A Good Man (50 page)

“Sure,” Reverend Wilson said. “And I’ll get you there in twenty minutes while that fool drives off to Florida. I might even play a little ball tonight myself.”

Kim drifted over. “Do I have to go? I need to sleep. I’ll go with the driver.”

“Where you stayin’?” Reverend Wilson asked.

“The Holiday Inn Express,” Sonya said.

“The hotel is just down the street from the school,” Reverend Wilson said, “so you better come with us. Shani, right?”

Kim nodded.

“Both of y’all are so pretty.” He pointed to a rusted white church van, NEW HOPE emblazoned on the side. “That’s our chariot. It’ll get us there.”

They got in the van, which was roomy and clean, and followed behind the WB van until it made a wrong turn.

“They’re off to Florida,” Reverend Wilson said.

“Good riddance,” Sonya said.

“You look just like you look on TV, Jazz,” Reverend Wilson said.

“I don’t know how to look any way else,” Sonya said.

Reverend Wilson nodded. “Except for that first night.”

“Yeah,” Sonya said, “I regret wearing that blue thing.”

“And the hair,” Reverend Wilson said.

“And the heels.” Sonya smiled. “Although those heels started something, didn’t they?”

Reverend Wilson nodded. “Never watched much TV till now. I believe that God has had His almighty hand in all of this. I think God was even tugging on your feet.”

“Yes, He certainly did.” Can’t this thing go any faster?

“John Bond is the best man I know,” Reverend Wilson said. “He could have cut and run fifteen years ago, but he stayed, despite his sorrow.”

“What sorrow?” Kim asked.

“My, um, sister doesn’t know about his wife,” Sonya said.

“John’s married?” Kim said.

“Not anymore,” Sonya said. “His wife died fifteen years ago.”

“Right on this road,” Reverend Wilson said.

That’s … creepy.

“Did both her wedding and her funeral,” Reverend Wilson said. “A preacher ain’t ever supposed to do that. They’re supposed to bring their kids to my funeral. You know, you remind me of Sheila in some ways. You got a strong, unyielding, powerful faith. Sheila was never afraid to be a Christian. She told everybody. Just like you. You told the entire world.”

“What other ways, Reverend?” Kim asked.

“I, uh … Hmm.” Reverend Wilson smiled. “I might have, um, overstepped things a little. You don’t exactly favor her in the looks department.”

“I’ve seen her picture, Reverend,” Sonya said. “I know we had different body types.”

“May I speak freely in your sister’s presence?” Reverend Wilson asked.

Sonya nodded.

“Sheila was a flirt,” Reverend Wilson said, “and so are you.”

“I am not a flirt,” Sonya said.

“Yes, you are, Sonya,” Kim said.

Sonya turned to look at Kim. “Hush.”

“Oh, Sheila wasn’t a flirt in the usual sense,” Reverend Wilson said. “Sheila only flirted with John. All the time. Even during service. The young lady just couldn’t keep her eyes or hands off him at any time. The older and, um, wiser ladies of the church had to speak to her often about it, but she never stopped. Seemed to help their marriage, you know?” Reverend Wilson cut his eyes toward Sonya. “Seemed to make their marriage stronger.”

I like this man, Sonya thought. He gives advice without really giving it. Subtle, but effective.

After dropping Kim off at the Holiday Inn Express, they drove a little ways to Monroe County High School.

“Good thing you’re dressed for it,” Reverend Wilson said.

“I only travel in sweats,” Sonya said.

“Are you still representing Nike?” Reverend Wilson asked.

Sonya blinked. “Um, no.”

“You still look like you did twenty years ago, Sonya Richardson,” Reverend Wilson said.

“Did John tell you?” Sonya asked.

“No,” Reverend Wilson said. “A woman in our church did. Researched it and everything. We all know, but we’ve been keeping it a secret. Who would believe anyone from Burnt Corn, Alabama, anyway?”

Sonya opened her door. “Thank you. Um, I don’t want you to tell him I’m here. I just want to watch for a bit first.”

Reverend Wilson raised his eyebrows. “He sees me, he’ll know you’re here.”

“Hide.”

Reverend Wilson laughed. “Woman, I was born big. I never won at hide ’n’ seek. We can look in through the crack in that door over there.”

