Home Song (12 page)

Two tears trailed down her cheeks while he went on.

“What hurts even more is that you brought it up where Chelsea could hear.”

“You're the one who started shouting, Tom.”

“How long do you think it'll stay on her mind? If anything ever goes wrong between us again, do you think it'll come back to her and she'll wonder if I really was having an affair?”

“I'll tell her in the morning that I was wrong.”

He flipped onto his side away from her. “Yeah, you do that, Claire.”

He knew when she began crying behind him because he could feel the faint trembling through the mattress. He heard her pluck a tissue from the cube on her nightstand, but she was too proud to blow her nose, and lay containing her sobs instead. He had emotions of his own to contain—a real jumble. His daughter had heard him unjustly accused of being unfaithful when he
revered
his wife and had given her no cause to doubt him, ever, not in the last eighteen years! What he'd done with Monica Arens had been done before he spoke his vows, and that was a separate issue from this! But that sin from his past came to rankle and prod him with guilt; after all, he was the one who should be confessing here instead of jumping all over her.

So they lay facing opposite walls, choking on disillusionment and love.

The window on Claire's side of the bed was open a couple of inches. The air felt chilly drifting over Tom's exposed arm, but he lay motionless, damned if he'd move so much as one muscle. He didn't understand this compulsion to lie absolutely still, but it was there.
Don't let her know you're
awake. Don't risk moving and touching her. It doesn't matter that she's hurting as badly as you, just let her lie back there miserable for a while, like she's made you miserable
.

She blew her nose, and he thought,
Go ahead and cry! Why should I try to make you feel better when you hurt me this way?
Through several walls he heard the bathroom faucet running and supposed it was Chelsea, troubled and unable to sleep, beleaguered by the unnecessary trauma foisted upon her by this regrettable episode.
All right, I was the one doing the shouting, but damn it, what man wouldn't?

Behind him Claire shifted her feet so furtively he could tell she, too, suffered from the bizarre compulsion to lie motionless. Inexplicable and stupid, but there you had it—lovers who fought did inexplicable and stupid things.

His body started retaliating in insidious ways. He shifted one arm as furtively as she, sliding the back of his hand slowly along the cool pillow until he could pinch the bridge of his nose, which was stinging, deep inside.

How could she read me so wrong? How could she mistake how much I love her? Can't she tell?

A single hot tear leaked from his left eye onto the pillowcase and made a wet spot that quickly turned from warm to cold.

She twitched once, and he realized she was at last falling asleep. What would he say to her in the morning? Would this constricted feeling be gone from his chest by then? Her eyes would be swollen and she hated that, hated going out in public after she'd been crying.

They'd fought relatively few times in their lives. During those periods of forced abstinence during and after her pregnancies, they'd had the usual spats like most married couples. The worst fight they'd ever had was over a teacher at school, Karen Winstead, who'd flirted with him during the year
after her divorce. “I don't want that woman in your office!” Claire had shouted, and he'd said there was no way to keep her out—after all, teachers had to speak to principals about all sorts of things. The whole situation had been exacerbated by his bringing up John Handelman from her department who liked to come to her room and chitchat between classes, and in the end they'd had this drag-out fight spawned by jealousy.

Her eyes had been swollen that time, too.

 

In the middle of the night he awakened, roused suddenly by the absolute certainty that she was awake behind him. She hadn't moved or spoken, yet he knew her eyes were open, too. After eighteen years of sleeping with her, he knew.

In his sleep he had burrowed under the blankets, and beneath them his heart seemed to be rocking him from side to side with each beat in that magnified midnight way that sometimes happens. He opened only his eyes. Nothing more.

But she knew, too.

They lay back-to-back with their skins tuned to the nearness of each other, their aloneness and aloofness a continuing misery.

After minutes, she finally broke down and moved.

“Tom?” she whispered, and touched him on the back.

He rolled like a cask falling from a wagon, over his own arm to face and clutch her to his empty body, which seemed suddenly to fill from the heart outward.

“Claire . . . oh, Claire,” he whispered, clasping her, loving her, sick with sorrow for having been cold and shutting her out, for accusing her when his own guilt was the primary cause of their trouble right now.

“I'm sorry. Oh God, I love you so,” she sobbed.

“I love you, too, and I'm sorry, too.”

Their limbs, for all the applied pressure, felt inadequate in the face of these emotions. They simply could not hold each other tightly enough.

“I know that . . . I know that . . . please forgive me. I can't”—a sob broke forth and rent her words in half—“can't bear sl . . . sleeping beside you and knowing I hurt you . . . I don't know how to do anyth . . . thing without you.”

