The World Played Chess (42)

He turned, his eyes burning holes in me. He clearly had been preparing for this confrontation.

“No, Dad. You don’t understand. You say you do. But you don’t. You didn’t play sports in high school. You were the editor of the school newspaper. It’s not the same thing. You don’t know what sports represent.”

It was not the first time Beau had lashed out at us that year. He wasn’t a child anymore, and he didn’t want to be treated like one, though he still occasionally acted like one. At eighteen he could vote and he could be drafted. He wanted to make his own decisions. I tried to remember what it had been like for me, turning eighteen and being an adult chronologically, but nowhere close mentally. I used to blame my underdeveloped frontal cortex for all the stupid things I did, but it was just immaturity. As my father had once said, If you want to be treated like an adult, then act like one. Easier said than done for young men at eighteen.

Many times, I worried that Elizabeth and I had made Beau’s landing too soft because we could. I had to grow up quickly because my parents were spread so thin. I had to care for those younger than me, as my older siblings had cared for me. That meant doing laundry, making dinner, then cleaning the house before my dad got home from work. But my landing was nothing compared to William’s crash landing in the bush of Vietnam. He’d had no choice but to grow up if he wanted any chance to come home alive.

It was the conundrum of every parent with a boy becoming a young man—loving your child enough to let him make his own decisions and his own mistakes, and not stepping in to rescue him.

So while I didn’t take Beau’s comment personally, I wasn’t about to let Beau ruin his sister’s birthday.

“First of all, don’t take that tone with me or your mother,” I said. “Second, you’re not the only one sacrificing. I’m in trial and your mother also has a lot on her plate.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Beau said, defiant.

“You’re damn right, it’s not. My job pays for you to go to that school and puts food on the table and a roof over your head. You’re talking about just another game.”

“Like Bellarmine was just another game?” Beau said.

“Don’t put that on your father, Beau,” Elizabeth said. “You had a concussion.”

“This is the Jungle Game,” Beau said, ignoring reason and common sense.

“Bellarmine was just another game,” I said, my voice rising in volume to match Beau’s. “So, if you’re trying to make me feel guilty about choosing my son’s health over a game, forget it.”

Elizabeth stepped in. “There will be more games, Beau. This is family. You don’t sacrifice family for a game. These are memories that will last a lifetime.”

“There won’t be another Jungle Game, just like there won’t be another Bellarmine football game.” He turned to me. “You ruined that game for me, and now you’re ruining my last Jungle Game. These are the memories I’m going to take with me for the rest of my life, not some dumbass birthday for my sister.”

“Your sister has been to every one of your birthdays, Beau,” Elizabeth said.

“And she attended every one of your football games,” I said. “You can’t even make it to one of her basketball games.”

“My birthday isn’t on the biggest game day of the year, and she attended my games to be with the guy she likes, not to support me.”

“That’s not fair, Beau,” Elizabeth said.

“It is fair. You’re not being fair. I’m not going. Period.”

Beau started for the door and I stepped in his path. “Don’t you talk to your mother that way,” I said.

“Get out of my way,” Beau said. “I’m done talking.”

He stepped past me and I grabbed his shoulder. He swung his arm and knocked my hand away. I took a step after him, but Elizabeth stepped between us.

“You walk out that door tonight, don’t come back,” I said, and I regretted the words before they had left my mouth. Italian temper.

“Vincent,” Elizabeth said.

“I’ll sleep at Chris’s,” Beau said.

“You’re not sleeping at Chris’s,” Elizabeth said.

At that moment Mary Beth and her cousin came into the room. Mary Beth had been crying and it was clear from the anguished expression on her face that she had heard the argument. “You don’t have to go to my birthday, Beau,” Mary Beth said. “I really don’t care.”

“He doesn’t mean it, Mary Beth,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes, he does. He never wants to do anything that involves me. I went to every one of your stupid Little League games every summer. All the stupid tournaments on the Fourth of July and all your stupid football games.”

“I didn’t ask you to go,” Beau spit back.

“That’s the point,” Mary Beth said. “You didn’t have to.”

We stood in stunned silence. I didn’t know if my daughter had ever said anything so profound. Beau didn’t have to ask her to go. She went because he was her big brother and she loved him and was proud of him. He was also the only brother she’d ever have, and she his only sister. They wouldn’t have nine siblings to choose from. They had only each other.