You're My Baby (20 page)

But he was glad they'd gone. He didn't want to have to talk to his dad anymore. He'd wanna dwell on basketball. Right now, Andy didn't care if he ever played again. It'd just gotten him into trouble.

He laid aside the book he'd been reading, figuring he oughta check on Gramps. He was watching an old World War II movie,
Twelve O'Clock High,
but Andy hadn't been able to get into it.

“Want anything to eat?” he asked, poking his head into the living room.

Gramps turned down the volume and looked up, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “How about some kippers and crackers?”

Andy about gagged. Kippers smelled like dirty jock
straps. How could anybody eat one? “Okay, I'll get them.”

By the time he'd arranged the crackers and offensive strips of putrid fish on a plate, Gramps's movie was over. When Andy appeared, Gramps turned off the TV, then helped himself to the snack. “Sure you won't join me?”

Andy held up a nearly empty bag of Oreos.

“Suit yourself.” He proceeded to fix three more cracker sandwiches, not paying any heed to where the crumbs fell. “I understand you've got a problem?”

Andy was instantly alert. “What's that?”

“With your passion.”

Passion?
“Huh?”

“Basketball, son.” The old man chewed thoughtfully, watching him through shrewd eyes.

“You know.”

“Yep.” He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. “What're you gonna do about it?”

“That's obvious. I'm not gonna play.”

“Why's that?”

“I told Dad, when I got here, I wasn't going out for basketball.”

“Fair enough. But the situation's different now.”

“How do you figure?”

“He needs you. The team needs you. Not to mention that you need him. And the team.” Gramps was arranging yet another kipper on a cracker, not even looking at him.

“I don't need anybody.”

“Right. You're just gonna struggle on through life by yourself, is that it? The Lone Ranger?”

Andy shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Well, I got news for you, son. Life doesn't work
that way. You gotta face what you're afraid of.” The rheumy green eyes nailed him. “And you're afraid you'll let your father down.”

“I already have,” Andy mumbled.

“That's pure horse manure. You're punishing him because he didn't stay married to your mother, because he didn't jeopardize his job and
his
passion to indulge your idea of what a father is.” Gramps leaned forward. “Lemme tell you somethin'. Whether you believe it or not, that man loves you. But you're too busy manning the barricades to see that.”

Andy felt his face burning. More than anything he wanted to run from the room. But Gramps was still talking.

“You won't have a chance of a good relationship unless you spend some time with him. And I can think of a lot worse ways to spend time together than doing something you both love. Play ball, Andy.”

“But what if—”

“Baloney! Life's full of ‘what if's.' A real man does what he has to do anyway. What's the worst thing that could happen?”

“What if I'm no good? What if I let him down?”

“Whaddya think he's gonna do? Disown you?”

“No, but—”

“Put it on the line, kid. Instead of focusing on the negative, try this on for size. You could help him out. Help the team out. And maybe, if you don't act like a stubborn cayuse, you'll gain a father out it. Somehow I don't believe playing a game you love and excel at is too big a price to pay.”

Andy looked at the bag of Oreos, then folded the sack. He wasn't hungry anymore. It sounded like
Gramps was calling him chicken. Was the old man right? Was he wimping out because he was afraid?

Gramps brushed his hands together, scattering crumbs all over the carpet. “Well?”

“I'll think about it.”

“That's all I ask.” He rubbed a finger under his nose. “You know, you remind me a lot of Pam.”

“Pam?”

“You grew up without a father on the scene. She grew up without a mother.”

“Whaddya mean?”

Gramps looked at him with big, sad eyes. “My Lillian died giving birth to Pam.”

“You mean she never knew her own mother?”

“That's what I mean. It was tough. Still is, I reckon. 'Specially now she's havin' a baby.” He paused. “I imagine it hurt not having your dad around, but you have a chance Pammy never had. You still have time to get to know and love your daddy. She never had that opportunity with her mama.”

Andy swallowed the lump in his throat. He'd never really thought about what it'd be like if he didn't have a father at all. That idea sucked. What if Dad really did need him? He stood up, then went to Gramps's chair. “Lemme help you into bed.”

He levered the old man to his feet and handed him the crutches. “Thanks, son. You're a good man.”

