Beyond Lucky (10 page)

This is a bad idea. The worst I've ever heard. If they throw the game, we will be finished. There will be no team. But since Mac thinks it will be great, everyone agrees.

“That'll teach her,” Eddie says. Too loud.

Soup tells Eddie to pipe down. “She is right over there.”

Mac tells him not to worry. The diner is loud. And Coach would never consider benching them. “I'll tell the rest of the guys.” Then he acts like the whole plan is going to be fun. “She won't know what hit her. I almost want you to take a game off.”

Now I know he's not serious. We all care too much about the game to intentionally mess up. Mac just needs to see that his friends are on his side. He likes to act like he would take a stand, but he would never do it. The truth is, everyone can be replaced. Even him.

Big Dave takes our plates away. He asks, “You want change?”

It costs three dollars and twenty-five cents each. We all shake our heads no. I punch Mac in the arm. To show him I know this is a joke. “I play one good game, and you guys already have me replaced.”

Mac twirls on his stool. “It's just hypothetical. I'm sure you're going to be great all year.” He smiles. “Especially now that you have a secret lucky talisman.”

“A secret what?” Eddie says loud enough for everyone to hear.

I step on Mac's foot, but either his feet are numb or he has forgotten our agreement. He better come up with something good.

“What do you mean? What's a talisman? Are you on the 'roids?” Eddie thinks he is so funny. “Haven't you heard about all those athletes who go bonkers and kill their families because they take that stuff?”

Mac says, “Biggs, you are a loon. Fish is not taking anything. A talisman is a lucky charm. Want to take a guess?” He smiles like this a game of twenty questions. No guilt. All fun. His game.

I say, “I thought you weren't going to tell.”

Mac shrugs. They each take a turn.

A prize in the cereal box. A four-leaf clover. A letter from Sam.

Mac looks bored. He says, “You're all wrong. Fish got himself a Timcoe card.”

 

In Somerset Valley, when you say the words
Timcoe
and
card,
you always attract a crowd.

Parker runs down the aisle so fast she practically knocks over a waitress. Mischelotti appears out of nowhere. Even Big Dave interrupts a customer to stand over me.

Eddie asks, “Can we see it?”

I could tell them Mac is a joker, but he would probably call me out on that.

I could say I don't have it with me.

Or I could walk out of here. This was my secret to tell—not Mac's. I could call him out and make him feel terrible. But the truth is the damage is done. I'm almost as bad as Eddie. When Mac makes me mad, I always end up apologizing. Usually before lunch.

Eddie asks again, “Well, aren't you going to show everyone?”

Mischelotti punches me in the arm. “Or are you just messing with us?”

Everyone looks at me. “I'm not messing with anyone.” There's no going back now. “Give me some space.”

Why shouldn't everyone know? We are a team and everyone can celebrate with me. Maybe Mac is doing me a favor.

I slowly open the front flap. I take out the plastic bag. Mac steps back, but every other eye is on my hands as I remove Sam's letter and begin to unfold it.

Slowly.

Carefully.

“Ah!” In the fluorescent light, the blue and the red glow: the lettering,
Wayne Timcoe, goalkeeper, New England,
looks 3-D.

Eddie pats my back. “Wow. I never thought I'd see one.”

Soup takes a deep breath and sighs. “It's beautiful.”

Mac says, “Geez, you guys, it's only a card,” but then Big Dave shakes my hand so hard, my fingers tingle. “Nice going there . . . kid. I bet that's worth a couple of big bills.” He wipes off the counter to a shine, and Mac steps away. I can put it down for even more people to admire.

Everyone takes a turn. When Parker finally stands next to me, we stare at the card and she breathes and says nothing at all for a very long time. “I've been searching for a Timcoe card since I started collecting. Where did you find it?”

“Ben Elliot's. Green wrapping.”

She touches it with proper reverence, with her palm open. “The card shop? The one with all the cute stuffed animals in the window? I didn't know they stocked trading cards.”

