front yard. As Allen was about to turn away, he noticed that for the first time that he could recall, Andy did not have a skateboard under his arm as if he were fourteen years old, instead of twenty-six or twenty-eight or whatever the hell he was. Allen pulled the van over in front of his own house.

  Chapter 10

  The office of Joel Beckett, psychologist, was on Lombard Street, one of the trendiest neighborhoods in San Francisco. After Allen parked the car he walked down the block, reading the addresses. The office was next to a hairdressing salon and Allen got a nose full of the pungent nostrums women used to take the spine out of their hair and bend it to their will. The house was one of those fine old wooden Victorians that San Francisco was famous for. But instead of housing only one wealthy family as in the old days, it had been subdivided into about a half dozen offices, indicated by the number of names on the brass plates mounted on the exterior. Allen punched the number Joel had given him into the keypad. A buzzer sounded and he pushed the door open. He slowly climbed up a steep flight of stairs. Joel had told him to be here at ten. It was twenty till.

  The waiting room was as somber and serious as one in a Catholic rectory, with stucco walls painted ivory white and lots of dark genuine mahogany woodwork, probably logged out of central Asia a hundred years earlier and brought over on clipper ships. There were six offices, all of their doors framed with thick mahogany timbers, as was the lone window, which was set with stained glass and opened onto a light shaft. Allen sat on one of the four chairs and thumbed through an old copy of Architectural Digest. He noted the painted-over, capped iron pipe coming out of the wall about head high, no doubt an old gaslight had been mounted there a hundred years earlier. A few feet from where Allen sat, a small electrical device that looked like a space heater, hissed
steadily. One of the office doors opened suddenly and a man Allen’s age exited quickly, nervously avoiding eye contact. A moment later a woman who Allen assumed to be one of the therapists emerged and rummaged through some mail and magazines in the drawer of a small table. She smiled primly as she took her mail back into her office. As Allen settled back again, he looked over at the little heater on the floor, wondering why they would have a heater turned on today. He placed his hand next to it and felt no rush of warm air as it hissed steadily. He realized it was a noise generator, white noise, to mask the exchanges going on in the offices.

  The door to another office opened and a woman exited hurriedly, leaving the door open. Dressed in running sweats, with unkempt hair and sallow skin, she appeared troubled and angry as she rushed toward the stairs, looking as if she’d knock over anyone who got in her way. After she’d gone, a handsome, elderly man appeared in the doorway and smiled. “Allen?” he said.

  Allen nodded and got to his feet.

  “I’m Joel Beckett. Come in.”

  Allen sat in a plush armchair across a glass-topped desk from Joel. The office was, for the most part, simple and business-like, with a polished wooden floor, framed degrees and licenses, and what looked like eighteenth century panoramas on two walls. Behind Joel, an array of African totem masks crowded the wall. Allen suspected that they had more to do with Joel’s field than with any interest he may have had in art.

  Joel interlaced his fingers and put his arms behind his head. “Well, I don’t have to ask you what brought you here. You’ve already told me about your depression.”

  Allen nodded, not knowing how to begin. Joel seemed to be waiting for him. “Did you have children?” Allen asked him.

  Joel nodded. “A son and daughter.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Allen said, “how old are you?”

  Joel smiled. “Seventy one. And you?”

  “Forty-six.”

  Joel nodded, waiting again. Allen noticed a picture on the desk of an attractive woman who appeared to be about thirty-five or forty. “Is that your daughter?”

  Joel shook his head. “Sheila. My girlfriend. We live together.” He smiled. “We really should have another word for such relationships. My wife died twenty years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Allen.

  Joel smiled. He swiveled his chair to the side, pulling open a drawer. He took out a small photo album and leaned across the desk to show Allen a picture of himself dressed in a suit, flanked by a young man and woman at some sort of function. “My son’s graduation. He’s a doctor now.”

  Allen nodded. He felt a little awkward at having asked, but he also felt a certain relief. He wanted to talk to someone who had raised children successfully, someone that knew what the hell they were talking about, not just on an intellectual level, but from their own experience. “I have a son and a daughter too,” Allen said.

  Joel nodded. “You told me.”

  “Yeah. My son is adopted.”

  Joel nodded, waiting for him to go on.

  “One of the things that’s been bothering me is the way my wife obsesses over my kids, especially my son.”

  Joel knitted his brows.

  “I’ve tried to get her to lighten up, to give him more leash, but you know how women are.”

  Joel raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean? How are they?”

  “You know how it goes, when it comes to the house, you know, where to hang the pictures, where to put the couch, women call the shots.”

  Joel said nothing.

  “She’s kind of, you know, the chief disciplinarian too, when it comes to the kids.”

  “What do you mean?” said Joel. “There’s no abuse, is there?”

  Allen shook his head and frowned at the word. He’d heard horror stories about parents who’d had their kids taken away from them by Child Protective Services just for spanking them. Tina was strict, but she wasn’t abusive, at least he didn’t think so. But some of these extreme CPS types might disagree. And if they did, would they try to take Reynaldo from them? Maybe even Christine? The thought was chilling. “No,” he said, he hoped not too quickly, “it’s not that. She’s just, sort-of controlling. You know, she insists on what to dress them in, what to feed them. When it comes to stuff like that, women rule the roost.”

