Shame (8 page)

“Bad fence,” was all Oz had to say when he climbed back in. I had seen it too. The strands of barbed wire as far as we could see were loose and sagging, and some of the posts had broken or were rotting. No self-respecting farmer would present such a face to the world.

We followed a twin-rutted track through the dead grass, down a rise, and into a stand of cottonwoods. In amongst them nestled Phillip's small mobile home: white corrugated tin siding with aqua trim, old tires arrayed on the tin roof to hold it on during high winds, a protective grouping of junk cars guarding any approach with the assistance of some old appliances, a century-old plow, a pile of bottles, and a big black half-Brahma who raised her tail and delivered a powerful yellow stream of urine to commemorate our arrival.

We sat for a moment in the truck after I shut off the engine, and not, I assure you, because we were afraid of the big black half-Brahma heifer. But then I saw a curtain pull aside slightly in the front window, and I opened my door and got out, hands wide of my body so he could see that I came in peace.

Oz reluctantly followed my lead, and even from the far side of the truck I could see his huge Adam's apple rise and fall as he gulped.

Then the door opened with a screech of ill-fitting metal on metal, and the barrel of a .30-30 slowly emerged, rose, and looked me right in the eyes. I may have gulped then as well, although I don't remember it. All I remember was looking into the dark opening of that rifle and thinking that if Phillip One Horse was crazy or drunk enough to put eight pounds of pressure on the trigger, I was a dead man.

“Phillip, it's Oz and John,” I heard Oz call, a catch in his voice. “Can we talk with you for a bit?”

The rifle did not move. I saw the bluish sheen of the barrel and observed that while everything else on the farm might be falling down around him, Phillip was still taking good care of this rifle. He always did love to hunt. He was a good shot, too, when he was sober.

These were the thoughts that finally propelled me to join Oz in hailing the castle. “Hey, Phillip, we just want to talk to you for a second. Can we come up to the porch?”

The porch was actually just four steps leading up to the door, but I wasn't willing to stand on formalities at that moment.

The rifle dropped, the door screeched open wider, and Phillip One Horse filled the doorway, as tall and broad-shouldered as I remembered him, and despite the passage of years, no bigger around the waist. The only real difference I could detect was that his long black hair was streaked liberally with gray.

“What do you want?” he asked softly, and his voice was not angry, but it was colored with sadness and weariness.

“Long time no see,” I heard myself babbling, and in that moment wished he hadn't taken the gun off me; the resulting relief had pushed rational thought from my head.

“Yes,” he said. “What do you want?” He seemed pretty sober to me.

“I don't guess you'd believe we just dropped by to say howdy,” I said.

“You haven't been to see me once since I got out of prison,” he said. “Why start now?”

“We've come with a proposition,” Oz said, which may not have been an improvement, but then again you didn't have to be God in heaven to see that I wasn't getting anywhere. “We're getting our old team together to play a fund-raiser for the school. Against John's high school team. In December, during the holidays. Our twentieth reunion.” The strain of talking so much wore on Oz; if he'd had to utter one more sentence it would have been about one word long.

Phillip turned to me. We were about ten feet apart—the height of a basketball goal—and his eyes looked out of a face that I could now see was worn and lined beyond his—our—years. We held each other's gaze for a long moment. I could feel his questions, feel his sadness, and I was ashamed that I had come.

What was a stupid game compared to this kind of sadness?

At last, he looked down at the top step. “No,” he said. He turned to go inside, and Oz turned to go back to the truck.

“Phillip,” I called, and I stepped forward to the base of the stairs. “Do you remember that Comanche game? Remember those rebounds? Seventeen of them. Maybe Oz made that last crazy shot, but he wouldn't have had the ball if you hadn't pulled it down and passed it out to him.”

“That's right,” Oz said, as though he had just remembered, and maybe he had, although I doubt it; when a man is renowned all his life for one exploit, he tends to know it inside and out, although it may be embellished, polished up, as the years pass. “When my man put up that jumper, I peeled off and headed down court.”

“That's right,” Phillip repeated. He turned around, and there was something new in his face as he groped for that memory. He raised the first two fingers and thumb of his right hand to his lips as though he were getting ready to insert a pinch between his cheek and gum, but he just left them there, tapping gently. “Guy shot from the top of the key. It hit the front right of the rim and I outjumped their center for it. It came off the rim funny. Cleared it out over half-court to you with a baseball pass.” And as the light of remembrance took over his face, something that was almost a smile flickered across it.

