Coach Perry offered Brendan a full scholarship to transfer to St. Bernard’s. The deal was that I could come too—free of tuition—and they would arrange for us to live in public housing. The house was in a small plot of brick ranches next to a park sandwiched between neighborhoods of sprawling mansions. The one with the crooked shutters and the rusted metal roof was ours.
Brendan had scored forty points against St. Bernard’s the year before and knocked them out of the Massachusetts State tournament when we lived in Eastford. The Friday after that game, Coach Perry called Dad and invited himself over for dinner.
“This is upward mobility,” Coach said as he lit a cigar in our living room and handed my father the set of keys. “This is what America is all about.”
Coach Perry was a gruff old man with black hair too thick for his age—a man who never smiled during a game of basketball. His Cadillac was too nice for a high school coach. He had no day job. When he left our apartment Dad opened the windows and vented out the stale smoke.
“He thinks we’re white trash,” he said as he washed the dishes. Dad drove a truck for a food distribution company and spent most of his time on the road.
“But this is about as good as it gets.” The rush from the faucet drowned out his mumbles.
That summer we rented a U-Haul and packed up and moved from one section eight apartment to another. As we backed out of the driveway Dad hit an old transmission laying on the sidewalk with a cardboard “free” sign duct taped to it. In the new town teenagers drove around in secondhand Land Rovers that gleamed white in the sun.
Later that season Brendan was thumbing his nails at the edge of the bench for Coach Perry and St. Bernard’s. The captain Joe Moracco was the same position and Brendan had barely played all season. Seemed like Coach Perry wanted Brendan off the Eastford team more than he wanted him on his own.
I was in the eighth grade at the time—the leading scorer on JV. I watched from the front row behind the bench—squeezed between red-faced fathers in North Face coats and rich kids who smelled like breath mints and vodka. I hadn’t made any friends.
In the first quarter Joe Moracco elevated for a three pointer and landed on the defender’s foot and went down writhing in pain. He hobbled off the court and you couldn’t tell the sweat from the tears. Coach Perry slapped a metal folding chair and pointed towards Brendan at the end of the bench.
Brendan ripped off his breakaway pants and caught the inbounds pass against the full court press and shot the ball into the wrong basket. The away crowd laughed while the North Face fathers cursed and groaned.
“That’s the charity case,” one of the fathers said. The other one chuckled.
Coach Perry picked up a folding chair and raised it above his head like he was going to rush the court and smash Brendan over the head.
Brendan scored thirty-eight points in three quarters after that. Eastford’s guards were built like linebackers—Jim Callahan, Ed Mazinsky—guys from the old neighborhood. A few times we locked eyes between whistles and they shook their heads at me and smirked.
But Brendan glided between them like he was on skates. Sneakers screeched and defenders stumbled but Brendan’s steps were soft. As if he played on pillows. Based on Coach Perry’s red swollen face you’d think he hated basketball. But based on Brendan’s you’d think he never even sweat.
Down by one with five seconds to go Coach Perry called timeout and drew up a play for our sharp-shooting forward Lenny Finn. I leaned towards the bench from the front row and listened. The center Jakowsi would inbound the ball and Brendan would set a back-screen on Lenny’s defender, freeing up Lenny for an open three. They’d never suspect a three-pointer when we were down by one.
The whistle blew and Lenny cut towards the hoop according to plan and his defender chased after him. Brendan crept in from behind and set the pick. Lenny cut back towards the top of the key, luring his defender into the trap and the defender hit Brendan’s chest and then the floor. But as he fell he kicked his foot out and hooked Lenny who collapsed to the hardwood with a slap. The ref inhaled to blow the whistle then let the play go. Coach Perry nearly had a heart attack.
With the bodies strewn by his feet Brendan had a clear path to the basket. He pointed towards the sky and Jakowski lobbed him the ball. The pass was perfect. Brendan caught it at the peak of his jump and threw it through the hoop for a monstrous dunk—the net inverted over the passing ball. He hung on the rim as defenders cleared out beneath him. The roar of the crowd danced on my skin. Then Brendan picked off the inbounds pass and sprinted towards midcourt—pumping his fist in the air as the buzzer blared.
I fought through reporters and drunken teenagers and finally found my brother at mid court. He picked me up and spun me in the air then set me down. His eyes swam over the surging crowd.
