Nothing Special (19 page)

Okay, I got off the bus and am now sitting on my backpack next to this Shell station. (Gift platter is one small wad of sausage—I threw out the box, so nothing's getting hurt from me sitting on it.) Tovi is driving up from Fort Myers to get me. She said it won't take long.

Of course as soon as I got off the bus a new driver showed up and drove off. The lady who was sitting behind me waved. So, now I'm alone at this gas station. I have been in these now chocolate-covered shorts for thirty-six dang hours. Hope Tovi makes it. She has a GPS in the Beemer. And I've got about twenty minutes worth of battery left, Aleah, so I guess I'll tell you the rest of the bad story, huh?

• • •

Bad.

When we got back to the room, Andrew changed into his McEnroe tennis outfit. I showered and put on my big glasses and hat, my disguise. Tovi sat on the bed in her tennis outfit, watching TV and waiting for the rest of us to get ready. And Gus slowly packed his junk in his bag.

“Long damn trip,” he said, shaking his head.

When we were all set, we took the elevator down (in silence).

Even though we'd only been together for a few days, it felt like forever and this felt huge, losing Gus. There would be a hole.

Out at the Celica, Gus threw his bag in the passenger seat, then turned around.

“Wish I could stay,” he said.

“Thanks for teaching me what a narcissist is, man,” I said.

“Thanks for not punching my face when I punched your face,” he said.

My black eye had improved, but it was still there. Felt like the punch was so, so long ago.

“I will never punch your face,” I said.

Then Andrew said, “Gus, I know you think I'm just a little freaky kid, but will you please keep your parents from telling Jerri where I am?”

Gus lied: “They don't even know you're here, dude. You're safe. They just think me and Felton took a joyride.”

“Jerri might ask you, though…” Andrew said.

“Don't worry. It's all under control, muchacho.”

“Thanks.”

“You got it, Randy Stone, you freaking dork.” Before he climbed in, he asked Tovi if she wanted to go with him. She said she did but she wouldn't, and then he blushed really hard and drove off fast.

Tovi said, “That boy has a serious crush on me.”

I nodded.

“He comes up to my neck. Is he too short for me?” she asked.

“I don't think height matters.”

“Oh. Good,” she nodded.

Before we got in the Beemer, I said, “Okay. I'm ready for this. I'm looking forward to this.”

“Just be ready for a mood swing, okay?” Tovi said. “Papa was a little weird when I brought him the chicken, and Andrew can tell you, Papa's not always as smiley as he was yesterday.”

“He actually told me to get the f-bomb out of his house once the first week,” Andrew said.

“And you went back?”

“I feel sorry for him,” Andrew said.

“You're braver than me.”

“Duh.” Andrew smiled.

Tovi was right. When we got to the house, something in Stan's demeanor had changed. When we walked in, he was sitting up front in the living room instead of back in his den (where he generally spends his time, apparently). There was no music playing. He was wearing athletic shoes and a white baseball cap.

“Look who's here,” he said. “The Australian returns. Where's the Venezuelan? He decide he has better things to do than sit around in an old man's house?”

“Gus had to go home, Papa,” Tovi said.

“Caracas?” Stan said.

“No. Wisconsin,” she replied.

Andrew shot her a glance.

“Hmm. The Dairy State?” Stan said. “Looks like Andy is dressed to play. You want to hit some balls, Andy?”

“Yes, sir,” Andrew replied.

Then he turned his attention to me. “How about you, Ricky Martin? Did you know you share your name with a homosexual pop singer? I looked you up on my computer. Good-looking boy.”

“Uh…”

“You want to hit?”

“No shoes,” I said.

“I have some shoes. Follow me.” Stan got up and walked toward the stairs.

“He's not going to fit in your shoes, Papa,” Tovi said.

“Who said they were my shoes? I said
some
shoes.”

I looked at Tovi. She shrugged a little. Maybe more flinched. Stan gestured for me to follow, so I followed him up the stairs. There, at the end of the hall, he dipped into a room and popped back out immediately with a beat-up pair of green-and-white tennis shoes (the same ones I'm wearing right now).

