The Winner's Game (3 page)

A
TUNNEL
. That's how Ann described her near-death experience—like heading down a very dark tunnel, with no end in sight. She said she knew what was happening—that she was dying—and she was looking for a light on the other side. At length, a sliver of light crept into view. At once, she felt complete peace and she knew that all would be well. Then, without warning, she was thrust back into the bitter jaws of mortality, where light was plentiful, but so was pain.

She doesn't talk about the experience anymore, but I think about her “tunnel” all the time. Maybe that's because right now, on the worst days, I view myself in a similar tunnel, looking for the light. There is darkness around me so often, born of worry and fear and frustration at all of the things in my life that seem to be going wrong. All I want is a little light at the end, to know that everything is going to be OK.

What have I done…?

I lean against the door for a full minute after Dell leaves, staring at the ground, not saying a word. I know the kids are all watching me—Ann and Cade on the couch, Bree at the top of the stairs—but I can't bring myself to look at them. They must be so disappointed.

Isn't marriage supposed to be about love? Don't we love each other? Why, then, is it so hard? Why am I so weary? And sad? And lonely? And heartbroken?

And guilty.

I take a deep breath, feeling my chest swell, then retract. The air fills my soul with a tiny shred of hope that somehow, some way, this will all pass.

We'll make it. We have to.

I finally stand erect and lift my gaze to meet my audience. “I'm sorry, kids.” My voice is still shaky. “Especially to you, Ann. But please don't worry about your father and me. This is just a little misunderstanding.”

“Sure, Mom.” I can't tell if Ann is agreeing with my comment or sarcastically expressing doubt about it. I guess it doesn't matter.

I lift my chin and announce, “Tomorrow will be a better day.” Slowly, but deliberately, I begin moving in the direction of my bedroom. As I pass by the couch, I silently mouth the words, “I hope.”

The bedroom is warm, but the bed is cold. It's been like this for a while now, and I don't just mean tonight. Gone are the times when we kissed good night, then slept as one, wrapped together, sharing each other's heat. Nowadays, we turn out the lights in silence and retreat immediately to the lonely edges of our mattress, lying awake, neither of us venturing so much as a toe across the unseen middle divide. We're more like boxers in our corners awaiting the bell to fight than lovers wishing for a small sign of tenderness. I know he could reach me if he tried—and I him—but of late, neither of us have been willing.

Tonight, I stretch my arm as far as I can across the cold bed, wanting to touch his broad shoulders…but I know the act is a lie. If he were here, I would not be so bold. I would keep to my side, to myself, waiting for him to want me…and he never would.

It is almost one in the morning, and Dell has still not returned home.

I can't sleep when he leaves. I worry about him. I want him here with me, even if we're fighting.

Fighting is infinitely better than ignoring!

And resolving our differences…well, that's infinitely better than fighting.

I wish I knew what to say or do to get us out of this rut.

I wish I knew how to show him that we're not broken, just bent.

I wish he would come home, walk into the bedroom, take me in his arms, and just…love me. Like he used to. I would apologize, I swear it! I would love him back.

At a quarter after one I hear the front door open, then close. Then footsteps across the floor. They stop outside our bedroom. The door opens, and Dell's shadow enters.

The black shape crosses to his side of the bed and undresses in the darkness, then slips beneath the covers.

“You awake?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

“Sorry about earlier.”

“Me too.”

There is a long silence. “So…we OK?”

Are we?
“I guess.”

Another pause. “Good night, Emily.”

“Good night.”

That's it. No kiss. No embrace. Not even any resolution.

The bed is still cold…

T
HE PRINCIPAL
is standing inside the front door when I get to school. “Ahoy there, matey,” he says. “Be that Mr. Bennett beneath the eye patch?”

“It be indeed, Principal Smitty.”

Principal Smitty is a good guy. I'll miss him next year when I move up to middle school. He's very big on “spirit days” as a fun way to “kiss another school year good-bye,” as he likes to say, so every day during the last week of school has its very own theme. Monday was Make-Your-Own-Hat Day. To show my spirit, I wore a giant sombrero made of cardboard and scraps of linoleum I found in the basement, plus duct tape and bright blue glitter from Mom's craft desk. The best part was that it stuck out at least a foot and a half from my head and poked people when I turned. For Tuesday's Pajama Day I swiped one of Bree's pink nightgowns and wore it over a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. I barely got past the front office before the vice principal, an old fart with crooked teeth, pulled me aside and made me take it off. Worse, he made me call my mom (for like the tenth time this year), just in case she'd forgotten what a “special” son she's raising.

