Keep Quiet(35)
Do you guys ever even use these chairs?
Ryan’s voice popped into his consciousness, unwanted and unbidden, and Jake froze. He didn’t even know why he’d taken Pam here, and not the bed. They’d never made love here.
You protected me, now I’m going to protect you. Guess I’m my father’s son, huh?
Pam’s eyes fluttered open after a moment, in muzzy confusion. She whispered, “Jake?”
No, he thought, deflating. He wasn’t Jake. He didn’t know who he was anymore. He was the man who left a young girl dead by the side of the road. He was the man who ruined his own family. He was the man who destroyed their wonderful son.
“You okay, honey?”
“No, sorry, I’m just tired.” Jake sighed. “It’s the booze. It must be.”
“So … you don’t want to?” Pam frowned, blinking.
“Let’s just call it a day,” Jake answered, leaning down to kiss her, one last time.
Chapter Sixteen
Jake opened his eyes, vaguely aware that Pam was trying to wake him up. He squinted against sunlight pouring into the bedroom, because they had forgotten to pull down the blackout shades last night. His wife’s face came into focus, and Jake could see that she was back to business, already made up and ponytailed, in her contacts, maroon Chasers Nation sweatshirt, and jeans. She smelled like face wash and things-to-do lists.
“Honey, wake up.” Pam stroked his arm. “The game’s at one o’clock. You’re coming, right?”
“Yes, right.” Jake’s head was pounding, and he had a major hangover. He’d been hoping he could keep reality at bay, but it came rushing back to him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with alcohol. “Is Ryan up?”
“Of course. He’s already out shooting.”
“Is he sick or okay?” Jake heard the rhythmic bouncing of the ball outside on the driveway, the sound of rubber hitting cold asphalt, echoing in the quiet Sunday morning.
“He seems better. Get up and shower, please. I thought it would be nice if we all had pancakes together.”
“Pancakes? Ugh.” Jake felt his stomach turn over. “How can you eat?”
“I’m fine, and Ryan likes pancakes on game day. Can you be down in half an hour? We have to leave by ten o’clock.”
Jake glanced at the clock, which read 8:07. “Why ten, if the game isn’t until one?”
“The team has to be there early, and I have carpool, so we’re picking up Jerome and Baird, so that adds forty-five minutes. Plus it’s an away game, at North Mayfield, and that will take another forty-five minutes extra…”
Jake closed his eyes against the familiar rat-a-tat of the schedule, his wife expertly counting backwards. She’d timed everything so they wouldn’t be late, because she still lived in the world where the worst thing that anyone in their family could do was to mess up the schedules of the other overscheduled families.
“Now get up and I’ll see you downstairs.” Pam ruffled up his hair, rose, and left the room, while Jake threw off the comforter, eased himself into a sitting position, and rubbed his face, as if that would ease the pain in his head, or his heart. He got up and walked around the bed, pausing to glance out the window, which offered a parallax view of the basketball hoop, in the driveway in front of the garage.
There was a cold sun in the sky, and Ryan was shooting a foul shot in his black parka and team sweatpants, wearing his earphones, his hair ruffling in the wind. The ball thwapped loudly on the grimy white backboard, spun into the basket, and tumbled through its frayed rope netting. Ryan rebounded without missing a beat and shot a layup, which he missed, but he retrieved the ball, again without missing a beat, his iPhone wire jumping around as if electrified. He pivoted perfectly on the ball of his sneakers then hopped into the air to shoot the three-pointer, his right arm high, his long fingers spread, releasing at just the right moment, and the ball swished through the net.
Yes! Jake cheered for the kid silently, though Ryan didn’t stop. He went after the ball as he had before and took another shot. He wasn’t smiling, and his forehead knitted, focused, and as Jake watched him, he sensed that his son was losing himself in the drill, using it to black out what had happened on Pike Road, like Jake himself had tried to last night, in the booze and sex. He realized that basketball had become a coping mechanism for his son, as well as being part of his identity; Ryan was the quiet kid who was famous as being a shooter, most comfortable on the court, where action substituted for conversation.
Jake watched him, thinking that he’d never been able to decide if Ryan was having fun when he played basketball, even when the boy was younger. Jake had never played basketball, even as a teen, because he had to work after school, as a bagger at the Giant. He’d never pushed Ryan into basketball just because he was tall; Jake had grown up with everybody asking him, Why don’t you play basketball, and it was Ryan who had taken to the sport himself.
Jake eyed Ryan and could remember him as a little boy, shooting baskets on the driveway, no matter the season or temperature. Everybody in Chasers Nation said basketball was a passion, and they were right, but Jake knew that as soon as Pam saw the passion in their son, she had nurtured it with characteristic drive. She got him into the neighborhood leagues in elementary school, then the school and traveling teams in middle school, and the right basketball camps by the summer of seventh grade. They were called “exposure” or “showcase” camps, run by professional players or people with connections to recruiters, and the most talented players went there to be seen.