First Position (12 page)

One night, Emory didn’t show up on the sidelines during the game.  John assumed they were in the stands.  But Emory was still in her car seat, her mother slumped over the steering wheel, their car twisted around a telephone pole, the work of a drunk driver who plowed into their car on a poorly-lit backroad near the stadium, killing himself and her mother instantly.  Secured by her car seat, Emory didn’t suffer a scratch but couldn’t unhook herself, ripping at the buckles with her little hands to free herself.  But as hard as she tried, she couldn’t get out.  She began screaming and crying for her mother to talk or move, furiously kicking her mother’s seat in front of her, hoping to stir her mother to life.  Emory kicked and kicked and kicked, until the game ended and help arrived.  Her mother was dead at twenty-eight.

John had no idea how to care for, or console, a four-year-old girl.  He was a grizzled football coach with a knack for motivating boys on and off the football field and just couldn’t get through to his baby girl, who seldom spoke and seemed to have forgotten how to laugh.  She preferred to cry, freely and often.  He took a few weeks off from coaching -- for himself and Emory -- and returned for a game against a division rival.  Emory sat alone on a bench on the sidelines with no interest in the game.  John occasionally looked at her during the game, but she didn’t respond.  She missed her mother.

There was a timeout on the field, and the school band struck up the school fight song.  Emory looked into the crowd, the dance team capturing her attention, swaying and stomping and moving in unison in the bleachers.  Her face lit up, a huge smile crossed her lips, and she began to dance, her blonde pigtails bouncing as she did.  Players surrounded her on the sidelines and danced along with her, encouraging her, as the crowd roared with delight.  John turned his attention from the field, wondering what was the fuss during the timeout.  He looked along the sidelines, and saw his daughter dancing and smiling -- with his players and the crowd cheering her on.  A tear came into his eye.  The next day, he enrolled Emory in ballet, and she thrived.

A thin layer of sweat covered Emory as she danced in Wesley’s studio.  Ballet had rescued her when she was four, and when her relationship with Mason ended, and at other times she preferred to forget.   It would now cleanse her from Eric’s unwelcome touch.  She was twenty-eight -- on the verge of out-living her mother -- and wondering where her life was going.

The studio door opened.  “Emory, are you OK?” Wesley asked, knowing she only danced this intensely, and this long, when something was wrong.

Emory slowed her movement.  “I’m good. Better now.”

“You’ve been down here for hours.”

“Really?  I lost track.”

“I’ve got a class soon.  Is your ankle OK?”

“Fine.”  She grabbed a towel and patted her skin. 

“What happened?”  Emory told him about her encounter with Eric, during which Wesley expressed some interest in the size and shape of Eric’s towel.  Emory laughed, then assured Wesley she was fine, and would be even better after a shower and some dinner.  She kissed his cheek and left.

* * *

Mason spent ten minutes which seemed like an hour trapped inside an MRI machine.  He had to remain still, but his stomach churned.  It wasn’t just the alcohol from the morning flight, or that his body was slightly off from the time change, or the tight, spinning space and intermittent clicking he heard as the machine spit out pictures.  He was anxious to hear from Emory.  He’d texted and called several times since landing in Seattle, but no response.
 
Where is she?  With Eric
?
 

A female nurse entered the room with Steven close behind.  “All done,” she said, pressing some buttons on a computer.  Mason scooted out of the machine and reached for his phone.

“Everything go OK?” Steven asked her.  Mason didn’t look up, his fingers moving quickly on his phone.

“Fine,” she said.  “The doctor will take a look at the films this afternoon.”  She picked up some supplies and left the room.

“Dude, give it a rest!  She’s probably just banging a few guys while you’re out of town.”

“Fuck you,” Mason said, as Steven took out his phone.

“You calling Olivia again?  What’s that, six times today?”

“She’s pregnant, stupid.  Let me just check in, and then we can head to the hotel.”

* * *

After a shower and an early dinner, Emory needed to make some long overdue calls.  She picked up her cell, which she’d forgotten that morning, and the battery was dead.  She charged it in the den and used her land line in her room to tell several friends and family members about her break-up with Eric.  They were sympathetic and sorry, but not really surprised.  She decided not to mention Mason.

Emory had one last phone call to make.  She put on a brave face and dialed, then paced around her room anxiously, hoping she could just leave a voicemail, not wanting to talk to her father about the break-up.  Her father had been through enough in his life -- she never wanted to burden him with anything else.  When Mason broke up with her, she didn’t talk to him for weeks because she knew he’d force the truth from her, and she didn’t want him to bear it.
 
Let him enjoy his life without worrying about my drama
.
 

On the fifth ring, John picked up, startling her.  “Hi, Daddy.”  She put a hand behind her neck, trying to calm the hairs sticking up, and sat on her bed.

“Hi, baby girl.”  John was alone in his office, dressed in a baggy sweatsuit, drawing plays on a chalkboard.  It seemed he hadn’t shaved, or left the office, in a week.  He took a seat in an old chair behind his messy desk, covered with plays scribbled on napkins and an empty pizza box sitting to the side.

John still coached the same high school team in the same Georgia town, a few hours outside Atlanta.  While Emory always dreamed of getting out, and college provided that, John couldn’t leave and didn’t want to anyway.  He was a local hero, having shaped the lives of his players for decades.  His former quarterback was the town sheriff; the largest defensive tackle he ever coached now sold real estate; and a speedy cornerback owned the local grocery store.  John loved that his players, for the most part, remained in town to work and raise their families, and had turned out to be good and decent men.  He didn’t want to leave them.  He also couldn’t leave where his wife had died and was buried.  He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, though he wished he saw his daughter more often.  “You usually call after Sunday mass.  I was beginning to get worried.” 

