by T. D. Jakes
Even in her worst moments, Clarice couldn’t remember anything about those first few years but the heady excitement of learning to know another human being—body, soul, and heart. They couldn’t get enough of each other. When David started to talk about wanting his own business, Clarice was delighted. He could do more for the community, he said. He could still work with kids in his spare time, and with his own business he could provide jobs and self-respect for people who might not be able to work somewhere else. It was just like coaching, only with adults instead of kids, he said. He was excited, and his excitement was contagious, despite the risks of starting a business.
It was about then that Clarice began to wonder if she was pursuing her own potential in the right way. She had a good job at the bank and she enjoyed the respect of her supervisors and those she oversaw, but she also had the feeling she was capable of more. One day, she was the officer on duty when a local Realtor came in. The tellers were on break, so Clarice offered to take the woman’s deposit. She was a good customer, after all; she and Clarice knew each other by name.
When Clarice saw the size of the check the woman was depositing, something clicked in her head. After work that day, she made a phone call to the Realtor. That led to more phone calls and eventually to the woman sponsoring Clarice to study for and obtain her Realtor’s license.
And David had backed her all the way. He was all for anybody realizing his or her potential, and he was her biggest cheerleader . . . right up until about five years ago.
It wasn’t as if Clarice had never thought about having children; what woman hadn’t? But right now just didn’t seem the right time. Her career was starting to really take off. She didn’t think David had any idea of her earning potential over the next few years. What kind of opportunities they could give a child if he’d just let her wait until the time was right. But she didn’t think David saw that.
She flipped a few magazine pages with a quick, slapping motion. No, David had decided her potential had more to do with making a baby than with being an equal partner in the financial future of their home. He could talk that sweet talk, all right, but when it came down to it, he wanted what he wanted, much like any other man. Mama was right about that, anyway: A man was fine and good until he wanted something different than you. And then you better look out, girl.
Clarice had no intention of being blindsided. Broken leg or not, she was far from helpless.
Chapter Five
I don’t know, Brock. She’s got something stuck in her head and I don’t know what it’ll take to get it out, or if it’ll come out at all.” Dave took a pull at his Gatorade and shook his head.
Brock checked his rearview mirror, pulled onto the freeway ramp, and headed for Eastside and their Tuesday evening ball practice. “I don’t know what to tell you, man,” Brock said. “I guess this is one of the reasons I never got married.”
“You just never found the right woman,” Dave said, “mainly ’cause any time a woman takes a second look at you, you start trying to figure out what’s wrong with her.”
“Well, can you blame me? Would you go out with me?”
“Naw, man, you not my type. Too tall.”
“So . . . did you find the right woman?”
Dave took another swig of Gatorade. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Clarice is the only woman I ever really wanted, and I got her. Now if I could just figure out what to do with her. She makes me so mad sometimes, I just want to—”
“Aw, Dave, you guys’ll work it out. You and Clarice belong together. Believe it. Blue punch buggy, no punch-back,” he said, tapping Dave on the shoulder as a blue VW Beetle going the opposite direction passed them.
“Where, man? There wasn’t no—aw, there it is. I don’t know how you see those things all the time.”
“Concentration, my brother. Pure concentration.”
Dave picked up his glove from the seat beside him and started popping his fist into the well-oiled palm.
“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” Brock said.
“Work the 6–4–3 double play and try to get George to keep his raggedy little tailgate down when he’s fielding a ground ball.”
“What about the outfield?”
“About three dozen fly balls apiece, with two hands on the glove every time. You heard anything on Carlos’s daddy?”
“No, I called my buddy down at the DA’s, but he hasn’t come up for arraignment yet.”
“If that kid’s got any heart left, this’ll break it.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. That sorry so-and-so can’t even remember how many promises he’s made that kid. But he always goes back on them.”
“I heard that. Well, we just gotta keep him from thinking too much about it, at least for tonight.”
Brock exited in an area where the freeway was lined on both sides with run-down warehouses and even more run-down tenements. They practiced in a park mostly frequented by crackheads and gangbangers, but for some reason the local thugs thought Dave’s Little League team was cool. He only had to get physical one time, early on, with a fat-mouth high school scrub who didn’t know Dave specialized in pulling the hold card on would-be gangstas. After that, things were usually peaceful—except for the inevitable flare-ups that happened when you got a bunch of tough little homies together in a competitive situation.
The kids were waiting for them where they always did, in a loose group gathered by the rusty chain-link backstop. They pulled up and Dave got out and opened the door to pull the equipment bag out of the backseat.
“Yo, Coach, what happened to the pickup?” somebody asked.
“Somebody tried to drive through it last week,” Dave said. “I had to catch a ride with Coach Brock.”
“Say, Coach, when can I show you my curveball?”
“About the time I say your arm is grown enough to be throwin’ it, Jaylen,” Dave said.
“Aw man, Coach, I been workin’ on it, man.”
“Mmm-hmm, and I been workin’ on ways to make you ride the pine for about a month if you keep messing with me.”