“Where is Dad?”
I shrugged my shoulders as he scanned the wave of drunken students descending upon us. Then Lenny Finn dumped orange Gatorade over the both of us and Brendan yelled and screamed and swung me around and when we got home the big bedroom was empty and Dad was gone.
* * *
Dad thought it’d be better to explain it over the phone. A baby was crying in the background over country music.
He said to listen carefully. He’d only say this once. Coach Perry was going to give Brendan a debit card with a pin number and Coach would deposit money in the account every Wednesday. The money would cover rent, food, clothes, Wi-Fi, gas for the Buick, two cell phones, and nothing else. We had a good thing going—the two of us—Brendan and me with basketball and Coach Perry taking to us the way he did. Besides, his trucking routes paid more out west. Less hours on the road. More time for his new family. We were men. He had a baby. This is how it was.
The crying grew louder and the woman’s voice was a shrill high pitch and I held the phone away from my face. Brendan paced across the living room. Soft steps on the rug and then loud slaps when he reached the tile floor in the kitchen.
The breath on the other end was heavy and then it was quiet and he had to go. He was sorry. I dropped the cell phone on the tile and planted my forearm against the wall and pressed my face into it. The splotches behind my eyes were purple and pink.
“Hey,” Brendan said.
He was on the couch now—Jordan Eleven sneakers on the coffee table with the shiny black band wrapped around the toe. The blunt in his hand was wet and droopy with a big orange cherry and he ashed in a can of seltzer. He cradled the basketball in his arm like a baby.
“Hey,” he said again. This time he threw the ball and I caught it in the ribs and coughed.
“This is freedom.”
He leaned toward me and slid the blunt between my fingers. I took a puff and puttered out smoke between coughs.
“You’re supposed to inhale,” he said. I puffed again and held it in until my chest shook. I looked down. Tiny round dimples covered the ball like goosebumps. I took another hit.
“Do you know what else?” he said. He smiled but his eyes were wet. I passed him the ball harder than I meant and it deflected off his hands and rolled into the corner.
“What?” I said. I gave him back the blunt. My voice sounded alien and strange.
“Fuck him.” He cracked a can of beer he had sweating on the table. We stared at the blank TV for a while as the blunt shrank. Then he rested the smoking stub on the ashtray between us.
“And you know what else?” he said. This time his voice was hard and slid like wet gravel. He coughed the bubble out of his throat. “I don’t ever want to hear his name again.” I looked up and his chest moved short and fast. He clicked the TV remote furiously but the batteries were dead. He held it in the air as if considering its worth then gently placed it down on the table.
“And I mean ever.”
I nodded.
“Because he’s fucking dead to me.”
I didn’t say anything. This time the tears poured past his wispy beard and he cocked his arm back and rocketed the beer can through the living room window. Shards of glass glinted on the carpet under fluorescent light. Yellow beer dripped down the white wall.
Brendan stared out through the broken glass. Then he stood up and pulled his sweatshirt over his head and grabbed the keys to the Buick and left through the front door. He was six foot six and had to bend over when he walked through the frame but his body was thin like a boy’s.
I leapt up from my seat but my head was light and I saw stars and fell back down.
“Where are you going?” I called. But the engine started and by the time I made it to the door he was already gone. When I woke up in the morning the sheets from his bed were stripped and I heard him snoring from Dad’s room down the hall.
* * *
I didn’t dream about playing basketball. I dreamt about Brendan. Brendan always had the ball. Every shot sailed off his fingers. His step was so smooth that I imagined he walked on air. Inferior defenders scampered around him. Ten steps to every one of his. I didn’t fly in my dreams but Brendan did—suspended in time. The gym fell silent. Coach Perry dropped his clipboard. Janitors stopped mopping. And all the players joined hands as he soared. Higher. Higher. Higher.
* * *
JV finished practice thirty minutes before varsity and I’d sit in the corner of the gym and watch Brendan and we’d leave together in the Buick and drive home. A week had passed since Dad called and it was another week until the Massachusetts State Championship. On a snowy Wednesday the whistles were sharp and Coach Perry screamed and stomped his feet after each shrill rip.
“Brendan, how many times do I have to beat it through your thick skull?”
