Before the Ever After(19)

Let Everett pull me to my feet and keep on playing.

Then I think about my daddy again, and without saying a word to anyone, without even taking my ball back from them, I walk off the field.

Swearing this time it’ll be forever.





Everett


Yo, Everett says, catching me up in the boys’ room.

Yo back, I say. My lip is a little swollen.

Inside my mouth, I can feel some ripped skin where my tooth dug in. Doesn’t hurt, though.

Just tastes and feels weird.

I look in the bathroom mirror, pull my lip down to see.

Sorry about that, Everett says.

You don’t understand touch, obviously.

I do, Everett says. Tackle’s more fun, though.

Then he just stands there, looking at me.

So your daddy used to be a football star.

Yeah.

How come he don’t play anymore?

I shrug, wash my hands and, since there aren’t any paper towels,

dry them on my jeans.

Cuz he got tackled one too many times, I say.

Everett blinks. Then says That’s not a reason, son.

You got a better one?

Everett shrugs. He looks a little bit stung and I know this thing.

He doesn’t want me to be mad at him.

He wants me to be his friend.

He wants Zachariah Johnson’s son to be his friend.

I’m gonna go pro one day, Everett says.

Make that money. Live that dream.

He has my dad’s same broad shoulders, same light-brown skin and too-big hands.

Maybe in another life

he could have been my daddy’s son.

Or my dad as a kid, dreaming football dreams.

We don’t know the reason, I say after a minute passes.

His head’s just not right anymore.

I hope it gets better, Everett says.

And from the way he’s looking at me, I know he means it.

Thanks.

I walk out of the bathroom.

Put my damp hands in my pockets.

I hear the bell ringing and walk slow to science while kids run and bump against me to get where they’re going.

His head’s just not right anymore.

I’m gonna go pro one day.

We don’t know the reason.

I hope it gets better.

The words move around in my head.

Sounding heavy

and hard

and forever.





Waiting


We’re always waiting.

Waiting for another doctor.

Waiting for more tests. Waiting for test results.

Waiting for new treatments.

We’re waiting for an appointment for a thing called an MRI, where a machine looks at my dad’s brain to see if there’s a tumor there.

We’re waiting to see if getting a thing called acupuncture works. Waiting to try a thing called a hyperbaric oxygen chamber. Waiting to see if meditation can help his hands stop shaking.

These things take time, the doctors say again and again.

These things take time—like an awful chorus to a really bad song.

Then, early Sunday morning, in the first week of spring, my daddy comes downstairs

and he’s dressed and he’s whistling a tune he hasn’t whistled in a long time.

I’m sitting in the window seat, softly strumming my guitar.

I woke up with a song in my head this morning, little man.

He sits across from me, hands me the pad that’s filled with so many of our songs and says

You ready to get to writing?

I take the pad and pen from him.

Open it to the back,

where there are still some blank pages.

Look up at him and smile because, at least for today,

maybe the waiting is over.





Jazz


Music turned way down low

always makes my daddy smile.

I wish I could sing like that, he says.

We’re listening to a lady named Minnie Riperton sing a song called “Memory Lane,” her voice getting high and holding notes for so long, it feels like my chest is gonna break open.

Somebody needs to sing me a song like that all the time, my daddy says.

Mama is sitting across from him.

She has her feet up on a stool and he’s rubbing them, his big hands

moving gently from her toes to her heel.

She has her eyes closed

and is smiling.

Everything feels real clear now, my daddy says. Feels like some kind of blanket

just lifted off my head.

Then he turns, sees me and says Come over here with us, little man.

I come closer, sit on the arm of his chair.

The living room window looks out over the side yard where Mama’s plants—a bright red rhododendron, rose vines, bay leaf and lavender— all look like they’re beginning to live again.

It’s spring.

Around the edges

of the cold, there’s the tiniest bit of warm air.

I move closer to Daddy, let my arm press against his.

Feel his muscles moving

as he massages Mama’s feet.

Riperton’s voice lifts up again, says a word and holds it for what feels like forever.

I’m gonna write you some more songs, Daddy, I say.

I’m gonna write you a whole lotta new songs.