The Farewell Season

by Ann Herrick

  "Going on?" I put on my best little-boy innocent look that worked so well on girls from two to ninety-two. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, why on earth would you try to use me to make Hedy Theodore jealous?"

  "What?"

  "You put your hand on my shoulder after practice, just as Hedy walks by. Then, you're ready to throw me off your porch one second and cozying up to me on the swing the next. I mean, I am aware that your arm is perilously close to being around my shoulder."

  Caught. I withdrew my arm. I guess Glynnie was one of those rare females, besides Kirstin, who wasn't totally charmed by my angelic looks. "It wasn't the piano … it was the song."

  "What?"

  "It was the song that bothered me. It's okay to play the piano. Mom doesn't believe in having furniture that can't be used."

  "And the song has something to do with Hedy?"

  "No. Nothing like that." I took a deep breath. "I guess what I'm trying to do is apologize. Let's start over. Ask me something about football."

  "Oh, no." Glynnie shook her head. She was not easily distracted. "You can't throw out something like that comment about the song and not explain."

  I was floating in a foggy sea of emotions. Maybe if I just gave one big kick, I'd hit dry land. "My father used to sing that song. All the time. With Kirstin. They'd play a duet and sing. It was his favorite song."

  "Why, then," Glynnie asked softly, "did it make you angry to hear it?"

  "I don't know … I mean … that is … I'm sorry I blew up."

  Glynnie sat there, staring at me, not in shock, but thoughtfully.

  "I'm beat," I said. "I'll see you." Without waiting for a response, I got up, went into the house and straight to my room. I flung myself on my bed and pounded the mattress.

  Damn! Damn … Why did I act like such a jerk about Glynnie playing the piano? What was wrong with me, anyway?

  Chapter Six

  I must've fallen asleep, because next thing I knew my face was buried in my pillow and Starburst was scratching at the window screen.

  I sat up, opened the screen for Starburst and tried to think. What time was it? I checked my watch. Quarter to three. Rolf would be here soon.

  Suddenly my face burned. I'd left Glynnie on the porch swing. For a second, I pictured her still sitting there, waiting for me to come back and answer questions. I almost laughed at the idea. Persistent as she was, I was sure Glynnie wasn't the sort of girl who'd cool her heels for two hours for anybody.

  Starburst rubbed against my arm, meowing insistently in her I'm-ready-to-be-fed voice. I scratched her head. "Okay, okay."

  When I stood up I realized how tired I was, and how hot. I had another two hours of practice in front of me. Trying not to step on Starburst as she led me downstairs to the kitchen, I felt the aches and pains that would only get worse by tomorrow.

  "Okay, what'll it be?" I asked as I surveyed the selection of cat food. "How 'bout Seafood Stew?"

  Starburst rubbed against my leg and purred her approval.

  As I spooned some gooey nuggets of Seafood Stew into Starburst's food bowl and refilled her water dish, I thought about what a great life she had and wondered if she appreciated it. Would she miss me when I went away to college? She acted real weird after Dad died, so I thought she knew he was gone and that it bothered her. But who could tell for sure? She was back to her old routine and her life seemed right on track.

  Suddenly, Kirstin and Rolf spilled into the kitchen.

  "There he is." Kirstin pointed at me. "With the only living creature he shows any concern for besides himself."

  "That's 'cause Starburst is the only female under sixteen in this house who shows me any respect," I shot back.

  "She's eighty-four in human years," Kirstin replied. "You know how those grandmother types like to fuss over you."

  "All females like to fuss over me," I said, "with one notable exception." Well, maybe two, if you counted Glynnie—but I wasn't going to mention that to Kirstin.

  "If you mean me, you've got that right!"

  "Okay, you two," Rolf said, sounding almost parental. "Eric and I have to shove off."

  "Oh. Goodbye, Rolf," Kirstin said.

  "See you later, Kirstin." Rolf gave her braid a playful tug.

  I gave it a good hard yank, ran outside, hopped in Rolf's truck and locked the door before Kirstin could retaliate. I expected her to run out and pound on the door, but after a minute or so, Rolf came out alone.

  "What'd you do? Tie her up?" I joked.

  "Huh?" Rolf looked puzzled as he started the truck. Then he laughed. "I talked. She calmed down."

