Already, I could see I'd get nowhere if I tried convincing Jacob he was wrong.
"Are we still friends?" I asked.
He stared at the books in his lap.
"I guess," he said. Then he looked at me. "But we can't touch each other -- not in that way-- ever again. Understand?"
I wanted to cry. I felt like someone had cut out my heart and tossed it to a wolf. My stomach churned while I swung my gaze to the windshield. How could things have gone so wrong, so fast?
Voice quivering, I told Jacob, "If that's how you want it, okay. I won't touch you again -- not like that -- I promise."
Jacob declined my offer of a ride home.
Watching him walk across the parking lot, I shook my head.
Shit...
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
On a Saturday afternoon in mid-February, I descended the stairs in Grandma's house, my basketball under an arm. I whistled a tune, "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" by the Beatles, as I entered the kitchen. I planned to pour myself a glass of milk, but then I froze when I saw my grandma.
She lay on the linoleum floor in her housedress, her face pale, her mouth agape. Her glasses were askew, a shoe had fallen from one foot, and her eyes were closed.
After dropping to my knees beside her, I shook her shoulder. "Grandma, what's wrong?"
No response.
Her chest rose and fell; she was alive, but I knew something was seriously wrong. I called the fire department first, Mom second. For twenty minutes, I sat beside Grandma on the kitchen floor, holding her hand and saying whatever came into my head, no matter how meaningless. Her eyes remained closed, and she did not respond to my conversation in any way. I kept glancing at the kitchen clock, wondering when help would arrive. Every minute that passed seemed like ten.
Finally, I heard a siren's wail, and I rushed to our front door. An ambulance appeared in our driveway with its emergency lights flashing. Two attendants wearing white smocks and trousers, and white, lace-up shoes entered the kitchen. Kneeling on either side of Grandma, they checked her vital signs. One guy lifted Grandma's eyelid. Then he shone a pen light into her eye.
"Looks like a stroke," he told the other attendant.
The two of them lifted Grandma onto a stretcher. They strapped her down with canvas belts. Then they rolled her out the back door and down the driveway. I followed them outside, listening to the crackle of their radio while they slid Grandma into the rear compartment of their ambulance.
Two hours later, Mom and I sat in a waiting room at our county hospital. A young doctor in a lab coat emerged through double swinging doors. A stethoscope hung about his shoulders, and purple crescents appeared beneath his eyes.
"She's suffered a cerebral aneurysm," he told us. "A blood vessel in her brain burst. It has affected her speech and memory. Right now, she can't use her left arm or leg."
My mom cursed, while I shook my head. Grandma, an invalid? I couldn't believe it. She'd always been so vibrant and active. The thought of her lying in bed all day, or sitting in a wheelchair, seemed incomprehensible.
When Mom asked if we could see Grandma, the doctor grimaced.
"She's resting right now," he said. "Why not come back tomorrow, during visiting hours?"
While I drove us home, Mom sat in the passenger seat; she gazed out her window, saying nothing. The slash pine forests we passed by looked dark and mysterious. Croplands were littered with dead cornstalks or the shriveled remains of cotton plants already picked clean of their bolls.
I kept waiting for Mom to lose control and weep, but she didn't. She seemed more irritated than sad. I found Mom's lack of emotion curious. Just how much did she love Grandma, anyway? Did she even care that Grandma was sick? In all the years we'd lived in Cassadaga, I'd never seen Mom and Grandma hug or kiss or say, "I love you," to each other. There seemed to be an unwritten rule -- an understanding in our household -- that displays of affection were verboten. The most I ever got were kisses on the cheek on my birthday.
Was it that way in most families?
Maybe the reserved nature of our home explained my need for affection from other boys; maybe I was love-starved. Or maybe not. Maybe some sort of genetic sickness ran in the males of our family. After all, both Devin and I craved sex with other guys, although we had grown up in separate households. Maybe I was just a pervert.
By the time Mom and I reached Cassadaga, the sun had set. The western sky was hemmed in shades of crimson, gold, and green. Clouds on the horizon looked like blue battleships. In the pines and Sabal palms, crickets chirped.