Every Wednesday that Coach deposited money in our account he let Brendan have it in front of the team. It was as if he didn’t want anyone to know about our arrangement. He would diminish doubt before it arose. And he never spoke a word of it to me. He just sized me up in the hall before class like a piece of meat. Lifted my arms and hooked his fingers around my wrists. Asked me how I was growing and invited me to work out with him on Saturdays.
Brendan pulled up for a jumper on a two-on-one fast break drill and Coach Perry’s raspy voice bellowed through the rafters.
“Brendan, if a run at states doesn’t get you excited then your heart must be dead, son. Dead.” He kicked his foot in the air and spun around. Coach Perry had two sons that went to St. Bernard’s. One sold pot and the other didn’t do much of anything. Neither of them played basketball. “I said go up strong.”
Then he set his clipboard down on the bench and stood at the foul line—crouched in a defensive stance. He hiked his shorts up over pale hairy thighs.
“Again,” he said.
Brendan went to the front of the line and caught the outlet pass at half court and ran a fast-break with Lenny Finn. Coach Perry stood at the foul line playing D. He bluffed like he was guarding the open Lenny and Brendan exploded towards the hoop with a dribble. Then he elevated and soared towards the rim. Coach Perry jumped off Lenny and cut towards Brendan—shoulder angled towards his body—trying to teach him to take it strong. But Brendan was already two, three feet in the air, arm cocked back for a dunk. Coach Perry stumbled underneath him and cut his legs out from under him. The ball stuffed off the front rim sending Brendan’s momentum backwards and it was his left leg that landed first. Only it twisted back underneath him and everyone heard the loud crack that echoed through the rafters. The rest of his body fell in a heap and I jumped to my feet as he screamed and sobbed. Some players backed away and some inched forward. I ran to him and pushed through wet bodies bigger than my own. Up close it looked like Brendan’s shoe came off. Then I realized from the bone cutting through his sock that his shoe was on just fine. It was his ankle that had snapped in two.
* * *
The situation was simple, Coach Perry said. He called me in for a workout the next Saturday morning to explain. Brendan’s leg was in a cast and he was passed out from his pain pills on the couch. Reruns of SportsCenter murmured from the TV. I silently slid the keys off the hook and drove the Buick to the gym. The light snow left a haze on the street and in my rearview my tires painted twin snakes on the road. I parked on a side street near St. Bernard’s and walked up to the gym.
In the lot Coach Perry stepped out of his Cadillac—the angry sports radio cut short when he pulled the keys from the ignition. He wore his sunglasses even though it was overcast and the perfume of vodka fragranced the cold winter air. He grunted and I followed him inside the gym. The gym was a cold black abyss until he flicked the lights on and the massive heat ducts grumbled to life from the rafters.
Coach Perry rebounded for me while I shot threes. Fifteen in a row. He nodded and stared at the mechanics of my form like lifting a hood with the engine running—checking how the belts turn.
“Your brother needs a second surgery,” he said after a while. “Did you know that?”
He eyed the state championship banners hanging from the ceiling. They wavered in the hot blasts from the ducts. He checked his cell phone then placed it back in his pocket.
“I’m worried about him.”
I held my hands up for the ball but he kept it by his side.
“You hoping to make varsity next year?”
“Sir?”
“I said,” he walked toward me and pushed the ball in my chest. His black nose hairs curled up around spidery red veins.
“Do you plan to make varsity next year?”
I stepped back and turned to shoot the ball but it clanked off the back rim.
“Yes, sir.”
“Because I need this thing to be worthwhile.” He walked away and paced by the bleachers. He thumbed through his phone mindlessly before placing it in his pocket.
“A lot of money goes into this program.”
I noticed my shoelace was loose and bent down to tie it.
“How tall is your brother, anyway?”
“Six-six, sir.”
“And how tall are you?”
“Five-ten, sir.”
“Hair under your armpits?”
“Sir?”
He stepped forward again until his breath was hot on my face. “Is—there—hair—under—your—armpits?”
I stood up and lifted my arm and he thumbed the tuft that had sprouted earlier that year.
“How many inches did your brother grow after the eighth grade?”
“Five—maybe six.”
“It was eight. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Sir?”
“How can I put this gently? If you like your address I need to see eight inches out of you.”