  "You're a real pro," I said.

  "When it comes to girls, you're the expert," Rolf said. He paused, then asked, "When're you going to start looking at girls again? It's been quite a while since …." He stopped and then went on, "… since you broke up with Hedy."

  "Yeah … well." I twisted in my seat. "With practice and applying to college and trying to get recruited for a football scholarship, I've got enough to think about."

  "I guess," Rolf said. "I just worry about you being so … alone." He tried to sound as if he was making light of it, but I could tell he was serious.

  "I'll be fine." I punched his arm.

  "Okay…," Rolf said. Then he dropped the subject.

  ***

  During afternoon practice, with our pads on, I thought I would collapse from the heat. I guzzled water as if I was trying to drain the Willamette River.

  I had trouble concentrating. I tried to avoid looking over toward the stands, but it was a tough habit to break. During afternoon practices Dad had always left work early and stopped by to watch. He'd sit in the fifth row, fifty-yard line. Now whenever I looked up, that spot was nothing but a dark shadow. Except … there was a guy sitting way up in the last row. He looked sort of familiar. Was it that guy from the store, that Rock guy? Just as I was wondering what he'd be doing at practice, he got up and left.

  "Nielsen, face forward!" Horton screamed.

  I put Rock, or whoever it was, out of mind and tried to focus on the field.

  I couldn't help looking over at the stands every now and then though. One time as my gaze drifted over toward there I saw Glynnie sitting next to Jamar. It felt as if she was staring at me. I quickly looked away. I don't know why. I was used to girls staring at me. But this was different. Maybe I felt guilty because I'd run out on her while she was trying to interview me.

  Not that she hadn't deserved it, I told myself. Where did she get off being so nosy and personal, anyway?

  I spat out a final mouthful of water and ran back on the field for the strip drill, where we tackle and try to strip the ball from the ball carrier's hands. Feeling fired up for the first time all day, I crashed into Norm Swan full force and popped the ball loose. As we plowed into the field, Norm uttered a few obscenities just loud enough for me to hear.

  "Give me a break," he said as he slowly got to his feet. "It's only the second day of practice."

  I grinned. Coach Horton called out for the sideline, "Good hit, Nielsen."

  My intensity was waning. Maybe it was the heat. Or the blisters building up on my heels. Whatever it was, I couldn't wait 'til practice was over.

  Near the end we had a short, informal scrimmage and got to do some hitting. I felt a surge or energy. After I got in a couple of pretty good licks, Lars Sundstrom went in for a few plays. I was on the sidelines, replacing the old bodily fluids, when Derek Davis made a huge hit.

  He raised his fist, trotted over to the sideline away from the coaches. "How's that? Who needs Jamar Pickett?"

  Rolf must've heard, because he charged over to the sidelines. I thought he was going to pound Derek. What he did was leap over the concrete wall and climb to where Jamar was sitting. I could see Rolf speaking and gesturing.

  After a few seconds, Jamar laughed. He and Rolf stared down at Derek, who shriveled under their scrutiny.

  Impressed, I shook my head. Rolf saw what was importa
nt. Duking it out with Derek was not. Dealing with Jamar's feelings was. I didn't have that much common sense.

  It was time for warming down, and then, finally, practice was over. We were headed for the locker room, when Glynnie drew alongside me.

  "Hi, Eric. I've got some questions for you." Her cheeks glowed pink from the heat.

  "Maybe I don't have any answers for you."

  "How 'bout later, after you eat?" Glynnie asked, totally ignoring my remark. "You could come over to my house, sit in the shade and have some lemonade."

  "Bribery will get you nowhere." In spite of my fatigue, I walked faster.

  "What about pleading?" Glynnie race-walked to keep up with me. "Will that work?"

  I didn't answer.

  "Hey, give her a chance," Rolf said. "She's got a job to do."

  "Yeah, give me a chance. I've got a job to do."

  I shot Rolf a thankless look, then said to Glynnie, "At your house?" I figured I could duck out whenever I wanted if I went over there.

  "Yes. Ninety-seven Grove Street. It has lots of—"

  "—fruit trees in the yard. I know the place. Used to be the Petzold house. You're going to ask me about football this time?"