“Ooh, boy, he told you.”
“Ta-DOW!”
“Mmm, I heard me some of that.”
“Everybody line up at home for wind sprints,” Brock said. This was greeted by a chorus of groans and complaints.
“I know ya’ll not fixing to dog it on these sprints,” Dave called, “’cause that would mean we run sprints till this time tomorrow. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”
The boys quieted and lined up. Brock carried the second-base bag out to the point of the diamond, pegged it into the ground, stood on it, raised his hand above his head, then dropped it. The boys took off with a sound like a bunch of people shaking the dust out of some old quilts. As usual, Darius, a wiry kid with a natural that was always leaking out from under whatever cap he was wearing, reached second before anybody else, and the slightly tubby Marcus chugged in last, puffing like somebody finishing a half-mile straight uphill. Fortunately for Marcus, he was also the tallest kid on the team, which landed him the first-base spot. He didn’t generally need much speed to handle his duties there. They lined up facing home and took off when Brock dropped his arm again.
“Marcus, if you don’t beat somebody on one of these sprints, I may have to put a dress on you,” Dave said. “Now ya’ll turn around again and run to second like you mean something.”
By the time they’d run the boys for five minutes, most traces of wisecracking and trash talking had faded into a chorus of panting and wheezing. When even Darius was resting with his hands on his knees between sprints, Dave decided it was time to get started.
“I want the outfielders in center; Coach Brock’s going to hit you fly balls. I told him to run anybody who doesn’t keep both hands on the glove until the ball’s in the pocket. Jaylen, you and Malcolm go over there and start throwing. I want Marcus on first, James on second, George at short, Darius on third. We’re going to work on double plays.”
For the next half
hour Dave alternated between tapping grounders to the infielders and talking to them about turning the shortstop-second-first double play. Just to keep it interesting, he also drilled George on covering second when the ball was hit to the second baseman.
“George, keep your rear down till the ball’s in your glove, boy! How many times I got to tell you? You got a way better chance of catching a grounder on the chin when you poking at it like a bug. Stay down on the ball, you hear me?”
He ended by hitting the ball randomly around the infield, calling out the play just before making contact. He had Darius scoop the ball and step on the third base bag for a forced out, then pivot and make the throw to first. He had Marcus come off the bag and field the ball, then turn and throw to James, who was covering first. He had George field a ball hit between second and third, then make the throw to James at second, who turned and completed the play to Marcus at first.
After a while, he whistled in Brock and the outfielders and sent them all to line up at the drinking fountain behind the backstop.
“Water break, then BP,” he said. “Malcolm, get a drink and then suit up. You’re catching me first today.”
Dave watched them as they jockeyed for position around the drinking fountain. For some of the boys, these practices and games were the only time of the week when they were part of something both constructive and bigger than themselves. Eastside didn’t have much in the way of facilities even at the high school level, much less the elementary and junior high schools these boys attended. And the academic challenges faced by many of the kids, coupled with the state’s no-pass, no-play policy, meant fielding a decent team for any sport could be a real problem.
But Little Leaguers didn’t have to worry so much about all that. Out here, the boys could forget, for a little while, about school, about the uncertainties of life in the mean streets where they lived, about everything except making a clean catch, picking off the lead runner, keeping their eyes on the ball and listening to what Dave told them to do. No matter how hardheaded some of these little brothers were, they all knew Dave and Brock were here because they cared—about baseball and about them. And that was as good a place to start as any.
“All right, gentlemen, I want everybody in the infield who was just there, and Deshawn, Carlos, and Tim in the outfield. We’ll rotate in to bat. Malcolm, you got your gear on? Jaylen, you’re up first, my man.”
Dave pitched batting practice, and Brock backed up Malcolm behind the plate. He also acted as umpire.
“Come on, Jaylen! That was right over the fat part of the plate. What are you waiting for, an invitation?”
“Aw, come on, Coach Brock, man, that ball was high.”
“Sure, if you’re two feet tall. You gotta take your cuts, man.”
When they’d started the team, most of the boys’ ideas about technique were limited to what they’d learned from playing street ball with a can and a stick. It was good to see them getting more balanced at the plate, more selective and controlled in their swings.
Dave threw to the first five batters, then came to the plate to replace Malcolm, who was getting out of his catcher’s gear to take his batting practice. Brock took a turn on the mound, and then Dave let Jaylen throw to several batters.
By the time all the boys had taken a turn at the plate and in the field, the sun was nearing the tops of the apartment buildings on the west side of the park. Dave called them all in to home plate and had them gather the equipment and put it all in the green canvas equipment bag.
“All right, gentlemen, circle up here, circle up. Everybody get a hand in. Everybody in? All right. We had a good practice today, and I’m proud of each one of you. I want you to go home, do your homework”—he paused to allow the groans to subside—“listen to your folks, and stay out of trouble. I’ll see ya’ll back out here Thursday afternoon, same time. Anybody know why Jamal wasn’t here today?”