Man?
He wanted to be. “I hope I don't let you down, either.”

“You won't. Just do what your heart tells you is right.”

Andy settled his grandfather in the bedroom, then sat in the living room staring at the shelf laden with his
dad's basketball trophies. He had a lot of thinking to do before morning.

 

I
N JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL
, Pam had had her first movie date. Tongue-tied and uncomfortably aware of her awkward body, she'd been at a genuine loss for words for one of the few times in her life. But that was a breeze compared to the strained, overly polite conversation she and Grant managed before and after a movie so full of explosions and gunfire her head reeled. They had studiously avoided any mention of the basketball debacle, confining their remarks to fascinating subjects like car maintenance and the weather.

It was no wonder, then, that Grant delayed coming to bed or that she burrowed under the covers, praying she would fall asleep before he joined her. All evening, she'd longed to say something, do anything to ease the tension radiating from his clenched jaw. Maybe days ago there had been a time she could have ventured to touch him, comfort him.

But she'd lost that chance.

She didn't blame him, but deep inside her was a hollow place where regret found a home.

 

E
ARLY THE NEXT MORNING
after four hours of fitful sleep, Grant tiptoed from the bedroom, leaving Pam snuggled under the covers. In the dark kitchen, he put on the coffeepot, moving quietly so as not to disturb Will. While he waited for the coffee to perk, he rubbed his hands over his face. It wasn't bad enough he had to retool the whole playbook and motivate a team who'd had the heart knocked out of them. Or that he had a son engaged in a game of “Now I've got you, Dad.” Until
Will left, he had to sleep with a woman who'd kept an important secret from him.

And who still smelled provocatively of roses.

When the coffee was ready, he poured some into a mug, then sat at the kitchen table drawing plays and reconfiguring lineups. Before, they'd had a good shot at the league title. Now? Short of a miracle, the Knights would be lucky to win half of their remaining games.

As the weak winter sun filtered through the dark, he heard a rustling upstairs. Pam? He groaned. What was there to say? Maybe she thought she'd been justified in keeping Andy's confidence, but how long had she known? Didn't she realize how much he'd missed with his son?

Worst of all had been Andy's painful accusation, which still smarted. “I didn't think I'd be good enough to please you…. I didn't want you on my case.” His own father's words came back as clearly as if the man stood glaring down at him right now. “What's the matter with you, Grant? Can't you do anything right?” No matter how hard he'd tried, he could never earn commendation from his soldier father. Was he doomed to repeat the same mistakes?

He buried his head in his hands. Basketball wasn't worth it. Somehow he had to convince Andy that he was okay whether or not he played basketball, tiddly-winks or anything else. That he was loved and accepted just as he was. His job as a father—and as a coach—was to build confident, responsible young men.

“Dad?”

Grant looked up, surprised to see Andy, fully dressed, standing in the kitchen door. “I heard noises. I thought it was Pam.”

“Nope, it's just me.” Andy crossed to the refriger
ator, pulled out a carton of milk, filled a glass and joined Grant at the table.

“What're you doing up so early?”

“With school starting tomorrow, I figure you and I have a lotta work to do today. You know, before…”

Grant frowned in bewilderment. “Before what?”

Andy wiped away a milk mustache. “Practice.”

For the first time in twenty-four hours, Grant permitted himself to feel hope. He leaned forward. “Son—”

“I figured maybe you and me could go over to the gym. I could show you my stuff. We could work out. See if I'm good enough.”

A huge smile settled on Grant's face. “As a son, there's no question you're good enough. That's what matters.” He chuckled. “But I've gotta tell you, I don't mind seeing if you can play basketball.”

 

T
HE NEXT WEEK
they fell into a routine. After school Pam took Will to physical therapy, then had dinner waiting when Andy and Grant came in from practice. Grant and Will watched TV together while Andy studied and she graded papers. She retired early and usually fell asleep before Grant came to bed. He was always up in the morning before she was. They hardly spoke unless it was to say “Pass the salt,” or “What time will you be home?”

Several times Pam caught Will watching her, his eyes narrowed as if he was trying to solve a puzzle. She chafed that her life was so troubled, static. But at the beginning of this sixth month of pregnancy, Barney was definitely growing. She'd already had to move to the next largest buttonhole of her maternity slacks. Sometimes in the solitude of her bed, she whispered to the baby. “Are you a boy? Will you be as complicated as
Andy and Grant? Or solid and easygoing like your grandfather?”

