Pop (15 page)

Somewhere in the corner of his mind was the vague feeling that this was going to be a satisfying, revenge-drenched sack. But that was secondary to his football player's intense singleness of purpose—to make the play.

His eyes locked on Troy. The guy was a sitting duck—no scrambling, no evasive action, a deer in headlights. He was just standing there, waiting to get creamed. And the look on his face—pure terror.

Coach Barker blew the whistle so hard that hands flew to ears to muffle the painful sound. The effort of pulling up practically imposed g-force on Marcus. But he couldn't hit the guy. He just couldn't.

After practice, in the locker room, Marcus was stepping out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his midsection, when he found himself bare toe to bare toe with Troy, similarly attired.

Coming upon one's adversary armed only with a few square feet of terry cloth had a
High Noon
feel to it. Their dislike for each other was magnified by the fact that there was nothing but white tile and porcelain to distract them.

For Marcus, the moment was doubly uncomfortable. Any Popovich was a reminder that he still hadn't amassed the courage to tell Officer Deluca about Charlie. He knew he had to, though, especially now that he had Mac to back him up. It was inevitable—the sooner the better, before Charlie did something else and left Marcus to take the rap again.

Yet standing there in the locker room, Marcus was amazed to feel genuine sympathy. The sack-that-never-was had taken the edge off Troy. It was tough to hate the titan you'd just seen cowering like a helpless child. Minus godhood, Troy wasn't the enemy. He was just an ordinary jerk—one who deserved a little slack because something pretty damn awful was happening to his father.

With effort, Marcus found something civil to say. “I heard about your dad's honor. Great news.”

Troy's eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“The hall of fame.”

The quarterback shook his head. “You're some sick bastard to make fun of my father. Considering what you know—which is
none of your business
—”

“The one at his old college,” Marcus interrupted, flustered. “East Bonaventure.”

“What have I ever done to you?” Troy demanded icily. “My father, my girlfriend, my team. Even my sister—you're like her new hero for dragging him home from the park! Why don't you get your own life and stay out of mine?”

Marcus was shocked speechless as Troy stalked away. It wasn't the hostility that surprised him. It was the fact that Troy seemed so totally blindsided by his father's upcoming honor. How could he not know? Was it possible that Troy was so affected by his father's illness that the family wouldn't even discuss Charlie with his own son? How would they explain it to Troy when they took Charlie to EBU homecoming for the induction ceremony?

Then another thought occurred to him. An awful thought.

Marcus found Chelsea at her locker before school the next day.

She was now the friendlier of the Popovich children, which was to say that she no longer reacted like a pit viper every time she saw him. Still, she was wary as he approached, greeting him with a quiet “Hey.”

“Hi, Chelsea. Listen, I have a question for you, but you've got to promise not to bite my head off.”

She regarded him dubiously. “Okay.”

He took a deep breath. “Does your dad read his own mail?”

She bristled. “You know, Troy says you have an unnatural obsession with our family, and maybe he's not wrong.”

Marcus stood his ground. “I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.”

“He passed second grade a long time ago. Yes, he knows how to read. If you have a point, please make it, because you're starting to get on my nerves.”

“Charlie is being inducted into East Bonaventure's sports hall of fame in two weeks.”

She was impatient. “No, he isn't! Don't you think his own family would know if—” She stopped short when the significance of his original question dawned on her. Was it possible that Charlie had received the letter and forgotten about it? Or hadn't understood it in the first place?

Her face seemed to crumple, and he spoke up quickly. “Hey, this is
good
news! You should be happy your dad's getting the recognition he deserves.”

It did nothing to reassure her. Marcus could read the fear in her eyes. These days the family's central preoccupation was keeping on top of Charlie's unpredictable behavior. Just when they thought they were in control, here was something important that they had no idea about. It had to be pretty scary.

Aloud, she said, “How come we're always learning about Dad from you?”

Marcus shrugged evasively. “I heard it from another EBU alum. This guy's all excited to see your dad get honored.” He could almost taste her mistrust. “I promise I'm not stalking you guys. I just wanted to make sure you knew about it. It's a great thing for Charlie.”

Elizabeth Popovich sat at the computer, her son and daughter peering over her shoulders at the East Bonaventure University website.

“It's true! They're inducting your father and the Rogers sisters into the hall of fame!”

Troy scowled. “Who are the Rogers sisters?”

“A synchronized swim team,” Chelsea supplied. “It says they won the Olympic silver medal back in 'eighty-eight.”

“Dad's in real good company,” her brother sneered.

“Never mind that!” Mrs. Popovich snapped. “How could we not know about this?”

Chelsea couldn't restrain herself. “I hope you're kidding, Mom! I can't believe that after all we've been through with Daddy, you don't know the answer to that question!”

“I've been to all the doctors' appointments!” her mother exclaimed. “I've read enough about Alzheimer's disease to earn a PhD. But my husband of more than twenty years would
not
forget something like this.”

“He didn't forget,” Troy said bitterly. “To forget something, first you have to have a clue about it.”

Chelsea looked daggers at her brother. “This is our father you're talking about.”