My heart leapt into my throat when I pulled onto the driveway.
Jacob sat on our front porch, on the glider sofa, his overnight bag and basketball beside him, a book in his lap. In all the day's excitement, I'd forgotten he would spend the night this evening -- the first time since our camping excursion at the spring. He wore a sweatshirt, jeans, and high-top sneakers. His hair grew over the tops of his ears.
While Mom prepared dinner for the three of us -- canned soup and turkey sandwiches -- I sat beside Jacob on the glider sofa. I told him about Grandma and all that had happened earlier.
"Should I leave?" he asked. "Do you and your mom want to be alone right now?"
I shook my head. "Please, stay."
In the kitchen, little was said over dinner. While Jacob and I did the dishes, my mom retired to the parlor; she switched on the television to watch The Jackie Gleason Show.
I scoured a pan with a Brillo Pad, making circles.
I asked Jacob, "Has your mom ever hugged your grandma? Does your mom hug you?"
Jacob looked at me like I was daft.
"People in my family can't keep their hands off one another. Why are you asking?"
When I explained how things worked in our household, Jacob shook his head.
"I can't imagine."
Out on the driveway, we played one-on-one under the glow of the gooseneck fixture, both of us sweating. The game took my mind off Grandma; I got into a rhythm and played better than I normally did, even executing a few underhanded layups.
"You have the hot hand tonight," Jacob told me.
Sometime after midnight, we ascended the stairs to my bedroom. We took turns showering and brushing our teeth -- me first, Jacob second. When he entered my room, his hair was damp. His towel was wrapped about his waist. I lay on my bed in my briefs, leafing through a Sports Illustrated.
My belly fluttered when Jacob tossed his towel aside. Naked, he rummaged through his overnight bag, looking for clean underwear. After he slipped into a pair, he stood before my bureau mirror, combing his hair with his back to me.
I moistened my lips.
"Look," I said, "we have spare bedrooms. You don't have to sleep with me; I'll understand."
Jacob twisted at his waist to look at me a moment. Then he returned his gaze to the mirror; he adjusted his part with the comb.
"I'll sleep in here," he said.
Moments later, we lay in darkness, staring at the ceiling.
"It's sad, what you told me," Jacob said.
"What's that?"
"The way your family behaves -- the lack of affection."
"It's all I've ever known," I said.
Jacob ruffled my hair with his fingertips.
"Turn onto your side, Ty. Face the wall."
My heart thumped when I did. A shiver ran up my spine when Jacob draped his arm across my chest and pulled me to him. I felt the warmth of his chest against my shoulder blades. His knees pressed against the backs of my knees. His toothpaste-scented breath tickled the hair on the back of my neck.
"Sleep well, Ty," he whispered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Basketball season ended when February did. Our record was 13–2, earning us first place in our conference and a trip to the district tournament, where we lost by three points to a high school from St. Augustine.
On a warm Saturday in mid-March, Ebersole hosted a post-season barbeque at his home, near the Stetson Uni
versity campus in Deland. A ranch-style, cinder block home with a well-tended yard and an in-ground swimming pool, it seemed the sort of property beyond most school teachers' salaries.
When I asked Hartmann about it, he told me, "Coach married money."
Ebersole showed us his gentler side that afternoon. He stood at the barbeque grill, flipping hamburger patties and turning hot dogs, and trading recollections of our season with his players. He sipped from cans of Budweiser. Wearing a Banlon shirt, pressed chinos, and buckled leather sandals over argyle socks, he looked so different from the guy we were used to: the grouch with the whistle and the snarl.
An ice cooler held a gaggle of soda bottles: Coca-Colas, 7-Ups, and Dr. Peppers. A table, draped with a red-checkered cloth, offered a variety of foods: bowls of potato salad, baked beans, and coleslaw. Jars of Kosher dill pickles and banana peppers sat beside baskets of rolls. Other baskets cradled potato chips, pretzels, and donuts.