He kissed her again, cutting off her plea until she had to fight for breath. She tore her mouth free and he heard her soft panting beside his ear as her hands plunged into his waistband to grip him from behind. Moments later she was naked from the waist down and he was driving into her, her heels and calves gripping him from behind, forming a heart around his hips. And all that had forged them for eighteen years forged them once again: the vows they had spoken on their wedding day, the disagreements of the past and of earlier tonight, the infrequent jealousy that reminded them of how much they truly loved each other, the love they shared for their children and the wish that their son and daughter could know the very best of life and most certainly that they'd never suffer on their parents' behalf. They had worked hard at their marriage, their careers, their parenting. They had come to respect and love each other for all these reasons and more, and when their union had been threatened they had both known fear.

Fear fled now, chased away by this act that was so much more than sex. It was apology, renewal, and promise.

When it was over and they rested quietly in each other's arms, Claire reached up and touched Tom's cheek.

“Don't ever leave me,” she whispered.

“Why would I leave you?”

“I don't know.” Some faint pressure of her hand warned
him her fear was genuine. “I don't know. Just promise you won't.”

“I promise I won't leave you, ever.” Sometimes she said these things out of the blue, and he had no idea where her insecurities came from. He rested a hand on her hair and stroked her cheek with a thumb.

“Claire, why do you say those things?”

“I don't know. Maybe because I know you had to marry me. That never seems to go away.”

“I married you because I wanted to.”

“I know that, really, but deep inside . . . oh, I don't know, Tom.” She had never been able to make him understand, the way Ruth understood, the legacy of insecurity left by that premarital pregnancy. Once, years ago, he had told her that it hurt him to know she felt this way, and they'd had a bit of a fight about it. She didn't want that to come between them tonight. “Tom, I'm so tired . . . let's not talk about it anymore.”

They didn't. They turned on their left sides and matched their curves like two strips of ribbon. He cupped her breast. They sighed. She looped an elbow back over his hip. And snuggled so, they slept.

A
T
6:45 Friday night, four days into the school year, the locker room at HHH sounded like a Boy Scout troop when the hot dogs are served. First home game of the season and all seventy members of the football team were geared up and gunnin'. Voices babbled. Doors clanged. Cleats clattered and shoulder pads clacked. The red and white of jerseys put a pinkish cast in the humid, fluorescent-lit air. Boys straddled varnished benches, stretching their quads, taping their hands. Even a sightless person would have recognized the room by its bouquet—sweat, steam, adhesive tape, and concrete permeated by water that never quite dried.

Robby Gardner slipped his hip pads into his pants and stretched them on. He untangled the elastic cords connecting his shoulder pads and began tying them on, while ten feet away Jeff Morehouse said something to Kent Arens, gave him a mock punch on the shoulder, and the two of them laughed. Robby didn't know what it was about the new kid that bugged him so, but he didn't like his best friend getting too chummy with Arens. Pizza Lostetter had begun hanging around with him, too, and more than once Robby
had seen his sister, Chelsea, standing by Kent's locker, talking to him.

Coach Gorman came out of his office carrying a clipboard, dressed in navy trousers, a red-and-white zippered jacket, and a red cap with
HHH
above the bill. He gave a short bleat on his whistle and bellowed, “Okay, everybody, listen up!” Squat as a garbage can, he stood with his feet widespread and the edge of his clipboard denting his groin. “First home game of the season and we want to set a standard for ourselves tonight. You've all worked hard, but you're going to work a lot harder before this season is over, starting with tonight. Blaine is our toughest opponent and always has been. We're going to need a smart offense and a hair-trigger defense to beat them. You've all been wondering who's going to do the job, who'll play, so I'm not going to keep you in suspense any longer. Here's the starting roster for tonight.

“Gardner, quarterback; Baumgartner, left halfback; Pinowski, left fullback . . .” As he read the names some shoulders sagged and some squared but the room remained quiet. “Arens, running back,” he read, and Robby's eyes cut over to Jeff Morehouse, who'd played that position last year on junior varsity and had hoped to be there this year on first string. Robby thought,
Read Jeff's name! Read it!
But when the roster was finished, Jeff's name wasn't on it. It was hard for Robby to imagine handing off to anybody else when he backed away from center for a running play. He'd been handing off to Jeff since the two had played in peewee leagues in third grade.

The coach finished reading the starting lineup and went into his pre-game spiel, reminding everybody of their assignments, based on the coach's scouting report for the opposing team: a repeat of everything they'd been hearing at
practice all week long. Robby's eyes skewered Arens, who stood as if at parade rest, scarcely blinking during the four minutes the coach spoke. Even his ability to zero in and fix his attention so totally irritated Robby.

