The Penalty for Holding

by Georgette Gouveia

  And what about Mal, the unspoken, sculpted six-foot, five-inch, 245-pound gorilla in the room? He had been at the NFL Awards the night before the Super Bowl to receive the prestigious Walter Payton NFL Man of the Year honor for his work on behalf of the Philadelphia Coalition for the Homeless. It provided one of the few moments of levity for Tam and Quinn, who had not attended and were now catching up with the show—a kind of glorified high school assembly program, albeit one at Lincoln Center—on DVR.

  "I just want to thank the people in Philadelphia for needing me so much," Mal said in a speech that raised some eyebrows (notably Brenna's, whom the camera cut to in the press bullpen, taking notes and barely containing her laughter).

  "Yeah, I just want to thank the people of Philadelphia for having so many homeless people so I could dump even more work on my wife and stand up there and stroke my ego," Tam said. "Jesus Christ, he really is his own little planet."

  Tam had won the MVP Award but had sent his twin sisters, Kimberly and Beverly, to accept it. Quinn was struck by how unalike these fraternal twins were—the petite, pregnant Kimberly, a married nurse, all soft, blonde curves; Beverly, an unmarried teacher, tall, brunette, and angular.

  "We just want to say how proud we are of our baby brother," Kimberly said, clearly tickled to be in the New York spotlight. "Go Tam. Go Miners."

  Quinn winced at that. He wondered how Tam's sisters would greet the "brother-in-law" who ended their baby bro's quest for a second consecutive Super Bowl. And they were likely to be easier than Tam's older brothers or parents. But wasn't Quinn getting ahead of himself? Was any of this real, or were they just playing house?

  Certainly, it was real enough to Tam, who talked at length about his home—someday, their home—in San Francisco.

  "I can't wait for you to see it," Tam said, almost desperately, Quinn thought. "It's one of those Victorians—you know, the Painted Ladies—pale pink, in the Haight-Ashbury District. Hey, you'll never guess who lives down the street—Deidre Norquist. She's the artist who—"

  "I know who she is," Quinn said. "I went to Stanford with her oldest nephew."

  "Oh, right, the swimmer Dylan Roqué. What was he like? I heard, you know, he may have taken his own life."

  "He didn't kill himself. He couldn't have," Quinn shot back, willing what he said to be true. "It wasn't his nature. He was compassionate and courageous, though you could hardly blame him or anyone else for wanting to quit this world."

  "Don't say that," Tam said softly. "There's never a good reason for ending it all."

  "No?" Quinn countered. "There aren't any circumstances under which you'd kill yourself? Because I know there are situations in which I would."

  "Sounds as if you were in love with him," Tam said, changing the subject while getting to the heart of the matter.

  Quinn shrugged. "I was a freshman with a schoolboy crush on a senior, and he was the love of someone else's life." Quinn flashed on Daniel with Alí in one of the boxes at Templars Stadium—laughing and clapping, Daniel whispering in his ear, their heads close, almost touching.

  Quinn felt a heart-pang at the memory. Daniel had loved Dylan, that much Quinn was sure of. But now he had made a new life with Alí. Does the heart forget, or does it merely go on, tethered nonetheless to the past? We are born with the dead, Tam. See, they return, and bring us with them.

  Quinn didn't want to be mean to Tam, really he didn't. But he wasn't going to let him tell him anything about the people he knew, his past, himself. He wasn't going to let him back in, let him get too close again. He still hadn't forgiven him. He still hadn't forgiven himself.

  At night, they shared Quinn's bed, spooning. The first night, Quinn made to undress, pulling down the sweats that doubled as pajama bottoms. Tam grabbed Quinn's hand and held it with the bunched-up sweats in front of his crotch, and Quinn felt himself stirring. It had been so long since the last time between them. He couldn't imagine anything he feared and wanted more. So he was both relieved and crushed when Tam said, "No, no, it's too soon. We'll wait till you heal."

  Yes, Quinn thought, wait till I'm no longer the damaged goods you made me. He let Tam bury his face reassuringly in his neck, but he lay awake most of the night. He wished Tam weren't there, wished he had the courage to throw him out. Why didn't he? Maybe because what he feared most was that Tam, having found him, would abandon him again. The next day Quinn thought that fear had been realized. He woke to see Tam's duffel packed.

