Free Throw (Part 1) by Jeffrey R. Schrecongost

1

“My idea of good luck is

being at the right place at

the right time, doing the

right thing before the right

people.”

— Duke Ellington

Don McQueen pushed the mute button on the sound board, gave a thumbs-up to Janet in the control room, and lit a cigarette. He refilled his rocks glass with ice cubes from a small, red cooler on the floor to his right, grabbed a bottle of W.L. Weller whiskey off the desk behind him, and poured the spirit into his glass, not quite to the rim. He placed the bottle back on the desk and swiveled around to his microphone. The studio was dark, save for the tiny red and green board lights and the soft glow of the little bulbs under the sound meter needles. He cleared his throat, pushed the mute button again, and continued.

“When Freeway looked up and saw the churning sky shift from faded-bruise-green to Tootsie Roll-brown, he did something only one other person in the world would have done and was indeed doing close behind him: he kept on driving, driving for his life, hurtling forward in the souped-up, deep-blue, 1977 Cutlass Supreme Brougham, inches ahead of the roaring, silver Cadillac, straight for the dark horizon, though he knew exactly how risky it was to do such a thing because in late April in Clarkton, out in the country, that bruise-green meant wicked thunderstorms – ‘Angels bowling,’ the adults told the kids — but that ugly, dark brown meant a Death Twister’s coming — raging and God-angry black — a full acre wide and rumbling across the cornfields reducing to dust anything in its path, and that meant next-morning slow-drives, looking for dazed pigs stuck in trees and confused but resigned cows standing in the bank’s parking lot, accepting, in their bovine wisdom, that which they cannot change, and fat, black power lines coiled up on the crumbling, crowned county roads waiting patiently to kill the innocent, the unwarned, and the ignorant, and cinder blocks and barbed wire and tires and screen doors and jagged pieces of Mail Pouch Tobacco signs, all scattered across the luxuriant land, and Grandma talking about how she saved the baby chickens, and how Grandpa unlocked the storm cellar door at the last minute, and he’d grin, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth because he’d quit smoking years ago, and he would tap his thick, rough fingers on the red Chevy’s steering wheel and disagree and say they had plenty of time, plenty of time, and the too-much-food Aunt Vessie, in her blue, gingham dress and white apron, made before the sky became malevolent: three pies — apple, blueberry, cherry — fried chicken; peppered pork chops; meatloaf; thick-mashed potatoes with creamy, peppery gravy; green beans with little pieces of salty bacon; macaroni and cheese; chopped salad with fresh iceberg lettuce, olives, tomatoes, and paper-thin, sliced red onions and homemade Thousand Island dressing; and ice-cold Cokes for the kids, and sweet, purple wine and strong coffee for the adults, and Aunt Vessie wondered and worried aloud twelve times did she make enough food? did everyone get enough to eat? but after everyone said they were full, she got quiet and looked out the window and frowned and put her hands on her hips and tapped her hips three times with her pudgy fingers, and everyone looked at each other for a few seconds, and nobody said anything, and she shook it off and demanded they have some Neapolitan ice cream with their pie, and everyone reluctantly agreed, and she smiled, but everyone knew she was still sad because the serving of ice cream meant it was almost time for everyone to go home, and she’d squeeze the kids one-by-one and force kisses on them, and her breath smelled like purple wine and coffee and ketchup, and all the adults would laugh, and some of the toddlers would start to cry because her doting was unfamiliar and scary, and they would run to their mothers and hide behind them, and Aunt Vessie would chuckle and begin to cheer up again, and she’d waddle beside everyone as they walked out onto the front porch and down the four cement steps, then the first thumps of thunder would sound far away beyond the fields, and the shirts and pants and white bed sheets on the line would undulate as a cool breeze brought with it the faint, clean smell of distant rain, and she’d watch them get into their big cars, and she’d wave goodbye as the cars drove back down the long, gravel driveway, dissecting the rioting cornfields, horns honking, and she’d turn and walk back inside, humming the first seven notes of ‘Sloop John B’ and stare for a moment at Uncle Tarm, asleep on the burgundy La-Z-Boy, and tell him to wake up and help her clean the kitchen, and he’d leap out of the recliner wide-eyed like an owl, like he wasn’t really asleep, and would start collecting the dirty dishes on the table, and he’d say, ‘Fine supper, Vess,’ and pat her big bottom, and Aunt Vessie would grin and slap his hand away and again wonder aloud if she’d made enough food, and then she would remove her round-lens glasses and place them next to the black rotary phone on the little desk under the window and start running the hot water and grab the bottle of Joy dish soap and squeeze it and watch the thick stream of lemon liquid pierce the steaming water and then watch the white bubbles billow and rise to the top of the sink.”

