by Unknown
Where was he going?
To a basketball game. He had nothing else to do.
Arriving at the game, Paget felt disoriented.
The gym, the red banners with ACADEMY PREP lettered in white, the changing tide of the game itself, were like shadows at the periphery of his mind, the crowd noise like distant signals on a crystal set. But the usual parents were scattered in the bleachers, their faces familiar from the games before Mark Ransom died. Sitting alone, Johnny Moore looked up in amiable surprise.
‘Taking the afternoon off?’
‘At least.’ Paget sat down. ‘Do me a favor, Johnny. If you’re planning to kill someone, wait a week or so. And don’t murder anyone I know personally.’
Moore seemed to know better than to smile. They watched the game in silence.
Amid the red uniforms, Paget saw Carlo.
His face was damp with sweat. He ran down the court to set up for defense, sweeping the thick black hair back from his forehead, glancing at the melee of red and blue uniforms and then up at the time clock. He did not see Paget.
Paget realized that he had been quiet for some moments. Turning to Moore, he asked, ‘How has he played this year?’
‘Well, as I said.’ Moore kept watching the game. ‘Carlo’s more improved than anyone – he plays hard all the time, really responds to pressure. He’s the one on the team who’s got real character.’
Paget hesitated. ‘He hasn’t said much about it. I figured he wasn’t doing well.’
Moore shook his head. ‘He’s turned into the player other kids respect. Watching, you’d never know what was happening to his mother – he wouldn’t let it show. He just kept getting better.’
‘I wonder if that’s good.’
‘How would you have him be? Really, Chris, you’d have liked watching him. He loves to play under pressure.’
Paget was quiet again. Then, nodding toward the blue uniforms at the other end of the court, he asked, ‘Who are the bad guys?’
‘Woodland Prep.’ Moore focused his attention on the team in blue. ‘See the black kid?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘That’s Tony Farrow. He plays a game most of these kids don’t even understand.’ Moore smiled. ‘It’s a shame you missed the last Woodland game.’
Paget turned to him. ‘I’m not sure I heard about that.’
‘Carlo won the game off Farrow.’ Moore’s voice warmed. ‘Snatched an offensive rebound out of Farrow’s hands, got him to buy a fake, slid past him under the basket, and flipped the ball in over his head as the buzzer sounded. It was one for the highlight film.’
Where have I been? Paget wondered. Where have we been? He lapsed back into silence.
Most of the first half of the game came to Paget as a collage of images – long periods of introspection, interspersed with sudden moments when Carlo, bursting into action, left an imprint on Paget’s retina and brain. The score was not important; Paget was not part of the crowd. It was Carlo the person, not Carlo the player, that registered with Paget. The boy alone kept him from thinking of the past, or Mary Carelli, or what Caroline Masters would decide.
Carlo played harder than anyone.
The game transformed him. He seemed eager to be lost in it, to find himself again in the ebb and flow of bodies; the sudden shifts of emotion; the strategy and errors and spontaneity. His body still did different things at different times and his shot was not yet consistent. But the still boy with the quick tongue and lazy grin, the one who could seem to occupy an entire couch with no hint that he would ever move, played with an intensity that Paget had not seen. He stole the ball; blocked shots; turned rebounds into baskets; shouted encouragement or advice. He and the black kid, Farrow, seemed to have something going; when Farrow shot an elbow to his ribs, fighting for a rebound, Carlo simply shook it off. But a few plays later, in a melee beneath the basket, Farrow doubled in pain; Carlo emerged from the crush with the ball and a twitch at one side of his mouth which, just for an instant, transformed his stoic face. And then he was off down the court, the first awkward step accelerating into a fast break in which Carlo, passing, sped suddenly past the last defender so that when the ball came back to him he was under the basket alone. He seemed so much faster; when he put the ball in, there was no one within ten feet. The stands erupted.
By what alchemy, Paget wondered, had Carlo made himself this good?
The moments came quicker: Carlo knocking the ball from Farrow’s grasp, then launching it down the court into a teammate’s hands. Carlo blocking a jump shot so hard that he spiked it to the floor. Carlo sinking a shot of his own, nothing but net. Only Farrow looked better.
