Family Affair (21 page)

Naturally, little things take a backseat at a time like this: opening mail, getting a good night’s sleep, eating. Of course, the refrigerator is practically empty—especially after I wasted so much on that picnic yesterday. Who wants to go grocery shopping again after that? Still, I’m not at the point of voluntary starvation, so I
shove this emotional weight the size of Nebraska off my back for a moment and drive to Ralphs.

Sure enough, going inside is surreal. People surround me, each living in a little world I know deep down is perfect and untroubled.
Bastards
. I grab a cart and push it in front of me. I need the support.

Fruit first. I pick up an apple, and as I rotate it, looking for spots, I catch sight of the little sticker with the product number. Back in the day, which I guess means up until about a month ago, I made it a point to peel those stickers off every piece of fruit in the house. Maybe it was partly obsessive-compulsive, but as I did this, I thought about him, the man I loved, and it seemed like a nice thing to do. Just a little thing but thoughtful.

So here is the sticker, staring up at me. I pull it off.

I start to cry. I’m standing in a supermarket, holding a now-naked apple, stripped of its identity, an offering to a once-vibrant love now rotted away to nothing, and it all seems so sad. At some distance, a few people glance over, but as soon as I look their way they pretend not to notice and uncomfortably go back to sorting through bananas and bagged salads and feta cheese. I can’t blame them. It’s weird when people cry in public. When I see people crying in public—at least pairs—I usually assume it’s because they’re breaking up. When you see two people together and one is crying and the other is cocking his or her head and leaning in and
not
crying, odds are they’re done.

“Are you all right?” asks a stock boy.

“I have food allergies,” I say, lacking a better explanation. He turns away, satisfied with this reason and probably not interested anyway.

I sniff, get myself together a little bit, then try to soldier on, pulling single-serving boxes of popcorn and rice and readymade pasta meals into the cart. I must look horrendous. I did nothing to my hair—not with a comb, not with a brush, no clips,
ties, or bands. I can only imagine what my eyes look like, but I’m putting on a brave face. A brave face hideously deformed by the thought that I’m now alone, a stranger in a strange lane at Ralphs.

Thank
God
I’m still part of something good, is all I can say. Thank God I’m still a Foster.

The mudballs are in jeopardy.

What’s the problem? It’s one of those sightings that begin with promise and end in embarrassment: Hey, there’s a hot girl in the produce section, a hippie chick with wavy hair and sandals and jeans and a nice ass and … it’s Layla.

I get this crazy idea that I should go up and say, “Hey, Layla, I didn’t think I’d find
you
behind those melons.” After the cops left yesterday, after I’d had time to simmer down, I almost wanted to give her a hug, she looked so distraught. I’m always getting stupid ideas. Thankfully, I don’t always follow through. After a few seconds of rational consideration, I’m certain I want to avoid her at all costs. Why erf up this day of all days with a Rock ‘Em Sock ’Em Robots routine?

She’s hovering around the cereal aisle, I think, as I duck behind displays and make my way to the ingredients I need. But now I’ve lost her.
Shit
. Even if I score everything I need, I’m bound to get stuck behind someone chatty in line, and then she’ll walk up right behind me. And then we’re sunk.

I’m going to wait for the right moment and then just make a run for it.

This is bad. I’m so fucked in the head that I swear I see Brett through the front window, running across the parking lot with his jacket up around his ears. It’s clearly time to just abandon my cart and go home. My ability to play at normalcy must have a limit, so I’ll come back tomorrow.

Absolutely sure that every eye in the entire place is fixed on miserable me, I sleepwalk out of there and drive away, grocery-less.

Back at the ranch.

After a quick detour to a liquor store, it’s a humiliating return that I cover for by being hostile: “Here,” I say, shoving a beer and a bag of chips at Jared, “and don’t say a fucking word about the mudballs.”

He looks at the bottle. “If this were some cheap shit, I’d be tempted,” he replies. “But since you knew not to insult me, you have bought my silence.”

Apparently, about ten seconds’ worth.

“Dumbass,” he says.

I could have used a mudball, too.

