The Silver Linings Playbook (4 page)

And I do hope my mother’s making crabby snacks signifies that apart time is over because Nikki is on her way to my parents’ house, which seems like the best coming-home surprise my mother could cook up—and as Mom is always trying to do nice things for me and my brother, I mentally prepare myself to be reunited with Nikki.

My heart pounds at least fifty times during the few seconds it takes for my mother to answer my question.

“The Eagles are playing the Steelers tonight in a preseason exhibition game,” my mother says, which is weird because Mom has always hated sports and barely knows that football season is in the fall, let alone what teams are playing on a given day. “Your brother is coming over to watch the game with you and your father.”

My heart starts beating even faster because I have not seen my brother since shortly after apart time began, and like my father, he said some really awful things about Nikki the last time we talked.

“Jake is looking forward to seeing you, and you know how much your father loves the Eagles. I can’t wait to have all three of my men gathered around the couch again, just like old times.” My mother smiles at me so hard I think she is going to break out in tears again, so I turn around and go back into the basement to do knuckle push-ups until my pecs burn and I can no longer feel my knuckles.

Knowing that I will probably not be allowed to go for my run later, because we are having a family night, I put on a trash bag and run early, passing my high school friends’ homes; passing St. Joseph’s, which is the Catholic church I used to attend; passing Collingswood High School (class of ′89 rules!) and the house my grandparents used to own by the park before they died.

My old best friend sees me when I run past his new house on Virginia Avenue. Ronnie is just getting home from work, walking from his car to his front door, when I pass him on the sidewalk. He looks me in the eyes, and after I have passed, he yells, “Pat Peoples?
Is that you?
Pat! Hey!” I run even harder, because my brother, Jake, is coming to talk to me; Jake does not believe in happy endings, and I do not have the emotional wherewithal to deal with Ronnie right now, because he never once came to visit Nikki and me in Baltimore, although he promised so many times. Nikki used to call Ronnie “whipped,” saying that his wife, Veronica, “keeps Ronnie’s social calendar where she keeps his balls—in her purse.”

Nikki told me that Ronnie would never visit me in Baltimore, and she was right.

He never visited me in the bad place either, but he used to write me letters about how great his daughter, Emily, was and I guess is, although I have not yet met Emily to verify the letters.

When I return home, Jake’s car is there—a fancy silver BMW, which sort of implies that my brother is doing well now when it
comes to “pockets getting fatter,” as Danny says. So I sneak in the back door and run up the steps to the shower. After I wash and put on clean clothes, I take a deep breath and follow the sound of conversation to the living room.

Jake stands when he sees me. He has on fancy pants, lined with charcoal pinstripes, and a robin’s-egg blue polo shirt that is formfitting enough to show that he is still pretty fit. He is also wearing a watch with diamonds all over the face, which Danny would call Jake’s bling-bling. My brother’s hair has thinned a little too, but his head is gelled and looks swanky.

“Pat?” he says.

“Didn’t I say you wouldn’t recognize him?” Mom says.

“You look like Arnold Schwarzenegger.” He feels my bicep, which I absolutely hate because I don’t like to be touched by anyone except Nikki. Since he’s my brother, I don’t say anything. “You’re frickin’ ripped,” he adds.

I look at the floor, because I remember what he said about Nikki—I am still mad about that—and yet I am also happy to see my brother after not seeing him for what feels like forever.

“Listen, Pat. I should have come to see you more in Baltimore, but those places freak me out and I … I … I just couldn’t see you like that, okay? Are you mad at me?”

I am sort of still mad at Jake, but suddenly I remember another one of Danny’s lines that is too appropriate to leave unsaid, so I say, “Got nothin’ but love for ya.”

Jake looks at me for a second as if I had punched him in the gut. He blinks a few times almost as if he is going to cry, and then he hugs me with both arms. “I’m sorry,” he says, and holds me for longer than I like, which isn’t very long—unless it’s Nikki hugging me.

When he lets go, Jake says, “I got a present for you.” He pulls an
Eagles jersey out of a plastic bag and tosses it to me. I hold it up and see it’s number 84, which I recognize as a wide receiver’s number, but I do not know the name. Isn’t that young receiver Freddie Mitchell number 84? I think but do not say, because I don’t want to insult my brother, who was nice enough to buy me a present.

“Who’s Baskett?” I ask, which is the name on the jersey.

“Undrafted rookie sensation Hank Baskett? He’s the preseason story. These jerseys are hot on the streets of Philadelphia. And now you have one to wear to the games this year.”

“Wear to the games?”

“Now that you’re home, you’re gonna want your old seat back, right?”

“At the Vet?”

“The Vet?”
Jake laughs and looks at my mother. My mother looks scared. “No—at Lincoln Financial Field.”

“What’s Lincoln Financial Field?”

“Didn’t they let you watch TV in that place? It’s the home of the Eagles, the stadium your team’s played three seasons in now.”

I know Jake is lying to me, but I don’t say anything.

“Anyway, you got a seat right next to mine and Scott’s. Season tickets, bro. Are you psyched, or what?”

“I don’t have any money for season tickets,” I say, because I let Nikki have the house and the cars and the bank accounts when apart time began.

“I got your back.” Jake punches me in the arm. “I might not have been a good brother for the past few years, but I’m gonna make up for all that now that you’re home.”

I thank my brother, and then Mom starts crying again. She cries so hard that she has to leave the room, which is weird, since Jake and I are making up and season tickets to the Eagles are quite a nice present—not to mention the jersey.