Andy, preoccupied with making a contribution to the team, seemed oblivious to the strain between her and Grant. One morning, when she and Grant were first into the kitchen, she had asked him, “Is Andy good?”

He'd taken a sip of coffee before he'd answered her. “Better than good. By the time he's a senior, he could outdo Beau. And
Andy's
coachable.” He managed a quirky smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Guess I have to give you credit, huh?”

She wasn't after credit, particularly not at the expense of Beau Jasper, who would have to repeat English in summer school in order to earn his diploma. It was reward enough that Grant and Andy were, at last, finding a common language in basketball. Will, too, had noticed the difference in their relationship. On the way to therapy yesterday, he'd said, “Reckon those two are mending some fences.”

If only she and Grant could do the same.

The week ended on a better note, at least from one perspective. Andy's journal.

A
NDY'S FIRST GAME WAS
in Houston, so despite her eagerness to support him, Pam elected to stay home, not only for the baby's sake, but so she could keep an eye on Will, who had graduated to a walker. The two of them settled in front of the TV to watch a rerun of
Cheyenne Social Club,
but neither Henry Fonda nor Jimmy Stewart could draw her out of her funk.

She had grown all too accustomed to this family group, forgetting somewhere along the way that they weren't really a family—just a temporary merger, with Andy and Will as unwitting participants. It had all seemed so simple at first. Two friends joining forces for mutually advantageous purposes. Cut-and-dried. Except they'd overlooked one point. Emotions were never simple.

And hers were perilously close to the edge. The thought of losing Grant and Andy was more than she dared contemplate. Even her joy about the baby was tempered by the realization this child would never really know them as father and brother. Until recently, when she'd breached Grant's trust, she'd allowed herself to hope their arrangement could become permanent, based not only on their mutual need, but on love.

There. She'd admitted it. She loved Grant. Wanted him to be her husband in every sense of the word. Longed for him to be a real father to the baby.

She tried to concentrate on the figures moving on the screen, but all she could think was
How am I ever going to endure these next few months?

When the answer came to her, she gave a tiny snort.
Play the part.

With strident intrusion, a commercial came on at an ear-splitting decibel level. Will grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. “Thanks, Daddy. I hate those loud commercials.”

“Me, too.” He lifted his leg to rest it on the sofa. “How'd you like the movie?”

“Is it over?”

He chuckled. “Guess that answers my question.”

“Sorry. I must've been woolgathering.”

“I noticed.” He gestured to the empty seat at the end of the sofa. “Come sit by me.”

She moved, recognizing the “let's talk” in his request.

“You know,” he began, “it's not too long till I'll be going home.” She nodded, uncertain where he was headed with the conversation. “When I leave, I'd like to know things are all right with you.”

“They will be. I love my job. I'll soon have a bouncing grandchild for you. I'll be fine.”

“You don't say?” He fixed his eyes on her. She waited, sensing whatever he said next would make her uncomfortable. “Seems like you left out somethin' kinda important from your little list.”

“What?”

“Unless my hearing's worse than I thought, I didn't pick up mention of your husband.” She could feel his eyes boring into her. “Or your stepson.”

She couldn't look at him. “No, you didn't.”

“Some particular reason for that?”

She debated, knowing whatever she did would be wrong. Not to tell him would prolong a lie. Telling would destroy his illusions about her. About Grant.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“This is hard, Daddy.” She gulped. “Things…aren't exactly what they seem.”

“I figgered. Better get it out, dumplin'. It's not gonna get any easier.”

“About Grant and me—”

“You're not married?”

“No, we're married all right. It's just that…it isn't going to last.”

“You can't know that. Just because your marriage has hit a little trouble doesn't mean—”

“Daddy, listen to me. It's not a
real
marriage.”

“What in tarnation are you talking about?”

Then, clenching her fists at her sides and without looking at him, she went through the whole story of their arrangement, ending with its termination in September. Even telling him about Steven and the baby. When she finished, she sat with her head bowed, waiting for him to speak. When, after a long silence, he hadn't, she looked up. “Say something, Daddy.”