I cracked a smile out of the corner of my mouth.
“Easy, wise guy.”
The heat kicked off then sputtered back on—blowing the banners.
“I’ve never seen a player recover from a full ankle break and Achilles tear,” he said.
I thought of Brendan elevating in my dreams. The clouds left a cool mist on his body. I pictured Coach Perry shielding his head while Brendan crashed down over him.
“How’s your father doing anyway?” he asked.
I examined the wood grain on the floor. I shuffled my foot over a wet spot where my sweat had dripped.
“Eight inches,” he said and picked up his clipboard. “And the jump shot looks great by the way.”
He walked out of the gym whistling and the door clicked and I felt a burst of anger. I charged towards the hoop and elevated for a dunk but I couldn’t quite cradle the ball over the rim and jammed my wrist. I fell to the floor and I grabbed my ankle but it was fine and I remembered that I wasn’t Brendan.
* * *
St. Bernard’s lost in the state finals without Brendan and he stopped going to school after that. Coach Perry told us that he’d see to it that he wasn’t expelled. He could just repeat the tenth grade in the fall.
They were renovating a two-family house across the street from us next to the park. Full gut. Turning it into a single-family. The town voted to shrink the zoning for section eight. After school I’d see Brendan chatting with the contractor by a white van—his metal crutches catching light from the sun. A silvery dog with a thick coat sat by his side.
The contractor’s name was Ed and he lived in Eastford near our old neighborhood. His face was worn but his hair was blonde and thick. He didn’t seem like the type to dye it. One night he came over to look at our broken window and asked where our dad was. Then he nodded and peeled off the duct-taped plastic sheet from the frame and installed a new window from the back of his van. He wiped the wet caulk on his shirt and ordered us pizza. His dog’s name was Lady. She chased her tail and sniffed the dusty corners of the room before curling up next to the space heater by the couch near Brendan. The orange coils glowed on her slick fur.
We watched the Celtics game and ate on the couch in silence and during commercials Ed got to talking. His wife had died of cancer, he said as he picked dried caulk off his finger then reached for a slice of pepperoni. No children. Most of his days were spent working in towns like this. He framed elevators in mansions for two. Heated towel racks in the bathrooms. That sort of thing. It sounded like he was giving an unprompted bibliography. But there was something warm and hard and vulnerable in the way he spoke. He picked the last of the caulk off his skin.
He didn’t mind Brendan hanging around the jobsite, he said. Company kept him out of his own head. He’d explain things to him until his leg was better. If he wanted, he could have a job in the summer. It’s good to distract your mind while you recover, he said. He reached forward for the last slice then leaned back and scratched his head instead.
Before he left he looked around the apartment and frowned. He patted Brendan on the shoulder and shook my hand. Rough swollen fingers with cracked skin. Told us to stop by the jobsite any time. His smile was sad but his eyes were bright and blue. Lady barked and nipped at Brendan’s cast then rubbed her snout against his thigh. It was a long time from when the van door slammed and the engine started. Then the sputtering exhaust faded and we sat back down on the couch. With the new window and space heater the couch suddenly felt cozy and warm.
* * *
I was named the Most Valuable Player on JV and then spring came and I finished eighth grade and Brendan was set to repeat the tenth in the fall. That summer I helped Ed and Brendan on the jobsite. Dug four-foot holes for deck piers—slamming a digging bar through sheet rock. Sparks flew off the black metal.
“Don’t they make machines for this kind of thing?” I said as I wiped my brow with my sweat-soaked shirt.
Ed and Brendan laughed and smoked cigarettes by the van while Lady chased a squirrel. The client would drive by once a week in a black Mercedes and park across the street. She’d nod through the tinted glass then drive off. Ed always finished his cigarette while the client watched. Leaned back against the van with his arms crossed and smiled into the sun. Lady growled at the car as the sun gleamed off the black hood.
After work I’d play ball at the park until the streetlights flickered on and the mosquitos feasted on my sweaty body. Coach Perry called every day at six—around the time the mosquitos came out. How was I growing? My voice sounded deep. He didn’t want me to lift weights until after the growth spurt. There was time for bulk later. Was I getting enough sleep? Protein? Parties weren’t worth it. Girlfriends were. Any facial hair? I had less questions at my physical. And the doc would ask me how I felt.