  "Football it is." Glynnie crossed her heart.

  I sighed. What's one evening if it would get her off my back? "Okay. Seven o'clock?"

  "Great," Glynnie said. "See you then." She ran off and hopped on her bike, not giving me a millisecond to change my mind.

  Chapter Seven

  By the time Rolf dropped me off at home, I was starting to think I'd been delirious from heat stroke when I'd agreed to see Glynnie after supper. I was hot, I was tired and I was in no mood to deal with some nerdy girl who asked a lot of nosy questions.

  Mom was late, so Kirstin roped me into helping fix supper.

  Mr. Lindquist dropped in just as we were having dessert, to talk about some business concerning the insurance agency.

  Lindquist was short, balding and had to be at least fifty years old. But it was the third time in less than a month that he'd come sniffing around, using business as an excuse. Mom was too polite to tell him she would never be interested in any man except Dad, and certainly not a guy who needed to wear pants with a stretch waistband. She asked him to have some almond cake with us.

  "Hiya, Eric." Mr. Lundquist plunked himself down at the dinner table—in Dad's chair. "How's practice going? Think we'll go to the playoffs again this year?"

  I shrugged. Where did he get that "we" crap. He wasn't out there reading plays and hammering opponents.

  "Say, Eric," Mom said. "I heard you have a new coach."

  "Yeah … so?"

  "Well … I was just wondering, what's he like?"

  "Hard-nosed and always getting on me."

  "Oh, I'm sure he's not—"

  "Mom! I just remembered. I'm supposed to go over and talk to Glynnie Alden." I had to get out of there.

  "How about just a small piece of almond cake first?" Mom reached for the cake server.

  "I'm late now. See you later." I stood up, scraping my chair across the floor.

  "Couldn't you stay for just—"

  "I said, I'm late." I slammed the door on my way out. I felt my chest tighten. Lindquist, in Dad's chair. Damn. I did not want to think about it.

  I stomped off and fought my way through a red haze of anger until I reached the corner. I stopped and took a deep breath. We only had four kitchen chairs. There was nowhere else for Mr. Lundquist to sit. Still.

  The balmy air brushed across my face. I felt as if I could close my eyes and be carried away on a dewy wave of sleep. But it was only seven o'clock. I took another deep breath and crossed Main Street.

  I started to walk past the empty lot where old Mr. Johnson's house once stood. A tangle of blackberry bushes curled like barbed wire along a leaning split-rail fence. The heavy, fruity fragrance of plump ripe blackberries made me stop. I picked a few and ate them right there. The warm, sweet, juicy taste more than made up for passing on the almond cake.

  I picked a handful to take to Glynnie as kind of a peace offering because I was going to be late. When I got to her house, I saw her in the front yard sitting with her long legs stretched out on a fat low branch of an ancient pear tree. In her blue running shorts and a plain white-T shirt she looked as if she was just resting up after a run.

  "Ah." Glynnie smiled when she saw me. "I was afraid you chickened out."

  "Me? Never. I stopped to get you some blackberries." I held out my hand.

  "Thanks!" Glynnie surprised by me by looking genuinely pleased. "Let's eat them now." She hopped up from the low branch and gestured for me to follow.

  I followed her along a gravel path bordered with clumps of pansies to a patio at the side of the house. We sat at a picnic table under an old black walnut tree with graceful, curving branches. Glynnie poured us a couple of glasses of lemonade from a pitcher on the table, and then spread out the blackberries on a paper napkin that she plucked from a basket.

  "Should I wash these?"

  "Don't bother. Just dust off any bugs if you see them first."

  "Hmm. Is that the Oregon pioneer way?"

  "No. It's the too-lazy-to-go-in-the-house-and-wash-them first way."

  "Ah." Glynnie examined a blackberry. "Well … nothing ventured … "She popped the berry into her mouth. "Mmm. Yum."

  "Any bug you might eat is just added protein, as my Dad used to say." Funny, I hadn't thought of that in years. I shook off the prickly feeling at the back of my eyes and changed the subject. "Hey, that clematis is beautiful," I said, admiring the dark velvety-purple flowers of the vine twisting its way up a trellis leading to a second-story window.

  "So that's what it is, clematis. It is pretty," Glynnie said. "The nice thing about it is the trellis it grows on leads right up to my bedroom window … in case I ever want to elope."

