“This footbridge?”
“This very one. He was so loud! His hooves were just pounding and pounding on the boards. It was very hollow sounding and very loud. His body was all sweaty and the sweat was foaming him over like lather.”
Her sense of urgency at this point increased T.J.’s interest, in spite of himself. “It sounds like something from the Bible,” he said.
“There’s a passage from Revelation, chapter six. It says, ‘And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed after him.’”
“Okay, then that explains it—you had a dream about the Bible.”
“You don’t understand Spirit-filled living, though, T.J. The Gifts of the Spirit can enlighten us beyond our mortal understanding.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand Spirit-filled living. I don’t even know what it is.”
Her smile was still there, while the dreamlike countenance might have been merely a haloed effect from the feeble available light. She wanted him to understand. “I’ve had the dream twice, which tells me the Lord wants to work through me. It’s really very blessed. Now I need help to interpret the dream, but Sister Simone is here to help me. She has the Gift of interpretation, as well as the Gift of prophecy.”
“What about the gift of IQ? I mean your own brain.”
“I asked you not to be sarcastic.”
“It seems pretty simple to me,” T.J. declared. “You spend all day studying the Bible, so why wouldn’t you dream about it at night?”
“Yes, but if only you could someday be baptized in the Spirit, you might understand. That’s what I think of when I pray for you.”
“You pray for me?” T.J. was flabbergasted. His own confusion made it impossible to know where his impatience was rooted. Nevertheless, he said, “I gotta tell you, LuAnn, this all sounds like a lot of political bullshit to me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talkin’ about the whole thing. The preacher who brings you here, the counselor who says she’s never going to die. I mean, why doesn’t somebody like just tell you to go home and work things out with your parents?”
“You don’t even know Sister Simone. How can you talk about her?” Her smile was gone.
T.J. couldn’t deny what she said. He didn’t know Sister Simone, so if she gave him bad vibes, even if the whole Bible camp itself did, what did it prove? He really didn’t know anything about it. He finally said, “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. It just doesn’t seem right to me.” If I fucked up with Ishmael and with Tyron, I might as well fuck up here too.
“T.J., I’m talking about surrendering to the Lord Himself, so why would you bring up politics?”
The answer seemed easy. “Everything in life seems like politics to me right now.”
“It’s crazy, though, isn’t it? Me talking about gifts from the Holy Spirit, and you bringing up Republicans and Democrats.”
“You think politics is about Congress? Is that what you think? That’s not even the tip of the iceberg. Politics is when you can manipulate systems to your own benefit. It’s how you get power.”
“You mean like kissing up.”
“I mean exactly like kissing up. If it gets you power you can use, it’s political.”
LuAnn had her headband off; she was redefining the folds so that all the letters would be fully visible. When the headband was back in place, she put her hand on his arm. “I’m still going to pray for you.”
T.J. said, “Thank you.” He couldn’t think of anything else.
“You hurt my feelings, but that only means I haven’t surrendered completely. I know you mean well. Your heart is in the right place. I’m sure the Lord will bless you for it.”
She was smiling again.
EIGHT
The first game was easy, but everyone knew it would be. T.J. blended in without exerting himself. When Evans’s asthma began acting up again, he needed to play more but it didn’t matter—he was pacing himself. Ishmael Greene was his usual splendid self, but since the game was so lopsided, he spent most of the last quarter on the bench. Buddy wanted to rest him for the championship game, which came later.
Tyron had a monster game, even if the opposition was inferior. He had four dunks and a host of rebounds. When he was seated on the bench, and during time-outs, T.J. kept to himself; he took no part in the high-fiving or the yukking it up.
During the one-hour break before the championship game, T.J. went to the first aid building to get his ankle taped. The camp doctor was there, examining Evans. T.J. sat on the table while Bridget taped his ankle tight with one careful layer after another.
From this position, he could see—just barely—to the far bluff and the west end of the footbridge. There was a commotion that looked like sheriff’s cars and an ambulance, but it was hard to tell for sure. It looked as if sheriffs’ deputies were putting a barricade at the entrance to the bridge.
It was all too far away to determine exactly what might be occurring, but what he could make out gave him a queasy feeling. It could be anything, though. Most likely, the queasy feeling was only the by-product he often felt when there was information he thought he needed but couldn’t get.
When she was done taping him, Bridget said, “By the way, I looked up the word feckless. There is such a word.”
“So what’s it mean?”
“You wanta know, you can look it up like I did.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Before he left the building, T.J. heard the doctor tell Evans, “I think you need to sit this one out, son. I’m sorry.”
The Blue Stars won the championship game by more than ten points. One reason why—a big one—was the way T.J. played. He wasn’t the star of the game by any stretch; he scored only nine points. But he understood what he needed to provide to give his own team an advantage—defense.
Guarding Ronnie Streets was like chasing butterflies without a net, but T.J. found himself at a level of focused intensity as consuming as it was unfamiliar. He refused to let Streets break him down. He refused to let fatigue undermine his concentration, which was footwork. If he could force Streets to shoot perimeter jump shots, where he was only average, then he could check him.