Silence.

“Caller? Richard from North Dakota? Still with me?”

“Yeah, I’m still here. Not sure what you’re talking about, but I’m here.”

“Good,” said Don. “Because, as many of you know, ‘Sports All Night with Don McQueen’ often veers wildly off topic. If you’ve just joined us folks, Richard from North Dakota asked if I could shed any light on the strange and tragic tale of the greatest basketball player who ever, or never, depending on your point of view, played the game — Freeway Ronny Rose. Now, Richard from North Dakota, you’re probably wondering why Freeway would choose to drive into the heart of a Death Twister. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you drive into the heart of a Death Twister if the man chasing you into the heart of that Death Twister had nothing to lose except the seventy-five thousand dollars you owed him? A man barely human, I’d say, with hate in his heart and three savages with him who hated whoever he hated because he trained them to hate like he did, a man unlike most in his total absence of compassion, the joy — and he did take joy in it — the joy he felt when he had you in a place where you had absolutely no options, and he could draw things out, draw it out, talk softly to you, laugh, even order pizzas, always scratching his neck just below his jaw line, always a three-day beard, never a full beard, never clean-shaven, just that in-between growth on the neck that he always scratched, a filthy neck-beard, and he’d show you pictures from magazines, pictures he’d drawn, rifles growing out of flower pots, crayon sketches of apples and pears, crayon sketches of nudes climbing stone walls, old magazine photos of self-immolating Buddhist monks on sidewalks — he really liked those — and he’d tell you how he’d trained himself to embrace that kind of pain — the pain of being burned alive — so that it wasn’t pain but, instead, simply a different sort of reality, then he’d ask you if you could attain that same level of inner peace, and he’d weep sometimes and say he felt empathy for you, he, in his ridiculous, white frock and fringed, leather vest, and dirty jeans and sandals, his grease-heavy hair hanging just above his waist, his childlike giggling when you’d apologize for any misunderstanding and promise him his money tomorrow, yes, Pioneer Gordy liked to make it tough on you, and, oh, Pioneer, well, that’s the nickname he created for himself — he claimed he was the first of his kind, though he wasn’t – and he cultivated the delusion that he was an original, Born In The U.S.A., a rancid life growing up, tired of catching hell, and so he chose to give hell back to anyone that broke his rules, nothing like your typical greaser loan shark or bookie, Pioneer Gordy took it straight to the professionals, scoffed at all their codes of conduct, their Codes of the Street, and to prove his point, to show his contempt for the traditional way of doing things, scalped Larry ‘Waffles’ Waffler next to a dumpster behind an IHOP on a sunny, Sunday afternoon, then placed a photo of Chef Boyardee in the still-conscious man’s left hand, effectively and forever ridding himself of his last competitor, and it’s dark, I know, and I don’t want to dwell on Pioneer Gordy because he’s everything, Richard, he’s everything loathsome and evil in this world, but that’s who Freeway was running from, that’s why Freeway looked into the heart of a Death Twister on a county road in Clarkton, Indiana, and kept driving, because he believed that, despite all the warnings he’d heard as a boy about the wrath of the Death Twister, it was still God’s work, and Freeway knew he’d rather have God on his side, in all his fury, than to face the Pioneer alone, so he raced them both, hoping God would spare him, but knowing he’d sinned, too, knowing he’d let his family down, tarnished the Rose name, shattered his father’s hopes and dreams for him, wondering if this wasn’t his time to pay up, really pay up, for what he’d done, for taking the money in college to throw those games, for blowing his scholarship, for, in many ways, killing his father, killing him slowly, for crushing his father’s belief in him, for leaving his father with no choice but to sever for a long time all ties with his only and much-loved son, and that was Freeway’s sin, and why shouldn’t he be punished for it? Why not, Richard?”

Silence. Dead air.

“Richard?”

“Maybe he should have been, Don. Punished, I mean.”

“Maybe, Richard. Richard, do you know why they called Ronny Rose ‘Freeway?’”

“Yeah. Because of all the teams he played for after the thing at Central State. After he threw those games. He played for a couple of junior colleges, then played for three or four semi-pro teams.”

“Do you remember the last team he played for, Richard?”

“Yeah, umm, what was it? Clarkton Turkey Vultures?”

“Yes. I covered the Turkey Vultures for the Clarkton Press-Star during Freeway’s last year in the league. Do you remember the Vultures’ coach?”

“Umm, can’t think of his name. I remember the face, though. Real short guy?”

“Cotton Mozz. Coach Mozz.”

“Yes! I remember now. Feisty bastard. Oh, sorry. Can I say that on the air?”

