The Unraveling of Mercy Louis (28 page)

“Not yet, thank God. I feel totally fine, I swear. But Maw Maw told me I need to rest . . .” I pause, not wanting to reveal too much; Coach wouldn't understand if I told her about Maw Maw's latest prophecy. “She'd be upset if she knew I was here.”

“Let me worry about your grandmother,” Coach says. “You focus on you.”

“Okay,” I say.

Yes, though I'm scared of defying Maw Maw, I'm not ready to give up on basketball yet. I will leave Travis, cast off Annie, toss Charmaine's letters, pray most every waking hour, but I can't give up basketball. I recall the loose-limbed joy of summer ball, how I danced baseline to baseline in the dusk, too fast for even the mosquitoes. The game restored me once, maybe it will again.

In the locker room, I dress out—navy mesh shorts and gold T-shirt, navy pinny so old the stenciled number has peeled clean away. On the court, a few of the girls hug me like we haven't seen each other in years. Even Illa Stark comes out from behind the video camera and shyly pats me on the shoulder, asking how I'm doing. Before I can answer, Corinne blurts: “So what happened last night?”

“I just got a little light-headed,” I say. “Probably didn't drink enough water.”

“What was with that article in the
Flare
?” Chole asks. “That guy made it seem like you were dying.”

“Slow news day, I guess,” I say. “I'll be okay.”

“Mystery illness,
like it's
The National Enquirer,
” Keisha says. “Next they be saying you got abducted by aliens.”

“Town can't make up its mind about us girls,” Chole says. “We're criminal bitches or we're poor sweet sick babies. I say fuck 'em.” She swings an arm in front of her face like she's waving away a bad smell. “But dude, seriously, you okay?”

“What's up with your arm?” Brittny says.

“If that were any of your business, she might've told y'all already,” Annie snaps.

“Shut up, Annie,” I say.

“Oooooh, snap!” Jasmine says. Annie steps to her, arm cocked, and Jasmine gets right back in her face. At six-two, Jasmine towers over Annie. “What? What? Come on, Putnam. Hit me. Think I'm scared of your honky ass?”

“Knock it off, Jazz,” Zion says.

“Yeah, it ain't worth it,” Jasmine says, turning away.

“What is
wrong
with y'all?” I snap. “We are a
team,
we've got to act like it. It's been a tough couple days, but we're the Port Sabine Lady Rays. Let's show some pride.” I turn back to Brittny. “I'm going to the doctor on Monday. They're going to give me some meds, fix me up good. I'll play Tuesday night.”

“Good, chica,” Chole says, slapping my shoulder. “We need you. Obviously.
Especially
if they're going to arrest Annie on Monday.”

She hoots, but no one else is laughing. Surprisingly, Annie doesn't answer, just heads for a bucket and starts a Wooden drill, jumping block to block, nailing dink shots. I've never known Annie to turn the other cheek. This police thing must have her jittery, even if it
is
political, like everyone says.

“Don't joke about that,” says Corinne. “Stop joking about that baby. Everybody!”

“Kill me for trying to get a laugh,” Chole says. “Everyone's so uptight. We all just need to fucking
chill.
Can't play this game tight.”

We scatter out to warm up. At a side hoop, I toss the ball up against the backboard, jump for the rebound, and throw up a shot while still hovering midair. No precision required here, just enough skill to bank it in. My heart thumps to life, sweat springs up on my skin. I abandon myself to the drill.

After what Annie did yesterday, it's hard to summon pity for her over the police stuff. I think of her vault of a bedroom with its hotel art on the walls, sheets so soft you'd swear they were spun on tiny fairy looms. I picture the velvety campus lawns that she'll sunbathe on after graduation, the parties she'll go to, the boys who will love her regardless of how selfish she is, because she's Annie and being with her will make them feel immortal. It's funny, but we've shared everything for so long that somewhere along the way, I forgot we didn't share destinies. She has money, and she will go where that money takes her, which will be far away from here.

Maybe that's why she never understood why I followed Coach's rules to the letter—because that was the path to a scholarship. Now that we're seniors, I can no longer ignore how different we've become. Perhaps we've always been different, and I was a fool, imagining real friendship where only a child's affection existed.

By the time Coach emerges from her office, I'm warm and ready. With each minute that my arm cooperates, I feel more confident that I'll be okay.

But when I take the court with the other girls, my arm goes stiff, thrusting down once, then twice. I angle my body so they can't see, shaking out my arm.

Coach blows the whistle and we start a scrimmage drill; in the first couple minutes, I toss up a few threes, none of which makes it to the rim. When it becomes obvious I don't have my shot back, Coach moves me to defense. I pump my arms and legs hard when I run, trying to feel the old magic of movement, that feeling of flying from baseline to baseline. But because I'm hyperaware of my gimp arm, my reflexes aren't sharp, so I let easy passes go by, and I can't stop even the slower girls from breaking past me to the bucket. The weird feeling arrives every few minutes, and I have to pause to thrust my arm down, one-two-three. The other girls stop to gawk. I face away from them, trying to swallow my despair.

“Louis, get some water, rest your legs,” Coach Martin says quietly when it gets too pathetic. “Freeman, you're in.”

As I jog off the court, my throat closes up. I shake my head hard, left to right, my neck popping. Jogging in place, I try to seem nonchalant, as if I could be subbed back in any second, as if my season and future don't depend on this freak arm.

Halfway through practice, the girls are running three-on-two, two-on-one when all of a sudden, Annie collapses on the wing, knees buckling, her legs disappearing under her. She sits there a beat before her head starts to twitch, jerking down so her ear nearly touches her left shoulder, then back up, then two jerks down. I pause my jogging to watch. Is she really doing this?