It worked even better than he dared to hope. As soon as Streets missed some jump shots, he began trying to do too much. He shot too much. He forced plays that weren’t there, throwing the ball away. His too-aggressive defense got him in foul trouble. Wherever he went on the court, with or without the ball, there was T.J., dogging him as tenaciously as a shadow.
Even though he got only two brief rests on the bench, T.J. refused to give in to pain or fatigue. There was no shortness of breath and no sore ankle, there was only the path to Streets, whether direct or around a series of screens.
It was late in the game when Streets attempted a highlight-film dunk on the fast break, but there was T.J. locked in perfect position to take the charge. The basket didn’t count; Streets had fouled out of the game.
After that, the lead swelled quickly. T.J. got to sit out the last three minutes with the starters. Right next to Ishmael, who told him, “Nice game, man.”
T.J. was too short of breath for more than a one-word answer: “Thanks.”
“What I said yesterday was wrong, man. I’m sorry. You can play.”
T.J. didn’t answer. He lowered his head and draped the wet towel to hide his face. He had tears forming in his eyes that he didn’t want anyone to see. In the contemplative days and weeks ahead, he would ponder (among other things) how it was that he came to play such a great game. A game so much better than he had ever played before or imagined he could play. What blend of guilt, frustration, shame, and desperation caught upon this point in time? Might he have had this talent all along but no sufficient motivation to focus it? And what, if anything, about the girl on the bridge? There would be so many questions but so few answers.
Just as the game was winding down, but before the high fives beg
an, T.J. said to Ishmael, “You don’t have to apologize, Ishmael. You were right.”
“I was wrong, man. You can play.”
Ishmael saw what he needed to see. T.J. dropped the subject. He turned to look in the direction of the footbridge. It wasn’t easy to see from here, but the space between the branches showed him there was yellow tape fixed to the railings on the far side, the kind used by police to seal off the scene of a crime or accident. He felt queasy in the stomach again.
Back in the dorm, they packed their gear. Some of the guys were in a hurry because they were being picked up by parents or other relatives. T.J. was in a hurry because he wanted to be out of here; he wanted to put distance between himself and Full Court as soon as he could. He felt like if he never played basketball again, he wouldn’t have any regrets.
“Can’t you hurry, Big Guy?” he urged Tyron.
Tyron was using a pair of the new shoes to establish a partition so he could separate the clean clothes from the dirty ones in his huge duffel bag. “I’m hurryin’ already,” he replied.
“Why don’t you see if you can hurry faster?”
The heavy vegetation surrounding the road out formed a tunnel that led back to reality, as far as he was concerned, and he was eager to follow it there. He was driving too fast, though, and it wasn’t long before he noticed he was low on gas and the engine was overheating.
He pulled sharply into the gravel parking lot of Heaven’s Gate.
“Not this place again,” Tyron said, and groaned. He seemed exhausted. He squirmed in his seat, striving in vain for additional room.
“It’s only for a few minutes. We need gas, and the radiator’s overheatin’.”
Tyron gave T.J. three crumpled-up one-dollar bills. “Get me a bag of nachos, okay, T.J.?”
“Okay.”
“And I’ll take a Moon Pie too, if they have ’em. One Moon Pie and a bag of nachos.”
“Okay, okay.”
Inside, the light was low and the Garth Brooks hit was loud on the jukebox. Two guys were shooting pool. Beyond the pinball machine, some of the coaches from Full Court were hoisting beers and engaged in loud conversation.
The redneck guy behind the cash register was wearing overalls without a shirt and a hunting cap. He had a burn scar next to his left eyebrow. When T.J. told him he needed gas and water, the guy brought out a battered metal can with a spout from behind the counter. “Faucet’s on the north side of the building,” he declared.
“I need some gas too,” said T.J.
“Turning it on now,” was the answer.
As soon as he was finished pumping the gas and adding water to the radiator, T.J. went inside to pay. Coach Lindsey, holding a longneck bottle of Bud Light, approached him near the register.
“What in hell happened to you back there?” he asked T.J.
“I played hard.”
“I guess. Streets is going to have to go home and reload his psyche.”
“What about Tyron?” T.J. asked him.
“We’ll see,” Lindsey replied. “He played well, so we’ll see. I’m still interested in what you did, though. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
“I did what I had to do,” T.J. answered immediately. He couldn’t find significant pride in it, though. At least not yet. He looked directly into Lindsey’s eyes before he said, “Isn’t that what Full Court camp is for, Coach? Improvement?”
“I guess it is,” said the coach, with a laugh.
Then T.J. had a question for Lindsey. “What was the commotion up there by the footbridge?”
“You mean the cop cars and the ambulance.”
“Yeah. What was that about?”
“I’m not sure.” Lindsey jerked his head in the direction of other coaches who were still at the far end of the bar. “Somebody said someone got killed over at that Bible camp.”
“Who got killed?”
“I don’t know. It could be just a rumor.”
“What’s the rest of the rumor?”