“Right to me,” Oz said excitedly. “A great pass with something on it, or I never would have got the shot up to beat the buzzer.”

“But you did get him the ball,” I said, stepping forward. “We won that game and went on to the finals that year because of you. Couldn't have done it without you. And it won't be the same playing again without you. What do you say?”

He looked at me and then across at Oz, and in the process, his gaze took in deceased washing machines and the broken-windowed carcass of a '66 Chevy Impala. The light across his face flickered and then went out.

“It's
not
the same, John,” he said quietly. “Playing a game is exactly what it would be. It's just pretending.” He took a deep breath, shook his head, and turned to go again.

“Wait,” I said. “Phillip, let me say one more thing.” And to my surprise he stayed where he was, although he did not turn around. “It must seem silly to you, and you've got no reason to want to come. I know that, and I don't blame you. It seems pretty silly to me, too.” The shame was deep, washing over me as I spoke the truth: “But this isn't silly—we didn't stand by you. I didn't stand by you.” I raised my hands, palms up.
Mea culpa
. “We weren't good friends. You're right. But if you want to come to the gym Sunday afternoon at three to shoot around with us, we'd be proud to have you. No matter what's happened in between, no matter how we let you down.”

It was a pretty good speech, certainly heartfelt, and I guess maybe I expected him to turn around and smile and maybe we would all have driven into town together for a celebratory chocolate shake at the Sonic or something. But when he looked back, his face was even graver, and what he repeated was, “You were not good friends.”

“No,” I said, and I bit my lip, and then went on. “We were not. I hope you can forgive us. That maybe we can start over.”

He didn't say anything, make any gesture, answer in any way that I could see except to step back inside his trailer and pull the door shut with a screech. Oz and I stood there for a moment, the only sound the snorting breath of the Brahma heifer. After a time, the two of us got back in the truck and returned to town.

We didn't talk until we reached the city limits, and all I said was, “Well, Bobby Ray'll say ‘I told you so.'”

“Maybe,” Oz said, some moments later, as I pulled back into the parking lot. “But anyway, I'm glad we went.”

We shook hands, and he tied his smock back on and walked down the street toward what remained of downtown, toward his polished counter, his orderly plastic bottles, although I sensed that he'd find little satisfaction in them today.

Basketball practice wouldn't start until 2:20, but I drove to the gym, changed into practice clothes, and played full speed by myself for an hour, rebounding my misses, chasing down errant shots, driving, juking, jumping, pushing myself until my shirt was heavy with sweat and my eyes stung, until weariness crept pleasantly into my legs and shoulders and upper arms. Finally I draped myself across the first row of bleachers while my players filed in from their last class of the day.

And that's where I sat for the remainder of practice. “Full court scrimmage,” I called. They'd earned a day just to play; they had worked hard. So for an hour, I let them run the floor, let them execute the plays we'd drilled over and over, let B. W. find the open man, as he could do better than anyone I had ever seen, far better than I could on the best day of my life, and while I had the whistle in my teeth and was supposed to be calling fouls, what I ended up doing was watching B. W. and realizing for the first time—even though I'd coached him for three years, even though I'd watched every game he'd played since junior high, even though I'd played him myself hundreds of times since he was old enough to loft the ball as high as the basket—that he was the real thing. He had the physical gifts, but there was more to it than that; he had the intelligence to know he'd have a cutter coming back door, to loft a pass to Micheal Wilkes when Micheal's defender shifted around to front him and left the path to the basket open, to penetrate the lane and dish the ball off to Bird for an easy jumper when the defense collapsed to cut off his drive.

It was more than intelligence; basketball intelligence can be learned, but instincts are something you can't teach, and that's what he had.

So maybe I fell down on my duty as referee. It was not a huge failing; they called their own fouls, mostly, and I caught the most flagrant that went uncalled. What was important, what stayed with me, was what I saw that day, what I learned.

I learned that my son was something special, the basketball player I always wanted to be and never was, and I don't think he realized it any more than I had.

So when B. W. popped a jumper from the top of the key with Albert Heap of Birds right in his face, his arms raised, when that beautiful high arc passed through the net like a diver cleanly knifing into the water, I whistled practice to an end. I wanted to keep that image, and so I exercised the power I possessed to preserve it unsullied. “Take your laps,” I called. “Then hit the showers. You played hard. Tomorrow we'll go back to drills.”

