by Eric Kester
A thick film of opaque green skin had congealed across the surface of my lukewarm soup. I punctured it with the prongs of the spork and then scooped some soup into my mouth.
“First off, I told you the spork was clutch. You were wrong about it, just like you’re wrong about this.”
“How so?”
“Like, I don’t think your dad wakes up in the morning—”
“Afternoon, lately.”
“In the afternoon and thinks, ‘Hmm, I think I’ll be a massive prick again today. Where’s my drink?’ He’s an alcoholic, Wyatt, and any doctor or scientist would tell you it’s not a choice, it’s a disease.”
I rolled my eyes. “Science doesn’t automatically excuse everyone’s flaws, Nate.”
“I’m just saying that major brain chemistry is at play. At the very least, shouldn’t his depression count as a form of mental illness?”
“You’re dangerously close to sounding like you’re on my dad’s side.”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong: He’s an asshole. We’re on the same page there. But, like, maybe we should think about how he became an asshole. That story is probably deserving of some sympathy, don’t you think?”
I slurped down the rest of my soup and started in on the refried beans. “Nope. I’m convinced he came out of the womb as a fifty-year-old prick.”
“Come on, there must be something you can pinpoint.”
“I mean, yeah. I think his busted hip hurts him all the time. That must suck.”
“And my guess is the fall hurt him even more than the injury.”
“Fall?” I was confused.
“From the top of the mountain. Think about it, dude. Back in high school your dad was a god in Grayport. You’ve seen the way people talk about his football days. The guy’s picture is on the wall of practically every store in town. Like, the mental image of your dad playing quarterback is probably what Coach Crooks uses instead of Viagra.”
“And now look at him,” I added. “A hungry drunk whose wife left him.”
“Exactly. Imagine going from the highest high to the lowest low. I don’t think that’s something you or I can really relate to.”
“Yeah, I guess when he was seventeen he had a lot to lose. And he lost it all.”
“I feel a little sorry for him, to tell you the truth.”
I’d never thought of it like that, so I tried it out, dipped my toe in that pool of sympathy. It still didn’t feel right, giving sympathy to someone completely devoid of it himself, so I pulled back. But part of me thought Nate was onto something, so I told myself I’d try it again someday when I was less hangry.
“Hey, Wyatt,” Nate said softly. “Look who it is.”
I followed the direction of Nate’s subtle nod and saw an elderly woman waddling straight for us. She was draped in layers and layers of shawls that were as ragged as her stringy gray hair. Her lower jaw protruded out so her two canine teeth stuck out of her lips, kind of like a bulldog. In one hand she held a cane, in the other a takeout box of leftovers. I immediately recognized her as Ms. Moss, the older lady who sold hand-knitted winter hats at Grayport football games. Nate’s mom once bought a purple hat from her out of pity. She said the hat was very pretty and delicately crafted, but the material just wasn’t warm enough for Grayport winters. Hardly anyone bought Ms. Moss’s hats.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said as she approached us. “But aren’t you one of Henry Parker’s boys?”
I was surprised by how melodic her voice was, soft but with the clarity of a bell. I realized in that moment that I’d never spoken to her, despite seeing her every week of every fall for the last three years.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Wyatt Parker. And this is my friend Nate.”
“Well, I saw you fellas from across the room and thought I’d say hello before I departed. What a catch you made the other night! My word, it was something.”
“Thank you,” I said, still not exactly sure how to respond to praise like this. “It was an honor.” From the corner of my eye, I could see Nate wince. An honor?!
“And how’s your father doing, if I might ask? I used to watch him play football when he was your age, you know.”
I looked at Nate, then back to Ms. Moss. For some reason, I didn’t feel the need to gloss over my dad’s flaws with some canned response. That was a nice thing about the soup kitchen: You didn’t have to fake anything. You were already stripped raw for everyone to see.
“He’s not doing great, to be honest.”
