The Turning Season

by Sharon Shinn

  “That must be the painter’s girlfriend,” Joe says. “She’s everywhere.”

  I nod. “Janet used to say, ‘I can’t imagine why people would want to buy pictures of me,’ but of course what they were buying was the emotion that came through whenever Cooper would paint her. My father tried to explain the value of what he called the recurrent muse. You know, Andrew Wyeth’s Helga pictures, Dante Rossetti’s canvases with Jane Morris. I’m not sure she ever really got it. But she never minded posing for him.” I shrugged. “She buried her life in Cooper. To the point where it wasn’t really healthy, maybe.”

  He turns his head to glance over his shoulder at me. “So how’s she handled his death?”

  She died right alongside him. “By running away. So I guess you’d say she hasn’t handled it at all.”

  “Still? Five years later?”

  “Still,” I confirm. “Probably forever.”

  He puts his hands in his back pockets and rotates to study another painting. Janet again, outside again, this time kneeling in one of the flower beds that she was able to maintain and that I have let go to weed and bramble. The hollyhocks and clematis make vivid reds and purples against her black hair. “I like the idea of a love that’s all-consuming,” he says. “But it seems like it’d be awfully hard to maintain day-to-day. I mean, sometimes you have to be shopping for groceries or fixing the flat tire or balancing the checkbook.”

  “Or arguing about money or arguing about values or accusing each other of being selfish,” I add.

  Now he grins at me briefly before returning his attention to the canvas. “It’s your turn to do the laundry. No, we went to your mother’s last week. Why do I always have to do the dishes?” he says.

  “I see we’re both romantics.”

  He waggles his head from side to side. “Or we hide behind old hurts to keep from stumbling over new ones,” he replies.

  That surprises me, and I respond with a faint laugh. “Art and philosophy,” I say lightly. “Not quite what I expected from you.”

  Another quarter-turn and he’s facing me. His hands are still in his pockets, his pose is utterly relaxed, and yet I feel my pulse thrum up a level as if I were gathering my strength to flee from danger. “What did you expect of me?” he asks casually.

  It takes an act of will not to step back from him. Belatedly, I recognize the sensation of champagne in my veins. Not fear, but excitement. “Good ol’ boy, salt-of-the-earth dependability,” I answer honestly. “Kind but not particularly articulate.”

  Now he laughs. “Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” he says. “Can I be all that but better?”

  “Maybe,” I say, smiling. “I mean, it’s too early to tell.”

  “I’d be happy to give you a chance to find out more,” he offers. “Take you to dinner next time you’re in town.”

  I assume a demure expression. “It sounds good, but I don’t come to town that often. I mean, it might be weeks.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, amused. “Well, maybe you could make a special trip. To see me. If we make actual plans.”

  “Maybe I could do that,” I allow. “What did you have in mind?”

  “There’s a restaurant right off the Square. Pub food and good beer. Not too noisy, so you can hear yourself talk. Not too fancy, so you don’t have to get all dressed up.” He nods in my direction. “Don’t even have to pick the dog hair off of your sweater.”

  I glance down and make a feeble effort to brush some of the fur and mud from my clothes, before giving it up as hopeless. “I might make a special effort, though,” I say. “You know, since I’m driving into town and all.”

  “So how about this Saturday night? I could meet you there at, say, six o’clock?”

  “Sounds good,” I answer. “Should I bring Jinx with me?”

  He laughs. “Uh—not quite yet. I need to get the house ready first.”

  “You’re not going to renege on me, are you? Pretend you want the puppy just so I’ll like you a little better?”

  “Does that seem like the kind of behavior you’d expect from a salt-of-the-earth, dependable guy?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then, no. Not going to change my mind. I just need a little time. Anyway, if I have to pick up Jinx myself, I have an excuse to come back here again. It all works out.”

  I feel like the grin on my face makes me look silly, so I head for the door as I try to summon a different expression. “So what’s the name of this place where I’m meeting you? I don’t think you actually said.”

  “Paddy-Mac’s. I can draw you a map.”

