The Moves Make the Man (14 page)

Oh, I said.

Don't you see it yet? he said, looking at me.

See what? No, I guess I don't.

You must not have listened. I said, I stay at Maysie's all weekend. I don't see my stepfather until Sunday night, when he comes to get me. To drive back to Wilmington.

Well, so? You said he spends all day at the hospital….

Right! Right. HE spends all day at the hospital. My MOTHER spends all day at the hospital. But who do you think NEVER spends any time at the hospital?

I stared at him. You don't mean you never—

He smirked and shook his head.

You have not seen her?

He won't take me.

You have not seen your mother in that many months?

You got it.

But, I mean, man, she is your momma!

Tell me about it.

I mean, you can't keep a dude away from his momma! It must be illegal or something, Bix. Who is he to say you can't see her, not even your daddy! She might need you, she might really want to see you and he, unless—

I stopped dead and looked at Bix. But he had already thought of it and passed it off very cool.

Unless she told him she doesn't want to see me. But it's not like that. She likes me a lot. She wants to see me, you can bank on that. No, it's him. He admits it's his decision. He says she has never ASKED to see me, but, hey, who knows what she can ask for there? Maybe she can't even TALK, man, all buzzed up with electric bullshit. She wants me, though. She always wants me, I know it.

He started walking around a little and I kind of tagged
along, scuffing through the grass. It was getting on toward twilight. There was a nighthawk up high going CREE and he tucked and fell and did that thing as he pulled out, going BRGRGRGR with his wings. It always gives me the creeps. When those things fall they look like they are dead for sure and about to hit so hard they will bust into bones and feathers all over, but then at the last second they cup their wings up and catch air BRGRGR and they swoop out of it and back up. I asked Momma once and she said it was either to catch bugs or to show off to the girl nighthawks.

Bix bent over and picked up the ball in the grass. So, have you guessed yet?

Guessed what? I said.

Guessed about the game. About the bet.

No.

Oh boy, he said, and raised his eyebrows and blew a big breath out, like WHEW, and then turned back onto the court and bounced the ball a little. Then he looked at the basket, too far away, and threw up a jumper but used too much arm and it clanged off to the right.

Oh boy, he said. Boy, I really went and did it this time, Jerome.

What? What, Bix?

I bet him, my stepfather, I could beat him one on one for the right to see my mother.

I laughed. You be jiving me, Braxton Rivers….

No. I did. I got him into a fight about it, on purpose, like always happens every Sunday when I ask how she is and he says Fine and I say If she is so fine why is she still in the hospital and why can't I see her? and so on, we go round and round. This time I wanted to get him really smoked, so I gave him all this stuff about how he was not even really
her real family, and I was, and he had no right to keep us apart and such as that. It worked. He got madder than hell. He almost poked me one, but I made my offer right before he did, right when more than anything in the world he wanted to get me off his back. I said, Okay, let's solve this for once and for all. He said, How the hell do you mean? I said, Okay, I will play you for it, play you a game of your favorite sport, your old sport you were such a whiz at in high school and college, I'll play you a game of basketball and if I win you have to take me to see her, next time we go, and if you win, I will give up, I won't bother you anymore, I won't ask to see her ever again until you decide you want to let me.

And he agreed? He agreed to THAT?

Bix laughed. Whooee, did he ever! He jumped at it. Sure, you are thinking he did not have to. He has nothing to gain, you think. He is already in control. But see, he is all guilty as the devil about keeping me away, and I know it, and I know how to pick at him and make him worse and miserable and yet even then he won't give in but instead wants to clobber me. I think he is just as afraid of what he might do if he got ahold of me as he is about giving in. So he wants this picking over with. Here he gets his chance. It's a sure thing, for him, isn't it? Wasn't he the big star in high school? The snazzy little guard in college? Doesn't his sissy stepson spend all his time playing stupid old baseball, and never touched a basketball in his life? Well, so, he thinks it's a lock. He thinks I am just talking big. But he knows I would stick by my word, so he plans on putting an end to my picking easy as pie.

How does he know you do not play hoops?

