by Tim Green
"Honey," she said, softer still, her fingers trailing through his hair, "he knew. Believe me, he knew."
"You said it was possible," Troy said, his voice hot. "I heard you; you just said that."
"Troy, 'possible' is a huge word," she said, still stroking his head, her voice still soft. "It's possible that the world could stop spinning, but it won't. Your father can twist things around--he's tricky like that; he always was. I'm not surprised he became a lawyer."
"I want to see him," Troy said, crossing his arms and dipping his chin.
His mother's hand stiffened, and she pulled it back and stood up so that he couldn't see her face outside the glow of the car's overhead light.
"That's not going to happen," she said, her voice cold now. "You come inside. It's bedtime."
Troy sniffed hard and swept the tears from his face. He jumped out of the car and glared at her.
"No," he said, "I won't, and you can't make me. I'm going to see my father if I have to hitch a train to Chicago, and you can't stop me!"
"Troy!" she yelled.
Troy didn't care.
His feet were already moving, flying across the tops of the needle beds, weaving through the pines and into the pitch-black of the night.
CHAPTER SIX
FROM THE MIDDLE OF the woods, Troy thought of something and went back to his house--not to return, but to retrieve the football he used to throw at the tire that hung from a tree on the edge of the dirt patch in front of the house. Troy had collected the signatures of the entire Falcons offense; if he was going to really go somewhere, he didn't plan to go without it.
He found the ball just inside the shed, closing its door quietly, with one eye on his house, before heading back through the pines and out toward the tracks. Up the stony bank Troy climbed. After the total darkness of the woods, he could almost see the shiny metal tracks and their straight path due north to Chicago or south to Atlanta, depending on your direction. Troy headed south--not to Atlanta, but to the Pine Grove Apartments where both Nathan and Tate lived. It was Tate's apartment he went to, scooping up a handful of pebbles from the landscaping and tossing them up at the second-floor window he knew was hers.
It took a dozen stones before her light went on and the window slid open.
"Who's there?" Tate said, hissing into the night, just the edge of her face appearing between the curtains and the window frame.
"Tate," Troy said, "it's me."
Tate stuck her head right out the window then and, looking down, still whispering, asked, "What in the world are you doing?"
"Can you come down?" he asked.
Tate swept her long brown hair behind her ears and said, "You really need me to? It's, like, almost midnight."
"I do," he said.
"Okay," she said with a forceful nod, "let me get out of these pajamas."
Troy circled the apartment building and waited in the shadows until Tate's form slipped free from her front door and down the steps. She held a finger to her lips, and they stayed quiet until they reached the railroad tracks in back.
"Are you crazy?" Tate asked, still whispering.
"You don't have to whisper," Troy said.
"Who doesn't whisper?" Tate asked. "It's the middle of the night. The last time we did something like this, you almost got gunned down by a security guard inside Cotton Wood."
"I didn't almost get gunned down," Troy said.
"He had a gun."
"You sound like Nathan," Troy said.
"Where is Nathan?" she asked.
Troy shrugged. "I needed to talk to you. A woman's perspective, I guess."
Tate went silent for a minute, and they began walking down the tracks before she asked, "About your mom and your dad?"
"I ran away," Troy said.
"From home?"
"I guess."
"You can't do that," Tate said, upset.
"Now you sound like her," Troy said, smacking the ball he held with his free hand, then firing it at the trees beside the tracks so that it took off like a rocket, nearly straight up into the air, "telling me what to do, treating me like a little kid when I'm not. I'm making ten thousand dollars a week. And now with me being cleared by the NFL to help the Falcons, agents are coming out of the woodwork wanting to negotiate a deal for me with the Falcons or even another team for millions. Think about that, Tate. Millions."
"Well," she said, staring up at the tree toward which Troy had thrown his ball, "at least you can afford to buy yourself another ball."
"What?" Troy said, following her gaze.
"That thing never came down," she said.
"It had to," Troy said, starting for the big pine tree.
"I didn't hear it," she said, following him.