Part of Paget could not believe that Carlo had come so far. His mind was still suspended between now and eight years prior; fresh as yesterday was the small dark-haired boy who was afraid to go outside, who snatched vainly at the rubber ball the first time Paget threw it. But between then and now were a thousand baskets, shot at the hoop Paget had put up in the backyard, first seven feet high, then eight, and finally the full ten. The sound of Carlo’s basketball banging on cement still echoed in Paget’s ears.
Carlo drove suddenly to the hoop, drawing a foul as the buzzer sounded to end the third quarter.
For the first time, Paget looked at the scoreboard.
Woodland led by a point.
Carlo walked to the foul line. On the opposite side of the gym, the Woodland kids jeered and stomped their feet to rattle him. A red-haired kid with big ears half rose from the Woodland bench and yelled, ‘Choke.’
It made Paget angry. For a moment, he thought of a frightened young boy on a Boston playground, telling Paget that other kids would not play ball with him because he was no good. But Carlo did not seem to hear.
He looked calmly at the basket, the ball in the air. It arced into the basket, barely hitting metal.
Carlo’s second shot hit only net. He watched it without expression. Then he turned to the red-haired kid who had jeered him, and gave him the crooked grin that Paget had known for years. But now it was the grin of a competitor, triumphant and without malice. Carlo trotted toward the bench, smiling to himself. Academy led by one.
The boy who was Paget’s son, but not his son, was becoming a young man. Paget was no longer sure he knew him.
In the fourth quarter, Carlo felt Tony Farrow taking over.
The game was Carlo’s world now. All that he cared about was the next eight minutes. The thought of winning consumed him with a fierce purity.
But Farrow raised his game to where no one else could reach it.
He was six feet two, incredibly quick, completely without nerves, and headed, Carlo was certain, straight for the NBA as soon as he got his driver’s license. And he was everywhere. A fall-away jump shot; a drive; a three-point shot; even a tip-in. Mike Stanley, who was guarding Farrow, could do nothing with him. Carlo and Academy kept close with fast breaks, but suddenly Woodland was up by three.
There was one minute left.
Turning to the bench, Carlo saw Coach Mack call a timeout. Carlo glanced up at the clock; fifty-five seconds.
He did not look toward the stands. He knew that his father was not there; he did not want to distract himself by wishing otherwise.
On the way to the bench, Carlo turned to Mike. ‘Tired?’
Mike shook his head. ‘It’s just that this guy’s Jesus Christ.’
‘Yeah,’ Carlo said, ‘I saw the movie. Mind if I try guarding him?’
Mike hesitated, and then looked relieved. ‘It’s fine with me. Just don’t tell coach that.’
They reached the sideline. Carlo grabbed a towel off the bench and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘What is it?’ Coach Mack demanded.
Carlo gave him a level glance. ‘Let me take Farrow. Mike’s knee’s acting up.’
Mack turned to Mike. ‘Is that right?’
Mike shifted from foot to foot. ‘Just a little. Not enough to come out.’
‘I want to do this,’ Carlo said. �
��I really want this guy.’
Mack looked from one to the other. ‘All right,’ he said to Carlo. ‘You know what you need to do.’
Carlo nodded. The coach no longer barked at him; he had learned that Carlo did not like or need it.
When they ran back onto the floor, Woodland was inbounding the ball, and Carlo was facing Farrow.
A dreamy smile crossed Farrow’s round face. ‘You?’ he murmured. ‘Uh-huh.’
Farrow stood with his back to Carlo, poised to break, staring at the blue-shirted teammate who stood out of bounds at half-court, ready to throw the ball inbounds. Three feet behind Farrow, Carlo tried to keep loose, running through what Woodland might do.
Farrow broke abruptly.
The ball floated to where he should have been. But Carlo had broken too, bumping Farrow with his hip as they sped toward the ball. For two steps, Farrow staggered.
It was enough.
The ball bounced free, and then Carlo got there in full stride. He hurtled toward the basket with three headlong bounces; the quicker Farrow was just fast enough to hack him as the ball left Carlo’s hand.