“Ah, well isn’t that a shame,” Ms. Moss said in her sweet voice. “He was dealt a tough hand, that one. I still remember clearly how he played through all those games with that terrible hip. It was inspiring and heartbreaking all at once.”
“He actually injured his hip in the final game,” I corrected her. “The state championship.”
“Oh no, dear. I remember it very well. He was injured in the first game of the season, a bootleg left in the second quarter. But he played through it the whole season. It was all anyone could talk about. Every week you could almost see how each stride tore a little bit away from him. He could barely move by the state championship game, but by golly he went out there.” Ms. Moss sighed.
“Oh” was all I could manage.
“It was a magical season, but he certainly paid the price, didn’t he? And we as a town pushed that young man to do it. He kept giving and giving and we kept taking and taking. People say it was his choice to keep playing. But what choice does a boy really have, when the whole town is counting on him?” Ms. Moss shook her head. “I feel bad about that. Very bad.” She handed me her carton of leftover food. “Here, please give this to him.”
“Oh no, he’s fine,” I said, pushing it back toward her. “Really.”
“I insist. He sacrificed a lot for our little town. Please give this to him. I’ll be insulted if you don’t.”
I took back the carton of food. Holding it, I thought of all those times growing up when the baker would slip Dad an extra loaf of bread, free of charge. How when cops found him passed out at the beach, instead of booking him for a night of lockup in the drunk tank, they always delivered him home, even carrying him to his bed until Brett and I became big enough to do it ourselves. I’d always assumed he got this treatment simply because he used to be so good at football. I thought he was still drawing from a savings account of goodwill that he accrued from being an all-American. But maybe the favors from Grayport residents actually came from a deeper source, one of guilt and appreciation.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be sure he gets this.”
“Wonderful. Now I must be pushing along. Enjoy your meal, boys.”
“We will,” Nate said. “As long as we don’t have to look too long at those Blakemore jerks!”
“Oh, don’t call them that,” said Ms. Moss, her mild voice suddenly stern. “They are far, far worse. Stuck-up dickbags, every last one of them.” Then she winked at us and hobbled to the exit.
I looked at Nate. “A lot to process there.”
“That’s for sure,” he replied.
We stared at our trays for a moment, thinking. Nate looked worried. “Hey, Wyatt? Are we going to talk about Brett or not? You can’t avoid it forever.”
But, man, did I want to avoid it forever. I picked up my spork and poked at my creamed corn. I’d completely lost my appetite. “I mean, Brett can’t play on Friday,” I said after a minute. “He just can’t. You heard all that stuff Owen said about head injuries.”
“So you’re going to report the concussion?”
“Yes,” I said, hoping that hearing the decision aloud would strengthen my resolve in it. It didn’t. “Actually, no. Ugh. I don’t know. So much is on the line. Like, he’s got to play this season if he wants to get a scholarship and escape all this. The hunger. The constant stink of fish. Dad.”
What I didn’t mention, since I knew it revealed me as a selfish son of a bitch, was that my college chances were on the line, too. For the past co
uple of weeks I’d been thinking a lot about the Boston College scout’s promise to include me as an admissions “package deal” if Brett committed to playing there. I’d get to meet really interesting and smart people, people from Brazil and Ireland and Nigeria and even Idaho. I’d have the ability to head down to Fenway Park with a bunch of friends and catch a Sox game in the cheap seats. I’d have the opportunity to finally take classes with teachers who didn’t incorporate cigarette breaks into their lesson plans.
“Then there’s the ESPN deal,” Nate added. “I really wish they didn’t include that clause in the contract about Brett having to play as a requirement for payment. What if he played just one snap, then told Coach he was hurt, took himself out of the game?”
I shook my head. “C’mon, you know Brett would never do that. He wanted to play through a broken arm last year, remember?” I picked up my lemonade and started anxiously scraping off flecks of foam from the cup. “It’s so much money, Nate.”