  "I have to head to my golf tournament," he said. "Come on, don't look at me that way. If you were well, you know you'd be out there playing at the tournament with me and preparing for the next season."

  But Quinn wasn't so sure. He didn't know if he'd ever go back to football—not that he expected anyone to miss him, even though his teammates sent texts and gifts. In the wake of the Super Bowl, his collapse and absence from public view had met with a mixed reaction.

  "I just don't know if he's tough enough," one commentator intoned. "I've always thought he was something of a head case anyway."

  "Head case? He could've been killed," another answered. "The Temps will be lucky to see the return of the man who led them to their first Super Bowl in thirty-five years."

  Quinn tuned them out. He wanted to be alone. Then why did Tam's departure fill him with such panic and grief?

  "Come on, don't be that way," Tam said. He took him in his arms before Quinn could protest and kissed him, the rhythm deepening as the kisses became slower, more sustained. But just as Quinn was melting, Tam pulled away.

  "I'll be back in a week," he said with a devilish smile. "In the meantime, I'm sending you a surprise to keep you company while I'm away."

  The surprise arrived a day later in the form of Beverly and Kimberly—or Kim and Bev as they introduced themselves. They hugged and kissed Quinn enthusiastically, Kim more so, but then she was the more demonstrative of the two. Quinn looked around to see if the rest of Tam's family was with them. Tam had a helluva nerve sending the sisters to his place—probably to watchdog his investment, Quinn thought bitterly. But he found himself smiling and saying, "Please, come in."

  "We're just in town for a few days," Kim said, moving right into the loft and eyeing everything as she took off a bright red coat to reveal her tight butterball stomach. "A shopping spree. Well, really to see you. Tam thought you could use the help and the company."

  "And I said, 'Tam, we don't want to invade his space,'" Bev said, almost reading Quinn's mind. "'We might be more of a hindrance than a help.'"

  "And I said, 'Nonsense,'" Kim said. "When our brother told us he was getting married, well, you can imagine. We were shocked."

  Quinn smiled. "Oh, I can imagine that the only thing that shocked you more was whom he was marrying."

  Kim began to demur, but Bev would have none of it.

  "We were stunned," she said. "I mean, Tam always had the odd girlfriend, emphasis on the word 'odd.' I suppose that should've told us something. But just because we were surprised doesn't mean we're not delighted."

  "And are your parents and brothers equally delighted?" Quinn saw the answer written on their faces. "Thought so. They don't know, do they?"

  Kim squeezed his arm. "One step at a time."

  The twins were staying at a nearby boutique hotel. The plan apparently was to draw Quinn out, back into the world. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. Not so easy. For one thing, he didn't feel like doing anything, let alone appearing in public. For another, appearing in public reminded him precisely why he didn't want to—all those people with their cameras and their questions, however well-intended, all those reporters parsing his every move as if there were meaning in a forkful of spinach salad. But Bev and Kim proved irresistible company, arguing passionately, finishing each other's sentences and desserts. They reminded him of being with Aunt Lena or Brenna, sharing their kaleidoscopic interests, which teemed with color and life.

  It wasn't long before the New York tabloids were wondering
if the Temps' QB was dating the enemy—in the form of Tam's sister Bev, with Kim serving as chaperone.

  "Congratulations," Brenna said during one of their quasi-professional interviews/heart-to heart phone calls.

  "Brenna, it isn't what you think."

  "No?" She sounded hurt.

  "No, we're just friends." God, was a lamer thought ever uttered? He longed to tell Brenna the truth, to take her into his confidence. But he couldn't. Not yet.

  And he and Tam's sisters were friends, maybe more than that.

  "It's nice," he said one day at lunch in his loft. "I never had siblings."

  He started to cry, no, sob in great, uncontrollable gasps. He felt so useless, hopeless, embarrassed and alone. Bev put a hand on his arm as Kim drew him to her. He could feel her baby stirring. "It's OK," she said. "It's OK. My brother loves you. It's going to be all right. You're going to get better and marry him in a big wedding that I can't wait to help plan and have babies and be very happy. Remember how small Tam was when he was born, Bev? He was like one of those newborn pandas, no bigger than a stick of butter, he was so premature. Remember when he got strong enough, how Mom let me dress him in my doll's clothes and put him in my doll carriage? I think I thought he was more my baby than hers. And if people think I'm going to let them get in the way of his happiness or yours, well, they've got another guess coming, buster."