"Me neither," he said, mumbling and searching the ground beneath the tree.
Tate stared up and said, "It's stuck."
"I got that signed by the entire Falcons offense," he said. "I need to get it."
Tate sighed and spit on her hands, heading for the trunk of the enormous pine tree.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'll get it," she said, annoyed.
Troy watched her shinny up the trunk and scramble into the tree's branches. She shook one branch wildly, and the ball came tumbling down. It landed with a thump before bouncing crazily around and rolling down into the ditch beside the tracks. The branches shook as Tate moved into sight, then hung from the lowest branch and dropped down beside him as easy as if she were a cat.
"How'd you do that?" he asked.
Tate just shrugged and said, "A woman of many talents."
"You're like a lemur, Tate," Troy said, retrieving the ball from the ditch before climbing up onto the tracks, "but thanks. I wouldn't want to run away without this."
Troy turned to go, but Tate stopped him, and he could see her dark eyes glinting, even in the faintest light. "You just said you 'ran away.' That's what little kids do, not grown men."
"My father was a grown man," Troy said, swatting her hand away. "She says he ran away. I guess I'm like him. Anyway, I want to find him. If she doesn't want me, I can go live with him."
CHAPTER SEVEN
"WHOA," SHE SAID. "I know you took some shots in that game, but I didn't know it scrambled your brains completely."
"Why couldn't I?" Troy asked. "He seemed like a good guy."
"Troy, you met the man for about three minutes," Tate said.
"He had a pretty nice car," Troy said, then quickly added, "and he got into Cotton Wood because he said he had a client there. He must be pretty legit to have a client in Cotton Wood. Those people are all rich."
"You know what I'm saying," Tate said, stopping on the tracks. "Where are we going, Troy?"
"I don't know," Troy said. "The bridge?"
"It's pitch-black," Tate said with a shiver. "And it's cold. I don't want to go far. You should go home. Really, you can't just run away. Think about it. I know you're mad. I know you want to see your dad."
"I will see my dad," Troy said.
Tate nodded her head. "I think so, too."
"You do?"
"Yes," Tate said. "He's your dad, Troy. He looks like you, and if he acts anything like you at all, then he's not just going to disappear. But you go home now, Troy. Trust me."
Troy gripped Tate's arm. "I do trust you, Tate. I know that no matter what, I can count on you. Best friends?"
"Best friends forever," Tate said, grinning.
Suddenly there was a noise in the bushes along the tracks: snapping branches and a guttural growling. Troy felt his heart jump into his throat.
"Oh my God," Tate said. "What is it?"
A figure burst out of the underbrush and bolted up the railway bed.
"Sheesh," Nathan said, swiping sweat from his brow. "Talk about a third wheel. All this best-friends stuff and I'm not even in on it?"
Then Nathan laughed to show he wasn't serious, and they joined him.
"You scared the stuffing out of me," Tate said.
"Why are you crawling through the bushes?"
"My dad stayed late to help Seth pick up after the party, and I saw you guys disappearing around the building when we pulled in," Nathan said. "I had to go out through my bedroom window, and I took the shortcut to catch you. What's up?"
Troy told Nathan what had happened. He nodded and agreed that Troy should go home.
"We all should," Tate said. "You okay, Troy?"
Troy nodded, and they all said good-bye. By the time he slipped in through the front door, the clock on the wall showed that it was just before one. He took a deep breath and tiptoed across the floor. With his mom, it was always best to work through things in the morning. Without putting on the lights, Troy crept down the short hall to his bedroom, eased the door shut behind him, then flipped on the light. He breathed easier, smug with his strategy.
Then he turned around, and screamed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"MOM, WHAT ARE YOU doing!" Troy yelled, the blast of fear still burning through his veins.
His mom sat upright against the headboard of his bed with her arms folded and her legs crossed, wearing a robe over her pajamas. She uncrossed her legs and swung them over the side, standing, but keeping her arms folded tight as if against some unknown chill.
"Waiting," she said, the word dropping from her lips like a stone.