  I wait at the door till he’s stepped outside, then I turn off the lights and lock up the studio. “Not necessary. I’ve driven by it a dozen times, I’ve just never been inside.”

  “I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be great.”

  Silence falls between us as we head back toward the center of the property, trailed by Scottie and Jezebel. It feels like the conversation is winding down, and I can’t tell if he wants to leave or hopes I’ll ask him in for another Snapple and maybe an early dinner. You’d think there would be an easy way to transition to a new conversational topic, but my mind goes utterly blank. I find myself proactively despairing over the Saturday night date, which will clearly be a disaster if neither of us comes up with anything to talk about. I can only pray that a place called Paddy-Mac’s features Celtic music, maybe bagpipes, something loud and wailing and difficult to speak over. No, he said it was a quiet place. We’re doomed.

  I sneak a glance at him, thinking I might see embarrassment or regret on his face, but he’s not paying attention to me. His eyes are fixed on Alonzo, who’s practicing three-point shots from the dirt apron around the patio, and missing every other one.

  “Okay if I talk to him?” Joe asks, and I wonder how he knows that it might not be all right.

  “You can try,” I say. “He doesn’t like strangers.”

  “Introduce me, then.”

  Alonzo sees us approaching and waits before taking his next shot, dribbling the ball with a fast steady rhythm that is no doubt intended to communicate impatience. There is absolutely no expression on his face.

  “Hey, Alonzo,” I say. “This is Joe, he works in town. He brought his dog out for me to look over.”

  Alonzo nods without speaking. The ball continues to make its hollow racket against the pavement, against his hand.

  “You named after Alonzo Mourning?” Joe asks.

  Surprise flickers across the boy’s face and he actually answers. “Yeah.”

  I’m astonished. The only Alonzo I’d ever come across before was in the Little House on the Prairie books, but it had always seemed unlikely that my Alonzo had been named after that one. “Who’s that?” I ask.

  Joe doesn’t answer, so Alonzo does, as briefly as possible. “Played for the Heat.”

  “The who?”

  “The Miami Heat,” Alonzo says, enunciating each syllable with exaggerated care.

  “Is that a sports team?” I demand.

  Joe is grinning. “Yes, ma’am. Basketball. He played at Georgetown before he went pro, won all kinds of awards.”

  He glances at Alonzo, and I’m suddenly terrified that he’ll ask the next natural question. Was your dad a fan? My brain freezes as I try to think of a way to head him off.

  But he surprises me again. “You ever see him play?” he asks instead.

  Alonzo shakes his head. He’s actually stopped dribbling the ball for the moment. “I don’t watch the pros much.”

  “You watch college hoops?”

  “Some,” Alonzo admits. This is a lie; he loves college basketball. He and Celeste will stay glued to the TV set during all of March Madness. Sometimes I sit and watch with them, just to be sociable, but I don’t have the patience to endure the whole tournament.
“Final Four, anyway.”

  “I know we’re all supposed to like Duke, but, Jesus, can somebody else be ranked number one? Just for a little variety?” Joe exclaims.

  Alonzo actually cracks a smile. “Who do you follow?” he asks.

  “Should be U of I, because they’re so close, but it’s usually the Jayhawks.”

  “Kansas is good,” Alonzo agrees. “I like Mizzou.”

  “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. They can be pretty uneven.”

  “Depends on the coach,” Alonzo says. “I like the new one.”

  Joe jerks his head toward the ball in Alonzo’s hands. “So do you play?”

  Alonzo shrugs. “A little.”

  “Up for some one-on-one?”

  Alonzo eyes him, so obviously cataloging Joe’s strengths and weaknesses that I can’t help grinning. I don’t know enough about the game to weigh the relative advantages of size and age. Joe’s an inch or two taller and obviously stronger, which would seem to give him the edge, but Alonzo’s slimmer and probably faster. “Sure,” he says, and flings the ball straight at Joe’s midsection.