“Yes, Richard. You can say that. Coach Mozz was the only person on the planet that still had faith in Freeway, and strictly from the standpoint of playing ability, why wouldn’t he want Freeway on his team? Freeway Ronny Rose played the game like you and I play the game in our best dreams, Richard. Only six-feet-four, he moved like mercury, weaving in and out, dribbling like the ball was on a string attached to his palms, with the court vision of a hawk, anticipating defenders’ next moves as if he had tapped into their brains, like he’d envisioned the entire game before anyone took the court, and when he’d get into the air — he could pick quarters off the top of the backboard, remember — everyone around him seemed to slow down, seemed to be weighed down, and he’d create in the air, even adding an unnecessary but beautiful fake or two before rolling the ball off his fingertips and into the net, or spinning the ball at impossible angles off the backboard and through the hoop, or a double-behind-the-back pass that would surprise his own wide-open teammate, and his jumper — the smoothest I’ve ever seen — was guaranteed from thirty feet and in, or his quick spin-move along the baseline that would freeze the defender or sometimes trip the defender up and make him fall into a heap as Freeway glanced down at him and then cleared the lane with a ferocious dunk, and nobody — nobody — could guard him. Ever.”

“I’d agree with that,” said Richard.

“Hold on for me, Richard. I’ll get back with you on the other side of the break. You’re listening to ‘Sports All Night with Don McQueen’ on AM 1260, WCLI. ”

2

Three rings. Four. Five.

“Hey, Dad.” said Don, lighting a cigarette.

“Hello, Don. How are you?”

“Great. You guys?”

“We’re okay. Your mother’s got a stomach bug, but she feels better today. She’s asleep. What’s up?”

Don took a long drag from the cigarette and looked up at the framed, signed photo of Julius Erving on the wall above his television set.

“Dad, I’m in a bit of a jam at the moment and — ”

“— Son, we can’t.”

“Dad — ”

“—The money’s just not there, Don.”

“Dad. Dad. Come on. Just listen to me for one minute. One minute. Let me explain it. Just until next week. I just — ”

“ – Son, we love you.”

“I know, Dad. I love you, too. Goodnight.”

Don clicked off the phone and threw it onto the couch. It bounced off the cushion and landed at his feet. He looked back up at the photo.

“Yeah, right. ‘Best of luck.’ Fuck me.”

He walked into the kitchen, illuminated only by the light over the stove, refilled his glass with bourbon, and stepped into the living room. He looked in the mirror above the fireplace. Then he stepped closer, got to within six inches of it, stared at his thinning, walnut hair; his asymmetrical, cerulean eyes; the scar over his right eyebrow; the skin of his cheeks pulled back taut, like rubber; his squared chin with its off-center cleft; the drooping left corner of his mouth. Christ. He looked like a figure in a Picasso painting.

Don turned and opened the end table drawer. He pulled out his address book, flipped to the third page, picked up the telephone, and dialed another number.

Three rings. Four. Five. Six. No answer.

He turned to the next page of his address book, paused, started to dial, and hung up. He took a drink, then dialed the number.

“Come on. Answer. Answer.”

Four rings. Five.

“Aunt Vessie. This is Don.”

He closed his eyes.

“Donald?”

“Yes, Aunt Vessie. It’s me. How are you?”

“My feet hurt all the time, Donald. My toes. I’ve got big, red lumps on my toes. When are you going to come out and see me? Have you been getting enough to eat? Why don’t you come out and see me. I’ll make you supper. You boys don’t eat enough. Nobody eats enough anymore.”

“You’re the best cook ever, Aunt Vessie. You see your doctor about your toes?”

“Oh, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s got a new nurse.”

“Aunt Vessie, I need a big favor.”

He winced, covered the phone, and whispered, “Shit.”

“Donald, you know I’ll do anything I can for you. You know that.”

He looked up at Doctor J., smiling, afro, goatee. Doc had written in black ink, “Best of luck. Julius ‘Dr. J’ Erving.”

“I need some money, Aunt Vessie. Just a loan. I can pay you back next week. Along with the money from last month.”

“Hold on, honey. I’ve gotta get out of these shoes. How much do you need, Donald?”

He took another drink, lit a cigarette, and took a deep pull.

“Around four thousand dollars.”

“How much, honey? Hello? Donald?”

“Five thousand dollars, Aunt Vessie.”

“Oh, dear. Well, I’m not sure if I, well, hold on, Donald. Let me see, hold on a minute while I, let me see what I have in the checking.”

Don’s brain released a deluge of endorphins. Three grand would take care of last week’s debt, plus he could spread the extra two around on the games that weekend. Pay Aunt Vessie back. Or not. Not right away. Of course he would. What was he thinking? Tough week last week means a good week this week.

“Donald?”

