The Great Santini (19 page)

"Two? Why not one? First guy to ten," Bull protested. "Of course, it's not gonna be that close, sportsfans."

"You have to take it behind the foul line after each shot, Dad."

"Don't stand under the basket, jocko. You might get killed by one of my shots crashing through the basket."

"If you get a shot off."

Ben moved in close to guard his father, who began dribbling toward the basket with deliberate caution. He turned his butt toward Ben and backed toward the basket, dribbling first to the right, then to the left. When Ben tried to reach around to swat at the ball, Bull prevented this by holding him off with his free arm. He took Ben almost underneath the basket, then in a quick, fluid move, he pivoted for a hook shot that caromed lightly off the backboard.

"One to goose egg, sportsfans," Bull shouted at his booing family.

Taking the ball behind the foul line, Ben saw that his father was not coming out to play defense on him. He made a move for the basket, went up for a jump shot. His father, off balance, poked him in the stomach as he went up, but the ball went in.

"He's starting to cheat," Lillian cried out.

"One to one," Ben said.

Bull did not even dribble this time. He set himself immediately and before Ben could recover had launched a high two-hander toward the rim that missed. Rebounding the ball quickly, Ben brought it past the foul line, changed the direction of his dribble twice, gave his father a head fake, a stutter step, then drove toward the basket as recklessly as he knew how. To his surprise, he had broken completely free and laid the ball in effortlessly. "Two to one," he called to his father.

The game became rough. Sweat poured down Bull's face and Ben caught an elbow under the left eye when he tried to block one of Bull's hook shots. Each time Bull received the ball he would take his time, dribbling cautiously, moving backward, taking his smaller son under the basket. Ben, for his part, kept driving past his father, changing speeds, and sweeping past him as Bull lunged heavily after a son who had fooled him, betrayed him with speed.

Ben kept saying to himself," I'll make him work on defense. I'll get his legs tired trying to stop me. When his legs go, his shooting will go. He's out of shape. If I can't get him tired, I'll get him mad. If I can get him mad, I'll beat him."

The game remained close, both combatants missing shots they should have made and sinking baskets that defied all principles of the game. Finally the score was tied nine to nine, and the family on the sidelines readied themselves for a denouement. Bull had the ball.

Ben pressed in close to him with his left hand waving in front of his father's eyes. He wanted to be sure to prevent the two-handed set. During the game, over and over again, he had proven that Bull was no longer fast enough to drive around him. Bull was breathing as though steam engines were working his lungs, his lips were flecked with dried saliva, and sweat was pouring off his body. He made two half-hearted feints toward the basket, hoping to catch Ben off balance and get an unchallenged set shot. But Ben stayed close to him, his chest almost against his father's belly, their sweat commingling and their breaths crossing like two alien winds.

"Have you ever read
Moby
Dick,
Dad?" Ben asked.

"Shit, no," Bull murmured, pivoting around and beginning a low, cautious dribble, inching his way toward the basket with Ben fastened to his rump. "Why do you ask, sportsfans?"

"Because you kind of remind me of that great big, fat, white whale."

"Touché, touché," Lillian screamed.

"This looks like the last shot of the game, jocko."

"If you make it," Ben said, leaning with all his weight against his father's rear, trying to slow the inevitable move toward the basket for the easy hook shot.

"Does a maggot live in dead meat?" Bull said.

"God, Dad is disgusting," said Mary Anne.

"He's just low born," said Lillian. Then she began shouting," Kill him, Ben. Keep your hands up."

At that moment Bull glanced over at Lillian, irritation spliced on the corners of his mouth. When Ben saw his eye depart from the center of action, he stepped backward, like a caboose uncoupling from another car. In that single instant, Ben was unseen and unfelt by his father. He slapped Bull on the left buttock, then swept low around his father's right side. Feeling Ben's release and the hand hitting his left side, Bull reflexively looked to his left and switched the ball to his right hand. As he did so, he realized his mistake and tried to recover, but by this time Ben had flicked the ball away from him and retrieved it near the porch.

The family of spectators broke into applause when they sensed that Ben had a chance to win the game. At the far edge of cement, almost touching the porch, Ben stood motioning for his father to come out to play defense.

"Whip his fanny, Ben," Matt's voice cried out from behind the screen door in the kitchen.