As the ball fell through the basket, Carlo’s right wrist went numb.
He winced, grasping it. Beneath the screaming from the stands, Carlo heard the whistle. ‘Foul,’ the bearded referee called out. ‘Blue, number twelve.’
Farrow stepped to his place beside the line. There was something almost perfect about him, Carlo decided. Short haircut, large brown eyes, smooth skin, a face of broad planes. Gazing at the basket, Farrow could have been contemplating the moon, with a mild and somewhat dreamy interest.
As Carlo stepped to the foul line, the other ref gave him the ball. He, too, was bearded and middle-aged; before the game, thinking jokes might help him forget his mother’s dilemma, Carlo had dubbed the two referees ‘the Smith Brothers.’ But nothing was funny now; his wrist hurt too much for him to shoot well, and the joke reminded him of how scared he was for Mary.
The stamping and jeering began again.
The pain from his wrist became nausea in the pit of Carlo’s stomach. It was foolish not to have eaten, when last night he had not slept. But today he could do neither.
‘Choke,’ the jug-eared kid yelled again.
Shut it out, Carlo told himself. Shoot as if there were no pain.
He breathed in, once. Then he cradled the ball in his palm, feeling its pebbly surface as he had a thousand times before, eyes focused on the hoop. The jeers became white noise.
He flinched as he shot.
But the ball had already left his hand. The arc was not flawless, merely good enough. It rattled the metal and fell through.
Carlo looked at no one now. He did not think of smiling. There were forty seconds left.
Backpedaling up the court, Carlo held his wrist loosely at his side, keeping three feet between himself and Tony Farrow.
Woodland took its time. The point guard crossed the center line, looking from right to left. They had a set play, Carlo saw. He tried to guess what it was.
The last game, they had set a screen; Carlo had diagnosed it, but Farrow had twisted in the air, sucking Carlo into a two-shot foul. Sooner or later, Carlo knew, the ball would come to Farrow again.
When it did, there were twenty seconds left.
This time, Carlo guessed, Farrow would do something different.
Farrow stood with the ball two feet in front of Carlo. Carlo crouched, hands raised in front of him, knees flexed.
Farrow suddenly drove the lane.
He was at full speed in less than two strides. But Carlo had guessed right again. He was a foot in front of Farrow, blocking his angle to the lane, when Farrow pulled up and shot a fifteen-footer before Carlo could even stop.
The move had the silken perfection of a dance routine, practiced until it involved only muscle memory and the certainty of instinct. The shot was far too good to miss.
Carlo watched it fall through the net.
With fifteen seconds, Woodland led by two.
Coach Mack screamed for time-out. But when Carlo ran to the bench, the coach was under control.
‘Nothing you could do,’ he said to Carlo.
‘It’s okay,’ Carlo answered. ‘They just bought themselves some overtime.’
At some point in the season, Coach Mack had learned to smile. ‘Your wrist okay?’
‘Fine.’ Carlo hesitated. ‘If it’s in the plan, I still want the ball.’
Mack nodded. ‘It’s in the plan.’ He drew the team around him. They leaned forward, faces drawn and intent. ‘We’ll get the ball to Carlo,’ he said, and gave them the play.
The whistle blew and then Academy inbounded the ball. Carlo danced in the wing, feinting to keep Farrow off balance, waiting to make his break.
When he broke for the lane with five seconds left, the ball was there for him.
A great pass, perfect timing. But when he spun to drive, Tony Farrow slapped his wrist so hard he heard the sound before he felt it.
The whistle blew.
Carlo doubled over in pain. That sonofabitch Farrow had done it on purpose. ‘Two shots,’ the referee called out.
The game was on Carlo’s shoulders, where he wanted it. With his wrist hurting the way Farrow wanted it.
Still bent over, Carlo tried to flex his wrist. It felt stiff, he straightened, keeping his face impassive, and walked slowly to the line.
Two shots. He had to make them both.