  Quinn didn't quite believe her, but he sent them off with lovely parting gifts—handbags with golden map patterns.

  "Quinn, you shouldn't have," Kim said, proceeding to dump the contents of her handbag into the new one immediately.

  "Thank you," Bev said, hugging him. "We'll be in touch. Remember, you have sisters now."

  Quinn was sure that was the last he'd hear from them. But no sooner had they left than he found an exquisite, camel-colored Italian leather appointment book from the twins in which Kim had marked what to do—and when to do it—to prepare for the wedding, with a detailed list of stores and services to consult. And while en route back to Philly, Bev texted him a number of articles on recovering from a concussion. The twins were true to their word: This was the beginning, not the end, of a relationship—or relationships, plural.

  The next day, Tam returned as promised with a different kind of gift—a plan for getting Quinn back into shape.

  Quinn looked at him, fingering the ring on his left hand.

  "OK," he said. "Let's do this."

  Twenty-five

  As winter eased its icy grip, Quinn felt an unexpected lightening of his spirit, which responded to Tam's promptings. The pair rose while it was still dark and went for their run in Battery Park, then headed to the Juniper Tree Café for oatmeal, Greek yogurt parfaits and latte. After breakfast it was time for their gym workout, which they did back at Quinn's place, using equipment Tam had ordered and set up. Quinn figured if Tam ever lost his quarterback job—yeah, fat chance, he was "F***ing Tam Tarquin," after all—he could be a trainer. Or drill sergeant.

  "Come on, one more set," he'd say.

  "No, no more."

  "OK, then, just half a set."

  Part of what made Tam great was that he knew when to push and when to back off. But he did push.

  "Do you want to lose your starting job to Lleyton?" Tam asked, looming above Quinn as they panted. Why couldn't this be from hot sex rather than exercise? was all Quinn thought. "Well?" Tam insisted.

  "I don't know. I honestly don't. It's probably inevitable. I mean, let's face it: One day Lleyton Starling will be hailed as the greatest quarterback who ever lived after you. But for now, I have no guarantee either Lleyton or I will be the starter this coming season. We'll probably both be playing behind Lance, assuming I'm there at all."

  "Oh please, that glorified playboy. He's no match for either of you. And Lleyton's not ready to be number one. He needs a few more seasons behind you, by which time you can punch your ticket to a team that will really appreciate you."

  "Again, if I play that long, or at all."

  "What is it with you? Don't you want to come back?"

  "And risk another concussion or sub-concussion or whatever it is I had and possible brain damage? Don't you think about it?"

  "No, I don't. It's what we do, just like any other job, like being a miner—lower case 'm'—only much better paid."

  "By people who make even more and don't care what happens to us once we're used up."

  "By which time we'll be doing something else—or nothing at all. Maybe we'll just be raising our kids and sitting on our porch, watching the sun rise and set over San Francisco Bay."

  "Do you really think that's ever going to happen, Tam? Do you really think we're going to have a moment's peace in or out of the league, not to mention our poor children, who'll be TMZ-ed to death? Don't you see, Tam? This is going to be the first paragraph of our obituaries."

  "Well, good. I always wanted to be famous. I always figured, though, that it would be for something like most passes thrown. Still, it might as well be for this."

  "And you have no fear?"

  "No, I never fear what I know is meant to be."

  "Well," Quinn said, "you might as well not, because I'm afraid enough for both of us."

  "Then I think you're a pretty courageous guy, because fear is the first step to courage. Without fear, there's nothing for courage to overcome. Fear can paralyze you, or it can set you free. So which would you rather be, paralyzed or free, Quinnie?"

  Free, he thought as he slowly made his way back into the world. Whenever Tam was busy with commitments to his sponsors—"You know I'm coming back, don't you?" Tam reassured him—Quinn ventured out on his own to see Nero or Kelly. It was good to remember that there were other people much worse off than him. Or he called teammates or met Brenna for lunch.