"It is I, the Great Bentini," Ben mimicked as he began to dribble the ball between his legs trying to shame his father into open court where he knew he could drive around him.

"Let's play ball," Bull rumbled, his face blood red from anger. His eyes had narrowed into starpoints of cold, the killing edge of a personal fury that marked a crossing of the line which Lillian recognized immediately.

"Why don't we just call it a tie, and call both of you winners?" she said.

"I said let's play ball," Bull growled in a lower, more frightening octave.

"Why don't you just come out here and get it, Great Santini?" Ben teased, unaware of the changes that were taking place in his opponent.

"I'd quit now, Ben," Mary Anne advised. "He's getting that same look on his face that he gets when he runs over turtles on trips."

Dribbling slowly, Ben started toward his father, changing hands with each dribble, hoping to catch Bull with his weight shifted in the wrong direction. "Do you know, Dad, that not one of us here has ever beaten you in a single game? Not checkers, not dominoes, not softball, nothing."

"C'mon, mama's boy," Bull whispered. "Bring little mama's boy up to Daddy Bull. "Right hand, left hand, right hand, left hand, the ball drummed against the cement as Ben waited for his father to move out against him and Bull held back, fearing the drive to the basket. At the foul line, Ben left his feet for the jump shot, eyed the basket at the top of his leap, let it go softly, the wrist snapping, the fingers pointing at the rim and the ball spinning away from him as Bull lunged forward and drove his shoulder into Ben's stomach, knocking him to the ground. Though he did not see the ball go in, he heard the shouts of his mother and sisters; he saw Matthew leaping up and down on the porch. He felt his father rise off him slowly, coming up beaten by a son for the first time in his life. Screaming with joy, Ben jumped up and was immediately flooded by his family, who hugged, slapped, pummeled, and kissed him.

Lillian and Matt tried to pick Ben up, but he was too heavy and all three of them fell into the grass laughing, forgetting the lone figure of the father standing under the basket, sweating, red-faced, and mute, watching the celebration of his wife and children with the inchoate, resurrected anger of a man who never quit in his life. Mary Anne saw him standing alone and went over to say something comforting.

"You played a good game, Dad," she said.

"Get out of here."

"You didn't lose by much," Mary Anne continued, ignoring the vital signs.

"Get out of here before I start knocking every freckle off your face."

Mary Anne put her hands to her face, removed her glasses, and looked at her father with eyes that were filling with tears. "That was mean, Daddy. You had no call to say that," she said, running toward the front yard.

Then Bull shouted at Ben," Hey, jocko, you gotta win by two baskets."

The backyard became quiet again. Ben looked at his father and said," You said by one."

"I changed my mind; let's go," Bull said, picking up the basketball.

"Oh, no, Bull," Lillian said, marching toward her husband.

"You're not going to cheat the boy out of his victory."

"Who in the hell asked you anything?" Bull said, glaring at his wife.

"I don't care if anybody asked me or not. He beat you fair and square and I'm not going to let you take that away from him."

"Get over here, mama's boy," Bull said, motioning to Ben," and let's you and me finish this game."

Ben moved forward until he heard his mother shout at him, "You stay right there, Ben Meecham. Don't you dare move."

"Why don't you go hide under your mother's skirts, mama's boy?" Bull said.

He was gaining control of the situation again and was entering a phase of malevolent calm that Lillian was having difficulty translating.

"Mama, I'm gonna play him," Ben said.

"No you're not," his mother answered harshly, with finality, then speaking to her husband, she said," He beat you, Big Marine. He beat the Big Marine where everybody could see it, right out in the open, and it was beautiful. It was just beautiful. Big Marine can't take it that his baby boy just beat him to death on the basketball court."

"Get in the house, Lillian, before I kick you into the house."

"Don't threaten me, Big Tough Marine. Does Big Tough Marine have to pick on his family the day his son becomes the better man?"

Bull pushed Lillian toward the house, spinning her away from him, and kicked her in the buttocks with a swift vicious kick.

"Stop that, Dad," Ben shouted. "You stop that."

"Quit kicking Mama," Karen screamed.