I tell her the entire story, the good horoscope, and Mrs. Elliot's gift. “I also have the entire 2006 Los Angeles Galaxy inaugural squad, plus a Pavel Nedved, a Franz Beckenbauer, and a Little Bird Garrincha.”

“That's great.”

“I know.” I've never seen Parker Llewellyn this speechless.

Before she gives it back, she kisses it just the way I do, on each corner. “Thank you, Ari. You are so lucky.”

My friends go berserk. “Ari's got a girlfriend, Ari's got a girlfriend.” Mac looks like he wants to explode. He tells me to put it away already and that we need to get out of here. On the way home, he says, “I can't believe you let
her
touch
our
Wayne Timcoe card. I can't believe you let her kiss it.”

We walk the rest of the way without saying much. I know I should give him a hard time for spilling the beans, but I have to admit, it was fun showing off Wayne.

Actually, it was great. I liked the way everyone looked at me.

I was worried for nothing. With Wayne Timcoe, my luck has only one direction: up, up, up, up, up.

—Woodrow Wilson

 

 

 

When I get home, my parents are sitting at the kitchen table. I throw my bag on the floor and go straight to the refrigerator.

Good luck makes me thirsty. “What's up?” I ask, after chugging about sixteen ounces of milk from the carton.

Mom hands me a napkin. “Sam is going to call any minute. Did you forget?”

I forgot.

I can't believe I forgot.

On the table, Mom's set up a picture of Sam with his unit. In the photo, they flex their muscles in front of a small propeller plane. Sam loves this picture. It was taken just after his first official jumping mission.

My mother stares at the phone. My father chops vegetables. In California, it is the middle of the afternoon.

When it finally rings, we all jump. Mom presses the speaker phone. “Hey Sammy. Is that you?”

He says, “Hi Mom,” and he is jacked up with news. Since his last call, he has jumped into four brush fires. All are officially contained. He has never jumped so many times in so few days, and sometimes it seems that the entire state is burning.

Then he starts coughing, and my mother is sure he's suffering from carbon monoxide inhalation. “Is there a doctor on the base? Do they check the equipment before you jump?”

His voice turns flat. “Of course there is, Mom. Of course they do. We're professionals,” he says. “So, how's everything at the restaurant?” He always changes the subject when Mom questions his job.

Dad says, “We're doing a special on lamb. For all the other livestock, everything here is hunky-dory. Nothing unusual. Are they giving you enough to eat?”

We stare at the speaker phone for five silent seconds. “Yes.” The tone in his voice makes it clear that we shouldn't ask about his diet either.

So Dad asks if the weather forecasts look good.

Weather is always a safe topic. Even safer than sports.

Sam tells us it's the worst fire season in years, and with the National Guard abroad, there aren't a lot of fresh recruits. They're hoping for some help from a for-hire unit from Pennsylvania or Delaware, but not to worry, everyone is smart. Last night, he slept outside and counted two hundred stars before falling asleep. He's got a blister on his foot that won't heal and sometimes his migraines act up, but otherwise, he's fine.

I think, don't tell him what to do about the blister. And don't suggest that a migraine could be something worse, like a brain tumor or a stroke waiting to happen. And above all else, don't ask the question Sam refuses to answer.

But that's exactly what my mother does. She asks it like it just popped into her head. “So, honey, have you considered coming home in time for next semester to begin?”

Sometimes when she says this, he hangs up. “Mom,” he says, “I have told you a hundred times I am not coming home. I am not going back to U Mass. There is too much to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“They're holding your spot.”

“That's only because you insist on telling them I might change my mind.”

When Sam's mad, he speaks quietly. When Dad's mad, he goes to the stove. When Mom's mad, she wrings her hands. And hands me the phone. “Ari, it's your turn to talk to your brother.”

I turn off the speaker phone and hold the receiver to my ear. Sam must think I'm Dad. “She is so closed minded. After all this time, why does she still think that the only way to be a success is to—”

“Hey Sam.”

“Oh. Hey buddy.”

“I wish you were here. You didn't answer my e-mail. You know Mom is really proud of you. She brags about you all the time.” I run up the stairs and slam the door. “I have so much to tell you!”