“Yeah, Aunt Vessie. I’m here.”

“You say five thousand?”

“Yes, Aunt Vessie. Five. I’ll pay you right back.”

“You come over tomorrow for supper, okay?”

“I’ll be there. What time?”

“Six o’ clock.”

“Okay, Aunt Vessie. Love you.”

Don hung up the phone and waited for the ugly feelings to come. They lasted only a few minutes, but they submerged him, and for those few minutes he drowned in them and wanted to drown in them and wanted them to last longer. The too-warm saliva. The constriction of his throat. The silence. Like the no-sound of trembling candle flames in an empty hospital chapel.

But he was going to get the money. And that made the ugly feelings go away.

3

“Sports All Night with Don McQueen on WCLI.”

“Okay folks, we’re back. Thank you so much for tuning in. Richard from North Dakota? Still with me?”

“I am, Don.”

“Great. So, to get back to what I was saying before the break, Freeway likened his style to Clarence White’s guitar work. You remember Clarence White, Richard? Those later Byrds albums?”

“Yessir. I do. I play a little myself.”

“Do you? Then you know what I’m talking about. That swirling, jazzy improvisation with a bluegrass edge. Like spring-dawn birdsongs. And that Stringbender device? Unbelievable. The way White used the Stringbender to get that sound? Like two notes plucked at once, yet moving in opposite directions?

“That was Freeway. Two notes running from each other, gathering lightning, scooping up heat, pocketing momentum. Tearing him apart.

“Freeway was bright and tough as February daffodils, dim and defeated as dying eyes. A force and a fool, greedy for excellence, gutted by guilt and cocaine. Sometimes a superstar, sometimes a dream so tragic and real you wake up crying. And then they die on you.”

“Who dies?” Richard said.

Don tapped the mute button, leaned back, and sipped his whiskey. For a moment he thought he was laughing, but he wasn’t. The sound was like blood bubbling in his throat. Then heat rushed to his cheeks, his eyes. He remembered the cardinal, its scarlet, crested head twitching back and forth, perched on the church steeple after Karen’s funeral.

He shook it off and adjusted the microphone.

“Clarence White. He was hit and killed by a drunk driver as he loaded up his gear after a gig. And Gram Parsons shows up at the funeral drunk. Drunk, Richard. How could he have done that?”

“Know what you mean. Don’t seem right.”

“White was just starting to gather that lightning. Harness it. Then bam. Out. For no reason. All this crap about, ‘It was God’s plan.’ Now how could that be, Richard? Some cheap explanation to make people feel better is what that is. Some kind of damn lie. Nobody feels better. Nobody ever feels better, Richard.”

Don lit a cigarette and continued.

“You tell her you love her. You tell yourself you love her. Then you get the call. And you know it’s coming, you’re two words ahead of her. Then she says it: cancer. And what do you do? You say the things everyone says: ‘It’ll be okay. You’ll pull through this. We’ll do it together. I’m here for you.’ And then what do you do? You buy a dozen roses, lodge them between the screen and her front door with a note saying you have to go out of town, that it’s unavoidable, that you love her. Then you drive like hell as fast and far away as you can. To an Old Friend’s House. And you say nothing about her to him. You just open a bottle, open your nose, and shove her aside. And he helps you shove.”

“I’m not following you,” Richard said.

Janet looked up at Don through the glass.

“You’re not going to let it slow you down, Richard. You can’t let it slow you down. Because that’s who you are. Who you’ve become. This despicable human being. You make the biggest mistake of your life and five hours later you’re laughing? Laughing, Richard? I sat there, I sat on that couch, and I laughed.”

“I’m just not following you, Don,” Richard said.

Don looked over at Janet.

“You okay?” she mouthed.

He raised a finger and with perfect form shot an invisible ball into an imagined hoop.

4

The August sunset splattered across the sky like a shotgunned pumpkin. Maroon clouds balanced on the horizon’s edge. Compromised pride’s plaintive wail vanquished the sound of tires on gravel. Don felt not like he was driving, but being pulled.

Smells of soil and corn hovered in the clammy air. A pudgy mongrel dog trotted out from between the stalks and eyed Don as he passed. He looked into the rearview mirror. The dog, spotty eyes still fixed, squatted and shat in the road.

“Money, money, money,” Don thought.

Losing was the gut-blade. Losing was the punishment. He had to have money to play, to keep the bones rolling. As long as he kept playing, losing was a certainty. This, he thought, was fair.

He approached a barefoot boy in blue swimming trunks wobbling on a bicycle. A playing card click-clacked in the spokes. The boy heard the black Tahoe behind him, slowed, stopped, looked back at Don, and waved. Don nodded and raised two fingers from the wheel.