“No, it isn't,” he muttered. “It hasn't been him for a long time.”

“Could it be the school's fault?” Mrs. Popovich mused. “They could have misplaced the letter. Or the post office…”

“Dream on, Mom,” said Troy. “Who knows what he's doing with his mail. Probably eating it.”

“He reads!” Mrs. Popovich shot back hotly.

Chelsea shook her head. “He does things out of habit. Maybe he's just looking at pages.”

Her mother stood up. “We need to find that letter. Where does Dad keep his mail?”

The five-bedroom house had a spare room that Charlie used as a study. There were a desk, a leather chair, and bookshelves, all in pristine condition.

“See?” Mrs. Popovich's enthusiasm was forced. “Look how tidy he is. Is this the office of a person with a disorganized mind?”

Chelsea patted the chair cushion, and a small puff of dust rose. “No, it's the office of someone who doesn't come anywhere near his office.”

There was no mail of any kind on the desktop. A search of the drawer revealed eight broken pencils and a desiccated sandwich with a slice of what had been turkey covered in greenish fuzz.

Mrs. Popovich was horrified. “I think that's from last Thanksgiving!”

“That's from the
first
Thanksgiving,” Troy amended sourly.

Chelsea tried to stay focused. “Okay, so he doesn't come here. Where
does
he go?”

“Do I look like his travel agent?” mumbled Troy.

“You know what I mean. He sits on the porch. He putters around the garage. If we can figure out the place, we can search for the mail.”

“It has to be the porch,” Mrs. Popovich decided. “I sort through the mail, hand him his, and he goes out front to read it.”

Troy got a strange look on his face. “The glider track on the porch swing has been sticking since the summer....”

The three rushed out the door and approached the swing like it was booby-trapped. Chelsea got down on her knees, pressed the seat back, and reached into the housing of the glider track. When she withdrew her hand, she was clutching a fistful of mangled envelopes.

“It feels like there's a ton of it back there,” she reported.

Mrs. Popovich began to sob.

“Ease up, Mom,” Troy said gruffly. “This is nothing new.”

“It's just … so hard … to know for sure when the little slips and forgetful episodes really add up to something more serious.”

“You know when the doctors tell you,” Chelsea replied gently. “When there are so many slips that they all blend together—”

“And when your porch swing is full of mail,” Troy added.

Mrs. Popovich nodded, ashamed. She had once been queen of real estate in this town. Now she needed her son and daughter just to force her to see reality.

Chelsea was trying to smooth out crumpled dirty papers. “Oh—this one's from last April,” she groaned. “How are we going to reach the stuff that's crushed at the bottom?”

Troy headed for the garage. “I'll get a tire iron. Maybe we'll find my letter from Santa in there.”

Soon they had the glider track pried open. An amazing sight met their eyes. The box was crammed full of mail in various stages of shredding and decomposition. Some pieces were little more than pulp, mashed by the moisture in the air and the to-and-fro of the mechanism.

They began to sort through the envelopes, working in silence. The image of what had happened was clear to all of them—Charlie opening his mail, skimming the contents, then getting distracted and stuffing the letters under his seat to look at later. But later never came, and instead the mail was ground into the track by the motion of the swing.

At length, they found the envelope that bore the EBU logo, postmarked June 29.

“He knew about it,” Mrs. Popovich breathed.

“He knows nothing,” Troy said firmly.

“But the letter was opened.”

“Even if he read it twenty times, he knows nothing about it now.”

“Troy's right, Mom,” Chelsea agreed in a small voice. “What are we going to do?”

Troy shrugged. “We'll go through all this mail to make sure he didn't throw out anything else important. We'll try to fix the swing—” He stopped and stared at his sister. “You mean the
ceremony
? What good would it do to take him there?”

“It's Dad's honor,” Mrs. Popovich reminded her son. “He's earned it.”

Troy was appalled. “You want to honor Dad? Let him keep his dignity instead of parading him in front of all those people so they can see exactly what he's turned into!”

Chelsea was angry. “You don't care about his dignity! You just don't want him to embarrass the Great Troy Popovich!”

“If he goes to this thing,” Troy said tersely, “do you honestly think he'll understand word one of what's happening to him? Of course not! All we'd be doing is sticking him in a car for two hours, confusing the hell out of him, and sticking him back in the car for the return drive.”

“Is that what you really think?” Chelsea challenged. “Or is it just because the date clashes with the Poughkeepsie West game?”

“If you don't trust what I think, why don't you ask your
boyfriend
?” Troy challenged. “Since he knows Dad so much better than any of us do!”

“Well, Marcus thinks he
should
go. So maybe he
does
know Daddy better.”

Mrs. Popovich seemed torn. “I look in his eyes and I still see the man I married. Maybe I just want it too much…”

Troy put an arm around his mother's shoulders. “You think I wouldn't give anything to have the old Dad back?”

“They'll send a plaque, right?” she mused sadly. “He'll like that. That'll be a pretty big honor.”

Chelsea nodded, eyes moist. “Yeah.”

There were footsteps on the front walk, and Charlie leaped athletically onto the porch. “Hi, guys. Hey—who broke the whatchamacallit?”