Wednesday and Thursday were Backward Day and Mismatched-Socks Day, but in protest over the whole nightgown thing I chose not to participate. This morning, though—the last day of school—the protest is over. How can I not participate in Talk-Like-a-Pirate Day?

This is the best day ever! And I'm a natural! With a little effort, I manage to stay in character all the way until the end of school. When the final bell rings, I'm having so much fun that I decide to see how long I can keep it up at home.

“Avast, woman,” I boldly tell my mom when I walk through the front door after getting off the bus. “I be home fer the summer. Have ye snacks to eat?”

“Ahoy, Cap'n Cadey,” she laughs. “Welcome home. How was your last day?”

“It be good…er, was good. But have ye no cookies or whatnot fer munchin'? I be a hungry pirate.”

“Sorry, kiddo. Not today. Your dad is on his way home right now, and he's bringing a special surprise that I need to get ready for.” She turns to go, but stops halfway. “Which reminds me. I need you to find a sleeping bag and an extra pillow. You've been volunteered to give up your bed tonight.”

“Somebody else be sleeping in me bed?”

“Yes sir, Captain sir. We've got a stowaway for the night.” She winks and then speeds off to her bedroom.

What the heck is that supposed to mean?
A stowaway? In my bed?
“Arrgg,” I grumble as I go down to the bonus room in the basement.

Bree's bus hasn't arrived yet from the middle school, but like most days, Ann is sitting on the couch in front of the TV. “Hey Cade,” she says as I walk by. “You have a good day?”

I stop in place, eyeing her suspiciously, as any good buccaneer would do. “Aye.”

“Huh?”

“
Aye
, said I. It be Talk-Like-a-Pirate Day.”

“Oh. Wasn't that just for school?”

Channeling Blackbeard, I growl, “It be fer as long as I want it to be fer!”

“Whatever.” She turns back to her daytime drama. When I come out of the storage closet a minute later and toss my favorite sleeping bag on the couch next to her, she looks away from the TV long enough to tell me I shouldn't make a mess because Mom is cleaning the house in preparation for our trip.

It's not too often that I know something that Ann doesn't, so I jump at the chance to share the news. “She's cleaning for a guest, not for our trip.”

Now I have her full attention. “Seriously?”

Oops…that didn't sound like a pirate.
“What I meants to say, is, yer old lady dun found a stowaway, and she be sleeping like Goldilocks in me bed 'til morn.”

Ann's eyes bulge a bit. “Wow, you're actually really good at that. Annoying, but good. But tell me you're not serious. Someone is staying here? Tonight?”

“Aye. A surprise, said she. And I be booted to the couch like a filthy bilge rat.”

“A what rat? Wait. You know what, never mind.” She dismisses me and returns to her show.

With nothing better to do, I stay there and watch it too.

When Bree arrives a little later, she lies down on the floor in front of us. “Did you guys hear someone's coming over?”

“Who told you?” Ann asks.

“Mom. Didn't she tell you?”

“No.” Once again, Ann looks mad at being left out of the loop.

“Well, did you get off the couch today?”

“I'll have you know,” Ann replies calmly, “that I reread
Anne of Green Gables
today. The whole thing. One day. You'd be lucky to get through half that much.”

“Yeah,” Bree chuckles, “because it would totally put me to sleep.”

Ann's face turns a little pink. “Can you just be quiet? I'm watching a show.”

Bree jumps to her feet. “This is totes lame. I don't want to start my summer vacation sitting around watching a sappy soap opera. Cade, did you see Dad bought a new garbage can?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I was thinking, before it gets all dirty and stuff…you want to see what it's like rolling inside it down the hill at the park?”

“Aye, aye! The big hill, or the little one?”

“The little one is for sissies,” she says. Then under her breath she adds, “It would be perfect for Ann.”

Ann pretends not to hear.

Ten minutes later we're at the top of a fifty-yard slope. I climb inside the can and hold on tight as Bree gives me a shove. As she lets go, she shouts, “Bon voyage, sucker!” Thirty yards later my head is ready to explode from the spinning.

Ten yards after that I cry out for help.

As I reach the flats at the bottom of the hill and begin to slow, I try—unsuccessfully—to stick my nose out for some fresh air, but it's too late. With the entire world still doing flips in my head, I puke all over myself.
Twice.

Bree comes running down the hill behind me, laughing so hard that it brings her to tears.

Mom doesn't think it's funny at all. She gasps when I walk through the back door a few minutes later and step into the kitchen, drenched in my own mess. “What happened?”

“Rough seas,” I say stoically as I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. “Went down with me ship.”