“So much,” he agreed.
“Mayor Pickney said it would all go to the food crisis and stabilizing the economy. I mean, look around. Everyone here deserves better than this. The money from this game would literally change our lives.”
We slouched in chairs quietly for a few minutes, each processing the various options and their consequences.
“I keep thinking back to what Ms. Moss just said about your dad,” Nate finally said. “How he thought playing through the hip injury was his choice when it really wasn’t. Can’t that apply to Brett, too? He thinks he wants to play, that it’s his choice, but maybe he’s just blind to the reality that he’s really a puppet performing for the town?”
“Maybe. But what right do I have to just swoop in and report him, like I know better? Who am I to prevent him from playing for the town? For his college future?”
“Um, someone who cares that he actually has a future?”
“But what if he doesn’t get hurt? What if he plays and is alright and he gets his BC scholarship and the town gets its money from ESPN? There’s a chance of that happening. There’s a chance everything works out in the end. But if I turn him in, there are guaranteed bad outcomes. No money for the town, no college for Brett.”
I paused. There was another guarantee, too, one that scared me the most. “Brett would never speak to me again if I call that concussion hotline.”
Nate sighed. “You’re probably right. But then again, he also would never speak to you again if he were a vegetable.”
“‘If,’” I said.
“Right. ‘If.’”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
It was pitch-black in our apartment when I got home from the soup kitchen, and I tripped over Dad’s body sprawled out on the floor by the oven. I held my hand in front of his nose, and when I felt his soft exhale against my palm, I walked carefully to his bedroom and returned with a pillow. I knelt down and, cradling Dad’s head in one hand, gently slid the cushion underneath with the other. I stayed kneeling and looked at him.
“I feel sorry for you,” I whispered. The words sounded like they were coming from a stranger, but they made me feel slightly better. I got up and turned the oven’s temperature up a few degrees.
The grunt of the oven’s internal gas flame igniting was echoed by a low cough from the bathroom on the other side of the kitchen.
“Brett?” I whispered. “You good in there?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
He didn’t sound it. I walked across the kitchen to the bathroom door, then crouched down and peeked through the keyhole. It was hard to make anything out in the darkness, but I could tell Brett was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floor around the toilet. Next to him was a pile of used paper towels. A stench of vomit wafted out from under the door crack.
I stood up slowly. I went over to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. I looked at my hands. They were trembling.
After a few minutes, the door creaked open. Holding a small trash bag, Brett moved quickly toward the sink and, stepping over Dad, stashed the bag in the garbage. The smell filled every corner of our dark kitchen.
“Brett?”
“Yeah? What’s up?” His casual tone was clearly forced.
I hadn’t rehearsed what to say, so I just came out with it in a single breath. “I need you to tell me what I should do about you and your head and the game.”
Brett leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms. He breathed in deeply. “I’m playing in that game, Wyatt.”
“Your head is totally messed up.”
Brett laughed bitterly. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Do you even know the effects of playing through a concussion? They’re bad, Brett. It’s not like a broken arm that you can just put a cast on and expect to heal. We’re talking permanent brain damage. Maybe even death.”
“I know what the risks are,” Brett stated firmly. “I’ve thought about it carefully, and I’m playing. That’s the end of it.”
“Yeah, but how can you say you’ve thought about it carefully when your concussion makes it so you can’t even think clearly? You’re slurring your words even now!”
Brett was silent. Through the darkness I could see his chest heaving. I could practically feel his pulse pounding. I know mine was.
“If you play and something really bad happens,” I went on, “and I’d done nothing, how am I supposed to forgi—”
“Jesus Christ, Wyatt,” Brett suddenly snapped. He smacked the counter with his fist, causing me to flinch in my seat. “Stop acting like the fucking victim here. This has nothing to do with you, and you have no right to decide my future.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice shaking. “It’s just hard seeing you like this. This decision is eating me alive.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Wyatt. It must be so hard being you. So sensitive. So emo.”