When do I have the time? I cook and clean and I am there when he falls asleep in front of that stupid television and I
am there when he wakes up and then I go to bed. On weekends I am stuck in the country with a bunch of fat cousins shooting plastic bazooka guns at coke bottles. And, see, once before, a long time ago just after he married my mother, one night I asked him to pitch some to me so I could get my swing going before Little League tryouts and he refused and so I got mad and called him Fatso. He's not really fat but he thinks he is because he used to be such a nice slender athlete. So he laughed very mean and said he could wrap me around his little finger at any sport I choose except he won't even bother with a girly game like baseball. So I said I would not think so high of myself if all I ever was good at was a dumb sport where you bounce this big ball in short pants fifty years ago, and he got madder and me too and my mother had to keep him from braining me. But the last thing I said was, I would never ever ever play that shitty old game in my life and he better never want me ever to shoot around with him when he got lonesome one day for some fun.

So now he thinks all he has to do is hit ten lay-ups and you are done for.

Right. It will be a breeze for him. He probably won't even practice. He was so happy when I challenged him, but he tried to hide it and act like he thought there was really a contest. Frowned and nodded and said, Well, I'm out of shape, but all right. He was solemn and gracious and he let me set a few of my own terms, nodding and agreeing, Sure, fine Braxton.

What kind of terms? I said.

Well, he let me pick the court.

This one?

Bix nodded. Right here.

When? Did he let you pick when?

Tomorrow night at eight o'clock, Bix said, and looked at me.

Tomorrow night, I said. And just how were you planning on seeing on this court at night?

Well, he said, looking straight at me, not nervous or even being brave, just normal and cool, well I hoped we could use some Spin Light.

You count on a lot. I loan Spin Light to no one.

Oh I didn't want to borrow it, he said. I want you to be there. To be here.

To be at the game? For what? You need yourself a cheerleader?

No, he said, I need myself a friend.

And a light.

And, a referee.

A referee! What you talking about, boy?

You have to do it Jerome! he said, reaching his hands out and getting excited. You have to! I mean, I want you, you know, to be here, to watch. That's mostly it. I want you to see, to see how I can win. But we need a ref too. He's bigger than me and he might try to back in on me like you showed me big men often do, and I want to be able to hold position and get the foul if he—

That's not it, I said. You think you can beat him playing your way, don't you? Your way without fakes.

Well, he said, looking down, sure, I mean…

And you just want me to see you do it, see I am wrong. Man! You got some nerve!

Really, it's the ref thing too. He won't play the fine points, and I need them, I need the game to be pure, I need all the protections I'm entitled to, it's only right I should be allowed to play honest basketball—

He'll kick your ass, you know.

He stopped and stared at me.

He'll put it to you but good and you won't be able to stop him or do squat on offense with all your straight crapola. He will push you all over the—

You told me a small man can beat a big one anytime one on one because of quickness.

Well, I said, I did but I meant—

He is old and tired and though he probably knows what he is doing with the ball, I am young and pure and will leave him in the dust.

Yeah but—

But what? But what, Jerome? Can I hit the twelve-footer? Here he dribbled two steps and popped it up and PISH it went down. See? Can I block his tired old set shots if I choose? Can I race past him like those hawks up there, zip! If we play the game right, and true, will I whip his butt one two three four five six seven eight nine ten?

Probably not, I said. He knows the game and has one big advantage.

What? Bix laughed. What advantage can he possibly have, unless it is cheating on the rules?

He will fake, I said, and you will not.

Bix's face went flat and cold. Oh, he said. That again.

You are quicker, sure, I said. But look, man, you cannot take advantage of that quick unless you use it to fool him. You cannot turn his size into slowness unless you get him moving in the wrong direction and you in the other. You cannot just race by him because he will be big and crafty enough to get position some of the time too, so you will have to give him some head and shoulder, show him a little ball, drop a stutter—

No, he said, shaking his head and looking down as I jumped around, demonstrating the moves I told him. NO! he yelled, NEVER.

WHY? I yelled back. What is this thing you have?

He looked up at me, very high and clean like when he told me he believed when I said I was from Saturn. Because, he said, if ever there was a game that must be won straight, this is it. This is the game for the truth. This is where truth comes up the winner. I can't expect you to understand.

So MAKE me understand, I said, walking after him for he began to walk away, just turning his back on me. So if I am so dumb, tell me! If I am such a badass sinner, save my poor young self from the nasties of the lying life! Come on, Bix, tell me what is it you got to be so high and pure about the truth for. I have put up with your mystery jive for so long, man, I deserve to know or else I am just too sick of your wonderful pureness to stick with you.

I stopped following him. He said nothing, just kept walking away from me into the woods.