Curvaceous and graceful, Mrs. Ebersole had hair the color of Jacob's. Her eyes were emerald green. She wore a strapless sundress; it showed off her cleavage and shoulder blades. A diamond the size of a Chiclet glinted on her left hand.
Over the course of an hour, Ebersole introduced his wife to each of his junior players. When I shook her hand, she said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Tyler."
She had met the senior players before, it seemed, as she greeted each by name. And despite the fact she hadn't attended a single game this season, she knew every player's position and his stats, including mine. During the party, most every guy on the team, and Mike Monroe as well, stole glances at Mrs. Ebersole; they gazed at her legs and ample breasts.
The Ebersoles' swimming pool was heated. We'd all brought bathing trunks and towels, and now we splashed about the pool, taking turns springing from the diving board, doing cannonballs, jackknives, and backflips. I couldn't keep my eyes off Jacob. His body was sleek and muscled. His suit clung to his buttocks like a second skin, and I longed to touch him.
When it came time to eat, all team members gathered in a semicircle on the pool deck, seated on folding lawn chairs, and balancing plates of food on our laps. Ebersole stood before us, hands in the pockets of his chinos, his gaze traveling from one face to the next.
"Gentlemen, we've had a great season. And you know why? It's because each of you has risen to the challenge I threw in your face, starting at tryouts and continuing through Districts. You never quit pushing yourselves.
"I'm especially proud of our seniors: how they've performed, and the example they've set for our junior players. I can't tell you seniors how much I'll miss you next fall. It's been a privilege working with you, these past two years."
I looked over at Hartmann, just in time to see him wipe a tear from his cheek. A couple of other seniors cleared their throats, while they stared into their laps.
Ebersole's gaze fell upon me for a moment. "Juniors, I'm proud of you guys, as well. I've seen remarkable improvement in your performances, and that's because you've worked so hard. You've given me everything I could ask for, at every practice and every game."
Ebersole wagged a finger. "Now, don't you juniors get cocky. When you show up next fall -- and I'll expect each of you to return, no exceptions -- I will work you just as hard as I did this season; you can count on it. Between now and then, I want you to practice every day. Every morning, get your ass out of bed and run two miles. Work out with barbells, eat right, and stay away from cigarettes. I want you fit and ready to play next fall. Do all you juniors hear me?"
Seven voices, mine among them, said, "Yes, Coach."
"We're not just a team, gentlemen; we're a family. Don't ever forget that."
Ebersole turned to his wife, and then he spoke in the gentlest tone I'd ever heard him use.
"Sweetheart, these boys look hungry. Will you please say grace so they can eat?"
Chapter Thirty
My grandma never left the hospital. She died in mid-April, after suffering a second stroke. And while her death saddened me, I thought it a blessing in some ways. Each time I visited her, she was unable to speak, and I wasn't sure she even recognized me. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and not saying anything. The left corner of her mouth sagged, and her left arm hung motionless on her blanket.
I'm sure she was miserable.
Grandma's funeral was held at Colby Temple in Cassadaga. Rev. Hagermann presided over services. Every medium in town attended, along with many of Grandma's devoted clients. Some came from places like Atlanta, Montgomery, and Nashville. I hadn't been to a funeral since my dad's death, back in Decatur, and I found myself squirming in my seat while I stared at Grandma's flower-draped coffin. A soloist warbled, and a pianist played a somber melody.
As usual, my mom shed no tears at the service or at any other time, as far as I knew.
A week after Grandma's burial, Mom moved into Grandma's bedroom. She boxed up all of Grandma's clothing and shoes, and then took them to the Salvation Army in Deland. At her instruction, I carried all of Grandma's diaries to the backyard, where I doused them with kerosene and set them ablaze.
"Who'd ever read them?" Mom said.
While Grandma's diaries burned, I studied the flames and thought of all the memories that were disappearing into smoke, right before me. I felt a tightness in my chest, a lump in my throat. I felt as though Grandma were dying a second death just then. And then I thought of my diaries hidden in my bedroom closet. No one had ever read them but me. If I were to die, would anyone bother looking at them, or would the diaries simply find their way to the Volusia County dump? Who knew?