Chole's the first one at her side. “Get up, yo,” she says, holding out a hand, but Annie stays put.

Coach narrows her eyes to slits as if she's trying to make out something on a horizon we can't see. “Wood, you're in,” she says.

She's faking!
I want to scream. Brittny walks to where Annie sits, wide-eyed and mute.

“Walk it off, Putnam,” Coach says to Annie, whose head is still jerking to the left,
one-two, one-two
. Coach reaches down to help her up, but Annie doesn't move. “You want out of practice this bad, hit the showers, I don't give a damn.”

The other girls look to me as if for an explanation, but I don't want to be associated with what's happening on the court. She can't let me do a single thing on my own, not even get sick. How could I forget? Any drama in this life belongs to
her.
Watching Annie sit like a deer that's had its legs shot out from under it, I try to decide whether to offer help or retreat to the locker room. I have to admit that the fear on her face seems real.
You're the first to fall, but you won't be the last,
Maw Maw said. My skin is clammy with dried sweat, the gym's air-conditioning suddenly too cold.
No.
This isn't the sign of a curse, only another one of Annie's cons. Finally, Annie breaks the silence with two words:
Help me.

After Chole and Corinne shoulder Annie off the court, she begs me to stay with her until Beau can get there. I agree, mostly because I want to watch her up close, catch her doing something that would prove she's hoaxing. Practice is over, the other girls dispersed into the late-autumn afternoon. Annie and I sit in Coach's office, facing each other without making eye contact. She looks embarrassed, periodically rocked by a neck twitch. “Shit,” she says. “Mers, I'm scared.”

I want to say,
You could stop this if you wanted to.
But silence is so much easier. Coach doesn't take her eyes off her ancient laptop, where she's configuring defensive plays for Tuesday's game. Her right hand is a claw over the mouse, she's gripping it that hard. Since she found out about Travis last night, she won't look at me.

When Beau arrives at the gym, he storms into the office, already checking his watch. He tilts back his Stetson. “Now, will somebody kindly explain to me just what the problem is?”

It's the week before the election, and he's likely missing some schmoozy lunch to be here.

“She's having muscle spasms,” I say, pointing to her jerking head.
Allegedly.

“And you called me about this because . . . ?” He looks at Coach.

I may be angry with Annie, but Beau's lack of concern proves that two parents under the same roof doesn't always add up to a whole person who gives a crap.

“It means I've probably got whatever Mercy's got,” Annie says with exasperation.

Beau raises an eyebrow at me. “And what is it that Mercy's got, specifically? Paper never did put a name to it.”

“We need a doctor,” Annie says. “Can't you see that? I mean, look at us!”

She's right that we make for an unsetting pair, our bodies periodically jerky as zombies.

“Take them to the doctor, Beau,” Coach says. “I need my leading scorer and rebounder for Tuesday.”

“But I'm booked solid—” he starts.

“Figure it out, you're the parent here.”

“I'll take them,” he says reluctantly. “But we can't have any more stories in the paper.”

“We all got things at stake here, Beauregard,” Coach says. “Ain't going to lose a game on account of keeping up appearances. Besides”—she looks at us—“they're our girls, and whatever this is, they need help.”

I feel grateful to see that she still cares, despite all the trouble I've caused. “I've got the name of the neurologist,” I offer. Let the doctors prove that Annie's faking. I hand the card Dr. Elgin gave me to Beau, and he dials the number, speaks with an on-call nurse who says we should come to the hospital immediately and Dr. Joel will meet us.

“Best ring Evelia,” Beau says.

It's eleven o'clock, she'll be getting home from church and will wonder where I am. “Will you call and explain?” I ask Coach. She has a knack for convincing Maw Maw to see things her way.

“You bet,” she says. “Now go get yourself well.” The words sound cheerful, but she's got a sad look to her face, apology pooling behind her eyes. I shuffle out the door to my car and follow Beau's Tahoe to the hospital.

MAW MAW STEERS
the Lincoln into the hospital lot, parks, then totters toward the bench where I've been waiting, trying and failing to control my skittery arm. She's losing her hip to arthritis, will probably need it replaced soon. In the raw morning light, she looks sickly. Her scuffed brown handbag swings like a pendulum at her side, her short legs wrapped against the chill in thick wool tights. Without a word, she takes my hand, her grip viselike. She turns and starts to pull me back toward the car. I trip forward a few steps.

“Maw Maw . . .”

“Shush.”

“I've got an appointment,” I say. “Where are we going?”

“You're not safe here.” She keeps yanking me forward. “They can't protect you.”

Huh huh huh.

“Maybe they can figure this out, give me some medicine that might help . . .”

“Nothing can help you now but the Lord.”

“But just in case . . .”

She stops, spins to face me; there's a wild light in her eyes.

“Annie's been taken, too,” Maw Maw says. “It is just as I've prophesied, God help us.” She lets go of my hand, clasps her hands together, and looks skyward. “Lord, forgive us for that murdered child! Don't abandon us!” She doubles forward in a coughing fit, hacking until I begin to fear she'll die right here in the parking lot.

“Breathe, Maw Maw,” I say, touching her shoulder. “Breathe.”

A man and woman holding the hands of a small boy eye us warily before scurrying to their car. On the force of the wind, the weather is changing, jagged gray clouds scudding in, a fine rain misting our faces.

“I'm all right,” Maw Maw rasps. “It's not me I'm worried for, Tee Mercy. I only want to protect you in these final months.”

“Let's go inside,” I say. “I'll get you some water.”

“We should be at home kneeling in prayer.”

Her eyes dart with a rabbity anxiety. Inside, we find a bench by the nurses' station, and I fetch a paper cup of lukewarm water. While she sips and catches her breath, I hold her hand. Passersby startle at my grunts as if I've insulted them.