“These are Stan Smiths,” he said. “Classic shoes for a classic game. What do you wear, size thirteens?”

“Twelve”

“Perfect. These are twelve and a half. Funny I should have the right size just lying around my house, don't you think?”

“Yes.”

“They were my son's, Ricky. He was a remarkable tennis player. So good.”

“I don't want to wear them.”

“Just wear them. Did Tovi tell you what he did to himself? Don't worry. There are no ghosts. Here. Take them. These shoes are yours.”

Stan handed them to me and I took them.

“I'll get you some socks too. And, one of my son's racquets will fit you just right, I'm guessing.”

“I can't play. I have a leg problem…”

“I'm not saying you have to play a championship match. Just hit some balls, Ricky. That's all.”

I followed Stan down the stairs. Tovi and Andrew hadn't moved. They were standing straight as nails in the living room, both of them pale.

“Let's play!” Stan shouted.

“I'm not feeling it, Papa,” Tovi said.

“You think just because your grandmother died I'm going to let you go soft?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Tovi said.

“The hell I will,” he said.

At the clubhouse, Stan pulled a racquet out of his locker. “It's from the '80s. Not high tech, but a good stick. Big grip for a guy with big hands like yours.” He handed me the racquet.

“I'm going to hit with Andy over here. Tovi, you show Ricky how it's done. He might want to lose the hat and glasses, though.”

“Okay, Papa,” Tovi said.

I was very relieved he didn't want to play with me.

As Stan and Andrew warmed up, I sat at the edge of the court and pulled on the socks and the old Stan Smith shoes that were my father's. Yes, of course they fit me perfectly.

Tovi said, “That's Steve's racquet, man. You don't have to do this. Just fake a hamstring right away. Don't do this, okay?”

“I'm fine,” I told her. I wasn't fine, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself for refusing or for being hurt, you know? I didn't want to engage Stan by not playing.

I kept my hat on. I pushed it down hard so it stayed glued to my head. I kept the glasses on. We took to the court.

When I was very small, my dad had given me a racquet and lobbed balls over the net at me. I remember him telling me to concentrate, but I was maybe four and there were clouds in the sky and birds, and I remember the fluff from cottonwood trees blowing around. That was the last time I'd hit a tennis ball. For most of my life, Jerri had told me he was a chubby, gentle guy. I still picture a chubby, gentle dad in that memory. My dad was neither.

And then there was my cousin, who I hadn't known until a few days before, standing across the net from me. She said, “You ready?”

The racquet felt good in my hand. I nodded.

She hit the ball spinning toward me. I stepped to my left and awkwardly doinked it back. Tovi bounced lightly to the ball and hit it back softly. I hit the ball a little harder, and it flew long over her head. “Feels weird,” I said.

“Not for long,” she told me.

On the other court, Stan hit balls at Andrew. Andrew bounced balls back over the net from where he stood up close, and Grandpa Stan called, “Look the ball into the racquet, McEnroe, feel it in your hands! That's it. Stay square. Backhand!” Andrew didn't look like he was having any fun, like he did early the day before. But I noticed that he was surprisingly quick to get his racquet on the ball. (His stupid classmates should've been there, should've seen him doing it.)

Tovi and I hit back and forth. The motion got less and less strange. The racquet felt like an extension of my arm.

Stan shouted at Andrew. Andrew moved back in the court. Stan ran him back and forth, and Andrew hit.

Tovi picked up speed, hitting balls that whirred as they approached me. I hit some back. Others I hit long or into the fence next to me or over into Stan and Andrew's court. But some, I just hit right, and that ball just spun perfectly off my father's racquet and shot low over the net.

“Yeah, Felton, you're all right,” Tovi shouted.

I shook my head no. She'd called me Felton. She froze. I looked over at Stan. He was hitting a ball at Andrew, which Andrew missed. And then Andrew, sweating bullets, said, “Um. Stan, I need some water, okay?”

“Go get it, you wimp.”

And then Stan looked at me. “Get over here, Ricky.”