From the end of the season until July Fourth I grew six inches. Brendan was off the crutches but didn’t touch the ball much. He’d stay late with Ed and tell me he’d meet me at the park to play but never came. Ed had us over for the Fourth. He lived in an old cape in Eastford with stripped siding where he tore off half the roof for a second-story addition. We grilled hamburgers in the backyard over a charcoal grill and thick smoke filtered through trees. Brendan and Ed complained about the cost of lumber and a hint of a smile crept onto Brendan’s face as he sipped his beer and Lady nuzzled up against his broken leg.
* * *
I finished up early the day Ed and Brendan were framing soffits. I cleaned up around the jobsite and threw short scraps of lumber in the dumpster. Anything under eight inches was trash. Then I skipped off to the court and changed from my paint-speckled boots to sneakers and looked up at the two of them on the second-floor staging. Ed had his arm draped around Brendan as he showed him the nailing pattern with the gun. Brendan was a full head taller but he knelt down and Ed stood up straight and their silhouette resembled a man with his child. I felt warm and turned towards the hoop and elevated off one foot and dunked two-handed. I yelled from the ground for Brendan to come over. It was an emergency. They lowered the pump jack staging and it screeched in the air and Brendan hobbled over with a slight limp.
“I have to show you something,” I said. His eyes danced around the court—from the broken pavement to the torn net on the rim. He picked a scab on his wrist. I passed the ball to him and stood by the three-point line. He held it and tested its weight and flinched like it might bite.
“Lob it up for me.”
He rubbed his hand over it again and considered its shape. Then he looked up.
“Do you ever wonder why he left?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Now lob it up.”
I sprinted towards the basket and he placed it perfectly above the rim. I elevated and caught the ball with one hand and slammed it through the hoop. The adrenaline surged through my veins. Brendan held his hands up for the ball and I passed it back to him.
“Again,” he said.
I rushed the hoop and he lobbed it up and I spun in the air and caught it and threw it down backwards.
“Finally,” he said and cracked a smile. “I was worried about you.”
I hunched over and caught my breath. The summer sun was hot on my back.
“We look too much like Mom,” I said.
Brendan considered the ball again and fired a little hook shot that clanked off the rim. I hadn’t seen him take a shot since the day he went down in practice.
“I don’t think that’s it,” he said.
“Then what?”
“I think we have something and he has nothing and he hates it.”
“He could cash in,” I said. He heaved the ball back toward me and this time I went for another dunk but lost the ball halfway up. It rolled on the field next to the court toward a girl and her dad playing soccer. The girl took a running start and kicked the ball back to us.
Brendan gazed toward the jobsite and let the ball roll.
“Not if we have nothing to cash,” he said.
Brendan shot again and this time it swished through the hoop.
“I don’t get it.”
“Look. If my leg heals then good. We win states and I’m the man. I’m a hero. I play ball in college. Maybe I grow two more inches. Maybe I’m Kobe fucking Bryant. Maybe I play pro.”
I heard a screw grinding through knotted wood.
“Maybe you do, too.”
I wiped my mouth to hide my smile.
“Or maybe I get back on the court and I’m a fragment of myself.” He bent down and picked up the ball. Spun it on his finger. Let it wobble and fall. He spat on the pavement and it mixed with bird shit. “And we never hear from him again.”
I glanced at the field and the girl and father sat cross-legged—sipping on Gatorades. I thought of the game-winner in the playoffs and Brendan’s sad face scouring the crowd.
“Do you want your leg to heal?” I said.
He leaned back against the chain link fence. He closed his eyes and let the sun hit his face. He shook his head and chuckled. Then he limped off to the jobsite and disappeared behind the dumpster and Lady chased after him. I heard the rhythmic slap of the framing gun and the grinding metal of the pump jack raising back up to the sky.
I shot threes until the stars pierced through twilight and there was a salty film on my skin. I stood there breathing with the moths and the streetlight and the hum of mosquitos. Coach Perry called but I let it ring.
Back in the house Brendan was asleep on the couch with his pain pills crushed up on the coffee table next to a can of beer. The TV lost its signal and I had to squint to tell whether or not it was even on.