Card in the spokes.

Click-clack. Clickety-clickety-clack.

Going back. All the way back to:

Fishing. Rocky. “Blinded by the Light.” Rumours. Muhammad Ali. Last helicopter out of Saigon. Walter Cronkite, because “That’s The Way It Is.” Dr. J. J.J. Evans. John Boy Walton. Broadway Joe. Hawkeye Pierce. Evel Knievel. Elvis Presley. Marcia Brady. Pressure cooker beef and noodles.  Kenny “The Snake” Stabler. Jaws. Watergate. Hotel California. Dixie Chicken. Grilled T-bones with Uncle Ben’s wild rice. Paul McCartney and Wings. Reggie Jackson. Hee Haw. Donna Summer. Endless Summer. “Summer Breeze.”

C’mon. Don’t end there. It didn’t end there. It kept going. There’s more:

Bigfoot. Tree houses. Arthur Fonzarelli. Jim Croce. Dandelions in a Bugs Bunny glass on the kitchen window sill. Dallas on Friday nights. “Drift Away.” Penthouse centerfolds in the back of Foster’s Country Market. The Bad News Bears. Archie Bunker. Farrah Fawcett. Lindsay Wagner. Shaft. Jim Rockford. Jim Jones. Devil music. The Devil in Ms. Jones. The Exorcist. Sweaty, fever dreams. Saturday Night Fever. “Hollywood Nights.” Night kisses. “One of These Nights.” Hot August Night.

Yes, a hot, August night.

Who was that? Someone standing there. Looking in the window. Pillowcase over his head. Cut-outs for his eyes. How long had he been there? Is he still there? Run! Nowhere to go. Lock the doors. Too scared to move. Close your eyes. Don’t move.

Grandpa? On a cross? In post-op? You died three years ago. Am I dead? Can’t see you too well. Am I dead? So thirsty. He pushed me on the steps. From behind. We were racing. I was winning. Not my head, my side. My side hurts worse than my head. Yes, my head hurts, but my side hurts worse. He smiled after he pushed me. Jimmy’s Dad saw it happen. You can ask him. I was winning. I won. “We’d build a ten foot fence to keep Willie in if we thought it would do any good,” his mother said to Mom. “But he’d just climb over it.” All I want is water. In the tallest glass you have. With ice. The little kind. Like pebbles. Ice and water to the top. And a straw. “You can’t have water yet,” the nurse said. “Not yet.” When I get that glass of water, I’m going to drink it fast. Faster than ever before. Faster than anybody. Then I’ll ask for another glass. Just like the first one. And I’ll drink that too. And another. And another.

Can’t play football? What about kicker? “We’ll see,” Dad said. “Let’s check with Dr. Allenby.” Can’t play kicker? Punter? “Too dangerous. Can’t risk another injury. No contact sports.” Settled for Punt, Pass, and Kick. Practiced for weeks. Embarrassed myself. Lost to Brian Dell. Cried all the way home. Dad’s hand on my shoulder.

Dad said, “Try basketball.” No good at it. Can’t shoot. Nobody picks me. “Focus on a skill and be the best at it,” Dad said. “Then you’ll get picked.” Rebounding. Yes. The best rebounder. Can’t score without the ball, right? Be the best rebounder. They’ll want a good rebounder on their team. Then I’ll get picked. Dad’s right.

Dad was right.

5

Don walked into the kitchen wearing khaki pants, leather sandals, and a sleeveless undershirt.

“Hi, Aunt Vessie,” he said.

“There you are.”

She reached out her hands, and Don leaned down. They hugged, and she kissed him on the cheek.

“Hot in here,” Don said. “Care if I turn on the air conditioning?”

He opened the cabinet above the counter, grabbed a tall glass, turned on the faucet, let the water run until it was as cold as it was going to get, and filled the glass. He drained it in five gulps.

Vessie looked at Don over the rim of her glasses.

“What is that?” she said.

“What?”

“On your shoulder.”

“This? A tattoo.”

Don turned on the faucet again.

“I can see that. What does it mean?” she said.

“It’s the Little Feat band logo. They’re one of my favorite groups.”

Don filled the glass and drank, slower this time.

“Little who?” she said.

“Little Feat. F-e-a-t. I like their seventies stuff best. Rock, funk, country, blues, progressive, R and B – they could do it all. And Lowell George. Great guitarist, songwriter, singer.”

“So you got a tattoo?” she said, squinting. “What is it? A shoe?”

Don put the glass on the counter and leaned over, leading with his bare shoulder. Vessie took off her glasses.

“Yes,” he said. “A high-heeled shoe. And it has a face. See the eyes?”