“. . . so go out there and show 'em who's the better team!”

Robby came out of his absorption to discover Coach Gorman's speech was finished. He grabbed his helmet and trotted out onto the field with the others, frowning at the back of Kent Arens, who jogged a few paces ahead.

The stands were already filling and the cheerleaders began stirring up applause as the team appeared. The band broke into the school song and the familiar march pulsed across the evening air. Robby caught a glimpse of Chelsea, cheering with the others, half-turning when Arens trotted past behind her. “Hey, Robby! Go, bro!” she yelled when he ran past, breaking out of the school song for a few beats, then falling into routine again.

For as long as he could remember, Robby Gardner had anticipated this time of his life. Senior year, a mild autumn night, soft grass giving beneath his cleats, the tubas making a
pop-pop-pop
against his ears as he ran past them, school colors flashing everywhere, his last high school season ahead with himself as quarterback, and his body resilient and ready for the challenge. Even Chelsea out there cheering. Yeah, that was right, too. But what had just taken place in the locker room took the edge off his total satisfaction. What must Jeff be feeling, benched in his senior year by some Texan who swaggers in, tosses out a couple of
yes, sirs
, and makes first string?

Jeff pulled up off Robby's right shoulder and they jogged side by side.

Robby said, “Jeez, man, what a bummer.”

“Yeah, well, what can I say. The coach calls the shots.”

“Yeah, but I think he's wrong this time.”

“Better not let him hear you say that or he'll have the team doing twenty-twenties.” Twenty-twenties were a grueling punishment no member of the squad wanted to foist upon his teammates.

They reached the fifty-yard line, and as captain of the offensive team, Robby ordered, “Spread out for warm-ups! Let's go!” He marshaled his forces, then led them through a vigorous round of calisthenics and stretches.

“Partner up!” he hollered, and the guys doubled up for leg stretches. “Hey, Arens, over here!”

Kent Arens came over and the air seemed to crackle with Robby's hostility as, without warning, he swung his foot up for a ballerina-style stretch. Kent caught it and held it by the heel while Robby bent forward at the waist until his forehead touched his knee. He took his time, stretching first his right leg, then his left. When he was finished, they reversed roles. Looking down on Arens's head, Robby felt his enmity freshen.

“So what's up between you and my sister?”

Arens straightened and answered, “Nothing.”

“I see you in the halls together.”

“Yeah, she's a nice kid.”

“So what's up then? I mean, you asking her out or something?”

Arens changed feet, swung up the opposite heel. “Any objections if I did?”

“Can't think of any. I mean, it's none of my business . . . long as you treat her decently, right?”

Arens dropped his foot and stood loosely with his hands at his sides.

“What's eating you, Gardner?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure? So I'm new here, and maybe I bumped one of your friends out of a starting position, but you and I have to play together, and if you've got a problem with that, I think we ought to talk it out.”

“No,” Robby replied with false aplomb. “No problem at all.”

But when he began warming up his arm, he threw the ball at Arens with as much ferocity as he could muster, hitting him in the numbers again and again, unable to make him grunt, retreat, or drop the ball.

Finally Arens threw it back with equal ferocity, catching Robby off guard. As he stepped back to catch his balance, the ball bounced to the grass. “What's with you anyway, Gardner?” Arens yelled. “Why don't you save it for Blaine, man?”

In the last-minute huddle, Coach Gorman said, “Okay, two players to watch. Number thirty-three on offense: Jordahl. Those of you in track know what he can do. He can run the forty in four-seven, so outside linemen, keep him contained. On defense, it's number forty-eight, Wayerson. He's six-foot-five with a reach like King Kong, and he knows how to knock down a pass. Linemen, don't let him get to the ball, y' got that? Those are the two we have to stop to win this game. Don't forget it! Okay, get your hits and play ball!”

They stacked hands, gave a whoop and a holler, and broke huddle.

Three minutes into the first quarter the coach called for a fake veer, curl option play, and Kent curled out, caught the option pass, and ran it into the end zone for six points.

The spectators went wild. The band broke into the school song. The cheerleaders started bouncing. The offensive
team rushed Arens and butted his helmet. “Yyyyyesss!” they shouted with fists raised. “Yes, yes, yes!”

Robby Gardner said nothing. He held the football for the point after, then sprinted to the sideline and removed his helmet without a word of congratulations to his running back. He watched seven points go up on the scoreboard and stood beside Jeff Morehouse, feeling a resentment that no good team man ought to be feeling at such a moment.

Arens scored again in the third quarter, on a leaping dive play that carried him into the end zone headfirst over the backs of his linemen.