* * *
That fall Brendan kept working on the house and said he’d do the tenth grade again next year. Maybe get back on the court. The day I got the nod for varsity I ran home to tell Brendan but the Buick was gone. Probably out buying screws or caulking for Ed. A dented pickup was parked in front of the house. Same model as Dad’s red Chevy except black. My phone buzzed against my thigh. It was Coach Perry. Probably a lecture on the responsibility of varsity and what it meant to hang another banner from the rafters. I was the first freshman to start in twenty years. I let it ring and opened the front door. Inside the house the shower was running.
“About time,” I called towards the bathroom. I went to the fridge for a glass of milk and a set of keys with an American flag lanyard lay strewn across the counter. I looked back towards the bathroom and the steam billowed into the hall. The coffee maker was on and an open pack of Kools lay next to the stove. The shower stopped and I heard a gruff voice singing and my heart pounded in my ears. I ran to the hall past the bathroom and into Brendan’s room.
The walls were empty except for the duct tape that had held up his Boston Celtics and Cardi B posters. There were wads of crumpled paper on the floor where his recruiting letters were tacked a day before. I could make out the writing on one of them. Duke University. A suitcase and three trash bags of clothes lay on the ground. The mattress was stripped and had a large brown stain. Like coffee or dried blood.
The bathroom door opened and Dad shuffled into the hall whistling Sweet Home Alabama—rubbing himself with a towel. He looked up and dropped the towel by his feet.
He stood there naked and I stood in the doorway blocking the entrance to Brendan’s room. His beard was gone and his stubble was gray. He was still fat but tan. It somehow gave him a glimmer of health. He looked up at me in awe—as if admiring a monument. He smiled and had a gold filling where a tooth was missing a year before.
“Well, look at you,” he said. He reached out—not to hug—but to prod. To see if this behemoth man-child towering over him was real flesh or a hologram. He must have wondered how this child had spawned from him. Like a lotus flower from mud. He poked my arm with a single finger.
I pushed past him knocking his shoulder and sending him spinning into the wall. I ran out the door and across the street to the construction site. The air compressor roared and sent birds soaring from the wires. Ed’s van was in the driveway. Half the siding was up on the front of the house but the rest was still plywood.
“Where’s Brendan?” I called up to Ed on the staging.
He looked down at me and shrugged. Then he pointed his siding gun to the Chevy truck parked in front of the house. Dad’s truck.
I walked over to it and ran my hand across the scratches. The passenger window was shattered out and covered with plastic sheeting and duct tape. He had spray painted the whole body black. The rusted fenders didn’t match the doors. Only the hood shone bright and I could see where he ran out of clear coat. Ed peered down from the staging—his head sunk like Jesus on the cross.
I thought of the beady eyed Coach Perry lighting a cigar in our old living room. Holding his cup up to Dad for another scotch. A glaring secret cemented with a toast. Then Coach Perry cutting Brendan out of the air—checking his watch as they loaded him into the ambulance.
I walked into the house to my old man whistling and slammed the door behind me. The smell of cigarettes filled the air and my head pounded to the rhythm of Ed’s gun. Ed texted me late that night asking if I’d seen Lady. Said she was nowhere to be found when he packed his van and went home.
* * *
I had the ball now in my dreams. But the court was soft and thick like wet sand and as I drove to the hoop it extended out like a tunnel—further and further away. I’d pick up my dribble in the corner—swallowed by defenders. Dad. Coach Perry. The faces of beady eyed men transplanted on skinny boys’ bodies. I searched for Brendan—charging toward the hoop. I could lob it up to him. He’d catch it and dunk. Hang in the air. His feet above the sandy court. Immune to gravity.
But I couldn’t see over the crowd. I sank down—lower and lower. The quicksand swallowed me up to my waist. Brendan, I called. But the sand was in my mouth. The defenders were on me like dogs. Monstrous faces. Old men with handshakes. They wanted blood. Brendan, I called again. But the court was empty. The sand was up to my neck. My brother was gone.
* * *
A month went by with no word from Brendan. No death notice either. Phone went right to tone. He didn’t have any friends. The town cop came by the house and said a seventeen year old was hard to find. I told him he was six foot six. How hard could it be? He handed Dad a card and walked back to the cruiser. Dad glared at it like a losing lotto ticket. I walked across the street to Ed’s.