“Well, I’ll be. Yellow bow, too. What is she, sticking her tongue out?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm. That’s rude. Looks like she’s on the move,” Vessie said, pointing at the black lines shooting out from the high-heel.

“She, it, is. It’s about having fun, boogie-woogie, no worries, feeling like you’re really in the groove. You know who Bonnie Raitt is, right?”

“Is she that pretty red-head with the streak of gray — ”

“ – Right. That’s her. She said she missed Little Feat more than she missed being eight years old. You know?”

Don stood upright and looked out the window at the cornstalk rows.

“Yes,” she said. “I think I do.”

He walked across the kitchen, sat down, drummed his slender fingers on the yellow tabletop, and watched Vessie move from side to side, from the stove to the butcher block counter. Her green, cotton dress swept back and forth above her thick ankles as she hummed a song he did not recognize. She squeezed her hands into a pair of frayed, gray oven mitts, bent over, opened the oven door, pulled out a weighty, heat-stained, metal pan, and placed it on the counter. The smell of meatloaf resting in a bubbling pond of savory juices rose toward the ceiling, then filled the kitchen.

“It’s got to cool for a bit,” Vessie said, her back to Don.

“Smells great,” he said, staring at the little desk under the window where she kept her checkbook.

Vessie took off the mitts and put them back in the cupboard. She grabbed a hot corn cob from a plate on the counter, inverted a soup bowl in a casserole dish, placed the fat end of the cob on the bowl, and sliced off the fresh, yellow kernels. The kernels tumbled down the sides of the bowl and into the dish. She repeated this technique with five more cobs, removed the bowl, cut a half-stick of butter into half-inch chunks, and stirred the butter into the mound of corn. She sprinkled salt and black pepper on the corn, stirred it up again, added three more shakes of pepper, then placed the dish next to the meatloaf pan.

“I know you like it cut off the cob,” she said. “Plenty of butter and pepper.”

Don nodded, but didn’t say anything. A soft buzz emanated from the ceiling light.

6

“So, Richard, it’s the final game of the 1989 regular season. The last-place Findley Fighting Trolls are in town. The Turkey Vultures clinched the division title a week before, but Freeway is a point-and-a-half behind Findley’s Skip Bingmart for the NABL scoring title. Delicious stuff. The way the math worked out, if Freeway scores sixty-eight points or more, and if Bingmart is held to under fifty, Freeway wins it. Plus, Freeway scores seventy, he breaks the single-game scoring record. Even better, they have to defend each other. NBA scouts are in attendance. Helluva lot on the line.

“You might remember Bingmart, Richard. Ended up getting drafted by Philly. Six-five. V-shaped. Had like a thirty-inch waist. Sort of a Dominique Wilkins kind of game: Leap out of the gym. Okay jumper from inside fifteen feet. Dunk machine. Awful from the foul line, though – had a new free throw ritual every other night. Even tried the underhand scoop for a while. A lot like Chamberlain in that way. Drove coaches nuts.”

“Yeah,” Richard laughed, “lost a bunch of games for ‘em late in the fourth quarter.”

Don sipped his whiskey, lit a cigarette, and checked the clock. 3:51 a.m.

“That’s right, Richard. Before tip-off, when he and Freeway shook hands, Bingmart said, ‘I’m gonna light you up tonight, man.’ Freeway nodded and shot an invisible ball into an imagined hoop.

“Bingmart missed his first five shots, but got it going about six minutes in, finishing the first quarter with eleven points. Remember, he needs at least fifty. Freeway started off hot, burying two jumpers from deep in the corner, a drop-step finger roll from off the block, four free throws, and a circus shot from the hash mark as time expired. Fifteen points in the first.

“Then Bingmart, after two glass-rattling dunks and a tip-in, got into foul trouble and spent most of the second quarter on the bench watching Freeway embarrass Lloyd Darling, Findley’s rookie swing man. Darling couldn’t stay on his feet, fell for every fake in Freeway’s arsenal, and Freeway dropped in another twenty-two before halftime.

“So, going into the third, Bingmart has seventeen points to Freeway’s thirty-seven. Again, before the second half tip-off, Bingmart said to Freeway, ‘I’m gonna light you up.’ Freeway nodded and said, ‘This has gotta be frustrating for you, Skip. Seeing it slip away like this.’ Then he winked at him.”

“Shut the front door,” Richard said. “He winked at him?”

“Yes. Winked at him. Then he held Bingmart to two points in the third quarter while breaking the NABL single-quarter scoring record with twenty-eight points.”

“That puts him at, what, sixty-four, no sixty-five? And Bingmart’s at nineteen?”

“You got it, Richard. With only twelve minutes to play.”