Then my odor reaches her nostrils. “Oh goodness, our guest will be here in ten minutes! Straight to the shower, young man. Double time! And don't come out 'til you smell like a rose.” As I make my way down the hallway, she calls out once more. “Put your clothes outside the door, Cade. I'll start a load before anyone catches a whiff of you.”

Once I'm good and clean, I wrap a towel around my waist and stroll into the hallway. I haven't gone two steps from the bathroom when Bree yells, “They're here! They're here!”

“Who's here?” I shout back, picking up speed toward the front door.

When I come around the corner of the entryway, Bree has her face pressed against the window. “Dad and the guest!” she says with such excitement that her hair bounces with each word. “I saw them pull in.”

The first thing Mom sees when she joins us from the kitchen is my towel around my waist. “Cade, what are you doing? Go put some clothes on! You can't just waltz around half naked.”

At the same time, Ann appears from the basement, stopping one step below the landing. “No doubt. Cover up that scrawny white body before you blind us all.”

“I will,” I mutter, “After I see who it is.”

There's only room at the little window near the door for one person, so Bree gives us a play-by-play of what's happening outside. Well, she tries, but what she says is not very helpful. “OK, the car door is open…wait…who needs one of those? It kinda looks like…no, can't be. Oh, there they come…still coming…closer…Is that…? Yes, it—No…is it?” There's a long pause—longer than it should take for someone to walk from the driveway to the front door. Bree finally turns around. “Mom, is that who I think it is?”

“Tell us who, already,” demands Ann.

A second later the front door swings wide open. In the doorway, standing behind a four-wheeled walker, is an old woman with funky reddish hair, dark sunglasses that hide half her wrinkly face, and a pink sweater.

“Welcome!” Mom exclaims. “Come in, come in!” She joins the old woman at the door and reaches over the walker to give her a hug.

“Oh, my little Emily! How are you, darlin'?”

“Good, good. I'm just happy you had time to come see us. Can I help you with anything?”

“Well, you can get this durned walkamajig outa my way. I don't really need it. Handy on the plane, though. One look at this puppy and I was the first to board.”

Mom moves the walker against the wall, not too far from where I'm standing. “Mom,” I whisper, trying to keep from being noticed, “who is that?”

Either I'm terrible at whispering or the old lady has really good hearing aids. Stepping through the door in my direction, she cackles softly and peels off her shades, revealing two bright blue eyes and more wrinkly skin. “Who else? It's me! Aunt Bev!”

Great-aunt Bev, to be exact—my great-grandmother's sister. That's about all I know about her, other than that she lives year-round in Florida. I don't remember where, exactly, but I know it's within an hour's drive of Disney World, because my parents took us there like three years ago, and we stayed with Aunt Bev and all the other old people in her retirement village rather than getting a hotel for the week. That was back in the good old days before anyone knew Ann had a heart condition.

“Wow,” I tell her. “You look really different.”

Aunt Bev tussles the back of her hair playfully. “Yes, well, I got a little bored in Cannon Beach, and a beautician there said dusty red is the new gray for old women. It may grow on me yet. If not, I can correct it in Florida.”

A lightbulb finally turns on in my head:
Aunt Bev flew out to Oregon to visit her big sister—my great-grandma—in Cannon Beach
. She's been there for like six weeks, mostly just taking care of the house and spending time at the nursing facility looking after her big sister. Now that we're heading to the beach and can help with Great-grandma, she's on her return trip to the palm trees of Florida.

“Out of the way, coming through,” says Dad as he steps through the doorway. Each of his arms is weighed down with one of the woman's two large suitcases. He sets them down to close the door, then lifts them again and steps around Bev. “We've got a room all made up for you upstairs. I'll leave these there.”

“Bless your heart. Drive all the way out to the beach to pick me up, and then carry my luggage to boot.” Turning to my mom she says, “I always said you married well. You love that Delly boy, Em, and don't let him go.”

Mom and Dad look at each other awkwardly, then he disappears up the stairs. “I'm trying,” Mom says, mostly to herself.

Turning toward me, Bev pinches my arm. “You've grown a bushel and a peck since I last saw you, haven't you, Cade?” Her pinch on my bare skin reminds me that I am still standing there shirtless, holding the towel at my waist.

I glance down at my chest to examine my “pecks.” “I guess so,” I tell her, feeling more than a little embarrassed. Whatever a bushel is, I'm pretty sure I haven't grown one since my trip to Disney World.

Bev and Mom both burst into laughter. Ann and Bree snicker too. “That's just old farmer-speak,” cackles Aunt Bev. “Nowadays, a bushel and a peck just means ‘a lot.'”

“It's time for you to get some clothes on, Cade, and cover up those ‘pecks,'” Mom says. “Hurry up. Aunt Bev will still be here when you're decent.”