“The rumor is, some girl committed suicide.”
T.J. found the rumor too disturbing. He paid for the gas but was distracted to the point he nearly forgot to get Tyron’s snacks.
When he started the engine again, Tyron asked him, “Was Coach Lindsey in there?”
“You saw his car, Tyron; you know he was.”
“What did Coach Lindsey say?”
T.J. lit a cigarette before he answered. “He said you played well.”
“What about the scholarship, though?”
“He said we’ll see.”
“You mean he’s going to call you?”
“No, Tyron. I mean he’s going to call you.”
NINE
As soon as he got home, T.J. took all his dirty laundry and dumped it in a pile next to the washing machine. He was so tired he thought briefly about asking his mother to do the laundry for him, but even quicker did he realize what her answer would likely be: Why would I do that? Is your arm broken?
Upstairs, it was hot. He opened the windows in his room and lay in front of the twenty-inch fan, which he turned up to high. The air-conditioned dorm at Full Court had spoiled him. Nevertheless, his exhaustion was complete; he fell into a deep sleep that lasted most of the afternoon.
He watched the evening news while eating two bowls of Cocoa Krispies. Using the remote like a joystick, he surfed fretfully from one Peoria channel to another. They all reported the same event in essentially the same terms: a teenage girl from the Peoria area had fallen to her death at the Camp Shaddai Bible camp sometime just before dawn. Shelbyville County sheriff’s deputies were joined in the investigation by state police. Foul play was not suspected, but circumstances of the death were unclear. The young woman’s name was being withheld by authorities until such time as all family members had been notified. Film crews filed footage of the footbridge and the concrete steps approaching it while police personnel milled around, some of them in conversation while others walked around with their heads down as if searching for clues.
The beads of sweat that formed on T.J.’s forehead and upper lip were not merely from the heat. His stomach churned noisily. He was in the act of lighting up when his mother returned home from work. “You can’t smoke in the house,” was the first thing she said to him. “You should know that by now. Take it outside.”
T.J. took it out on the porch. He finished the cigarette while the words of the anchorman replayed across his brain dramatically like one of those electronic message boards: The young woman’s name is being withheld until such time … the young woman’s name is being withheld until such time …
So distracted was he that when his mother joined him on the porch, it took a few moments before he realized he had company. She asked him how the basketball camp went. She had to ask a second time: “How did the camp go?”
“Oh, it was okay.”
“That’s all?”
T.J. was leaning against one post, his mother against the other. Their feet shared the same wooden step. “If you want the truth, it was a trip,” he told her. “A real trip.”
“I know it was a trip, but what was it like?”
“Not like that. I wouldn’t know how to explain it.”
“I hope you took care of Tyron.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He was a long way from home.”
“So was I. So was everybody.”
“You know what I mean. Some people are ready to take care of themselves and some people need someone watching over them.”
“Tell me about it. Don’t worry, I took care of him.”
His mother sighed. She was rubbing lotion into her rough, red hands. Her veins were prominent. She was 110 pounds if she was lucky, T.J. thought to himself. The young woman’s name is being withheld until such time …
“I’m still a little worried about how we’re going to pay for it.”
“I told you not to worry. We’re not going to have to pay for it.”
“I
heard you before,” she replied, “but I still look for the bill to show up in the mail. There’s nothing free that I know of, so why should basketball camps be any different?”
“There won’t be any bill in the mail,” T.J. answered quickly. “It ain’t gonna happen.”
“Then who’s paying your way? Who paid your way?”
“Coach took care of it. I’m not exactly sure how, but I don’t think I want to know.” If he told his mother that the money was probably routed through Coach DeFreese by way of Coach Lindsey’s office at North State, it would only prolong a conversation he didn’t want to pursue in the first place.
“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings or anything, T.J., but the times I went to your games you didn’t seem to be one of the main players. You were on the bench more than you were in the game.”
“You’re not hurting my feelings, Ma; don’t worry about it.” He really wanted to change the subject, but his mother beat him to it. She said, “I have to tell you that one of the houses on your route didn’t get their paper this week.”
“What house?”
“That adobe one over on Bradley Street. That huge dog was always in the front yard; I didn’t want to get too close.”
The huge dog she was talking about was a black Great Dane. He was ferocious in appearance, but not in fact. “They always keep him tied to a stake. He couldn’t hurt you.”
“And how was I supposed to know that? All I could see was this huge beast on his feet and moving toward me. How do you deliver the paper there?”
“I just throw it over the yard and onto the stoop.”
“I’m not a thrower, T.J. Anyway, the people who live there are probably good and pissed. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve been calling the newspaper office.”
In his mind’s eye, T.J. tried to picture his mother lobbing a folded-up newspaper thirty or forty feet over Mr. Levin’s front yard, clear to the stoop. The thought made him giggle. He said, “I’ll take care of it tomorrow, Ma. It won’t be a problem.”
“As long as you’re taking care of things,” she went on quickly, “you can also help me understand the last lesson they gave us on Quicken.”
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