Sonya crept up to the door and looked inside. Hey, there he … is. Hmm. What kind of dribbling is that? He’s practically bouncing the ball over his head! He has to jump just to dribble it again. Every kid in the gym is laughing at him! Pass the ball—that kid is open! That was a pass? Those poor bleachers! Is the ball deflated? At least he runs without tripping over the lines. Not bad on defense, but he’s smiling entirely too much. I never smiled when I played defense. But at least he’s having fun, and those kids seem to adore him.

Sonya opened the door and stepped inside.

A tiny black girl no older than four immediately latched on to her leg. “It’s Jazz!”

And then Sonya was surrounded by every shade of brown on planet Earth, kids of all shapes, ages, and sizes, at least a dozen smiling, laughing kids.

Sonya looked at the little girl attached to her leg. “What’s your name?”

“Keisha. You’re tall, Jazz.”

John walked through the crowd holding the ball. “Hi. Get lost?”

“Yeah.” Hug me. Don’t mind the kids.

John looked over Sonya’s head. “No cameras?”

“They’re on their way to Florida.”

John smiled and gave her a hug.

A chorus of “oooh” echoed in the gym.

But I didn’t come here just for a hug. “Gimme the ball. I need to teach you a few lessons.”

Another chorus of “oooh” echoed in the gym.

“Give her some room, y’all,” John said. “She’s gonna try to school me.”

The kids scattered to a set of bleachers.

John handed the ball to Sonya. “It, um, it has a little dent in it.”

“From that last pass of yours.” This ball has seen many better days. Voit? They still make basketballs? Not even leather.

John smiled at Reverend Wilson. “Reverend, you want to referee this?”

Reverend Wilson sat on the first row of the bleachers. “What’s to referee? She has ball first.”

“She might miss,” John said.

“Didn’t little Timmy get ball first last time you played him?” Reverend Wilson asked.

“Yeah,” John said.

“And didn’t little Timmy beat you the last time you played?” Reverend Wilson asked.

“How little is little Timmy?” Sonya asked.

“He’s five,” John said. “But he’s big for his age. Great fade-away. Drives the lane hard. Very sharp elbows. A terror on defense.”

“Check it up,” Sonya said, tossing the ball to John.

John fumbled with the ball before securing it to his chest. “You said you wouldn’t block my shot.”

“You ain’t gonna get a shot, boy.”

Another chorus of “oooh” from the kids.

I like this audience. They are into our game. “Pass it—no. Roll it to me, John. I don’t want you to put a dent in me.”

John rolled the ball to Sonya and started doing jumping jacks.

This time the kids laughed.

“What are you doing?” Sonya asked.

“I call it the jumpin’ John defense,” John said. “It may look ridiculous, but it’s designed to make my opponent laugh so hard that he, or she, in this case, can’t concentrate.”

Sonya smiled, shook her head, and then laughed.

“See, it’s working.” He pointed to the foul line. “Since you haven’t warmed up, I’ll give you that shot right there.”

“At the foul line? No sweat.” She shot, but the ball rimmed out.

John snatched the rebound. “She missed!” He faced the crowd. “What, no cheering for the home team?”

The kids were silent.

A dozen kids silent on a Friday night? And after a potluck dinner? That’s creepy.

“I don’t get no respect.” John high-bounced the ball out to the three-point line. “You sure you don’t want to warm up?”

“I’m good,” Sonya said. “And why are you dribbling so high?”

John dribbled even higher. “I like to dribble this way. Easier on my back.”

“It’ll be easy to steal it from you.”

John winked. “Come get it, then.”

“If you insist.”

Sonya jab-stepped up to John, trying to time the bounces. John bounced it even higher over her head toward the basket, slipped around her, caught the ball in midair, and shot a short jumper.

Swish.

“Hey, that’s …” Sonya started to say.

John collected the ball. “Huh?”

Sonya blinked. That was completely legal. “Nothing.”

“One–nuttin’,” John said, and he dribbled the ball in and out of his legs back to the three-point line.

“And now you’re … dribbling.” Exceptionally well, too.

John dribbled the ball side to side behind his back. “Check it up.” He threw a perfect chest pass to Sonya.

Sonya rolled the ball back. “You scammin’ me? You can actually play?”

John spun the ball on his finger. “I had Keisha watching out the door. When she told me you had arrived, I put on a show. What took you a few years to master has taken me twenty long, hard years, thanks to these kids.”

“But you told me you were terrible.”

John smiled. “I told you that I was terrible.”

“He was, yo,” a tall boy in the stands said. “He flattened a ball once with a layup.”

“It was a cheap ball, Jamal,” John said.

“But still,” Jamal said. “A layup.”