They took off like the tired but happy kids they were. But before B. W. could hit his stride, I dropped my hand to his shoulder to detain him, patted him awkwardly a couple of times, and said, finally, “It's a joy to watch you play.”

He smiled—almost sadly, then said, simply, “Thanks, Dad.” And he sprinted off to catch up to the others.

I watched, shaking my head and smiling. It was a day when I learned much, not the least of which was that not all memorable events transpire in morning time.

October 20, 1994

Mr. Bill Cobb
Cobb and Associates
12344 N. Preston Road
Dallas, TX 75231

Dear Bill:

The Watonga school board has asked me to convey to you our appreciation for your generous donation to the school's basketball program. As you directed, your money will be used to buy new game jerseys for the high school varsity team, and I am pleased to inform you that your gift will be acknowledged by a plaque in the lobby of the gymnasium and by a presentation made during halftime of the fund-raiser exhibition played between the 1974-75 varsity and the 1994-95 varsity teams in late December.

Again, thank you for your generous contribution to the success of our basketball squad.

Sincerely,

John Tilden, Coach
Watonga High School Eagles basketball team

October 20, 1994

Mr. and Mrs. John Tilden
7743 Sunny Acres
Phoenix, AZ 85372

Dear Mom and Dad,

Good to hear about your plans to come home for Christmas, although it seems silly to come all this way even for such an awe inspiring event as the Bill Cobb Commemorative Basketball Game. I hope we'll get to spend plenty of time with you on either side of that august occasion. Is Candy coming, or does she have other plans? She's welcome, of course, if she wants to come, although she may have to sleep in the hay.

Of course, I could put Michael out there, or she and he could trade off, since they would never be occupying the room at the same time. He's not any better and maybe a lot worse, and it seems to be rubbing off on B. W., believe it or not. I thought I had him, at least, figured out. Now I wonder how completely I may have misunderstood everyone in my life.

Did you guys ever feel like this (or have I gone over the edge anticipating how much I'll be on display in preparing two equally hopeless basketball teams to play each other)? I'm not even sure I understand myself, and I thought I had me pretty much doped out at this stage in my life. Now I find out that there's a whole lot I've assumed to be bedrock-solid about myself that turns out to have been shifting sand.

Forgive me. I'm babbling, and probably to no effect. It is getting late, and I should be in bed. When I see you in December we will solve all my child-rearing problems, get the farm's books in order, see a well-played game between basketball titans, and play dominoes until we drop. That last, at least, is a promise I think we can keep.

Take good care of yourselves. We miss you and look forward to your visit.

Your son,
John

October 20, 1994

Miss Candace Tilden
1425 E. Fifth
Albuquerque, NM 87106

Dear Candy,

Hey, Kid! Thanks for the letter and for the update on important events in your life. I have, as you see, noted the new address, as I'm sure Mom and Dad will do when you next write them, which I hope you will do soon (hint, hint). Like you, I don't know how they're going to react, seeing as how they don't even know Arturo exists yet (!!!), but as I see it, the possibilities are limited to three: there will be shock, surprise, and dismay (although I hope not, and maybe I have eased the way for you a little thanks to my scarlet past); there will be grudging acceptance, with a suggestion that you two find your way to the altar as soon as practical; or there will be absolutely no reaction, since you are twenty years old and capable of making your own decisions. Like you, I hope for the last and fear the first. I suppose we'll see what we shall see.

Don't let connubial bliss or whatever you call it interfere with your studies, or with Arturo's. Is he still on target to graduate in May if he finishes his dissertation? I think it's an impressive accomplishment, and I hope you'll relay that on to him. I once thought I might be doing something like that, but at least I can enjoy his achievements, and yours too, of course. I'm proud of you both, and I've realized recently that I don't say those words often enough to the people I love. Forgive me for that.

Anyway, the time is now. Break the news. If Mom calls, I won't just up and tell her, but if she asks, I'm not going to lie to her. Don't put me in that position, okay? Even if telling them is hard, putting it off won't make it easier.

Ask one who knows.

Lots going on here, but I don't feel capable of writing about it just now. Maybe with some distance I will look back on all of it and laugh. But right now, it feels like I'd just like to go back and start over again from the beginning.

Dangerous thoughts, I know. Try not to do things you'll regret, okay?

Love,
John