"Well," Troy said, turning to his Xbox controller and winding up its cord, something he never did.
His mom brushed past him and left the room. From the hall she said, "I left two more of those pain pills for your finger on the table next to your bed. One for tonight and one for tomorrow, and don't forget to brush your teeth."
Then he heard her bedroom door close.
Troy shook his head and took the pain pill, brushed his teeth and went to bed. He lay awake. At first his finger throbbed out the rhythm of his heartbeat, but then the gentle wave of the pain pill softened the ache in his finger and his heart. He dropped off to sleep thinking of Tate's words about his father.
Troy ached more in the morning than he could ever remember. His whole body felt stiff and sore from the rough game they'd played, and his finger had blown up like a deli pickle. For a moment the whole thing--the championship, the agents who'd approached him in the parking lot, and even his father's appearance at Seth's house--all seemed like a dream. He took the second pain pill his mom had laid out with a glass of water beside his bed. Then he heard the sound of his grandfather's voice from the kitchen, and he jumped up and nearly tripped pulling on his pants as he swung open the door.
"Gramps!" Troy said, hugging his grandfather where he sat at the kitchen table. "Where were you last night?"
"I was there for the game, are you kidding?" Gramps said. "But I'm too old for parties. Besides, that was for your team. No, I just went home afterward and had a cup of tea on my porch to celebrate."
His grandfather, tough and straight as an old stick, wore wire-rimmed glasses that highlighted his blazing pale blue eyes. His hair was mostly gone, and on his chin he had a white stubble that could leave a raspberry on Troy's skin. As Troy stepped back, Gramps held out one iron hand.
"Give me the grip," he said, then he looked at Troy's swollen finger. "Ouch. Better not. I saw them messing with you on the sideline and that last pass that looked like a dead duck, but I didn't know you messed yourself up this bad."
"I'm okay," Troy said.
Troy's mom turned away from the stove with platters of eggs, grits, and sausages, setting them out on the table before taking a pitcher of orange juice from the fridge and then pouring herself and her father cups of steaming hot coffee.
"The doctor said the finger isn't broken," Troy's mom said, blowing on her coffee and looking from Troy to Gramps over the rim of the mug. "It's his heart I'm worried about, Dad."
Gramps shoveled some food onto his plate and said, "Sounds serious. Girl trouble? That Tate McGreer turned him down?"
"Gramps," Troy said, nearly choking on his juice, "Tate's my friend. I don't have a girlfriend."
"She's a cutie, though," Gramps said, a twinkle in his eye as he mixed the eggs and grits together with some sausage before taking a big bite.
"Drew showed up, Dad," Troy's mom said, her voice cold enough to wipe the smile off Gramps's face.
"Oh?" Gramps said, swallowing. "Showed up? Where do you mean? After the game?"
"He saw us on Larry King, Gramps," Troy said. "He said he didn't know I even existed, and Mom said that was possible."
Gramps tilted his head down and looked at Troy's mom over the top of his glasses. "She did?"
"I said 'possible,' Dad," Troy's mom said, "but lots of things are possible. I figured if anyone could explain to Troy why you can't just show up twelve years into a boy's life and expect to be some kind of inflatable father figure, it would be you. You've been more of a father to him than the fathers a lot of kids have."
Gramps sipped his mug of coffee and rubbed the bristles on his chin. "I've enjoyed spending time with Troy. Not much at cleaning fish, but he sure catches 'em well enough."
Gramps winked at Troy.
"I'm serious, Dad," Troy's mom said. "I told Drew to leave us alone. I don't want him treating Troy like a yo-yo."
"Well," Gramps said softly. "It's a tough thing Troy's been through. Oh, I know you've done everything a mom could do, Tessa; and I guess I have, too. But it's different, a boy and his dad."
"See, Mom?" Troy said, excited at the direction in which things were headed.