Sonya moved closer. “You’re full of surprises.”

John turned to the bleachers. “Who da champ?”

The kids yelled, “Jazz!”

John doubled over, shaking his head. He stood. “Y’all want a ride home? Let’s try that again. Who da champ?”

The kids made faces and rolled their eyes. “You are.”

Sonya dropped her butt, stuck out her left arm, and bounced on the balls of her feet. “Bring it, champ.”

John picked up his dribble and pointed at Sonya. “Y’all see that? That’s how you play good defense. Look at her form. Textbook.”

And I haven’t done this in a while. My hamstrings are already singing the blues. “We gonna play or what?”

“Okay.” John started dribbling forward, then spun and backed Sonya down into the paint.

Sonya put her hand on his hip. “You’re gonna post me up?”

“Every time till you stop me,” John said.

Sonya shoved a forearm into his back. “Keep talkin’.”

“You’re too close, too close …” John stepped back, jumped, squared his shoulders in midair, and made a bank shot high off the glass. “Two–nuttin’.”

Sonya retrieved the ball and fired it to him. “Doin’ that Tim Duncan junk.”

“Tim Duncan will make the Hall of Fame doin’ that junk.”

True. “Come on.”

John started backing her down again, faked left, spin-dribbled right, and drove the baseline.

Sonya leaped for the block, but John froze, drop-stepped under her sailing body, and did a reverse layup. “Three–nuttin’.”

“That … that ain’t right.”

John snapped up the ball. “You were famous for that move, Sonya. Thought you would have seen that one coming.”

Keisha ran out onto the court. “C’mon, Jazz. Please beat him. He hasn’t lost in years.”

Say what? Years? Sonya looked at Jamal. “Jamal, did he beat you?”

“Every time,” Jamal said, “and it hurts, yo. He doesn’t miss.”

“He gonna miss tonight,” Sonya said. “Consider the ball is checked, yo.”

“Yo.” John stepped behind the three-point line, rose high into the air, shot, and hit nothing but net. “Five–oh.”

Sonya picked up the ball and pointed at a spot near half court. “Give you that one.” She fired a pass to him.

John caught the ball and moved to the spot. He held up one finger. “Wind out of the southeast at half a mile per hour.”

“Just take the shot.” Sonya turned to the kids. “And, y’all, root for me or something. Y’all are too quiet.”

The kids were silent.

“He gonna make it,” Keisha said.

“Ahem,” John said. “I call … bank.” John shot the ball with a high arc, and it banked off the square and went in. “Seven to … um … zero.” John smiled. “Jazz, how did you know that was my favorite shot?”

Sonya picked up the ball. I need to get in this man’s grill. “Who beat you last?” she whispered.

“Reverend Wilson. He played at Auburn back in the day. I couldn’t get around him. He posted me into the wall every chance he got.”

“There’s still a little hole in that wall, too,” Reverend Wilson said.

I can’t believe this. “Seven–oh is a skunk where I’m from.” She handed the ball to John. “Run it back.”

John sighed. “If you insist …”

John, indeed, could not miss. He did a Magic Johnson hook shot, the Kareem Abdul-Jabbar skyhook, the Allen Iverson running one-hander, the Sam Perkins three-point set shot, and the Bob Cousy two-hander from the elbow.

“Six–oh,” he said.

Sonya moved close to him. “Please miss,” she whispered.

John closed his eyes, lobbed it underhanded from the three-point line, and clanked it badly.

The kids cheered.

Sonya corralled the rebound and dribbled to the top of the key. “You give me this one?”

“No.” He jab-stepped out to her. “You have to earn it.”

Sonya tried to dribble around him, but everywhere she turned, John was there. “You can really play D.”

“I’m just imagining you in that bikini,” John whispered. “Have to stay real close.”

Okay, old bones, at least get by him once. She tried her patented crossover, but John stole it easily. Shoot!

“I expected that. Game point.”

Sonya crossed her arms. “Go ahead. End this thing.”

John nodded. “I intend to.” He dribbled to the foul line. “I think I’ll use the Rick Barry granny shot.” He shot a free throw underhanded, and it swished in. “Game.” He smiled. “You should have warmed up first.”

Sonya jabbed a finger into his chest. “I will beat you one day.”

“Even if it takes you the rest of your life?” John asked.

As mad as I am for my sudden lack of skills, I have to hug him. Sonya wrapped her arms around him.

“Oooh.”

“It won’t take me that long,” Sonya said. “Gimme a couple days.”