The Silver Linings Playbook(7)

My old best friend sees me when I run past his new house on Virginia Avenue. Ronnie is just getting home from work, walking from his car to his front door, when I pass him on the sidewalk. He looks me in the eyes, and after I have passed, he yells, “Pat Peoples? Is that you? Pat! Hey!” I run even harder, because my brother, Jake, is coming to talk to me; Jake does not believe in happy endings, and I do not have the emotional wherewithal to deal with Ronnie right now, because he never once came to visit Nikki and me in Baltimore, although he promised so many times. Nikki used to call Ronnie “whipped,” saying that his wife, Veronica, “keeps Ronnie’s social calendar where she keeps his balls—in her purse.”

Nikki told me that Ronnie would never visit me in Baltimore, and she was right.

He never visited me in the bad place either, but he used to write me letters about how great his daughter, Emily, was and I guess is, although I have not yet met Emily to verify the letters.

When I return home, Jake’s car is there—a fancy silver BMW, which sort of implies that my brother is doing well now when it comes to “pockets getting fatter,” as Danny says. So I sneak in the back door and run up the steps to the shower. After I wash and put on clean clothes, I take a deep breath and follow the sound of conversation to the living room.

Jake stands when he sees me. He has on fancy pants, lined with charcoal pinstripes, and a robin’s-egg blue polo shirt that is formfitting enough to show that he is still pretty fit. He is also wearing a watch with diamonds all over the face, which Danny would call Jake’s bling-bling. My brother’s hair has thinned a little too, but his head is gelled and looks swanky.

“Pat?” he says.

“Didn’t I say you wouldn’t recognize him?” Mom says.

“You look like Arnold Schwarzenegger.” He feels my bicep, which I absolutely hate because I don’t like to be touched by anyone except Nikki. Since he’s my brother, I don’t say anything. “You’re frickin’ ripped,” he adds.

I look at the floor, because I remember what he said about Nikki—I am still mad about that—and yet I am also happy to see my brother after not seeing him for what feels like forever.

“Listen, Pat. I should have come to see you more in Baltimore, but those places freak me out and I … I … I just couldn’t see you like that, okay? Are you mad at me?”

I am sort of still mad at Jake, but suddenly I remember another one of Danny’s lines that is too appropriate to leave unsaid, so I say, “Got nothin’ but love for ya.”

Jake looks at me for a second as if I had punched him in the gut. He blinks a few times almost as if he is going to cry, and then he hugs me with both arms. “I’m sorry,” he says, and holds me for longer than I like, which isn’t very long—unless it’s Nikki hugging me.

When he lets go, Jake says, “I got a present for you.” He pulls an Eagles jersey out of a plastic bag and tosses it to me. I hold it up and see it’s number 84, which I recognize as a wide receiver’s number, but I do not know the name. Isn’t that young receiver Freddie Mitchell number 84? I think but do not say, because I don’t want to insult my brother, who was nice enough to buy me a present.

“Who’s Baskett?” I ask, which is the name on the jersey.

“Undrafted rookie sensation Hank Baskett? He’s the preseason story. These jerseys are hot on the streets of Philadelphia. And now you have one to wear to the games this year.”

“Wear to the games?”

“Now that you’re home, you’re gonna want your old seat back, right?”

“At the Vet?”

“The Vet?” Jake laughs and looks at my mother. My mother looks scared. “No—at Lincoln Financial Field.”

“What’s Lincoln Financial Field?”

“Didn’t they let you watch TV in that place? It’s the home of the Eagles, the stadium your team’s played three seasons in now.”

I know Jake is lying to me, but I don’t say anything.

“Anyway, you got a seat right next to mine and Scott’s. Season tickets, bro. Are you psyched, or what?”

“I don’t have any money for season tickets,” I say, because I let Nikki have the house and the cars and the bank accounts when apart time began.

“I got your back.” Jake punches me in the arm. “I might not have been a good brother for the past few years, but I’m gonna make up for all that now that you’re home.”

I thank my brother, and then Mom starts crying again. She cries so hard that she has to leave the room, which is weird, since Jake and I are making up and season tickets to the Eagles are quite a nice present—not to mention the jersey.

“Put on your Baskett jersey, bro.”

I put it on, and it feels good to be wearing Eagles green, especially a jersey that Jake picked out special for me.

“You wait and see how good your boy Baskett is going to be this year,” Jake says in a strange way, as if my future were somehow linked to the Eagles’ rookie wide receiver—Hank Baskett.





The Concrete Doughnut





I notice that my father waits until the game is just about to begin before he comes into the family room. It is only preseason, so we do not engage in any of the regular-season game-day rituals, but Dad has put on his number 5 McNabb jersey and now sits on the edge of the couch, ready to jump out of his seat. He nods at my brother solemnly but completely ignores me, even after I heard my mother say, “Please, just try to talk to Pat” when they were arguing in the kitchen. Mom puts the food on folding tables, takes a seat next to Jake, and we all start to eat.