“That's quite a story. Not every man would marry a woman carrying another man's child. Does the boy know any of this?”

“No.”

“Guess you hadn't figgered on him comin' to love you?”

“No.”

“Or on Grant lovin' you.”

“He doesn't—”

Will cut her off. “Or on you lovin' him.” He sat up, carefully repositioned his leg and snuggled her against
him. “Guess you got yourself in quite a fix, didn't you, girl?”

The soft nap of his shirt, the comforting warmth of his arm and the honey in his voice were more than she could bear. The tears came, not fast and furious, but slow and wrenching. He rested his chin on her head and patted her, as if settling a spooked horse. She eventually managed a muffled, “What am I going to do?”

He tilted her chin, then, stroking her hair gently, asked the question. “Do you love him?”

“Oh, Daddy, with all my heart.”

“Well, then, that makes things a whole lot easier.”

“I'm afraid there's nothing easy about this.”

“Lemme tell you somethin', honey. I've spent my whole life around creatures. And I've seen one or two animals during the mating season. That husband of yours has picked out his mare, even if the two of you have been too contrary to see it. I'll be a tin-eared coyote if that man isn't crazy about you.” He pulled back and studied her. “What in the world's goin' on with the two of you in that bed?”

“Not a thing.”

He harrumphed. “That's not natural. I've seen the way Grant looks at you. The man must be bitin' bullets up there.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“There's nothin' wrong with lettin' him know you're willing.”

“I want this to be about a whole lot more than sex.”

“So does he, Pammy, so does he. But you can't keep living the lie. It'll only dig you in deeper and hurt all of you in the long run.”

“So what do I do?”

He cupped his roughened hands around her face.
“Give the horse his head and he'll return to the barn every time. Just be sure you're waitin' for him with love in your eyes.”

She put her arms around her father's neck and put her forehead against his. “I love you, Daddy.”

“I know you do, sugar.” His voice caught. “I know you do.”

 

H
IS NERVES TAUT AS
a drumhead, Grant walked out onto the Keystone court after halftime. Somehow they'd managed to go shot for shot with the Porter Pirates in the first period, but whether his kids could run with them for another thirty minutes remained to be seen. If ever the Knights needed home-court advantage, this was it. Provided they could squeak by Porter, they stood an even chance of winning the rest of their conference games.

He allowed himself a glance at the home stands, crowded with kids and fans bedecked in the crimson-and-gold school colors. The cheerleaders had just completed the traditional cheer that brought the team onto the court. In the front row were Will and Pam, her hair accentuated by the red and gold of her sweater. He couldn't think about her. Not now. But, jeez, she looked pretty.

His stomach coiled tighter. They still hadn't talked through the situation with Andy. The timing was never right. And bed wasn't the place. It was all he could do each evening to slide in beside her and keep his hands to himself.

He paused on the sidelines, watching the kids take their warm-up shots. Cale Moore's leadership had been a big factor in the first half. Along with Andy's fourteen points, including a clutch free throw with ten seconds
left. He still had awkward moments when he wasn't in sync with the play, but he'd shown a lot of heart and was improving with each game. When he and Chip Kennedy hit a rhythm, they were formidable.

The ref whistled the start of the second half, and Grant put everything except the game out of his mind. Porter scored first on a jumper from the keyhole. Then Keystone set up a give-and-go, but Chip's shot circled out of the bucket. Porter responded with a two-on-one fast break. Andy chased the ball handler, catching up with him to fight for possession of the ball. Coming down across the shoulders of the other Porter player, Andy was upended.

With a sickening thud, his head struck the hardwood floor.

Silence shrouded the gym. Grant heard only the pounding of his own heart as he raced to the prone body of his son.

He and the trainer reached the boy at the same time. The other players parted, then stood watching at a respectful distance.

The trainer checked Andy's respiration and pulse, then lifted his eyelids. “He's out cold, Coach. He needs to be examined for a concussion.”

Grant signaled for the stretcher, then watched the practiced movements of the paramedics as they lifted Andy and bore him to the locker room.

Grant had never been so afraid in his entire life.

 

F
ROM FAR AWAY
, as if they were under water, Andy could hear sounds. Muffled. Slurred. “Andy, can you hear me?”