Don looked up at the control room ceiling light. He stood and reached for it. Though recessed and dim, the light was hot. Don touched it with his index finger. He held his finger to the light until it began to burn, then pulled away. He watched the skin turn angry-red, then punish him with a blister. He sat down and looked back up at the light.

“Hello?” Richard said.

“The trick is not minding.”

“Huh?”

“The trick is not minding, Richard. G. Gordon Liddy, right? He would go to parties and hold his hand over a candle flame until his skin would start to burn, actually burn. And that was his answer to the inevitable question, ‘What’s the trick?’ Remember that story, Richard? You believe that story? I do. He was right. The trick is not minding.

“You go to a party. You eat too many mushrooms. You ever eaten magic mushrooms, Richard?”

“Drugs, you mean?”

“Yeah. Drugs.”

“No. Never did them. Drank. Still drink beer.”

“You go to a party. Eat too many mushrooms. See a red-headed girl with a black veil pulled over her head. Covering her whole face. She’s on the couch. Laughing. Then humming. She calls you over. She spreads her legs.”

Janet waved her hands. Don looked at her.

“Careful,” she said.

“She spreads her legs,” he continued. “She’s wearing a purple skirt. You sit between her legs. You don’t look at her crotch. You try not to look at her crotch. Purple panties. She laughs, then pulls a heat lamp up from the floor, flicks the switch, and shines it in your face. You turn away. ‘Touch it,’ she says. You say no. ‘You can’t handle it?’ she says. You tell her to touch it. She shoves her middle finger in your face, then she puts the tip of it on the lamp. She holds it there. You tell her she’s crazy. She holds it there. You tell her to stop. She laughs, turns off the lamp, raises the veil, and licks her fingertip. ‘I’m pure,’ she says. ‘I’m real. I’m Shannon. What are you?’ And you say nothing because you don’t know what to say. Because you’ve never been asked the question. Because everyone knows what you are. They all know the answer. So why don’t you?”

“I know what you are Don,” said Richard. “I know who you are.”

“You know who I am, Richard?”

Silence.

“Richard? There, Richard?”

Silence.

“I guess we’ve lost Richard, folks.”

Don looked at the blister on his finger and nodded.

7

“I made chocolate cake for dessert,” Vessie said, washing and drying the plates.

“I’m full, Aunt Vessie. Thanks, though.”

“You sure?”

Don looked at her. The ceiling light buzzed.

“Yeah. You know, I don’t want to be — ”

“ – Let’s talk about this money you need,” she said. “Four thousand dollars? Or was it five?”

He pushed away from the table, stood, walked to the sink, filled his glass with water, and drank.

“Yes. Five.”

Vessie sat down at her desk.

“Let me write you a check,” she said.

The water tasted minerally. Somehow thicker than city water. Faint smell of fresh, cold mud.

Like the mud on Karen’s skin that day at the lake. The day he devoured and despised because he knew it couldn’t be relived. That evanescent day when sun spears pierced the clouds and scattered light-dots like ticker tape on the water’s surface. And the breeze carried pot smoke and blurry voice-bits up the hill. And he kissed the mud on her bare, brown belly. Tasted it because it clung to her, was part of her. The earthy grit and the coconut Hawaiian Tropic and her sweat-salt. And when the mud heat-dried, when it buckled and crumbled like clay, he called it God Dust. Then he swept it away because he wanted her to be closer to him than Heaven.

She pulled her fingertips through his hair and across his sun-pinked face. He rested his head just below her breasts and traced his fingers up and down the trail of tiny, white-blonde hairs that led to, then hid beneath, her bikini bottom.

Someone down the hill turned up a live bootleg recording of Crosby, Stills, and Nash’s “Wooden Ships.”

“If you smile at me, I will understand, ‘cause that is something everybody everywhere does in the same language.”

“What if we sailed away,” he said. “Never came back.”

Karen rolled over, opened the cooler, grabbed two Busch beers, and handed one to him.

“So what is it you love so much about basketball?” she said, popping open the can.

He took two gulps of beer and scanned the lake.

“Being better at it than anyone else. The times when nobody can stop me. Getting nine or ten rebounds in a row – on both ends of the court. Knowing they need me,” he said, glancing up at the sun.

“The team?”

“The team. Coach. The fans. The school. The town.”

“I need the other you,” she said.

He stared at her. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. He brought the wet can to his lips and nodded.

“Wooden ships on the water, very free and easy. Easy, you know the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Let’s swim,” he said.

8

“Donald?’ Vessie said.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. What were you saying? You want me to agree to something?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll write this check, and I’ll continue writing checks, if you move in with me. Move in here.”

Don choked on the water and coughed.

“Move in? With you?”

Vessie shifted in her chair and took off her glasses.