  She said it with such a straight face it took me a second to realize she was kidding.

  "Ah, there you are, Glynnie." A short woman with a sag beneath her chin, but a rosy prettiness in her round face wandered over to the patio from the back of the house. Her graying brown hair was pulled up in a haphazard ponytail. She wore a paint-splattered sweatshirt and held a thin cigar between her fingers. Staring hard at me, she said, "And who's this handsome young man?"

  "Eric, this is my mother. Mother, meet Eric Nielsen," Glynnie said. "And don't get excited. He's just here so I can interview him."

  "Bonjour, Eric. Nice to meet you." Glynnie's mother sat down and reached across the table to shake my hand.

  I gave her the firm-but-not-crushing handshake Dad had taught me. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Alden."

  "It's Ms. Alden, ever since my husband had his little mid-life crisis and dumped us for a twenty-three-year-old twit." She said it with a laugh in her voice, as if the whole idea was really quite amusing.

  I didn't know what to say to that, so I just muttered, "Oh."

  "Pardon moi. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable, Eric," Ms. Alden said. "When it first happened, Glynnie and I ripped Mr. Alden up one side and down the other for weeks. Months! That got all the bitterness out of our systems. Well, almost. I suppose there are a few residuals." She took a short puff on the thin cigar then threw her head back and let out a throaty laugh.

  Glynnie joined in the laughter.

  "Now then, who exactly is Eric?" Ms. Alden asked, almost as if I weren't there.

  "He's one of the football players, Mother. The one who did that cartoon for the school paper that I showed you."

  "Oh, of course!" Ms. Alden said, as if I were now a completely known entity. She puffed on the small cigar and blew three tiny smoke rings. "Well, I have to get back to my painting. Nice to meet you, Eric."

  "Uh … same here." Once she disappeared into the house, I asked, "Is your mother an artist?"

  "Oh, no." Glynnie shook her head. "She teaches French at the university. She's just painting the kitchen. Says it helps her relax. Trouble is, everything is in
constant disarray. As soon as she finishes the whole house, she starts over again. I think that's one reason—besides the twit—that Father left us. At least, that was one of his excuses."

  "Oh." I wasn't exactly thrilled the way Glynnie and her mother talked so openly about something so private.

  "After twenty-four years, Father suddenly decided he couldn't stand the way Mother always had to have a miniature cigar in her hand either. That from a man who has a pipe growing out of his lower lip." Glynnie said this as if she were talking about something as simple as the weather.

  "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I asked, hoping to change the subject.

  "No brothers or sisters." Glynnie paused to sip her lemonade. "Father does have that new young wife back in Massachusetts. It's not as if he's dead." She took in a quick breath. "Oh. Eric. I'm sorry."

  I couldn't toss off a casual "That's okay," but I nodded to show that I accepted her apology.

  "I met him once," Glynnie said. "Your father, I mean. When I got car insurance here. Except that his hair was straight and silvery blonde and yours is golden and curly, I think you look just like him. The same boyish face. He didn't look old enough to have a son your age." She stared into her lemonade for a second. "When Father first walked out, I actually thought it would've been better if he'd died."

  Glynnie didn't see me wince.

  "He hurt me and Mother so much," Glynnie said. "The girl he got involved with was one of Mother's graduate students. That really pissed her off. She griped that she not only lost her husband, but Nicole, one of her best students, too." Glynnie frowned into her lemonade. "Of course, Nicole was so young that I felt as if I had also been replaced."

  She swirled a cube of ice with her finger. "Now, though, I don't hate Father … but I still hate what he did. I was so angry. Angry with him for leaving Mom, for leaving me. Mother and I went through counseling and …." She stopped and grinned. "… and we hashed out a lot of our feelings with each other, as you may have guessed. We decided Father always wanted someone to run his life for him and he found someone who would. Nicole is extremely bossy." Glynnie flashed a quick, wicked grin. "It was weird at first when Mother took a job out here in Oregon, but I think we both needed to get away. I'll be off to college next year anyway. I email and text Father every week. Sometimes he answers. Sometimes he doesn't. Maybe someday we'll patch up our relationship." She shrugged. "But, who knows?"