He tried to answer the disembodied voice, but he was buried in cotton. He opened his eyes, then blinked them
shut. The light. It hurt his eyes. When he tried to speak, it was as if he couldn't push the air through his lungs. So he quit trying.

A deep voice he didn't recognize said, “Call the hospital. Tell 'em we're bringing him in.”

Andy remembered then. With supreme effort, he managed one word. “Game?”

Close above him hovered his father's face. “Don't worry about the game, son.” His voice sounded funny. Scratchy kinda. “The main thing is you're gonna be fine.”

“Fine,” Andy echoed lazily, before closing his eyes and losing himself in a gray mist.

 

P
AM TOOK
W
ILL HOME
, then raced to the hospital, her thoughts lashing in all directions. Andy had to be all right. He was a healthy kid, she told herself. Surely it was nothing more than a bump on the head. Not…something worse.

Luckily she found a parking spot near the emergency entrance. Inside, a nurse ushered her to an examining room. She paused in the doorway. Grant slumped on a stool, his head resting on Andy's bed. Andy appeared to be asleep.

Stepping inside, she whispered, “Grant?”

Slowly he reared up, his face ashen with worry.

“How is he?” She crossed to stand on the other side of the bed, gently caressing Andy's forearm.

“The doctor thinks he's had a mild concussion. He regained consciousness in the locker room and came to once more in the ambulance. They'll keep him at the hospital overnight for observation, waking him periodically to check his responsiveness. They're arranging for
a room for him right now.” He stood up and gestured to the empty stool. “Here, you sit.”

Barney was riding low in her abdomen and the offer was welcome. When they circled the foot of the bed, Pam put her hands on Grant's shoulders. “How are you doing, Dad?”

“I'm not gonna kid you. I'm shaky.”

As she slid her arms around his neck and whispered, “You're entitled,” he responded by gathering her in his embrace and then expelling a long, shuddering sigh.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, his voice husky.

“Where else would I be? We're family.” Then she added a silent prayer, for Andy, for Grant and for Will's wisdom to prove true.

 

B
EFORE
A
NDY CRACKED OPEN
his eyes, he heard people moving about. The clank of carts on rollers. Metallic clicks. Voices. His stomach growled. He was massively hungry. Finally he squinted through crusty lids. Whoa. He was in a strange bed, staring straight at this picture of windmills. Far out.

“Son?” His dad vaulted out of a chair in the corner.

Then he remembered. He was in the hospital. How had he gotten here? He concentrated. Oh yeah, he and that big Porter center had collided in mid-air. “Hi, Dad.” He thought he even managed a smile. “Did we win?”

“I don't know yet.”

How could his dad not know? “Why not?”

“I didn't stay for the end of the game. I came with you in the ambulance.”

“But you're the coach.”

“I know.” He felt his father's cool fingers on his forehead, smoothing back a lock of hair. Then his dad
gripped the bed rail with both hands and leaned over. “But it was just a game. You're my son. Nothing is more important.”

Andy tried to wrap his mind around that concept. “But the guys? The team?”

“The junior varsity coach took over for me. I needed to be here. With you.”

“You
did?
” A warm glow flooded through him, easing the dull headache. His eyes fluttered. He was sleepy again. Just before he dozed off, though, he smiled and mumbled, “Cool. Way cool.”

As he drifted away, he thought his dad was smiling, too, but he couldn't be sure.

 

I
T WAS AFTER TWO
when Grant and Pam pulled into the driveway at home. The nurse had assured them there was nothing they could do. By morning Andy should be much more alert, she said. Pam went on to bed while Grant took a quick shower, then slipped in beside her. Pam lay on her side, one hand curled beneath her chin, the other wrapped around her tummy, as if protecting her child. He turned his head and studied her, wondering how he would ever handle September. Take tonight, for instance. He'd been beside himself until she came to the hospital. Until she held him.

A raw breath escaped him. For one awful moment there on the court, he'd thought he'd lost Andy. That's what it would feel like when Pam left.

“Grant?” Her sleepy voice caught him off guard. Her eyes fluttered open, and in the glow from the streetlight, he could see the question in her eyes.

“He's going to be all right.”

She scooped up the pillow and pushed it under her head. “It was scary, wasn't it?”