He coughs again. Then sighs. “So what's going on? How's the team?”

I replay every moment of the game, saving the best part for last. “But that's not the only reason I e-mailed you. Are you sitting down?”

“I am.”

“I found a Timcoe.”

He goes crazy. “You're joking!”

“No, it's true.” I describe the card, even though he knows exactly what it looks like. “I take it to school and every game inside one of your letters. So it will give you luck too.” Then I add, “Not that you need it.”

Sam thinks that's funny. “Thanks, buddy. You're wrong. It is just what I need.”

We talk a few more minutes, mostly about the presidents, and soccer, and Coach, and Mom's annoying habits. He says, “I'm really happy for you. And I can't wait to get my hands on that Timcoe. Can you put Mom and Dad on speaker? I really have to go.”

I go back downstairs so everyone can gather around the phone. He says, “It looks like I'll be working nonstop for the next few days, so it's hard to say right now, but I'll be in touch.”

Dad says, “Keep us in the loop, son.”

Mom bites her nails.

Sam coughs again. “Don't worry, Mom. I'll call you soon. When I can. I know that sounds vague, but right now, it's all I can promise. Have a great game, little buddy. Trust your gut. I'll stop some fires for you. You stop some balls for me!”

He hangs up.

My mother rubs her hands together, like she wants to start a fire. “I hate to think about what might happen,” she says.

My father pulls a slab of meat out of the oven and begins to carve, although even I know you're supposed to wait ten minutes. “Marjorie, our boy is doing good work. He is a smart man. He's strong. We have to believe he is going to be fine.”

 

Friday night, I can't sleep.

I lie on my side, curled up like a ball, and stare at my alarm clock.

It is 11:08.

09.

10.

The hall light is on and my door is not totally closed. As my eyes adjust, the light seems to get brighter. And brighter. And brighter.

So I get up. Go to the bathroom. Try to pee when I really don't have to. Then I worry that if I fall asleep, I will really have to get up to pee.

I can't wait to face East Livermore.

But I can't relax. This week has been beyond fantastic.

At 11:42, I close my eyes and count to fifty. Ten minutes later, I turn on some soft music and try again. At 12:11, I curse the digital age, the digital clocks, their preciseness, their bright numbers. Why is it called a SLEEP button, if it is there to keep me awake? Somewhere I read that lying in bed with your eyes closed is seventy-five percent as good as actually sleeping. Or was it twenty-five percent?

Or am I making the whole thing up?

I turn on my reading light and study my Torah portion, until I know three entire lines by heart.

I get out of bed. Count presidents. Do fifty push-ups.

I crawl back into bed, determined to relax. I hold the blanket over my head and breathe the warm air. Sam could never sleep before a big game either. He told me that when he felt restless, he made up conscious dreams—in other words, he'd tell himself stories—with extremely good endings. I close my eyes. Maybe that will work for me.

First, Sam flies out of the sky and lands in a patch of brush near a small fire. A house sits just beyond the flames. Sam gets it under control, but then—surprise. A tree bursts into flames. The fire spreads. Sam has to step right in front of it. It is hot, so hot, but eventually, he finds a way to put it out. He walks into one house. There are two kids and their pet iguana, whose name is Jimmy, and Sam takes the pet and gives them a ride to the area school, where their anxious parents are waiting. No one dies or loses or guesses wrong.

Next, the president calls my parents to congratulate them for having one brave son. I stand on the bima at the Temple and I forget every ounce of Hebrew.

And I think I am not naked.

Then the bima becomes a net. Someone kicks a ball toward the left-hand corner.

Balls keep coming. I keep catching. I start throwing. I speak in three different languages. Mac enters a pieeating contest. He eats seven cream pies in five minutes while Eddie Biggs sings the national anthem. Parker sits on the sidewalk. She asks, “Do you want to hang out with me? I want to hang out with you. You are the most fantastic goalkeeper in the United States of America or at least New England. And here are some chips for your sandwich.”