I gripped the racquet hard and looked at Tovi. She didn't move. Then I wandered over onto Stan's court. I didn't know what else to do.

“Lost duckling,” Grandpa Stan said. “Go stand at that back line,” he pointed. “That's called the baseline. Right there. Okay, good. I'll just hit a few at you, see what you got.”

I nodded. He hit a ball right to me and I swung half-assed because I was so weak in my body, so gone, and missed it all together.

“No, no, no, Ricky. See the ball off my racquet. Prepare yourself for where it's going.”

I nodded.

He hit a ball and I lumbered over to it and hit it back, but it was way long.

“You're faster than that, right? Get to the ball. Get prepared.”

He hit again and I sped up. I turned quick and hit a ball just over the net that ended up about a foot wide of the court.

“Better. You get perpendicular to the net next time and that…” and then I remembered. And then I saw him and my dad, clear as everything, my own dad big like me, powerful, running, hitting spinning forehands over the net, right here, right in this place thirteen years ago when I was a wee shit, before everything went to hell, everything broke to pieces.

He hit a ball at me. I turned, crouched, hit it back.

“Better,” Stan said.

He hit another at me and I took two big steps because this thing, this game, is in my body and I know it, and smacked the ball the hell back. And I liked it. I liked the ball coming square off the racquet and ripping the air over the net.

“Jesus Christ,” Stan said.

He pulled another ball out of his shorts and hit it into the corner of the court. In a broken second I was there, and I rifled it back over the net, the ball buzzing as it spun away.

“Water break?” Tovi shouted. She shook her head,
no
, at me.

“I don't think so,” Stan said.

He bent down and picked up another ball. This time he hit far from me, to the far backhand of the court. I turned and leapt and dragged the end of the racquet backhand across the surface, catching the ball before it bounced twice and sailing it with backspin over the net in front of Grandpa Stan who hit it again, hard into the center of the court. I exploded and caught the ball rising up and fired it screaming right past his kneecaps.

Grandpa Stan stopped. He shook his head. “Yes? Do you have something to say?”

“No,” I said.

“Nothing?”

He hit another ball at me, and I cracked it back so hard the air around it screamed.

“Are you saying something?” Stan shouted.

“No!” I shouted back.

He hit another ball right at me and I stepped, turned, and fired it back a million miles an hour.

And then Stan stared at me.

I stared back.

He said, “You,” quietly.

I couldn't move.

“You!” he said. “You!” he repeated. “Take off that hat. Take off that goddamn hat!”

I didn't.

“I know this. I know this goddamn game. Take off your hat!”

I pulled it off. Then I stood straight with the hat in my left hand, my father's racquet in my right.

“Oh, you. Oh, Tovi,” Stan cried. “How could you do this, Tovi? How could you do this to me? You…you ambushed me! You!” He pointed his bony finger at me. “Get out. Get off this court.” He turned to Tovi. “Take this dead boy and get out of here! You little…You did this? Get off of my court. Tovi. Tovi…you did this?”

“Hit me a ball,” I said.

“Get off my court, kid!” Stan shouted.

“
Hit
me
a
goddamn
ball!
” I screamed.

“Tovi. Take this person away. Take him away!”

My hands shook. My brain screamed. My heart exploded. “You did this. You did this. You killed him. You did this,” I started shouting. “And now you want to kill us. You've tried forever to kill…”

“Felton, don't. It's not…It's not true,” Andrew shouted.

“You murdered him and now you want to kill us. You want to kill Andrew.”

“Tovi. Why?” Stan pleaded. “Why would you do this to your grandfather?”

“You're my grandfather!” I screamed. “You're mine…”

And then Stan crumpled to his knees. He cried, “Get off my court!”

Tovi and Andrew ran to him.

And I was gone. I dropped the racquet and ran through the gate and out toward the car, my Grandma Rose's damn Beemer. No place to go. I climbed into the back and fell to my left. I broke the big, stupid glasses with my hand, then gripped my head and cried for my dad.

Moments later Tovi got to the car.

“Get me out of here, Tovi. Get me out of here. Please. Please,” I said.