I held a piece of window casing in place while Ed tacked it to framing with a finish nail. He’d come back when he wants to be found, he said. But he glanced nervously at the siding and bit his lip. He told me the best thing was to distract my mind. My basketball game changed after that.
I stopped emulating Brendan’s style. I didn’t careen across the court and spin past defenders. I didn’t lightly kiss the ball off the glass. I bullied them. I slammed my body into them in the paint and punished them with elbows and hard fouls. They feared me. After every three I ran my fingers across my throat and held them up them up in the air. The crowd erupted.
I didn’t smile when I played. I remembered my dream. Savored it. Every defender was Dad and Coach Perry. I would gut them. Humiliate them. I set the freshman state record for points that year. And the state record for rebounds, blocked shots, and technical fouls. I didn’t have friends. I lifted weights after school and ran drills by myself on the court across the street next to Ed’s renovation. The exterior was done. Ed was installing kitchen cabinets. On a cold evening in February an ensemble of men unloaded oversized boxes off of a tractor truck. Breaths thick in the winter air.
Most days Ed rebounded for me in the park after work. The light from the TV flickered in the window across the street. I ran suicides after every miss. I’d sprint to the foul line and back. Mid court and back. Full court and back. Ed said nothing. He’d stay with me after the sun set and the streetlights shone and it was too cold to feel my hands. He’d call for Lady but she never came. He posted signs near the jobsite on telephone poles but the paper got wet in the snow.
One night after my final suicide I collapsed against the chain link fence and cried. Ed walked over and placed a hand on my back. His swollen fingers were raw and red in the winter cold. Then he spun me around and hugged me. The smell of epoxy and sawdust on his hooded sweatshirt. Then mucus and tears on his thick shoulder as he held me in his arms.
* * *
Dad never came to the games. He gave up his trucking route and most evenings he microwaved frozen pizza and watched Fox News on the couch. Grunting at the degradation of the country and grinning at the plans for a wall. After games I’d walk to my bedroom and shut the door and shove buds in my ears and lay in bed and bounce the basketball off the ceiling until the plaster flaked down and fluttered like snow.
I’d pretend not to hear him when he opened the door. Then he’d flick the lights and I’d bounce the ball harder and he’d know I was ignoring him. He’d walk over to my bed and rip the line of headphones and I’d feign at my ears like he hurt them. Then I’d scowl and sit up on the edge of my bed until my face was level with his. His eyes were wide and fearful and he’d take a step back.
“Points?” he asked.
“Thirty-nine.”
“Rebounds?”
“Didn’t count.”
“Above ten?”
“Above twenty.”
A grin spread across his face and then he hid it and reached in his pocket for his Kools but came up empty. Then he patted his breast pocket and glanced back toward the kitchen.
“I’d ask about assists but you better not be passing.”
I spun the ball around my finger. If I focused right I could still make out the dimples of the ball before it became a whir again.
“Coach Perry told me Indiana, Michigan, and Texas were in the stands.”
“The whole states?”
“Don’t you sass me, boy.” His eyes narrowed and he took a step closer and the smell of vodka made me cough. Then I stood up straight and smacked the leather of the ball as I glared down at him.
“Alright, tough guy,” he said. “Don’t you forget who gave you that damn thing.”
Then he chuckled and disappeared into the kitchen and I heard the repetitive flick of a lighter then the ticking of the gas stove.
* * *
The frost thawed the week before the state championship. I woke one night to the faint echo of a ball bouncing in the park across the street. I could even make out the clank of missed shots off the back rim. The rhythm of the dribbles was crisp. Double-time with cross overs and then rapid dribbles and then silence. I visualized the high arch of a shot from when the dribble stopped and the ball slapped back down on the pavement. I pulled on sweatpants and a hoodie and walked out the front door. Dad’s snores echoed in the hall.
There he was. My brother silhouetted in the streetlight. Breath billowing and dissipating into the air. Gym shorts and a tank top in February. He lost weight. Probably down to two hundred. He put the ball between his legs and then charged towards the hoop and elevated off two feet and threw down a monstrous dunk. The hoop swayed as he hung on the rim. He pulled his chin over it and I counted ten pull ups before he let himself fall to the ground.
“The ankle looks good,” I said as I crossed the street without looking.
He just smiled and stepped behind the three-point line and swished a shot.