  Joe catches it and immediately feints to one side, dribbling with his left hand. Alonzo moves with him, close as a tango partner, his eyes never leaving Joe’s face. Joe pauses, pivots, and changes course, bouncing the ball to his right hand and charging toward the basket. But in a blur of motion that’s too fast for me to follow, Alonzo suddenly takes possession of the ball. He whirls, jumps, and sinks a perfect shot.

  I think Alonzo’s trying not to smile as he retrieves the ball and passes it back to Joe. “So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” Joe says, dribbling left-handed again. Alonzo creeps closer, watching for an opportunity, and this time I see his hand snake in as Joe continues to bounce the ball. But Joe whips it behind his back and suddenly he’s got it in his right hand. He points his shoulder toward the basket and edges closer, while Alonzo gives ground inch by contested inch. When he’s near enough, Joe simply pauses and tosses the ball over Alonzo’s head. It hits the backboard and drops through the hoop.

  “Two-two,” Alonzo says.

  Joe scoops up the ball and lobs it to Alonzo, who’s already in place at the top of the key. “Play to twenty?”

  “Sure,” Alonzo says. He rises to his tiptoes and throws a graceful perfect curve that makes no sound as it clears the rim.

  “Son of a bitch,” Joe says.

  And Alonzo laughs.

  I’m still in shock at that unexpected sound when I hear much more familiar noises behind me—tires crunching through the gravel, a car door slamming. I tear my eyes away from the action to see Bonnie striding away from her station wagon and over in our direction. Her eyes are fixed on Joe with such intensity that I’m surprised he hasn’t lost all ability to concentrate on the game. I move to intercept her and we end up standing about ten feet away from the court.

  “Who’s that?” she asks in a low voice.

  “Joe McGinty,” I say, grateful that I learned his last name as I was filling out Jezebel’s paperwork. “I met him last week, and today he brought his dog out for me to look over.”

  “Yes, but who is he?” she demands.

  What she means is, Can I trust him with Alonzo? And, honestly, I don’t know. I like his smile. I like his mix of openness and humor and insight. I like his tenderness with his old Lab and his playfulness with the young puppies, because I’m predisposed to think well of anyone who loves animals. I like that he flirts with me and makes me feel fizzy as a dropped can of soda. But none of that would offer any reassurance to Bonnie.

  “He’s a bouncer at a club in the Square. Used to be a cop in Joliet,” I say. “He’s lived here about a year, holds down a couple of jobs. But I don’t have any other details.”

  She nods briskly. She’s never taken her eyes off him, and now she strides forward again, clearly intent on disrupting the game. Alonzo has just called out “eight-four” and received the ball back from Joe, but as soon as Bonnie stalks up, he stops all motion and merely waits.

  “Good afternoon,” she greets Joe in a neutral tone of voice. “I’m Bonnie Logan, Alonzo’s foster mother. And you are?”

  He offers her his hand, which seems to disarm her a little. “Joe McGinty,” he replies. “Nice to meet you. My buddy and I coach in a basketball league at the Y, and I was just asking Alonzo if he might want to try out. We have our first practice for the season this Friday night.”

  She makes no pretense at subtlety. Well, I’m not sure subtlety is a skill Bonnie has ever mastered. “Certainly, if he’s interested, but not until I know more about you,” she says. “Why are you coaching young boys? How do I know there’s not something wrong about you?”

  Alonzo bounces the ball exactly once. “Bonnie,” he says in a choked voice.

  I’m sort of amused that even Alonzo can be embarrassed by a parent, or someone who’s acting in that capacity, but Bonnie doesn’t glance his way. “All kinds of sick and twisted men take jobs as priests and coaches and youth advisors just so they can get close to children. I will not have a pervert around my kid.”

  Now Alonzo looks down at the ground, shaking his head, but I think I can see the ghost of a smile on his face. I think it’s the phrase my kid. It pleases him. Someone claiming him, someone fighting for him. It’s something he might never get used to.