• • •

Life is unfair. That’s just a fact. My sister reminds me of this Thursday, after barging into my apartment and treating the place like a hazardous waste site, which it isn’t—not yet. I mean, it could still get worse. After I list all the bad stuff that has happened to me recently, Layla and the state of my team, she says, “Life’s unfair,” and I consider it a point proven and a job well done. God bless her, shitty people skills and all.

She starts in on me then. She doesn’t bring up Layla, but I get all manner of finger-wagging about checking out, my losing team, how I’m probably not giving my players the commitment they deserve, and about adopting the diet of a twelve-year-old trapped overnight in a 7-Eleven. She has other concerns, too.

I’m tough enough to listen to about half of it, not bothering to give any defense, then I basically kick her out of the apartment. What does she know? She doesn’t know anything about my job; she’s only going by the recent losses, the burrito wrappers, and the empty Mountain Dew and Miller bottles. And the smell. There is admittedly a mild odor about the place, but I’ve called the landlord.

I’m kind of surprised things have gotten as bad as they have. I’m usually excellent at putting on a front. Out in public, I can always appear to be my commanding self. At least I could until some point during this week. I was coming home at night and just getting into bed to stare at the ceiling, true, but up until that moment I was on the field screaming until my throat bled about lapses on special teams, mental mistakes, lazy footwork, you name it. But at some point Wednesday, or maybe Tuesday, I must have been feeling particularly empty, must have gotten a little too close to choking up over a mistake—maybe my voice even cracked when I said, “Crawford, if Williams makes one more catch today, I’m going to staple you to him!”

Anyway, he looked at me carefully and said, “Sorry, Coach. I’ll try harder.”

Deron Crawford never says “Sorry” or “I’ll try harder.” And I said, “Thank you.” I
never
say “Thank you.” I didn’t say another word for about a half hour. Then I went home.

Frankly, the novelty of the bachelor pad wears off pretty quickly when you’re not doing anything to really enjoy being a bachelor. Being pissed off, sad, and miserable gets you so far. There are only so many times you can eat day-old (okay, I don’t
know exactly how old) pizza, only so many sports highlight reels you can watch, only so many days you can not shave, go without bathing, basically live in filth, before the mere sight of yourself is repulsive.

For that reason, today I’ve woken up. I mean, I’ve been awake technically, but truly I’ve been sleepwalking. I’ve done okay with the team for the most part, but when you’re only eighty or ninety percent there, and the job requires about double that level of involvement—triple when you have a team of mostly newbies like mine—you’re shortchanging them. I missed the last coaches’ meeting, claiming the flu, but the truth was I was sitting home with the shades drawn, drinking Miller High Life. Trish pointed out that I’ve been listening to a little too much weepy chick music lately, and she’s right.

I have a job. I have a life. And now, although I’ve actually been conscious and wide-eyed since about four a.m., wallowing in self-pity—which really should be self-hate, because I brought this on myself—I can respect the notion that sometimes the world needs you more than you need it.

It’s with this fact in mind that I pick myself up and actually take a shower, which is a good thing, because as I walk to the UCCC administration building at about ten a.m. on Friday morning, I bump into Heather. And when she starts flirting with me again—we’ve been jokingly flirty since the night at Norms, at least I think she’s been joking—suddenly something comes to me: Spending time with another woman is no longer cheating. Which is kind of interesting. Especially since in addition to the ten thousand other “traditions” that Layla introduced to our family, we have the corn-maze fiasco coming up, and I’ve been dreading it.

I’m torn, because I don’t want to see Layla and yet I don’t want to abandon the family right now—especially not when she’s looking like the good kid to my bad one. Maybe if I bring a date, not
only will it make the night more enjoyable, it will show Layla that she’s being ridiculous. That it’s time for her to move on as well.

“What are your thoughts on corn?” I ask Heather.

“Corn?” she repeats with a funny smile—probably due to my out-of-left-field question. “I love corn. I like it on the cob, off the cob, buttered, with Lawry’s Seasoned Salt, white, yellow, creamed, popped…. I love corn.”

“That is a much more enthusiastic answer than I expected,” I admit.

“What can I say? I’m a fan. Of corn.”

“That is very good news,” I reply, and she cocks an eyebrow. “Because my family does this corn-maze thing, and it’s happening this weekend, and I thought maybe you’d like to join us.”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Kind of,” I admit. “Yes.”