“Put on your Baskett jersey, bro.”

I put it on, and it feels good to be wearing Eagles green, especially a jersey that Jake picked out special for me.

“You wait and see how good your boy Baskett is going to be this year,” Jake says in a strange way, as if my future were somehow linked to the Eagles’ rookie wide receiver—Hank Baskett.

I notice that my father waits until the game is just about to begin before he comes into the family room. It is only preseason, so we do not engage in any of the regular-season game-day rituals, but Dad has put on his number 5 McNabb jersey and now sits on the edge of the couch, ready to jump out of his seat. He nods at my brother solemnly but completely ignores me, even after I heard my mother say, “Please, just try to talk to Pat” when they were arguing in the kitchen. Mom puts the food on folding tables, takes a seat next to Jake, and we all start to eat.

The food is excellent, but I am the only one to say so. Mom seems happy to get the compliment, saying, “Are you sure it’s all right?” like she does, because she is modest when it comes to cooking, even though she is a great cook.

“What do you think the Birds will do this year, Dad?” Jake asks.

“Eight and eight,” my dad answers pessimistically, like he always does at the beginning of every NFL season.

“Eleven and five,” my brother says, to which my father shakes his head and blows air through his teeth. “Eleven and five?” my brother asks me, and I nod because I am optimistic, and winning eleven games would most likely put the Eagles in the play-offs. Since we have season tickets, I know we are assured play-off tickets should the Birds earn a home game, and there’s nothing better than an Eagles play-off game.

Now, I admit that I have not been keeping up with the Birds in the off-season, but when the starting lineups are announced, I am really surprised that many of my favorite players are no longer on the team. Duce Staley. Hugh Douglas. James Thrash. Corey Simon. All gone. I want to ask, “When? Why?” but don’t, fearing my father and brother will think I am not a true fan anymore, which they said would happen when I first moved to Baltimore with Nikki and gave up my season ticket.

To my surprise, the Birds are also not playing in Veterans Stadium, but at Lincoln Financial Field, just like Jake had said. Somehow they have built an entire stadium since last season, and I must have missed all the hype because I was stuck in the bad place. Still, something does not really seem right to me.

“Where is Lincoln Financial Field?” I try to ask nonchalantly when the commercials come on after the first series.

My father turns his head and stares at me but does not answer my question. He hates me. He looks repulsed, like it is a chore to sit in the family room watching the game with his mentally messed-up son.

“It’s in South Philadelphia, just like all the other stadiums,” my brother says too quickly. “Good crabby snacks, Mom.”

“Can you see Lincoln Financial Field from the Vet?” I ask.

“The Vet’s gone,” Jake says.

“Gone?” I ask. “What do you mean,
gone?”

“March 21, 2004. Seven a.m. It fell like a house of cards,” my father says without looking at me, just before sucking an orange piece of meat from a chicken bone. “Over two years ago.”

“What? I was at the Vet just last …” I pause because I start to feel a little dizzy and nauseous. “What year did you just say?”

My father opens his mouth to speak, but my mother cuts him off, saying, “A lot has changed since you were away.”

Still, I refuse to believe the Vet is gone, even after Jake retrieves his laptop from his car and shows me a downloaded video of the Vet being imploded. Veterans Stadium—which we used to call the concrete doughnut—falls like a circle of dominoes, gray dust fills the screen, and it breaks my heart to see that place crumble, even though I suspect that what I am viewing is a computergenerated trick.

When I was a boy, my father took me to many Phillies games at the Vet, and of course there were all of the Eagles games with Jake, so it is hard to believe such a big monument to my childhood could be destroyed while I was in the bad place. The video ends, and I ask my mother if I can talk to her in the other room.

“What’s wrong?” she says when we reach the kitchen.

“Dr. Patel said that my new medication might make me hallucinate.”

“Okay.”

“I think I just saw Veterans Stadium demolished on Jake’s computer.”

“Honey, you did. It was demolished over two years ago.”

“What year is it?”

She hesitates, and then says, “Two thousand and six.”

That would make me thirty-four. Apart time would have been in progress for four years. Impossible, I think. “How do I know
I am not hallucinating right now? How do I know you’re not a hallucination? You’re all hallucinations! All of you!” I realize I am screaming, but I can’t help it.

Mom shakes her head, tries to touch my cheek, but I swat her hand away and she starts crying again.

“How long was I in the bad place? How long? Tell me!”

“What’s going on in there?” my father yells. “We’re trying to watch the game!”

“Shhhh!” my mother says through tears.

“How long?” I yell.

“Tell him, Jeanie! Go ahead! He’s going to find out sooner or later!” my father yells from the family room. “Tell him!”

I grab my mother’s shoulders, shake her so her head wobbles all over, and yell, “How long?”

“Almost four years,” Jake says. I look back over my shoulder, and my brother is in the kitchen doorway. “Now let go of Mom.”

“Four years?” I laugh and let go of my mother’s shoulders. She covers her mouth with her hands, and her eyes are full of pity and tears. “Why are you guys playing jokes on—”

I hear my mother scream, I feel the back of my head hit the refrigerator, and then my mind goes blank.

After I returned to New Jersey, I thought I was safe, because I did not think Kenny G
could
leave the bad place, which I realize is silly now—because Kenny G is extremely talented and resourceful and a powerful force to be reckoned with.