"Still," Gramps said, turning his blazing eyes on Troy, "your mom has a point. You're at that in-between time of life, Troy. You're not a kid anymore, but you're not quite a man. It's a hard time, and I think maybe, if your dad really means what he says, well, when you're a man he'll still be there, and the two of you can get acquainted and see where it goes. Jumping in on the parent wagon at this point doesn't do anyone much good."
"Gramps," Troy said, standing so fast that his chair fell over, "I can't believe you're taking her side. I took off last night, and I should have stayed gone."
CHAPTER NINE
"HEY, MISTER," HIS MOM said, raising her voice and banging her mug so that coffee splashed out onto the tabletop. "I thought we were over that. I let it slide; now you're tossing it in my face?"
"What am I tossing?" Troy said, bending to flip the chair upright before backing away toward his bedroom. "I've always dreamed I had a dad. I knew he was out there, somewhere. Now he found me. Do you know how good that feels?"
"For now," she said, standing up. "For the moment."
"Why? Why just for the moment?" Troy asked.
"Because I know him, Troy," she said, her hands clasped and her voice almost pleading. "You don't. You saw him pull up in a hundred-thousand-dollar car with a fancy pair of cowboy boots. I know who he is, and I know what he did--to both of us."
"You always say 'forgive and forget,'" Troy said. "What about that? That's only for when it's good for you? What about now? Why can't you forgive?"
"Okay, I forgive him," she said, "fine. That's not what this is about. I do forgive him, but I don't want to let him hurt us again--hurt you."
"I don't care if I get hurt," Troy said, trying not to shout. "I'm hurt already. You don't know what it's like to have people look at you, the kid without a dad. The football player without a dad."
"Don't tell me I don't know," she said, shaking her head so that her hair lay in a crazed web on her shoulders. "I know. I'm the woman with no husband, the woman with a broken family and a troubled son."
"I'm not troubled!" Troy yelled.
"You just said you were!"
"STOP!"
Troy and his mom froze. Gramps was on his feet now, too, and it was the first time Troy had ever heard him shout.
"Now," Gramps said in his normal voice, his hands motioning for them both to sit and settle down. "Both of you. Sit down. We're all on the same side here. We are. And, if you'll listen, I think I've got a solution."
CHAPTER TEN
&
nbsp; "THERE ARE LAWS," GRAMPS said, "that give your father some rights."
"Dad!" Troy's mom said, her lips curling back in disgust.
"You need to listen, young lady," Gramps said, his voice and look stern. "It's true. Drew has rights. If he can show he didn't know about Troy and he's his father, the court will give him some kind of visitation rights, especially if Troy wants it."
Troy's mom bit her lip and winced.
"And," Gramps said, turning his eyes on Troy, "your mom can fight it. She can get a good lawyer and drag this thing out so that it'd be years before Drew could ever see you.
"That wouldn't be good," Gramps said. "But, Troy, you have to know this. Your father is a smart man. If he really wants to see you, to be a part of your life, then he'll find the laws if he doesn't know them already. And, if he's willing to use his time and money and initiate a suit, then I say it proves he's not just showing up on a whim because he saw you two on Larry King. That's what I say."
Gramps picked up his fork and rammed home a mouthful of food, chewing so that his leathery neck danced up and down and side to side.
"He has to sue to get to see me?" Troy asked in disbelief.
"No," his mom said softly, "that's not what Gramps is saying. He's saying that if it's that important to Drew to see you, then he'll begin a lawsuit, and if he does, we'll just settle it right out of the gate."
"Why do we have to make it hard on him?" Troy asked.
Gramps held up his hand so Troy's mom would let him speak. He swallowed and washed down the mouthful with a gulp of juice before he said, "Because he made it hard on you, Troy. And on your mom. There's a saying that anything worth having is worth fighting for, and it's true. If he really wants a relationship, let him fight for it. Then when he does get it, he's a lot less apt to walk away from it."
"Again," Troy's mom said.
Gramps glared at her.
"Well?" she said to Gramps before dropping her shoulders and turning to Troy. "Okay, I'm sorry. I'll behave."
His mom extended her hand across the table and let it hang there between them.