Mom kept a few of Grandma's jewelry items -- her pearls and diamond wedding ring -- but the rest Mom pawned.
Mom's emotional detachment from the whole situation bewildered me. It seemed as though she was trying to erase any memory of Grandma from her mind. Every time I turned around, she'd thrown something else in the trash barrels: books, five dozen decorative spoons Grandma had collected during her travels, photograph albums, you name it.
One rainy afternoon, I stood before the Chevy in our garage. The hood was raised, and I cleaned corrosion from the Chevy's battery terminals, using a wire brush. Glow from a utility light illuminated the engine compartment. The time was around five thirty, when Mom pulled into the driveway in her Dodge Dart, her brakes squealing like cats in a fight.
Mom approached in her beautician's dress. She carried a sack of groceries in the crook of one arm, and rain droplets glistened in her hair.
"Mom," I said, "you need new brake pads."
She raised a shoulder. "I may buy a new car. I'm tired of driving that rust bucket."
Looking up from my work, I made a face. "Where would you get the money?"
She shifted the grocery sack from one arm to the other.
"Your grandmother had life insurance, fifty thousand dollars. A check came in the mail yesterday."
Her statement stole my breath.
Fifty thousand dollars? We're rich.
Mom's gaze traveled around the garage. She shook her head.
"This place is a mess. It's so crowded with junk, you can barely move in here. Do you think," she said, "someone might buy Grandpa's tools? Or should we throw them out?"
I winced. Devin and Jesse had used those tools while resurrecting the Chevy. And now I used them all the time, to maintain the Chevy. How could we get rid of them?
"Mom," I said, "please don't do that. I need these things to work on my car."
She didn't say anything; she only tapped a toe.
Anger boiled inside me. Mom was dumping everything related to her past, as though she couldn't wait to escape from it. Would she eventually get rid of me, as well?
Go on: say something.
"Did you even love your parents?" I asked.
She swung her gaze to me and scowled. "Of course I loved them. What kind of a question is that?" Her voice had an edge to it.
"Then why are you getting rid of all their things?"
She
drew a breath, let it out. "You can't live in the past, Tyler. Besides, I may sell the house, once probate's finalized. I've never liked Cassadaga; you know that."
My knees wobbled. "Where would we move to?"
"Somewhere on the coast: Ormond Beach, or maybe New Smyrna."
"What about school? This fall's my senior year."
Mom looked at something over my shoulder, then back at me.
"They have high schools over there. You can transfer."
I thought about Jacob and my other friends at Deland High. I thought of the team and Coach Ebersole, and how disappointed he'd feel if I didn't return in the fall.
"Can't we stay here 'til I graduate? It's only one more year."
Mom lowered her gaze and didn't say anything. She only shifted her weight from one leg to the other.
"Mom, please, it's important to me."
She looked at me and pursed her lips.
"We'll see, Tyler," was all she said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sunlight glanced off the Chevy's hood ornament when I reached Deland's city limits, on a Sunday morning. I passed a used car lot, one festooned with strands of multicolored pennants. The pennants hung limp in May's breezeless torpor. Shops were closed, and sidewalks were devoid of pedestrians.
In a few minutes, I would pick up Jacob at his home. We'd play a two-on-two pickup game with Mark Maggert and Charles Sweeney. Ebersole had lent us a key to Deland High's gymnasium, so we could practice there instead of outdoors, where the heat was stifling.
I turned onto New York Avenue, whistling a tune. I felt happy and carefree, but when I swung my gaze to the Rexall store, my jaw sagged and my eyes bugged in disbelief.
What the hell?
A fire truck and pair of sheriff's cruisers were parked at the curb before the store. Mr. Rachinoff stood on the sidewalk, conversing with two uniformed deputies. All the Rexall's windows -- and the front door as well -- had been smashed. The deputies and Mr. Rachinoff stood amidst hundreds of glass shards; the shards glittered like diamonds on the concrete. I braked in the street and peered out the Chevy's passenger window. An acrid smell of smoke hit my nostrils.
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