“He got in trouble at school. His mama kept him home,” somebody said.
“All right, well, I’ll find out more about that later. Remember, games start in two weeks, so we got to get down to business out here every time. Ya’ll understand what I’m saying? Now, on three, I want a big yell for the Hawks, and then I think Coach Brock got something for ya’ll in his trunk. Ready? One, two, three, ‘Go, Hawks!’”
The boys screamed “Hawks” at the top of their lungs and then made a mad dash toward Brock’s car, hollering like a mob of marauders. Brock opened the trunk and handed out cans of soft drinks and candy bars from an ice-filled chest. For a bunch of streetwise little toughs, these boys carried on like it was Christmas; it was the same scene every time Dave and Brock handed out the end-of-practice treats. It was one sign that told Dave there were real kids inside those hard little shells they wore all the time.
By the time Brock dropped him off at home, Dave was coming down from the emotional high he always got from a good practice. He waved to Brock as his friend backed out of the driveway, then carried the equipment bag into the garage, dropping it just inside. He went in the door that led from the garage to the kitchen.
“Reesie? Where you at, girl?”
He looked in the living room. The television was on, but she wasn’t on the couch in front of it. “Reesie?”
He heard the sound of clicking keys coming from the den. Dave walked in and found his wife staring at the computer screen.
“Hey, Shorty. What you doing?”
“Just . . . looking . . . for something . . .”
He came around and tried to look at the screen, but she quickly tapped two keys and the Web site she’d been browsing disappeared. She started pushing herself away from the workstation, reaching for her crutches.
“What was it, Reesie?”
“Nothing, David. Really. Did you get something to eat?”
He looked at her for a few seconds. What was she trying to hide from him?
“No, I just now walked in. You want something? Fix you a sandwich?”
“I’m not hungry. Sitting around all day doesn’t give you much of an appetite.”
He didn’t miss the hint of irritation in her words. “Well, I’m going to go grab something, okay? Sure you don’t want anything?”
She shook her head and swung past him into the living room. He watched her navigate to the couch, then hop on one foot as she positioned herself to sit. She settled into the cushions, her back to him, and aimed a remote at the screen.
Dave went into the kitchen and scanned the contents of the refrigerator. “I did some calling today, Reesie, while I was at work. Got in touch with some of those physical therapy people the hospital told us about. Asked about when you needed to start, what you needed to do, that kind of thing.”
He waited to see if she’d respond to his lead, but all he heard was the muted chatter of the television.
He got out some bread and meat, then reached for lettuce and tomatoes. As he squeezed mayo out onto one of his bread slices, he looked over his shoulder at Clarice. She was sitting on the couch and staring at the television, but her face hinted that her mind was somewhere else.
He thought about what he’d heard from the various physical therapists he’d talked to. Of course, none of them would give him many specifics without having a chance to see Clarice and learn more about her condition. But one thing was sure: recovering from a fracture of the type she’d received wasn’t something anybody was taking lightly. Clarice could talk all she wanted about getting up and around in no time, but the professionals were saying months, not weeks. Still, the way she looked right now, it wasn’t the time to tell her that.
He put the finishing touches on his sandwich and poured some tea into a glass. Dave thought about eating on the couch next to his wife, but he decided to sit at the kitchen counter instead. He was tired; he didn’t need the burden of her silence to go with his supper.
Julie looked at the telephone log sheet. The name of one of the call-ins was familiar to her for some reason. Johnson . . . Dave Johnson . . . she coul
dn’t place it, but she knew the name from somewhere, that was for sure. The caller had requested information about therapy for a broken leg sustained in an automobile accident.
Johnson! Dave and Clarice Johnson from church; that’s it. Julie remembered when the accident was announced and the pastor had asked them to pray for Clarice’s speedy healing. The Johnsons sat closer to the front than she, and it was a big church, so it wasn’t really any wonder she’d never run into them before. They were a nice-looking couple, Julie remembered. Clarice in particular always looked like she’d just stepped off the pages of Vogue; she wore the most interesting hats Julie had ever seen. They had a lot of friends at church, Julie guessed; they seemed to be the sort of folks who met people easily.
On a whim, Julie decided to follow up. Hey, if this place was cutting back on hours, it couldn’t hurt to bring in more business, right? She looked at the number listed in the log and started dialing.
On the second ring, somebody answered. “All-Pro Janitorial. May I help you?”
“Hi, um, this is Julie Sawyer at All-Saints’ Hospital physical therapy clinic. I was trying to reach a Mr. Dave Johnson? He called here earlier this week.”
“Hang on.” The music on hold was from a local oldies station; Julie had listened to most of a song by a group she thought was Earth, Wind & Fire when a man picked up the line. “This is Dave.”
“Oh, hi, Dave. This is Julie Sawyer with All-Saints’ physical therapy clinic. You called here a couple of days ago, right?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Well, I just wanted to follow up with you and find out how Mrs. Johnson’s doing and maybe see if there’s anything we can do to help.”
“Sure.”