The Long Wait for Tomorrow (23 page)

There it was, another nice little disaster.

“To erase this message, press nine. To save, press seven. To replay—”

A high-pitched scream found its way from downstairs and under the door.

Patrick was almost sure that message wouldn’t need re-playing.

First, there was the matter of the bottles outside.

Kelly’s parents walking around the back, wheeling their black rectangular carry-ons behind them. Maybe even getting past the steps, halfway across the deck before coming to a full stop. Unprepared to find the green iron-mesh table converted into a wet bar. Taking in the exodus of their entire liquor cabinet. Caps and corks lying on the ground like spent ammunition; a couple of bottles lying on their sides, passed out as though they’d had a bit too much of themselves.

Patrick missed all of that, still checking Kelly’s messages at that point.

When the scream hit, he tossed the cell phone back in the laundry basket. Slammed the cover back on, an automatic attempt to undo what was about to happen. Patrick was out of the bathroom and down the stairs in three seconds flat, bursting into the kitchen to find Kelly’s mother rooted to the spot. Trembling in her tan-colored power suit. Hands pressed against her face, horrified scream still frozen on glossy lips as she stared across the kitchen. Past the second set of kitchen doors, through which the remains of their once-great collection of crystalware lay shattered across the decimated cabinet, table, and coffee-stained rug.

From down in the den, Patrick could hear an argument in full swing, the booming voice of Kelly’s father, repeating demands for an explanation without breath or pause.

Kelly’s mother let out a wounded squeak, just getting warmed up herself.

Patrick smelled the usual cocktail of beer and white wine on her breath.

“Mrs. McDermott, just to let you know,
that
was entirely my fault,” he began. His words came out fast and measured, without the slightest thought as to whether there was anything that could save them now. “Kelly was making some coffee and he offered me some. I overreacted, I guess, and I slapped it out of his hands, a little hard, I guess, and it just went …” Patrick held out his arms stiffly in the direction of the dining room, an artist unveiling his worst piece of work to date.

With a few choking exhales, Kelly’s mother found her voice. “And you’ve been
drinking
!”

Patrick remembered the table of debauchery and prepared to launch ahead with another explanation. He didn’t get beyond the words
We were just
when Kelly’s father barked from the other room, demanding that Kelly’s mother get in there
right now!

“Kelly, what is going
on
?!” she cried out, stalking toward the den.

Patrick saw her descend the steps. A despairing knot wrapped itself around Patrick’s stomach, pulled him against his will toward the sound of hollered accusations. He was already certain of what would be waiting there.

What he found instead was Kelly’s father, inexplicably on the defensive. An older version of Kelly McDermott in a pinstripe suit. Hands on his hips, unable to comprehend how he had ended up in this position.

“You’re saying this is
our fault
?”

“Who cares about
this
?” Kelly spat out. His eyes were wide, torturous. The veins in his neck bulged, his whole body straining against itself. If the couch and glass coffee table weren’t between him and his parents, it would be disturbingly easy to imagine him marching across the room and strangling them both.

Jenna stood to one side, forgotten in the chaos of the moment.

“Kelly!” his mother cried out. “That’s our family’s crystal! Your grandfather got those—”

“You think I care about your plates and goddamn
cups
?”
Kelly shouted, vocal cords scraping against each other. “You left me! You just disappeared! Leaving me on my own like that, you don’t get to tell me
anything!
Call yourself parents! You just
left
me! You left me there, sitting there waiting for years without a single call, waiting for you to come
visit
me in that goddamn prison!”

It wasn’t until Patrick heard the word
visit
that he understood.

This wasn’t about what was or what had been.

Kelly was railing about things to come. Stuck in that institution, locked away behind the white walls of an unnamed crazy house. Left to wonder what had become of the only two people with an unwritten duty to take care of their own. An abandonment so unimaginable that his parents hadn’t even begun to contemplate what they would someday be capable of.

And Patrick couldn’t bring himself to stop the accusations.

It didn’t matter that it was impossible. That to allow this diatribe to continue was a tacit acceptance of all that Kelly believed to be happening. Every word was pure merit. The unspoken facts of Kelly’s present life, a flawlessly decorated reflection of Patrick’s own existence.

And so Patrick welcomed, gladly welcomed Kelly’s madness, reveled in watching Kelly’s parents draw close to each other in a terrified embrace.

“Kelly,” his mother begged. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ll find out,” Kelly said, picking up his helmet from the fireplace and tucking it under his arm. “You know where the drinks are. Go help yourself.”

He stormed out, past Patrick and out the back door.

Jenna was hot on his heels, and Patrick didn’t bother dwelling on the McDermotts’ inarticulate faces. He snatched up Kelly’s gym bag and ran out to the car. Found Kelly starting it up, Jenna in the passenger’s seat, waiting for him to join the fun.

“We’ve still got a deal,” Kelly told him. “But just a warning, Patrick. I don’t even know if I remember how to play this goddamn game.”

“Just do your best,” Patrick said, revolted at how meaningless it sounded.

He jumped in the backseat, wondering how Kelly would ever bring himself to come back to that house. Shoving the thought aside, he buckled his safety belt. If there was still such a thing as later, he’d worry about it then.

Time being, there was the game to worry about.

t was quite a night for Wellspring Academy.

The stands were packed, brimming with spectators. Not just those from Wilson, a whole contingent of people had appeared just to see the state finals. Local news crews dotted the sidelines, along with CNN, ESPN, and MSN affiliates.