One thing for sure, I said. I am too sick of you to come and bring my light and referee any jiveass one-on-one white-boy clean-head basketball game to visit his crazy mother at Duke University College Hospital! Forget it, jack!

He turned around. I thought I made him mad saying that about his mother and I was sorry but also mad. He was not, though. He just looked back and said, If I win I want you to come to Duke with me too.

Hah! I said. I had the ball, and I turned and chucked up a twenty-footer that did not come close, kicking myself hard in the tail with my heels and leaving my wrist snapped down at the end of my arm in the air, like some ultrajigaboo HORSE player on the rampage. I turned back and Bix was still looking at me.

You'll come, won't you? To Durham?

What for do I want to go to Durham, even if you could beat this dude?

He looked at me, very calm and cool, making me feel all hot and raggedy and even madder. He shrugged and said, I need somebody to go with me, Jerome.

What for, Braxton? To keep you on the truth, to make sure you don't tell no lies to your momma?

As soon as I said it I did not know where those words came from to my mouth, and I was sorry I said them and even though Bix did not move I saw they did something to him and I started to say I was truly sorry and did not know why, but it was too late. He looked at me and just turned away and kept walking, leaving me regret those words there in the grass but not half so much as I regret them now. He went and I stewed and the heat was out of me. I knew I was going to come back for the game tomorrow, going to go to Durham even, and what was scary was, I was sure even if I did I would not be able to help that kid anymore.

The next night came and I did not eat much dinner, being a little nervous, which I never am but felt something big and strange moving out there. After dinner I put on all black clothes, having no striped shirt for referees, and got Spin Light and headed for the marshes.

Bix had showed up at my Homeroom that morning before the bell all excited and chattery. He told me he was going to come separate from his stepfather to the court. I guess he wanted it to be like warriors fighting a big duel at some high place.

He said he gave his stepfather directions and told him to find the court on his own, which I thought would have been mean even in daytime but was plain cruel for the night. But Bix liked the idea of the man getting all riled and flustered by losing his way and stepping in marsh glop and getting bit by the skeeters and such things, just before the game. I did not think so highly of this tactic, and even mentioned to Bix that it seemed a little low for a kid supposed to be Mr. Upstanding. He pretended not to hear me, though. He was all fevered up and his eyes were shiny but did not even really
see me while he talked. I knew he was going to be peculiar that night.

I got to the woods early. I kept the lantern covered and planned on watching for them from the woods' edge until both were there and then I would come out. I did not want to be there alone with Bix when his stepfather came because that would look bad like in cahoots and I was not. And I did not want to get there just to be alone with this dude I never met.

So I snuck through the forest in the dark again. I was early and sure thought I would be first, but I was wrong. There was a light near the court, I could see from down the path, and when I got close enough it was one of those big-beam spot flashlights like you take camping. It was propped on a pine cone off to the side of the court so it shone up onto the backboard and basket. While I looked a basketball came flying into the light, banged off the rim and bounced left, where out of the dark came this thick arm to pull it back into the dark part of the court. That's all I saw, just the arm.

Bix's stepfather was out there early to practice. He was out there studying the rolls.

The first thing I thought was Look out Braxton. He had thought this dude would take it easy but he was wrong. While I watched him I saw clear that he had come to play. I was impressed—he comes early through the muck and the bugs and he brings enough light to shoot by and he spends half an hour checking out the roll off the rim and backboard, like any good player will do if he can but most guys never think of it. That is what he was doing, studying the rolls. He was shooting high arcs and low, close and far, off the board and off the rim, soft touch and line drive. I saw him only in cuts at first, as he trotted into the light under the hoop to
get his rebounds and then scooted back out to shoot again. But then after a while he came and stood under the rim to the right and started putting the ball up off the board and in and then up again and again and on like that for many minutes, standing there not leaving his feet, just using the arms and eye to figure out how the ball hit off different spots, for every toss was a little bit different, took a different path, with a little different spin on it or a higher angle or some such. Man, Bix was dead wrong. This guy was not the type whose game got ruined by a few mosquito bites.

