by Jill Barnett
“I hope the other guy looks worse than you do.”
“Got away without a cut.” Jud tried to sit up and winced. “Damn, that hurts. Everything hurts.”
“You look like everything should hurt. What happened?”
Jud rested his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loosely between them, and he looked at him—at least, it looked as if he were looking at him. He wasn’t too sure. Jud’s eyes were so swollen it was more of a squint, like being stared at by a bruised pig.
“I tried to play Galahad and save some sweet young thing from a bunch of drunks.”
Cale straddled a lounge chair and sat down. “I hope you won some reward for sacrificing your face. Is your nose broken?”
“Only swollen and hurting like hell.”
“Tell me she gave you her phone number for your trouble.”
“Nope. Not even her name.” Jud shook his head, winced, and buried his head in his hands. “Remind me not to do that again.”
“What? Try to get lucky? Get into a fight? Or shake your head?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, big brother, you ended up battered and bruised and without a date.”
“I’m not sure I looked very impressive passed out facedown and bloodying up the sidewalk. Stop laughing, asshole.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“I can hear it in your voice.”
“Okay. I’m laughing.”
“Hell, I didn’t get in a single solid punch.”
“Looks like it.”
“Go to hell.”
“I don’t want to go home. Victor’s there.” Cale lifted the spaghetti container in a salute and with his mouth full said, “Good stuff.”
“I made it last night.”
“Before or after you ran into Joe Frazier?”
“Before.”
“Here. Catch.” Cale tossed him his napkin. “Your nose is bleeding.”
“Again?” Jud blotted his nose. “Damn.” He started to get up.
“Stay there. I’ll get you something.” Cale came back with two steaks from the freezer. “Here, put these on your face.”
Jud frowned at the steaks. “They’re frozen.”
“Yeah, but steak is good for the black eye and ice for swelling. Two remedies in one.”
“The best I can get is frozen steak from the future Dr. Banning?”
“Shut up and put ’em on your face. After they thaw, we can barbecue them.”
“And I heard premed was hard.”
That cut deeply, but Cale said nothing. He had studied five nights straight to get a low B on his last test in anatomy. He held up a magazine, centerfold open. “Here’s a cure. Look at this.”
Jud pulled the steaks off his face and lifted his head up. “Nice.”
“Nice? That’s all you can say?” Cale studied the centerfold again. “More than nice. I’d to like to meet a girl like her.”
“You did last year, and your grades went in the toilet.”
Cale’s big mistake now hung in the air between them. His brother lay there with meat on his face, yet Cale felt as if he’d just taken a punch.
Jud crossed his feet. “How’s school going?”
“Okay.”
“You keeping your grades up?”
“Jesus . . . you sound like Victor. It’s bad enough I have to get flak from the old man. I don’t need it from you, too.” When Jud didn’t say anything, Cale added bitterly, “I don’t need you judging me.”
“I’m not judging you.” Jud pulled the steaks off again. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Something’s wrong. You’re way too touchy. Come clean.”
Cale tossed the magazine on the deck. “Med school. Almost all of them have turned me down. Not even my MCATs—which I aced—are helping my apps.”
“I thought Dorsey was just horsing around on the phone yesterday.”
“He was and wasn’t.”
“All of them turned you down?” Jud sounded as if a college turning someone down was as unrealistic as Martian landings or statues of the Virgin Mary that cried real tears.
Right then, Cale wanted to hit Jud himself “I’ve still got three schools left. University of Texas, UCSD, and USC.”
“I’m sorry, bud.”
“Yeah, well, there’s not much I can do about it now” Odd, how it was harder for him to swallow his big brother’s pity than his judgments. He felt like the wrong half of a man talking to the right half. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t get into one of these last three.”
“They can’t all turn you down.” Jud lay back down. “You’ll get in.”
His brother’s world was so easy. Just that easy. The spaghetti turned over in Cale’s stomach and felt as if he’d eaten a pound of it. He sagged back in the chair, looking out at the water because he felt like nothing when he looked at his brother.
There was no breeze and a light haze in the sky, almost like earthquake weather, but seagulls were flying all over the place. In the moments before an earthquake, all wildlife vanished. Utter and complete silence ruled, as if the world were holding its breath.
Cale listened to the seagulls whining overhead, and a few feet away, the quiet lap of the water against the sand. In the distance was the mainland. A wildfire burned in Malibu. A cloud of purplish gray smoke hovered over the hills, and Santa Monica had disappeared from sight. He followed the outline of the coast, the minuscule silver glint of planes in the sky over LAX—and the white clusters of beach towns, their piers, marinas, and homes staggered in the coastal hillsides.
Jud snored louder, lying there deep in sleep—something Cale hadn’t had much of lately. You’ll get in. His brother said it with such assurance.
“Yeah, Jud,” Cale said quietly. “Easy as taking your next breath.” He felt like his stomach was going to explode. Too much spaghetti. His next breath was as shallow as his confidence. Jud didn’t have a clue what his life was like. Cale closed his eyes and the thought hit him that maybe the lump in his stomach wasn’t from the mouthfuls of spaghetti he’d swallowed whole. Maybe it was his pride.