The school marching band was playing at full blast, cheerleaders for either side kicking their legs up and somersaulting their way into people’s fantasies. The time was drawing near, and Redwood had gathered the team together for a last-minute motivational tirade. Even Patrick, the team’s unofficial, glorified gofer, was allowed to sit in on the prelude to blood, sweat, and tears.

“Starting now, we forget everything that’s led up to this!” Redwood barked. “I don’t care whether it was the blowout in Charlotte last week, or the game that got called for lightning last
year.
I certainly don’t give a shit about any of your goddamn personal conflicts, even if they happened THIS AFTERNOON!” Redwood’s face ballooned into a red ball of pure, ambitious wrath. “Everything has been leading up to this, and as of this moment, none of it matters anymore! None of it happened as far as I’m concerned! I am calling for each and every one of you to say to yourself. I DO NOT MATTER! WHERE
I’VE BEEN DOESN’T MATTER. All that matters is the
game.
Nothing matters, except the
game
!”

As Redwood continued to talk, Patrick felt an unpleasant taste rising in his chest. More of a potent sensation, like fire water. Clear, toxic liquid that couldn’t be tasted. It could only be felt as it scorched the back of Patrick’s throat. Spread to his thoughts, turning them poisonous.

Once you’ve gone too far, once the world is no longer the one it was yesterday-
Patrick’s angels reflected on what Bill had told him that afternoon—
it’s very hard to go back.

“Nothing matters, except the game!” Redwood repeated.

He’d heard it so many times, and never once believed it. Just accepted it, only now acceptance wasn’t enough. Patrick found that he could barely tolerate it. Redwood’s words weren’t pep, weren’t simple cuts of overused inspiration. They had become gospel. The word of God, coursing through the mind of every last player in the huddle, wet on the waiting lips of a packed stadium. The game was all that mattered. Sportsmanship, teamwork, the noble tradition, none of it would be enough to replace the hysterical need for a
win.

The shills for Wellspring Academy began to belt out their fight song:

“FIGHT, FIGHT, OUTTA SIGHT! KILL, PANTHERS, KILL!”

Patrick looked up into the stands, a swelling tide of faces, squirming larvae.

And right at the fifty-yard line, just a few seats up from center stage, were Patrick’s parents. Dressed in school colors,
wearing football jerseys the school sold along with bumper stickers sporting peace signs and selected quotes from MLK and Mahatma Gandhi. Grinning in anticipation, waiting for their substitute progeny to carry Wellspring Academy into the big time.

And Kelly’s parents were nowhere to be seen.

In a single fluttering motion, everyone stood up and placed their right hand over their chest.

Patrick turned back to the huddle, only to find it had broken up. All team members side by side along the out-of-bounds line. Redwood standing at the end, face solemn as the crowd grew quiet. From far down the field, over by the south post, the marching band’s conductor brandished his baton.

Drums rumbled, preparing the band for the first bars of the national anthem.

Patrick positioned himself directly behind Kelly and Cody as everyone began to sing.

Oh, say can you see …

Patrick saw Cody turn, ever so slightly, toward Kelly.

“You’re not going to fuck this up, Kelly,” Cody told him, lips barely moving. Barely sounding, just loud enough for Patrick to hear. “This ain’t your house anymore. This ain’t your game, this is mine. Don’t make me take it from you. You hear me, Kelly? Don’t make me take it. Don’t make me do this, I’ll take your little girlfriend for myself. Make her
know
she ain’t yours anymore, Kelly.”

Patrick glanced down and saw Kelly’s finger tapping against his own thigh.

Getting through it all by simply tolerating it.

“This is stupid, Kelly,” Patrick said, words overlapping Cody’s repugnant taunts. He could barely hear his own voice over the off-key lyrics saluting Old Glory. Filling his lungs with a bit more ammunition, he began to repeat it over and over, voice rising: “This is stupid, Kelly. This is stupid, Kelly. This is stupid, Kelly. This is
stupid, Kelly
!”

Cody whirled around, hand still stitched to his heart. “Shut your hole, Patrick!”

Kelly turned on Cody, eyes livid. “Don’t talk to him like that.”

Before Cody could retaliate, Patrick simply repeated it one last time. “Kelly … this is stupid.”

Kelly gave him a questioning look, a reminder that this had been
Patrick’s
idea.

Patrick simply nodded.

Kelly winked, and without so much as kissing Cody goodbye, he broke ranks.

Tossing the playbook aside, Patrick followed.

Though not immediately apparent, a gradual fold had taken place in the texture of the crowd. Barely noticeable murmurs spreading through the anthem like a virus, the sounds of a radio dial trapped between stations. Catching the ears of news crews; cameras like compass needles, tilting toward the two boys marching along the field with confounding strides.

Kelly stalked up to Jenna, standing at attention alongside her own brigade of gingerbread models.

Her chest hiccupped once, unprepared to see Kelly and Patrick before her.

“I was wrong,” Kelly admitted against the final strands of music. “You were right. Patrick and I are getting out of here. And you’re invited because you belong with us.”

Sensing that their days on that field were numbered, Kelly and Patrick moved on. Heading for the exit as
the land of the brave
was overtaken by a full stadium rhubarb of bewildered sports fans. They passed through a split between the bleachers, stadium lights at their back. Falling into shadow as their number grew to three.