He was not particularly mean looking or anything. He had red hair but his forehead was getting high so you did not get as much hair as I usually like on red heads, finding them the most interesting-looking white people as a rule. He was about 351 guess, maybe 40, a little heavy but springy all the same. He wore gray sweat pants that were very dirty, so you had to figure he did some kind of working out regularly, maybe handball which a lot of these old dudes play and it seems to keep them from having heart attacks every day I guess. This guy was probably not in too bad of a shape. He had on a faded loose old purple sweat shirt with a stretched neck hole and the sleeves cut off just below the elbow. It had yellow letters on it, ECTC which is what East Carolina used to be. When I saw the sleeves cut off I thought again, Look out Bix boy, this is no fish but a player who wants his wrists free to pop it. He moved like a player, he thought like a player, he even almost dressed like a player, though wearing crummy sneaks from Sears or someplace, brand-new. At least they were high blacks.

After about half an hour Bix came, just in the shadows on the other side of the court from the flashlight. I suppose he came late hoping I would be there with Spin Light blazing
and we would be all set up for him to make an entrance. But instead he had to sort of clear his throat to announce he had made the scene, there being no spotlight and he did not have any big line ready for that setup. So he said Harrumm or something, and his stepfather turned around and gave a little wave the way one jock will give another anytime anywhere when they show up on the same court, very casual and natural and nice, no big deal, like this was not the creepy crazy game that it was. I was starting to like this guy.

Bix however did not look at the man. Instead he was squinting out into the dark over around the place I was sitting under a hemlock, peering though he could not see, looking for me.

Um, he said, in this uncertain voice, uh, Jerome?

Who? said the man, looking around very sharply. Who?

Hey, are you out there? said Bix, squinting and looking very dumb indeed.

Where is the light, Braxton? You said you would bring the light. Then the man looked from Bix out to the woods where he was peering at.

Jerome? said Bix. Hey, come on, man.

The man shook his head. I thought it was just us, Braxton. And here behind my back you've arranged a little gang game, huh? Jesus. He turned his head and spat a wad into the dark.

Bix still did not say anything to the man, but was getting nervous looking around the dark. The man looked at him for another long stare, then shook his head and reached over to where he had put a jacket near the flashlight.

I should have known better than to trust you, he said. You always find new ways of disappointing me, kid.

Bix laughed a nasty laugh at him and then went back to
looking out in the woods for me. The stepfather stared at him and then after thinking about it said, Maybe we should have a good hard talk instead of playing ball, Bix.

Ha! said Bix again, looking fast over at the man. You NEVER talk to me. You're no good at talking. You talk like SHIT, if you want to know the truth.

Ah, yes, said the man, the truth. Are you forgetting that you aren't so great at talking to certain people either, boy?

But Bix would not look at him again and was getting more and more nervous, running around the edge of the court looking into the dark for me. I knew his talking with his stepfather was over, so I stepped out and flipped up the shields and blew some light into the place. Spin Light made the only big entrance of the night.

Bix blinked and jumped back, but his stepfather took it pretty cool, just looking over a little curious, and then taking off his jacket and going back to shoot some more flatfoot lay-ups.

Bix was trying to see past the light to me, but he was not so nervous now. Jerome? he said. He grinned and snuck a look over at his stepfather who was shooting, then said in a loud voice, Or maybe it's that guy from Saturn, hahaha! sucking his laugh real weird and letting it get away from him, Hahahaha, until his stepfather looked over and was a little worried for a second until Bix stopped.

It's me, I said, and put the light down and stepped out into the yellow circle it threw. I looked at the man and he looked at me. I'm Jerome Foxworthy, I said. I'm a friend of Bix's.

How many more of you are coming? he said. He looked at Bix. How many more?

But Bix was staring at me. Hi Jerome, he said.

Hi Bix.

Gang war, the man said. I should have known better….

I'm not here to play, I said to him, and I am not a gang, and as far as I know nobody else is coming. Bix is here to play one on one, like he told you. He hasn't gone back on anything. I'm just here because it's my lantern and I don't lend it to anybody.

Sure, okay kid, he said, hitting a little left-handed loop shot. So how come you are dressed like Batman or something?

I…this is the best I could do for a referee uniform.

He turned around, holding the ball. Referee?

That's what Bix told me.

For THIS game?

Yes, I said. Don't worry, I know the game and I will call it fair.

Forget it, he said, and put up a little push shot that missed but he got the tip. Braxton, he said, grunting as he shot another, if you want to warm up you better get going.

Bix was looking at him now, and said, Jerome is reffing.

You want to warm up or not?

He's reffing.