Jud woke up late in the afternoon with melted meat on his face. He heard Cale shooting baskets out front. Once inside, he put the steaks on a plate in the fridge and strolled out the front door. “Hey. Let me show you how the game’s played.”
Cale stopped, holding the ball in one big hand. “Yeah, right. Who just took a nap, Pops?” He casually tossed a hook shot over his head high into the air. It dropped through the net without ever touching metal. Crowing, Cale grabbed the ball, then faced him, dribbling it and shuffling back and forth.
“You cocky ass.” Jud laughed.
“We’ll see who’s the ass, big brother. I’ll give you six points. Two for old age, and four for your beat-up face. Remind me to teach you how to duck. Or throw a punch.”
“I don’t need your points, hotshot. Give me the ball and I’ll show you old.”
Cale gave him a shit-eating grin and shoved the ball right at his face.
Jud moved fast, twisted around, and went right under his little brother’s long arms to score. “Two to zip! Screw your points.”
They played one-on-one for forty-five minutes straight, faces red, hair stringy, sweat-soaked T-shirts stuck to their skin, legs and arms gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. At the hour mark, bent eye to eye, they were like two dogs facing off in an alley, both panting so hard neither could speak. Jud had the ball, his face burning up and his eyes stinging from salty sweat. He rasped out the word, “water.”
Cale gave him a slight nod. At the same instant they looked at the garden hose. Whoever got there first won the water and the added luxury of a few extra breaths while he waited for the other one to finish. It was a footrace. Cale stuck out his leg. Jud jumped it, sidestepped quickly, spun, and dove for the hose. He drank for a full two minutes while Cale stood there, hands on his knees, panting.
Sun-warmed water ran through the nozzle, and he
took a long time to drink, then let the cold water spill over his sweating head until it stopped throbbing. He shook like a wet spaniel and tossed the hose to Cale.
Jud walked over and picked up the ball, dribbling. “You gonna cry uncle?”
“Me?” Cale looked up from the hose and swiped his mouth. “No way. I’m just getting warmed up.”
“Good,” Jud lied and threw the ball right into Cale’s stomach.
For just an instant his little brother looked as if he was going to heave, then they went at it again for another savage half hour. Jud bounced the ball through his brother’s legs and jammed his elbow hard into Cale’s gut. “Ooh, college boy. You’re getting soft.”
“Go to hell, Jud.” Cale’s body slammed him. “Who’s soft, now, doughboy?” They were all over the court, legs and arms, punching and socking, until Cale slapped him in the head with the flat of his hand, stole the ball, then stood there, four feet from Jud, the ball bouncing from palm to palm.
Jud waited for an opening to the metronomic hammer of the ball on the asphalt and their hard breaths, then moved like lightning, stole the ball, laughing though his ribs hurt like hell. He held out the ball. “Come and get it, asshole.”
Cale shot forward. Jud stuck out his foot and his brother skidded across the asphalt. They beat the hell out of each other in the name of basketball. By the time the sun set behind the hills, Cale’s knees were bleeding, and Jud thought he was going to die, legs like rubber, his head killing him, but he wasn’t going to lose. He stared into the crumpled look of concentration on Cale’s angry red face, waiting for the patience Cale didn’t have, and never had. His little brother’s movements were jerky, blind, his motions looking desperate.
In the end, they lay on their backs on the warm ground, panting, hurting, bleeding, staring up at the night sky, which was clear and sharp, with no light of day left behind the hills. Music broke in the distance—drums and electric guitars. A band was playing somewhere downtown. When Jud finally spoke, he said only two words: “You lost.”
Cale rose up and pitched the ball at him.
Jud deflected it with his arm and lay there as the ball rolled away, his arm across his eyes, so tired he didn’t know if he could stand. He sat up with a grunt and rested his arms on his bent knees. “You wouldn’t have lost if you played with some patience. You give yourself away.”
“I know how to play basketball.”
“I’m just telling you how to win.”
Cale wouldn’t look at him.
“I’ll light the barbecue and cook those steaks.” Jud figured that was a peace offering. It was just a basketball game.
“I’m not hungry.” Cale limped to the door and paused in the doorway, looking back, his expression bitter and intense. “I’m not staying home tonight.” He slammed the door shut.
Jud stood up slowly, wobbled slightly. Standing just about killed him. He limped across the driveway to the hose and let the water run over his head for long seconds. The water pressure cut suddenly from the bathroom shower. Inside, he could hear Cale in the shower down the hall and thought about apologizing but stumbled toward the kitchen. He wouldn’t apologize for giving his brother a little advice, or for winning. His swollen face had a date with an ice pack. He wasn’t going anywhere tonight. Hell, he said to himself, I’ll eat both steaks.
10
Laurel was just a girl who wanted to believe that somewhere in the big wide world was a boy who would love her. Of course, he could easily be in France while she was stuck on the western fringes of another whole continent. Alone, she walked along the crowded island waterfront, music from the live band on the pier drifting away from her, the scent of abalone burgers and caramel corn sweetening the night air. She bought some saltwater taffy and sat down on a bench, under the glow from brightly colored paper lanterns strung overhead. All around her was laughter, chatter, music—life, even if it belonged to other people.
