Deep Down True (8 page)

“Couldn’t you talk to him?” asked Morgan.

I would do anything for you,
thought Dana. She let the air escape from its imprisonment in her lungs. “No, sweetie, I can’t. Dad’s in charge in Hartford. I’m only in charge here. At our house.” The doorbell rang. No one rose to answer it. “Grady, are you packed?”

“Oops!” Grady jumped up, jostling the table, and ran to his room.

“Go open the door for Dad,” Dana said to Morgan.

“Can you? I forgot something in my room.”

“I’ll get it,” offered Alder.

“Thanks, sweetie, but I’ll do it,” Dana said, rising and moving toward the mudroom. The doorbell rang again, and she thought,
If he rings that thing one more time . . .
She didn’t know what she’d do, but it would not be friendly. “It’s unlocked,” she told him irritably when she pulled the door toward her. “It wasn’t even closed all the way.”

“I . . . I didn’t . . .” he stammered, surprised. During their marriage he’d often joked that she was intractably pleasant, even to telemarketers. “I shouldn’t just barge in,” he said. “I don’t live here anymore.”

“I’m well aware of that fact. You live in Hartford now. With Tina, apparently.” There was a tingling in her fingers that made her want to grab something and squeeze hard. Not just because of the live-in girlfriend or the ringing doorbell, or even the fact that her daughter was apparently undoing all her efforts at nourishment. This rage seemed prehistoric in origin, and if she wasn’t careful, she might just grasp Kenneth in a tender place—the throat, perhaps, or somewhere south of that—and dig in. Kenneth’s fingers kneaded at his jacket cuffs, and trepidation stung at his cheeks. After all these years, had she somehow managed to intimidate him?

“I should have told you about that,” he spouted. “I meant to, and then things seemed to come up. But the kids really like her, I think.”

Dana snorted sarcastically. This was different, having Kenneth on the defensive. This felt good. “Whether they like her or not is not my problem. But in the future you need to inform me of big changes like this. They ask me about it, and I should be prepared to answer, not caught off guard like some insignificant ... I need to be kept apprised, you understand?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes cast to his shoes. “Yes, absolutely.”

When he left with the kids, Dana pondered her confrontation with Kenneth. She’d so rarely ever taken him to task like that. It was the highlight of her day, she realized.
How pathetic.

S
ATURDAY PASSED IN A HAZE OF THINKING ABOUT Morgan’s problem, then trying not to obsess about it, then chastising herself for not facing the issue, all the while drinking what must have amounted to a gallon of sugar-free lemonade. By the afternoon her stomach hurt. She forced herself to find an eating-disorders Web site, but before she’d read more than a paragraph, she got thirsty again and went for another glass of her painkiller of choice.

The one thing she was able to accomplish was preparing a meal for the McPhersons. “Alder?” she called as she swaddled a loaf of sourdough bread in foil. “Sweetie, I have to drop off this dinner. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes!”

When Dana approached the small ranch-style house, she double-checked the number on the mailbox, because it seemed like the wrong building. It looked tidier, less sad than the other time she’d been here. The lawn was mowed, she realized, and the shrubs had been trimmed. She juggled the foil pan of chicken tetrazzini and the shopping bag that contained the rest of the McPhersons’ dinner and rang the doorbell. Footsteps sounded, and Dana took a step back from the door, organizing her features into a mildly pleasant (but not overly happy) look.

The woman she’d seen the last time, tall and slack-shouldered, opened the screen door. Though she was likely only in her mid-thirties, lines of tension were creased between her eyebrows. She drew a breath and generated a smile. “This must be dinner!”

“It sure is,” said Dana. “Can I bring it in for you?”

The woman opened the screen. “Oh, watch the suitcase!” she said as Dana nearly tripped over it. “My brother came to help out for a few days, but he’s heading back tonight.” Her voice tightened at the mention of this imminent abandonment. “He’s got his own family, of course.”

Dana put the food on a small side table by the door. “He must be good company.”

She nodded. “He took the kids to the playground for one last swing on the swings before he leaves.”

“How many do you have?”

“Three,” she said. “My oldest is six, then four, and the baby is almost two.”