  “Not in all cases.”

  “I know, I know,” said Allen nervously, “but isn’t that the rule, in most cases, so to speak?”

  “In most cases, there is a division of responsibilities, that’s true. But in functional marriages there is agreement about these things. Have you discussed your concerns with your wife?”

  “A little, but… she doesn’t seem to want to discuss it. Sometimes I think it might be cultural. I told you she wasn’t born here. She’s from Mexico.”

  Joel frowned. “Go on.”

  “Well,” said Allen, “maybe down there the men don’t get involved in the child rearing as much. I don’t know. But anyway, why won’t she let him do anything? You know, soccer, basketball?”

  Joel’s voice was calm and reassuring. “I know a few people from that part of the world and I don’t think this has anything to do with her culture. She’s obviously worried about him.”

  Allen sighed in seeming exasperation, but he was actually reassured by Joel’s statement that Tina was worried about Reynaldo. “Yeah, more like obsessed.”

  Joel didn’t seem to be concerned. “Well, Allen, you’ll just have to work on her a little more. Until you can get her to come in with you, we’ll have to come up with some strategies to help allay her fears.”

  Allen nodded. He found Joel’s ‘take charge’ words flattering and he felt encouraged. He went on, “in every other respect, though, I think we’ve got a pretty good marriage, better than most, I suspect. Tina’s a good homemaker. We have a very tidy house and she’s very loyal. And we have a decent sex life.”

  Joel nodded and smiled. “That’s always good.”

  “Anyway,” said Allen, “that’s not the only thing that’s been getting to me lately.”

  Joel waited patiently for him to go on.

  “The neighborhood I live in is going downhill a little I think.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, one of the homeowners moved out and rented their house to a couple of lowlifes. Now the place looks like God’s Little Acre, only instead of bib overalls and corncob pipes, we got purple hair and nose rings.

  Joel laughed and Allen felt better.

  “And my job is starting to get to me. My boss is an ass.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a screamer, you know, dressing down his people in front of everybody, that sort of thing.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Ten years.”

  “Any chance of changing companies?”

  Allen frowned. “No. Our industry is in a down period now.”

  “Umm,” said Joel. “Well, Allen, you’ve got a lot of issues we can work on. Let’s try and prioritize them and work from there.”

  Forty five minutes later, when Allen got up from the chair, he felt rested and reassured. After they’d talked, Joel had had him count backwards, putting him in some kind of relaxed state.

  Joel showed him to the door.

  Chapter 11

  Rad sat in the bowels of the big, reticulated number 292 SamTrans bus as it roared and rumbled along Bayshore Boulevard. It was Saturday morning and Tawny was working at the mall. She never missed Saturdays because that was when she made almost fifty percent of her money. Thoughts of Tawny took Rad back to the house and that phone call. He could still hear Raines’ voice as he blithely informed him that he hadn’t made the cut. All the work he’d done on the board over the years, all his hopes and dreams, meant nothing. Neither did the fact that he was probably, according to Raines, who should know, the best skater who had submitted a tape. Despite that, it was no dice. No sale. Nada. At the time Rad had felt like telling Raines to go f
uck himself, or putting his fist through the wall. Then later, he lamely thought of re-registering for classes at Ridgeline and getting his construction certificate. Then at least he would have some kind of goal. And when he graduated and went to work he could make some decent money. Working for whom, though? Not his dad. So whom? He frowned. But it didn’t matter in the end because he’d been so pissed and depressed he’d never even put his application in at school. And then he’d started putting all his spare time into this new thing—helping to save San Bruno Mountain.

  Bayshore Boulevard had been carved into the side of San Bruno Mountain. As the bus climbed the mountain, Rad looked down on Highway 101. 101 had been built in the fifties and used to be the major north/south artery in California. Now the newer I-5, about 50 miles east, claimed that title, but 101 still carried a lot of traffic, especially commuter traffic between Silicon Valley and San Francisco. Rad watched the cars and trucks flowing along the freeway below like logs in a log flume. He used to use these Saturdays to practice his stuff on the skateboard. Most times he’d take it into San Francisco to the Embarcadero. It was gnarly and usually the cops didn’t bother you. And he drew a small crowd of regular watchers and wannabes. Tawny would meet him there about six and then they’d take a bus out to the Mission District to eat a Mexican dinner.

  Rad looked at his watch. He figured he’d finish up with his Friends of San Bruno Mountain business and be back home by one or two. He wondered what he’d do till Tawny got home. He yawned. Maybe he’d take a nap. He’d gotten up way early to make this meeting and now he was growing sleepy. He looked out the window again at the San Francisco Bay stretching blue and bright in the morning sunlight all the way out to the east bay communities of Alameda and San Lorenzo. Rad took the Friends of San Bruno Mountain brochure from his pocket and read it again. The presentation and tour started at 10:00. According to the bus schedule, the 292 would drop him off at Guadalupe Parkway at 9:38. Then he would have to walk a little over a mile uphill to get there. He didn’t think he’d have any problem making it on time.