He kicked her again. Each kick was directing her toward the stairs. Finally, Lillian started to run for the kitchen. Bull would have kicked her another time but Ben got between him and his mother. The screen door slammed as Lillian disappeared from view. Bull's face was hideously contorted as he stood face to face with Ben, who was trembling involuntarily.

"You sort of like winning, don't you, Dad?" Ben said, trying to sound unconcerned and in control, but fear lay heavy on his voice.

Bull went up to Ben until they were almost nose to nose, as Ben had seen Drill Instructors do to recruits. With his forefinger, he began poking Ben's chin. "You get smart with me, jocko, and I'll kick you upstairs with your mother so you pussies can bawl together. Now guard me. You gotta win by two."

"I'm not gonna guard you, Dad. I won," Ben said, his voice almost breaking. He could feel himself about to cry.

Bull saw it too. "That's it, mama's boy. Start to cry. I want to see you cry," Bull roared, his voice at full volume, a voice of drill fields, a voice to be heard above the thunder of jet engines, a voice to be heard above the din of battle. Bull took the basketball and threw it into Ben's forehead. Ben turned to walk into the house, but Bull followed him, matching his steps and throwing the basketball against his son's head at intervals of three steps. Bull kept chanting," Cry, cry, cry," each time the ball ricocheted off his son's skull. Through the kitchen Ben marched, through the dining room, never putting his hands behind his head to protect himself, never trying to dodge the ball. Ben just walked and with all his powers of concentration rising to the surface of consciousness, of being alive, and of being son, Ben tried not to cry. That was all he wanted to derive from the experience, the knowledge that he had not cried. He wanted to show his father something of his courage and dignity. All the way up the stairs, the ball was hurled against his head. The hair short and bristly from the morning haircut, the head this moment vulnerable, helpless, and loathed. Ben knew that once he made it to his room the ordeal would end, and he would have the night to consider all the symbols of this long march: the heads of sons, the pride of fathers, victors, losers, the faces of kicked wives, the fear of families, the Saturdays in the reign of Santini—but now, now, through this hallway and up these final stairs, I must not cry, I must not cry. Until he saw his room. Breaking into a run, he felt Bull release him, free him, his head throbbing, dizzy; and the son of the fighter pilot fell onto his bed face downward, afraid that tears would come if he did not stem their flow in the cool whiteness of his pillow. His father stood in the doorway and Ben heard him say so that the whole family could hear," You're my favorite daughter, Ben. I swear to God you're my sweetest little girl."

Then turning toward the door, blinded by water and light, Ben spit back," Yeah, Dad, and this little girl just whipped you good."

The door slammed.

That night Ben heard a basketball thumping on the court. Lifting the curtain by his bed, he saw his father shooting baskets beneath the night light. He was practicing sets and hooks, dribbling and pivots. It was ten o'clock and the house was silent, as it had been since the game. Bull had left the house and not returned until suppertime. Not a word passed between Bull and his family at supper and at times the noise of the silverware clinking on plates seemed deafening. Ben did not appear at supper, sending word to his mother that he was sick. During the entire meal Bull read the newspaper. He did not try to begin conversation, for he knew through long experience that whenever these sudden choreographies of violence erupted, he had to endure an exile of silence from his wife and children for an indeterminate period. After dinner, the children drifted off to their rooms with their poker faces congealed and their imposed vow of silence unbroken. Had their father asked them a question, they would have answered," yes sir" or" no sir," or given a brief unembroidered reply, with voices bled of all emotion, uninhabited voices related more to silence than to communication. The house brooded into the night. The Meecham children were gifted in the fine art of brooding. The energy of brooding affected their father like no other weapon they could turn against him. Ben was lying on his bed studying the cracked geometry of falling plaster that hung above him. Dreams and imaginary dramas were projected on the ceiling as Ben's brain danced with dazzled portraits of his father and him locked in duels to the death. At these times alone, Ben consciously extended his frontiers of hatred and longed for a reprieve from his father and the freedom of not being a son. Then he heard his father shooting baskets under the light with the river invisible and boatless beyond the house and only the braided string of lights of houses across the river to mark the far shore. Everyone in the house heard the ball thumping against the concrete and its hard ring as it bounced off the rim. Ben studied his father's hook shot from the window. The easy sweeping grace fascinated him on so large a man. He did not hear Lillian come into the room behind him.