“I thought you quit,” I said to him. “You know, being an accumulation of your circumstances and all.”
He passed me the ball but it vanished in the air before it reached my hands.
I stepped back and analyzed his body. Below the knee was a ghost of a leg and it dripped blood where bone had ripped through the skin. I looked up and his eyes were empty black sockets.
“You nervous for states?” he said. But his teeth were rotten and a worm crawled out of the corner of his mouth.
He tapped his foot in rhythm to Ed’s siding gun. But when I looked next door the house was gone. Burnt rubble on top of a crumbled foundation. And yet the nail gun kept firing and the compressor roared.
“Better get home,” Brendan said. This time the ball ignited and he shot it through the hoop and the whole net went up. Smoke billowed in the moonlight.
“Dad and Coach are waiting for you.”
He cocked his head back and laughed. Then he passed me the flaming ball but it vanished and Brendan disappeared behind a cloud of smoke.
* * *
My whole body felt cold and when I awoke the sun was hitting my face and I was in the kitchen of Ed’s renovation and he was shaking my shoulder.
“You okay, kid?” he said. The electrician stood next to him with a giant lightning bolt on his shirt. “How long you been sleeping here?”
The house looked nice. Cherry cabinets. Granite counters. Clean. Unlived in. With the promise to be anything it wanted.
“Where’s Brendan,” I asked.
Ed looked down and shuffled his shoes on the hardwood.
“Your dad didn’t tell you?” he said. He scratched his head and looked up in the light and then knelt down and held me by my shoulders. “They found him.”
My chest got tight, and my throat closed.
“When’s he coming home?” I could feel my voice shake.
This time he knelt down next to me and up close the whites around his eyes looked like clouds in the blue sky. He opened his mouth to speak then bit his lip as the blue eyes welled with tears. The tile saw whirred from the bathroom as marble dust filled the air.
* * *
Coach Perry spoke at the funeral but everything sounded like it was underwater and I couldn’t decipher a word. He patted my shoulder on the sidewalk in front of the church and said that the best way to honor Brendan was with a state championship. I traced the cracks on the ground until they ran into a wall.
States wasn’t even a good game. Sacred Heart’s All-American went down in the first quarter with a twisted ankle and his father ran down from the stands and told the coach that if he played him another minute he’d file a lawsuit for every penny the boy would have made in the pros. The kid was six foot seven and sixteen.
I was a head taller than their next biggest guy. I went off for sixty. A state record. The men in the front row with suits beamed as they pecked on tablets. Sacred Heart admitted defeat and pulled their starters and cleared the bench with five minutes to go while I was at the free-throw line. I focused on the back rim and saw Brendan hanging from the hoop after his game-winning dunk just a year ago. I scanned the top row of the stands and saw Ed with his straw-colored hair and caulk-stained sweatshirt. The suited men tapped each other on the shoulder and pointed towards me. I needed one more point until sixty. The shot didn’t even touch the rim. My skin was sticky with Gatorade as they hoisted me up after the game.
Dad was laughing on the couch when I got home. Whiskey by his side and the local TV replaying a dunk I had before halftime.
“We’re going to be rich,” he said. And he kept laughing until he doubled over to a coughing fit.
I heard a ball bounce on the pavement and I walked out the door and across the street to the park. Two kids in winter coats were huddled next to the chain-link fence with a stick. “Should we poke it?” One of Ed’s signs on the telephone pole blew in the wind. I crossed the road.
Lady lay curled into a stiff ball against the fence with her paw over her face. The light snow made a thin blanket over her gray body. The boys parted and I crept forward and nudged her with my foot but she was stiff. I nudged her again and her paw slid off her face and her eyes were closed. Eyelashes frozen with snow.
I looked up at Ed’s house. A five-bedroom palace. Cement-board siding, copper gutters and big bay windows. I thought I saw a face in the glass but it was just the reflection of the moon. Then I looked across the street and the light from the TV flickered through Ed’s replacement window. I looked back down at Lady and her eyes flickered and she let out a weak groan. I opened my jacket and lay down next to her and warmed her against me. Her frozen fur melted against my body. I closed my eyes and pretended she was Brendan. Then her breath thickened and I picked her up—cold and stiff—and she whimpered as I carried her home.