Oh, God,
thought Dana,
three little ones and a dying husband.
“You must be busy!” she said, trying to keep the conversation light.

“Yeah, a bit.” The woman managed to smile back. “The oldest is pretty well behaved, but my daughter, she can wear you down without even breaking a sweat. And the little one is just into trouble like all toddlers are. I’m lucky my husband’s around to help.”

Lucky?
She acted as if her husband were on vacation instead of fighting for his life. “Has he been sick long?” Dana asked.

“Just a few months.” The woman’s face darkened. “They say it’s aggressive, but I know he’s going to beat it. He’ll be one for the case studies.” She took a quick breath. “He has to be.”

Vicarious sorrow pinched at Dana. She felt her chin begin to tremble and attempted a smile to control it. She reached her hand out to the woman’s forearm, knowing it was possibly the exact wrong thing to do but unable to stop herself. “There’s plenty here,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “Not that you’re probably all that hungry . . .”

“Not much. The kids will have some,” the woman said. She patted Dana’s hand. “But thank you. It just feels good to have it here.”

As Dana drove back home, letting tears drip off her chin, the streetlights came on.
It gets dark so early now,
she thought.
Seems like nighttime lasts for days.

 

 

Grady had a football game on Sunday morning, and Kenneth planned to meet Dana there with the kids. She and Alder arrived a few minutes early.

“Stelly’s mom! Dana!” Coach Ro was motioning her toward him with his clipboard. It was strange to hear him calling her name. Did he know all the parents’ names?

“You can go on up to the stands,” she said to Alder. “I’ll be right there.”

Coach Ro seemed to be watching her as she came toward him. “I knew you’d be here,” he said. “Would you mind . . . Can you do MPR?”

“MPR?” she asked. He talked to her like she knew his language.

“Minimum play requirements. You see who’s on the field for each play and mark off their numbers on this sheet. Each kid has to be in at least eight plays per half or I get in trouble with the league.” He handed her the clipboard. “You’re on the field with us—best seat in the house!”

Except she never got to sit, since the job required skittering up and down the sidelines, trying to make out jersey numbers, which were folded like skirt pleats across the boys’ chests and jammed into their skintight pants. Each play lasted about ten seconds before someone went the wrong way, or the catch was missed, or the ball carrier was mobbed by a swarm of opposing players. Coach Ro motioned players on and off the field, adjusted chin straps, and tied flapping shoelaces. “Ow! That’s too tight!” one boy complained. “It’ll loosen up,” Coach snapped.

Dana followed his lead, corralling players who were wandering too far up the sidelines and reminding them about good sportsmanship when they howled at bad plays. At halftime Coach Ro opened a container of sliced oranges, placed it in the grass, and let the kids crawl over each other like newborn piglets to get at them. He took Dana’s elbow and guided her away from the jostling boys. “How’m I doing? Everyone getting a fair shake?”

She sighed. “I’ll be honest, I’m just not sure. The numbers are so hard to see, and they never stop moving. I’m amazed you can tell who’s who under their helmets.”

“What good’s a coach if he doesn’t know his players? Parents like you helping out—that makes it easier. Hey,” he said, giving her shoulder a playful poke, “you’re pretty good out there yourself, corralling them and telling them to stop messing around. We make an excellent team.” His cheery blue-eyed gaze rested on her a few seconds too long, and she turned away toward the boys.

“Oh, now, stop that, please!” she called as another orange rind flew through the air. “Peels in the trash basket, boys, that’s where they go!”

The second half was easier because she’d memorized some of the player numbers by differences in their uniforms. Number nine had duct tape across his shoe; the one who adjusted his athletic cup almost constantly was number sixteen. When Coach Ro wasn’t organizing his players, he stationed himself by Dana, his elbow brushing against her shoulder, pointing out who was who. There was something impressive about him. He was energetic and fairly successful at teaching a bunch of seven-year-olds such a complicated game.

“Why do you do this?” she asked. “You don’t even have a child on the team.”

He smiled and shook his head. “I just love this game. And I miss playing. Me and a bunch of guys play touch football when they don’t have stuff to do with their families and such.” He ran a hand over his crew cut. “But it’s
touch
. It’s a whole different sport. I just love the idea of what these little guys have ahead of them—years of the real thing. Tackle football.”