At home, her mother was sitting in her chair reading novels about characters with lives bigger than theirs, or watching TV, where nothing but the news was real. Instead of hiding in Seattle, her mother hid here.
Laurel felt as if she had been picked up and planted somewhere far from home. Miserable, she stuffed a piece of taffy in her mouth and watched people in pairs and groups on the sand. When she glanced up at the beach, she spotted an old man walking slowly away from everyone like some kind of lost soul, and she wondered what went through the minds and hearts of other lonely people.
Another loner stood away from the crowd, facing the water, hands in the back pockets of his jeans, hip cocked, broad shoulders, and narrow waist—a classic masculine triangle. His height and sandy hair were all too familiar. He’d looked the same yesterday when he was standing at the boat rail before she told him she was seventeen.
This was her chance to set everything right. She would ask how he was feeling—as if nothing he could say would faze her—and say, “I haven’t seen someone drop that fast since Cassius Clay beat Sonny Liston.” Here was her opportunity to be witty, sophisticated, and worldly to someone who thought she wasn’t. He wore an aqua blue polo shirt, and she followed it through the crowd, but his steps were longer than hers, and soon she had to run to catch up. She reached out and grabbed his arm. “Hey, there.”
He turned and looked down at her.
Oh, God . . . It’s not him. For an awkward, horrified instant she stood there. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I thought you were someone else.”
“Lucky guy,” he said.
“No. Not really.” She started to turn away.
“Wait, don’t go.” He held his hands out, palms up. “I can be anyone you want me to be. Or, if it’s my lucky night, maybe you’ll take me instead of someone else. I’m quite the catch by the way—my name’s Cale Banning.”
“Cale?” she repeated dumbly, his flirting so unexpected. She sounded like an idiot, which was probably the real reason she had no dates.
“Yeah.” He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “Like the vegetable, only with a C.”
She laughed. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“Why? Are you Cale, too?”
“No.”
“Cabbage?”
“No.”
“Eggplant?”
She shook her head.
“Rutabaga.”
“I’m Laurel . . .”
“. . . like the tree,” they both said together.
“Laurel Peyton,” she added.
“Well, Laurel-Like-the-Tree Peyton.” He took her hand. “Is this my lucky night?”
She melted right there. In a long, awkward silence, he studied her with sharp focus and made her wonder what he saw when he looked at her. Did she look empty and lost and clinging to his words?
“Since you didn’t say no, come on.” He pulled her with him.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Over there.” He nodded somewhere but she couldn’t see because of the crowd.
“Wait. Please.”
He stopped. “Don’t ruin my night and say no now.”
“I can’t see over this crowd. Where is ‘there?’”
“You don’t trust me.” He was teasing her.
“I don’t know you. And I don’t trust you.”
“Smart girl.” He grinned, and suddenly trust was no longer an issue. “Close your eyes, Laurel-Like-the-Tree Peyton, and just take ten more steps with me. We’re on the beach with a few hundred other people, so you’re safe. Just ten steps. Give me your hands.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” She held out her hands and closed her eyes. His fingers were callused, and with her hands in his she felt light inside, a balloon someone had to anchor to keep from floating away.
He pulled her gently along. “You’re cheating, girl. Keep your eyes closed.”
“I’m not cheating.”
“Just making sure.” He took her hand again. “Okay, here we go. One, two, three . . .” He pulled her faster. “Four,
six, eight, ten.”
“Wait!” She dug in her heels, laughing. “Now who’s cheating?”
“I’m counting, not cheating. Close your eyes.”
She crossed her arms. “You call two, four, six, eight counting? Where did you say you went to school?”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh, that explains it. You didn’t go to school.” With every comeback, she laughed a little more, their banter the spun gold of a seminal moment, words she thought she would still remember in fifty years.
“I’m a senior at Loyola.”
“Is that how they teach you to count after almost four years at a university? You should ask for your tuition back.”
“No, that’s how basketball players count. We count in goals—twos and threes.”
“Basketball. You’re so tall. I should have guessed.”
He laughed. “If you are tall, then you must be a basketball player? That’s discriminatory.”
“Oh. I see now, Loyola? You’re headed for law school.”
“No.”
“Well, we both know you sure aren’t a math major.”
“Let me count for you again. Two kidneys. Two lungs. Two hundred and six bones. I’m premed. We’re here. Now you can open your eyes.”
His face was the first thing she saw. She felt something odd looking at him, the actual weight of air on her exposed skin, hypersensitive, hypersensual.
He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her, but kept his hands there. “This is where I was taking you.”
She had to lean back to look up at him. “Me and my two hundred and six bones?”
“You and your two hundred and six bones.”
Just inches apart, they stood near the edge of the pier, where couples danced to live music. She was acutely aware of his hands on her shoulders; it felt as if it were the most natural thing in the world for them to stand together that way. One minute she had been alone, and the next a stranger was quickly changing into something more. Odd, how in a mere heartbeat, life could change. She closed her eyes and gently swayed to the music, then remembered this same wonderful feeling from the boat yesterday.
“I’m seventeen,” she blurted out.