Carlo knew from experience that the wrist would swell. It would lose all flexibility; he would have to miss practice tomorrow and ice it. Except that there was no more practice; this game was the end of their season. Tomorrow there was only the courtroom, and his mother.
At both sides of his vision, three players lined the key. A blue uniform, then a red, then a blue again, poised to fight for a rebound should Carlo miss. To his right was Tony Farrow. The Woodland kids were stomping again. There were three seconds left.
Forget about it. Just concentrate. Look at nothing but the hoop: screen out the score, the noise, the pain in your wrist. Screen out anything else in your life.
By the time he shot, all he saw was the basket.
Pain ripped through his wrist to his elbow.
The ball bounced on the metal rim, once, then twice more, each time closer to the inside of the rim. The angle of the last bounce was right; the ball rattled within the rim and fell through the net.
The crowd erupted. Carlo never changed expression. But his hand felt like a catcher’s mitt. He guessed the truth then; Tony Farrow had fractured his wrist.
One shot to go.
He did not really blame Farrow. He had not meant to break anything. Farrow was just exploiting a weakness, putting the pressure on Carlo by forcing him to shoot fouls with a wrist that hurt. That was the game; people who thought basketball wasn’t a contact sport weren’t watching hard enough. It was what his father, joking, had once said about law.
What to do about his wrist?
He would have to shoot differently. He could no longer flip the ball with his hand; he must push more with his arm.
The gym was hushed now; it was as if Carlo’s first shot had sucked the air out of it. The jeering had stopped.
Just one more.
Carlo straightened at the foul line. He breathed in again, breathed out, felt loose. His vision narrowed to the net.
He held the ball at chin level, cradled in his left palm. Then, with his right hand, he pushed it toward the basket. His eyes stung. But he could see that the trajectory looked decent. Just slightly to the left side of the basket.
It hit the inside left of the rim.
Good, Carlo thought.
The ball bounced, hitting the back of the rim, circling around the edge of the basket. Then it paused, teetering on the rim, and fell to the floor without passing through the net.
There were groans, cheers, a brief scramble where Tony Farrow got the ball. Then the Woodland players gathered in a knot, celebrating.
<
br /> Carlo bent forward, head down, palms resting on his knees. He had no feeling in his wrist now.
He had lost the game.
Teammates filed by, patting him on the back. The coach put his arm around him. ‘You’re the best we had,’ he told Carlo. ‘If I had to lose, I’d want to lose with you.’
‘Thanks,’ Carlo said. He did not look up; he needed time to gather himself.
He felt Tony Farrow next to him.
Pull yourself together, Carlo.
He looked up. ‘Your hand okay?’ Farrow asked.
‘Fine.’ Carlo shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter. Season’s over.’
Farrow was staring at Carlo’s wrist. It had swollen visibly; the skin near his hand seemed discolored. Then Farrow looked at Carlo again, his face solemn. For once, it seemed that someone was home in there. ‘Man,’ he told Carlo, ‘you turned out to be a player.’
Carlo nodded. ‘I figured you didn’t want to play alone.’
It made Farrow smile. He hesitated a moment, as if to say more, and then extended his left hand.
Carlo shook it.
‘See you next season,’ Farrow said, and was gone.
Next season, Carlo thought. Where would he be? He felt empty.
‘Care to go to dinner?’ someone asked.
It was his father. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he had picked up Carlo after practice.
It surprised him. For a moment, Carlo recalled the first time he could remember meeting this man, and he had seemed so tall. It made him feel like a child again. But it was surely still the pain that stung his eyes.
‘Better take me to the hospital first,’ he said.
The beach looked different than it had the night before.
Terri had expected it to be shadowed by her meeting with Christopher Paget. But they had left no trace. The late-afternoon sun glistened at the water’s edge, fuller at high tide. The sound of the waves was deep and lulling.
She sat in a small cove carved into the cliffside, sheltered from the wind. Elena played at her feet. With a child’s solemn concentration, she arranged toy people in various formations around pieces of plastic furniture. There seemed, Terri realized, to be a mother, a father, and a little girl; she wished that she could see into Elena’s mind. Then Paget broke into her thoughts once more.