Years of this?
she thought with a jolt. Years of watching people crash into her son at full speed as she prayed for all the pieces of his tender little body to remain correctly situated?
Maybe he’ll take up tennis,
she hoped without much conviction.

“What about you?” he asked. “You ever play any sports?”

“I played basketball in middle school,” she offered weakly.

“I knew you were athletic—I can always tell.” He put his fingers around her upper arm and said, “Tense up.” Her biceps contracted of its own accord. “There you go! That’s a good strong arm. Nice triceps, too. Most women don’t have that. You work out?”

“Um . . . a little . . .” she stammered.

“Coach!” bellowed the referee suddenly. “You got too many players here!”

Coach Ro jogged onto the field, yelling, “Ben, I told you, you’re offense!”

Without quite knowing why, Dana turned to gaze up at the stands. Morgan was talking to Alder, her hands flicking this way and that. Alder put a hand over her mouth in sympathetic horror. Kenneth, however, was staring straight at Dana. Even at this distance, she could tell he was on high alert. In broad daylight, in plain view, practically
onstage,
another man had been touching her in a surprisingly familiar way, unmistakably appreciating her body. It was a visual for which Kenneth was clearly unprepared, and his shock was absolutely delicious. Dana turned back to the field, studying the clipboard so no one could see her grin.

At the end of the game, Coach Ro made all the kids say, “Thank you Mrs. Stellgarten,” which they drawled in unconvincing unison.

“Thanks.” He grinned, patting the back of her shoulder. “You’re a real asset on the field.”

 

 

That night, after Grady had recounted every moment of the game as if she hadn’t been standing right there on the sideline, and Morgan had listed the many ways in which Tina was boring, including her light blue furniture that had replaced Kenneth’s in the condo, Dana went downstairs to fold sheets in the hall by the linen closet. The phone rang, and Alder answered it. “Jack somebody,” she said, bringing the phone to Dana.

“Hello?” Dana cradled the phone against her ear as she stacked towels.

“Hey there, Dana, it’s Jack Roburtin.”

“Hi,” she said brightly, hoping a face would come to her to match the familiar voice.

“That was some game today.”

Coach Ro,
thought Dana, relieved to have figured it out. “It certainly was,” she said, though she’d been so busy making checkmarks she wasn’t really sure how they’d played.

“Those boys have come a long way since August,” he went on. “Their discipline’s improving, and I saw some excellent play execution out there today—I know you did, too.”

“They were just great.” She had the strange sensation that he was about to offer to sell her the team. She recalled that he was a car salesman over at Manchester Motors.

“And thanks again for all your help. I feel I control them pretty well, but it always helps to have a woman around—a mom,” he corrected himself, “to make them feel at home and secure.”

“It’s nice of you to call and say so.”

“Yes, well, uh . . . I didn’t just call for that. I wanted to . . . Well, at first I thought I’d hold off during the season. I
am
Stelly’s coach. As you know.”

Yes, she was fairly clear on this point—what on earth was he getting at? “You’re doing a wonderful job,” she assured him.

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.” He took a breath and exhaled noisily into his receiver. “So . . . it would be good to get together sometime. Like I said, I was half thinking I shouldn’t ask until after the playoffs. You know, so it wouldn’t look funny to the other parents. Like I might give Stelly more playing time or something. But I wouldn’t do that. That’s not the kind of coach I am.”

A date? Was he asking her on a date? “Oh!” she said. “No, you wouldn’t . . .”

“And then I thought, hey—it’s none of their business! We’re not in the military, it’s not like there’s some law against . . . what’s it called . . . ”

“Fraternizing,” Dana said. She sat down on the floor, unfolded sheets lying around her like snowdrifts. How long had it been since she’d been asked out on a date? Since Kenneth, of course. And that had been eighteen years ago.

“Right! And I don’t feel like waiting four weeks to ask you out. Who knows—maybe you’d be going with someone else by then and I’d have lost my chance. Oh, but . . .” His voice went low all of a sudden. “Are you seeing anyone? Because I’m not the kind of guy to horn in.”