  "It's good to see you on the mend," she said, patting his arm as they lunched at Saigon's. "Are you looking forward to returning?"

  "Is that the reporter asking or the friend?"

  She smiled. "The friend."

  "We'll see when training camp starts this summer."

  "What did you mean when you said, I can't do this anymore?"

  "I honestly don't know." But he did. He just felt he couldn't tell her—at least not yet.

  "Mmm. Might this imply a career change? Well, you wouldn't be the first. Indeed, I have some news on that front."

  "Do tell." Quinn was eager to deflect the conversation from himself.

  "Well, no doubt you heard about Vienne." Vienne? Had he been buried alive so deep that he was oblivious to some earth-shattering revelation—or at least some juicy morsel—among their circle? Quinn shook his head as he leaned in and took another dollop from their shared caramel fudge sundae.

  "Boy, you really have been out of commission." Brenna leaned in, too, barely able to contain her schadenfreude. "Well, then you might not know that she and Freddy Bear had been having their problems. Things apparently came to a head when Mal Ryan paid her a visit at Shady Nook Farm, you know, the Bedford estate we visited. It was all pretty innocent, at least at first while Tiffany was there. But then she went back to Philly, because the baby was sick. Anyway, I don't know if the household staff caught Vienne and Mal in flagrante delicto or what, but before you knew it, the staff—whom I heard she always treated badly—was reporting her to Freddy. And I guess that was the indiscretion that broke the billionaire's back. I heard he had her locked out of the Rumours' office and fired her inner minions. She's history."

  "Just like that?"

  "Just like that. I mean, Freddy can do that. He owns the Rumours' empire. The best part was that he flew in for the housecleaning and could be heard shrieking at the COO, 'And I never want to see another fucking animal in this place.'"

  "Gee, I wonder if he were referring to Mal or the Papillons?" Mal, Quinn thought with a pang, yet another thing he'd have to confront.

  Brenna giggled. "Good one." She paused for a spoon of sundae. "I'm sure, knowing control-freak Vienne as I unfortunately do, that she
has an iron-clad prenup that will be keeping the McQueen pooches in kibble in perpetuity. But here's where things get bizarre: Guess whom Freddy has asked to be the new editor?"

  Quinn paused. It was so delicious to hear someone who always used proper grammar. Wait, what was she saying? Was it her? Should that be she?

  "Oh my God. Congratulations. This calls for some Champagne. “

  Quinn asked for the wine list. “Waiter, we’ll have a bottle of Bollinger Special Cuvée.”

  “A very good choice, sir.”

  “Ooh, Bollinger. Aren’t we the little sommelier,” Brenna teased.

  “I have my sophisticated moments and my go-to treats—Champagne, Coca-Cola, ice cream sundaes. So, when do you start?"

  "Well, I haven't said 'yes'—yet. Don't forget: I have the same ambivalence to reporting and editing that you have to football. I never wanted to be anything but a writer. Columnist suits me fine. Plus, I have no illusions about working for Freddy Bear. The job will be unending. And it will mean going back to my old world just when I got used to the new one. It will mean giving up covering the NFL."

  And seeing you regularly. She didn't have to add that. He knew that's what she was thinking.

  "We'll always be friends," he said, reaching for her hand. "That will never change."

  What was left unspoken between them was what could never be, and the conversation veered from gleeful gossip to sober sorrow.

  "I've never told you this but you remind me a lot of my Aunt Lena, in your glamorous command of all life's situations. And I have a funny feeling she's up there willing this to happen, guiding you to her old job. Your dad must be tickled."

  "He is," Brenna said, taking a sip of the Champagne. "Mother is another matter. You know she and Vienne were—are—very friendly. I can't help but feel I've stabbed them in the back."

  "No. No," Quinn said, taking both of her hands in his and looking her in the eye. "You get rid of that goddamn useless guilt. You did nothing wrong. Vienne overplayed her hand by apparently shitting where she ate, surrounded by people she mistreated who had no reason to cover her ass. And let me tell you something else: You don't take this job, someone else will. Come on, it will mean more money, exposure, opportunity. You don't have to do it forever, just till you get what you want out of it."