Look, said the man, slamming the ball onto the court with his hand so it stays there, a classic thing a player does when he is really riled, look. You proposed this game, okay? I agreed to play it. I did not have to and I will probably regret it but there it is, I did what you wanted. All right. You have to learn to take the consequences of your actions like a man, so I am not going to play weak for you tonight. I am going to whale the tar out of you, frankly. But I am no cheat. Though maybe YOU are, and you think your little pal here can hustle me on a few invisible foul calls. Like I said—forget it.

Jerome refs, said Bix, or we don't play.

Suit yourself, the man shrugged, and picked up his jacket again.

Bix looked at him quickly, then away, then back, then away again. And if we don't play, he said, then I take things into my own hands. You know what that means? That means I go to Duke hospital, I don't stay all nice and good boy out at Maysie's. I go to the hospital and I tell them I am Mother's son, I tell them she wants to see me and can't because this man who is not my father keeps me out. I tell them how he won't even tell me how she is anymore, always just says Fine, fine, and it has been months now.

Calm down, Braxton, the man said quietly.

And, and you know what happens if they don't let me in, if you get to them first and bribe them or something? Bix was hopping around now, eyes all glinting yellow and looking like a wolf's. You know what I do then? I sneak in. I find a way, I'm no dummy even though you think I am. I get in and I see her, and I tell her everything, how you kept me out, how you hit me, three times in one day, and—

I never hit you. I haven't hit you three times in five years.

You did, said Bix. Oh yes. Two weeks ago Monday.

That was when you threw the ball against the wall over my desk and…I just popped you, you cannot go and count each little pop and say I hit you that many times—

Three times, said Bix, in one day. He was gloating.

The man stared at him and shook his head. You are nuts, Braxton. You need help.

Just like my mother? Just like her? Ha! Bix barked. You going to lock ME up in a hospital too and stick electric things in my head and get rid of both of us? He was getting louder but his eyes were actually cooler and I could see he was just pushing this last bit for show. I think his stepfather saw it
too but he could not afford to take the chance of being wrong by calling Bix on it.

All right, he said, calm down. But I could see he was angry. Okay. We'll play. Your little buddy here can ref. If the only thing that puts this craziness out of your head is getting your butt beat in basketball, you got it.

I looked at Bix. How are you going to play it?

Um, I don't know, he said. What do you think?

Jesus, said his stepfather, spitting again.

Ten baskets, I said, win by two. Alternating possession after scores. No foul shots—if you get called for a foul, you give up your next possession. Okay? I said to the man. He nodded. Okay Bix? Bix shrugged.

He can have first outs, said the man. I gave Bix a little bounce pass.

Play it, I said.

Immediately the man dropped into a good defensive crouch, arms out and waving, knees bent, full of spring if Bix tried anything. I saw right then how foolish Bix had been to turn everything so mean. I think before he started pushing it, the dude was actually feeling friendly and a little sorry for Bix, maybe, and might have taken it a little easy on him. But not now. Now Bix had made it all nasty and tight and the guy was ready to put the screws to him. Bix held the ball, flatfooted, looking at his stepfather's waving arms, then looked over at me with this dull expression like he suddenly did not understand anything, and where was he please? While he did that, the man slapped the ball out of his hands perfectly clean, and dribbled for a second outside, giving Bix a chance to pick him up if he wanted, which was actually nice of him, he could have just bolted for the snowbird. But Bix was not picking anybody or anything up. He was looking at his hands
like remembering something about a ball being there a couple of seconds ago and where was it now? His stepfather went on and took it in for a lay-up and brought the ball back.

One-zip, I said.

The man bounced the ball to Bix and went into his crouch again. Bix stared at him, stared at the ball, stared over at me.

Play it, I said. Come on, man. Wake up.

The man probably could have slapped it again but he waited. Bix nodded and sort of shrugged and frowned, like saying, Sure, hey, I remember, I'm tough, I think. Then he bent low and dribbled to the right, straight as could be, but his stepfather blocked the drive with good position and Bix stopped and tried a straight switchover in front, one of those things that looks good when you do it yourself but without any head or foot fake you leave the defensive man right where you usually bounce the ball, and he swipes it which somehow never happens when you are alone. That is what happened now, Bix dribbling it right in front of the dude's hands and he took it clean, turned, and put up a set shot. It missed, but Bix made no move for the rebound and the man grabbed it and put it in.

Two, I said, two-zip.