I’d never heard Brett talk like this. I averted my eyes to the floor.
“Give me a break with that stuff,” he went on. “You’re not the one with the headaches that feel like an ice pick to the brain. You’re not the one who can’t even watch TV without feeling like puking. You’re not the one who has the town’s future on his back.”
“But I do have the town’s future in my hands. Don’t you get it?” I waved my phone at him. “One call to the concussion hotline. That’s all it takes for me to stop the game, to save your head, and screw over the town and our college chances. I have to make a decision here.”
I waited for Brett to respond, but he didn’t. It was so quiet in the kitchen you could hear Dad’s rhythmic breath punctuate the air.
“I have only two choices,” I continued. “Make the call or not. But either way I know I’ll be destroying someone’s life. You don’t think that’s hard for me? You don’t think I already hate myself for whatever decision I end up making? You could at least make this a tiny bit easier for me.”
“I am making it easier for you,” he snapped back. “I’m telling you that I know the risks, and that this decision isn’t on you. It’s on me. There: Your precious conscience is clean.”
“You know it’s not that simple,” I mumbled.
The argument once again slipped into a stillness. My eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness, and I could see Brett shaking his head slowly. “I always defend you to Dad,” he said, pronouncing his slurred words more deliberately now, like he was chewing each one. “Did you know that? Whenever he’s ripping you behind your back, calling you soft, calling you a wuss, I stand up for you. I tell him that I know what you’re made of, and that you’re loyal. Strong. Well, here’s your chance to prove it, Wyatt. Because making the call wouldn’t just be betraying me, it would be betraying the entire town. All that money, gone. They’ll despise you for it. All of them, including that girl you’ve been obsessing over.”
“But this is loyalty,” I shouted. “You’re my brother, whether you like it or not. And I’m doing what’s best for you, even knowing
the town will tear me to shreds for it. That’s what loyalty is.”
Suddenly, we were interrupted by a muffled chortle coming from the floor by the oven. The chortle grew louder and clearer, evolving into a throaty laugh. Brett and I looked down at Dad, who had propped himself up so his back was leaning against the cabinet.
“That’s a good one, Wyatt,” he said, heavily slurring his words. He cackled some more. “It’s funny because they tell me you’re the smart one.”
I shouldn’t have engaged with him, but I was so adrenalized. The cover had finally blown off this stifled family, and I was ready to throw everything on the table. “What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Help me up and I’ll show you,” he said.
I got up from the chair and stepped toward him.
“Don’t,” Brett ordered. I stopped.
Dad cackled some more, and then rolled over onto his stomach. He lifted himself up to his hands and knees and, grabbing the kitchen counter, pulled his brittle body up until he got the foot of his good leg flat on the floor. In a final heft, he pulled his bad leg up so both feet were steady, and then he straightened himself upright.
“You know how many times people ask me if you and Brett are actually brothers?”
“Dad…,” Brett said cautiously. “Does this have to—”
“Come on now, Brett. Wyatt suddenly thinks he’s a big man with all the answers, so let’s talk some truth with him, man to man.”
“You’re just a rambling drunk,” I said.
“Maybe I am. But some smart-seeming people have asked about you two actually being brothers. Hard to blame them. I mean, look at Brett, then look at all of you.” Dad spread his arms out, like he was outlining my XXL silhouette. “But those people are smart, like I said. And you know what I think? I think they aren’t just wondering about your size difference. They’re wondering about your heart. They’ve seen you play ball, Wyatt. They’ve seen how you play scared. How you play to protect yourself—selfish. They’ve seen you stutter and look at your shoelaces whenever you talk to a girl.” Dad took a small step toward me. I was close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. “They think you can’t really be a Parker. They’re wrong, sadly. You’re somehow our flesh and blood. But that doesn’t mean your brother and I are happy about it.”