And in the final quarter he threw the block that opened up a hole for a quarterback sneak, allowing Gardner to score a TD that broke a seventeen-all tie and won the game for the
HHH
Senators.

On the way off the field, jogging beside Kent, Robby realized his teammates were jogging all around them, and said expressionlessly, “Nice goin', Arens.”

“Thanks,” Arens said with as little enthusiasm as the compliment offered. Neither of them cast so much as a sideward glance at the other during the exchange.

 

When the locker room was nearly empty, Coach Gorman approached Robby's locker and said, “Gardner, I want to see you in my office when you're dressed.”

Robby glanced over his shoulder. “Sure, Coach.” He snapped his letter jacket, stuffed his dirty jerseys into a drawstring bag, and closed his locker door. “Hey, Jeff!” he called. “Be out in a minute. Gotta talk to the coach! Here's my keys.” He tossed his car keys. “If you see Brenda, ask her if she wants to go to McDonald's with us, okay?”

The coach was sitting in a battered desk chair, leaning back at a ten o'clock angle while reading his clipboard. “Shut
the door,” he said, rocking forward and clattering the board onto his desk.

Robby shut the door.

“Sit.”

Robby sat.

The coach let silence work its wiles for passing seconds while Robby leaned forward, his elbows spread on the chair arms, his fingers loosely linked. “So . . .” Coach Gorman finally blatted out. “Got something you want to talk about?”

Robby tipped his thumbs toward his chest. His eyebrows rose. “Me?”

“Something was going on out there on that field tonight. Mind telling me what it was?”

Robby's face went blank. His voice was blithe with feigned innocence. “We played a good game, Coach! We won!”

The coach picked up a pencil and let it fall onto the clipboard. “Come on, Gardner, you're not fooling me. You've been nursing some grudge ever since I let Arens on the team. Tonight it was obvious that you were playing with something else on your mind.”

“But we won!”

“This isn't about winning, Gardner, and you know it! This is about being part of a team and working as a team and always striving for what's best for that team.”

“Yeah?” Gardner's inflection said,
I know that, so why are you preaching?

“So what's between you and Arens?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Robby, give me some credit here. I'm your coach. When the unity of my team is threatened, I want to know why. Couldn't be that you resent Arens acing out your good buddy Morehouse, could it?”

Robby sucked his lips against his teeth and stared at a golf ball bookend on the coach's desk.

“That's it, isn't it? That and the fact that the rest of you sweated through hell week and Arens didn't have to.”

“Excuse me, Coach, but Jeff worked hard to make first string.”

Gorman bellowed, “
I'm
the coach here!
I
decide who'll play and who won't play, and I do it based on who'll make the team perform at optimum. You, on the other hand, seem to have forgotten that when you stop being a team player, it's the team that suffers. Where were the congrats and high-fives when Arens made his first touchdown tonight? And his second?”

Robby dropped his chin and aligned his thumbnails.

The coach took on a confidential tone and doubled forward, crossing his forearms on the desktop. “It's not like you, Gardner. And Arens is good. He's darned good. Everybody's been playing better since he's been here, and tonight when he threw the crucial block that put you into the end zone, I expected you to do some celebrating with him.”

Robby mumbled, “Sorry, Coach.”

Gorman sat back and threw an ankle over a knee. “If there's personal stuff between you, don't bring it on the field. You're too good a player to forget a rule like that, and too good a quarterback to wind up benched. Don't test me, Robby, because I'll do what's best for the team every time, okay?”

Robby nodded.

Gorman flapped a hand toward the door. “All right then, you're outta here. Have a nice weekend and see you Monday at practice.”

Robby had been playing football since he was so young his head barely filled a helmet. Never, in all those years, had
he been called on the carpet this way by his coach. Along with his team, yes. But alone? Never.

Leaving the coach's office, he felt more antagonistic than ever toward Arens.

 

In the girls' locker room after the game, Erin Gallagher stripped off her red sweater and said, “I'd give anything if Kent Arens would ask me out!”

Chelsea said, “Not cool, Erin. What about Rick?”

“Rick isn't on the football team. And besides, he's so bossy!”

“But Erin”—Chelsea lowered her voice—“how can you say that when you and Rick . . .” She stirred the air with one hand and whispered, “. . . you know.”

“Rick and I had a fight after school today.”

“About what?”

“About Kent. He saw me talking to him in the hall after fifth period. Chelsea, I think Kent's starting to like me. You're his friend. Would you give him the hint that I think he's really studly and that I'd go out with him if he asked me to?”

“Studly? Erin, how can I say a thing like that to him? I'd die of embarrassment.”

“Well, you know what I mean. Just drop the hint.”