  Not looking remotely offended, Joe nods and assumes a serious expression. “No, you’re right, you can’t be too careful,” he says. “We meet at the Y, and there are always two adults with each team at all times, and no adult is allowed to be alone with one of the players. If you want to have a private conversation with one of the kids, you have to do it where everyone can see you, even if they can’t overhear.”

  “Who’s the other coach?” she asks.

  “Mark Carson. He owns Carson’s Trucking, has two boys who are going to play on the team.”

  Bonnie relaxes a little. “I know Mark. His oldest daughter was in some of my classes when I was teaching middle school.”

  “I think he’d vouch for me,” Joe adds.

  Her gaze sharpens again. “Why do you want to be coaching young boys?” she asks. “Do you have kids of your own?”

  Joe scratches the back of his head. I don’t think he’s at a loss, exactly, he just hasn’t had to articulate his reasons before. “Mark asked me last year if I wanted to be his assistant. I hadn’t lived in Quinville that long, I was kind of bored, I know a little bit about basketball, and I thought it might be fun,” he says. “And I didn’t have anything else lined up for Friday nights and I wanted to do something but sit home and feel sorry for myself. All of that still holds true this year. And no, no kids. Not yet.”

  “Well—it sounds all right,” Bonnie says grudgingly. “If Alonzo’s interested.”

  Everyone looks Alonzo’s way. He handles the pressure by keeping his eyes down and dribbling the basketball a couple times. “Sure,” he says offhandedly. “Might be fun to try.”

  “You know Mark’s youngest boy, what’s his name?” Bonnie says.

  “Dillon,” Joe supplies.

  Alonzo nods. “He’s cool.”

  “And you practice at the Y on Friday nights?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Seven P.M. Practice is scheduled to last two hours. There’s an ice cream place next door, and last year we’d all go over afterward to get a cone. But you can pick him up right at nine, if you’d rather.”

  “We’ll see how it goes,” Bonnie says. “Thank you for including us.” She holds out an arm as if collecting Alonzo. “Go get your things. Aurelia’s making dinner and you’ve got lessons tonight. Time to get going.”

  Alonzo nods, makes a bounce pass to Joe and says, “See ya,” as he heads toward the house. A few minutes later, they’ve bundled themselves into Bonnie’s car, waved good-bye, and set out for Quinville.

  Not until then do I trust
myself to speak. “I suppose I should apologize for her rudeness,” I begin.

  “She wasn’t rude,” Joe interrupts. “More parents and guardians ought to be that—that fierce when they’re sending their children off to be with strangers. Might save a lot of heartache down the road.”

  I glance up at him and find his expression perfectly sincere. “I think Bonnie would be that protective of any child who fell under her care, but Alonzo’s a special case,” I say. “I don’t want to go into the details, but he was badly abused. And if Bonnie has anything to say about it, nothing bad will ever happen to that boy again.”

  “I liked her,” he said.

  I smile. “She’s one of my favorite people in the world.”

  He smiles back, but the expression is speculative. “So is she that protective of you?” he asks. “Can I expect another inquisition if she thinks we’re dating?”

  I’m surprised into a laugh. “No, it’s Aurelia you’d have to watch out for then. Her partner.”

  I see him register the fact that Bonnie’s gay, but he merely nods. Just another piece to fit into the human puzzle, another stray bit of information to help explain the world. “Well, it’s good to know you have somebody watching out for you. Everybody should.”

  “Do you?” I ask.

  He whistles and pats his thigh, and the black Lab trots over and lifts her head to be petted. “I have Jezebel,” he says.

  “I meant, someone who could visit you in the hospital if you ended up in traction.”

  He laughs. “Sure, the whole family would caravan down from Joliet if they thought I needed something. Otherwise they leave me to my own devices.”

  I’m dying to ask if any of them would interrogate a new girlfriend, should he happen to acquire one, but I don’t know if he’s looking for a girlfriend or if I’d want to be that girl if he was. So I leave the words unsaid.

  Instead I glance at the sky as if I am trying to judge the passage of time by the angle of the sun. “It’s getting late,” I say. “Should I invite you in for something to eat or—”