“How are you doing, Daddy?”

“I’m fine.  Just ate some dinner.  Now fiddling around with some new plays and some new schemes.”

“Offense or defense?”

“Defense.”  He looked down at the mess in front of him and scratched his head.

“Thinking about changing to a 3-4 defense?”

His face perked up.  “Well, yes I am.  How’d you know we’ve been running a 4-3?”

“Daddy, you know I keep up with the team on the Internet.”  Emory smiled, stretching out on her bed, trying to relax.  “Read some stories here and there about the team.” 

“We’ve got some kids graduating, and next year I don’t think we’ll have the horses to stay with a 4-3.  But I don’t expect you called to talk about my defense.”

Emory sighed.  “No, I didn’t.” 

“What is it, baby?”  John sat up straight in his chair, rubbing the stubble on his face.  “You can tell me anything.”

“I know.”   She nervously twirled her hair.  “It’s just hard.”

“Emory?”  John said, the concern in his voice growing.

Emory sat up in bed and took a deep breath.  “Eric and I broke off the engagement.”  John didn’t respond, other than to let out a wry smile that Emory would never see.  “Daddy, did you hear me?”

“Sure,” he said,  “I just wanted to make sure you were through talking.”

“Daddy, now please don’t worry.  I’m fine.  Eric just wasn’t the guy for me.  On paper, we seemed perfect, but my heart just didn’t, well, I just didn’t. . . .”   Emory stammered, her voice breaking, unable to find the words to express herself. 

“Oh, honey.  I’m not worried.”

“You’re not?”

“No.  Let me ask you a question.  Did you break it off?”

“Yes.”

“Good for you.”

“Good?”

“Absolutely,” he said, proud of his daughter.  “You know your name means strength.  You make the decisions.  And usually good ones.”

* * *
                                                       

Mason and Steven got out of a limo and checked into their hotel.  The Seahawks, like the Panthers before them, spared no expense in rolling out the red carpet, putting the brothers in adjoining suites on a high floor overlooking the Space Needle.  They quickly dropped off their bags and took the elevator back down to the lobby to decide on a place to eat, a hard rain lashing against the windows.

“It wasn’t raining when we checked in,” Steven observed, as Mason stared at his phone.  “I heard it rains something like 250 days a year here.  That’s fucking insane.”

“Yeah,” Mason muttered, typing another text to Emory.

“Dude, you are so pussy-whipped.”

“Shut up, weatherman.”  Mason put his phone in his pocket.

Steven laughed, thinking Mason’s dig was rather funny, and decided to give his hopeless, little brother a pass.  “Where are we eating tonight?”  Steven wanted to talk strategy with Mason about the Seahawks meeting the next day.  He also, as instructed by Olivia, needed to get the scoop on Mason’s new relationship with Emory, if it even was a relationship.  Dinner, he hoped, would be a time to put down the phones, and get to talking.

But Mason again ignored his brother and just stared at the falling rain.
 
Where the hell is she
?
   A phone dinged, both brothers reaching quickly for their phones.  It was another text from Olivia to Steven.

“I’m just going back up to the room,” Mason said, sulking.  “I’ll get room service.”

Steven couldn’t decide who was worse company: his love-sick brother or hormone-crazed, pregnant wife.  “Do what you want, bro.  The weatherman is going out.”

* * *

John was excited by Emory’s news but would never say so.  He tried not to meddle in his daughter’s life, but when an opportunity presented itself, he took it.  He stood up from his desk and walked to the chalkboard.  “Let me tell you something, Emory.”  He picked up a piece of chalk and began to doodle.  “I know you don’t remember your mother very well, and I never wanted to bring another woman into your life, and maybe that was wrong, because you never saw growing up what true love looks like.”

Emory’s eyes filled with tears.  “Daddy, please, you don’t. . . .”  She grabbed a tissue from her nightstand and dabbed her eyes.

“No, no, baby,” he said.  “Your mother was the most beautiful woman I ever saw.  She was the first thing I thought of in the morning and my last thought at night.  Still is.  She made my life so full of love.  Still does.  She gave me you.”  Emory reached for a picture of her mother on her dresser, pressing it against her heart.  “Every night after you’d go to sleep, we would dance in the kitchen to that old radio.  I can still remember how she smelled like lemons from the dish soap.”

He continued to doodle, and Emory reached for another tissue.  “I placed a rose on her pillow on our anniversary each year.”  John took a quick step back from the chalkboard to admire his progress, seeing it was coming together.  “I still do that every year on our anniversary.  Then I take the rose to your mom.”  He turned the chalk on its side for shading.

“Oh, Daddy,” Emory said, sniffling.

John finished his work and sat back in his chair, admiring the rose he’d drawn.  “My point is this.  I never saw you and Eric that way.  He was nice enough and would take good care of you.  But I want you to have what your mother and I had.  You deserve that.  And you weren’t going to have it with him.”  

She heard her phone ding in the den and plopped on her bed.  “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“You needed to figure it out for yourself.  You did what you thought was best, and so did I.”

“What do you mean?”

“I gave Eric permission to marry you -- he’s a good guy.  But I didn’t give him your mother’s ring to give you.  I didn’t fee
l
tha
t
good about him.”

Emory laughed.  “You’ve always been a good judge of character.”

“Yes, I am.  But let’s not talk about me.”  John massaged the stubble on his weathered face.  “Who’s the new guy?”

Emory sat up in her bed, her heart beating out of her chest, the room spinning wildly.
 
How does he know
?
  She didn’t dare tell her father.  He’d loved Mason -- they bonded over Emory and football -- but her father had yet to forgive him for breaking her heart.

“Come on, Emory, I know there is someone new.  I can hear it in your voice.”