“A first date?”

“Yes?”

“With your family?”

“Er, weird?” I ask, realizing her point.

“Yes,” she says.

“Well, the corn maze is Sunday,” I point out. “We could have a first date tonight, so the corn extravaganza wouldn’t be it. Hell, we could even have a second date tomorrow. But that would make the corn maze our third date, and …”

I stop talking, but it’s too late.

“And technically, that’s the date where I’m supposed to put out.”

“No,” I say incredulously. “Well, yes. Technically, I believe the rule is three—five if she’s hot.”

“Charming,” she replies.

I go for broke: “So as long as you wouldn’t mind having sex for the first time in front of my family, in a corn maze …”

“No, I wouldn’t mind that at all,” she says. “Tell you what. I will
take you up on a date between now and then. Tonight or Saturday, you decide. Worse comes to worst, we can always go out for burgers after your game tomorrow.” She winks. “I will subsequently decide if there will be a second date. We can take it from there.”

“Fair enough,” I say.

“There’s one other thing I like about corn,” she says. “Those little things that you stick on the ends of a cob. Bonus if they look like miniature corn.”

“I could like you,” I say. Then, “That was out loud, wasn’t it?”

She nods and smiles.

Well, mystery has definitely never been my strong suit.

The first of what became our annual corn-maze event—or, as I named it, the Foster Family Maize Maze—started about six years ago. Living in L.A., you tend to get jaded. You’re so caught up in all things Los Angeles that you can miss out on some incredible traditions practiced across America. I’d only read about corn mazes, but it sounded like a fun thing that we could do as a family.

That day, I called everyone and said I had a big surprise for them. I told them to be at Casa Foster at eight a.m., to wear comfortable shoes they didn’t mind getting dirty, and to be prepared to do some walking.

We all got to the house and hopped into the SUV. The whole way there, everyone kept asking where we were going and where I was taking them, but I wouldn’t tell. I just turned the radio up louder and sang.

When we pulled up to the maze, Trish was the first to speak up.

“Are you fucking kidding me? A corn maze?” she said.

“Have you ever been to one?” I asked.

“No, I haven’t,” she replied. “By choice.”

“What the hell is a corn maze?” Brett asked.

“She kept it from you, too?” Bill said. “Good going, Lay-lay!”

“Can someone clue me in?” Scott asked. “I knew about it,” Ginny said. “I, for one, am excited. Layla told me the idea, and I thought it was wonderful.”

“Typical,” Brett said.

“Like some sick joke on the whole family,” Trish remarked.

“Cornholed,” suggested Scott, never one to let a chance slip by to be inappropriate.

“Really?” I said. “Is this that awful? Can’t you wait until we’ve at least gotten out of the car before you cry like a bunch of babies? This is supposed to be a fun day.”

“I still don’t even know what everyone’s talking about,” Scott said.

“It’s a corn maze,” I repeated, and then explained it was exactly what it sounded like. A labyrinth. A maze made up in a field of corn. It’s a game—a puzzle, really—and we’re the pieces. We’re given maps and clues, but as simple as it seems, people always end up getting lost. It’s a way for farmers to supplement their income, by hosting families as they run around like rats trying to find their way out.

“And this is supposed to be fun?” Scott said. “This is what I gave up my Sunday for?”

“Like you had other plans.” Trish laughed.

Once they settled down, we split into two groups so we wouldn’t all get lost alone and ran into the maze. There were different stations we had to find, and when we got to each post the people running the maze would give us a ticket to prove that we’d found that base and could move to the next. They gave us flags to hold, and there were tall lifeguard stations so if we got lost we could wave our flags and they would come get us. We ran around all day to the point of exhaustion. Bill, Trish, and Brett didn’t finish because it got dark, so Team Layla, Ginny, and Scott won.

We went back the next year so Bill, Trish, and Brett could try to dethrone us. They didn’t. By year three it became a tradition.

Now here we are, six years later.

Since I started the tradition, I certainly wasn’t backing out. I actually thought Brett would skip it, since he always complained about how silly it was. You can imagine my surprise when Brett not only shows up but brings a date.