“Yes. I need someone to talk to. It’s too quiet here. There’s nobody to take care of. Nobody to feed. I need someone here with me.”

“Aunt Vessie, I can’t move in here. I’ve got my own place. You know that. I can visit — ”

“ – Then I can’t give you any money, Donald.”

He placed the glass on the counter.

“Okay, okay. Hold on a minute. You said you’d loan me the money. I need that money, damnit. What is this? What are you trying to do?”

“I’m asking you to move into this house. Things will be fine. You’ll like it here. You will have money, Donald. I will give you the money you need.”

“This is nuts. I’m leaving.”

“Be careful driving home. If you lived here, you wouldn’t have to drive home.”

“What? Unbelievable. This is unbelievable. Goodbye.”

Don slammed the kitchen door, got into the Tahoe, and drove down the long gravel drive through a night thick and dark as oil. He turned onto the road, opened the ashtray, plucked out a half-smoked joint, and lit it with his Zippo. He tugged the smoke deep into his lungs, held his breath, then stubbed out the joint, taking his eyes off the road for two seconds. A red bicycle reflector rushed toward the car. He hit the brakes, swerved hard to the right, and rolled into a drainage ditch.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding,” he said.

He shifted into reverse, pressed the accelerator, and the mud arrogated both rear wheels.

“Of course. Of course!”

He shifted back into park, cut the engine, grabbed the roach from the ashtray, and opened the door.

“Goddamnit, kid,” he said. “What the hell are you doing riding that bike out here at night?”

“Going home,” the boy said, staring at the Tahoe’s muddy wheels. “Looks like you’re stuck.”

Don stepped out of the water, scaled the embankment, turned, and lit a cigarette.

“I guess so,” he said, then squished back up the road toward Vessie’s driveway. The boy whizzed past, dissipating click-clacks quaffed by the murky night.

9

Newport Jazz Festival. 1956. Many in the audience gathered their things and headed for the parking lot. Then the band went into “Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue.” The people hurried back to their seats. Paul Gonsalves, Ellington’s saxophone player, dressed in white top-to-bottom, rose and eased into his solo. Building in complexity, rising in volume, increasing in tempo. The drums popped a little louder. The boys bobbed a little faster. In his tailored, pearl-gray suit Ellington stood, tapping his right foot, snapping the fingers of his right hand, and walked away from the piano. A trim, young woman with silver-blonde hair in a white, sleeveless sundress and stiff pleated skirt danced alone, eyes wide, in the aisle just below the stage. Ellington winked at her. He turned to the band and motioned for them to swing harder. A bright blast of bandstand brass unleashed Gonsalves. Feet spread far apart, he leaned back and blew the most piercing notes anyone in the crowd had ever heard. The woman ran to stage right, strutted up the five steps, and danced with Duke. Shouts and screams from the crowd and all on their feet, all stomping, swinging. A joy riot.

10

Vessie heard three knocks at the front door. She rose, waddled across the living room, and pulled the door open just a bit.

“Donald?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“Car’s in a ditch down the road. Swerved to miss some kid on a bike. You believe that?”

“Is he hurt?”

“No. He’s fine.”

Don looked over his left shoulder. The crickets fiddled their thick songs, songs viscous as the hot August night. Night so dense and damp, it was like breathing through a wet cloth.

“I gamble,” he said, sweat beads on his brow.

“I figured so,” she said.

“I don’t do it for the money.”

“I didn’t figure you did. Come in, Donald.”

“I owe a guy a lot of cash,” he said. “I can’t pay him, and he’s after me. It’s an old debt. Years old. I thought that after the accident, with my face all screwed up, and changing my name and everything, it would be something I could sort of sidestep. I was wrong.”

“Who do you owe?”

“Gordy.”

“Gordy? Donald. I thought he was dead. The tornado. They never found his body.”

“He’s not dead. And I’ve gotta get out of here”

Vessie reached for Donald’s left hand and clutched his fingertips. His hand flinched. He tried to pull away. She held tight and didn’t let go.

“Donald,” she said, “You know I never had a child, but I always thought of you as kind of like my own. I love you like you were my own. You’ll take me with you.”

He stepped inside, sharing a cool, dry space with Vessie and the sounds of Duke Ellington’s “Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue.”

11

Don woke before sunrise and stepped out onto the front porch for a cigarette, careful not to wake Vessie. He didn’t want to take her with him, but he didn’t have the cash to run, and she did.

It was so much easier being alone and not responsible for anyone else’s peace of mind, joy, sense of security. Easier when his screwed up life was his alone. He could own it. Didn’t have to share it. Because sharing it meant he couldn’t be the lonely anti-hero, meant having to endure sympathetic words and empathetic embraces, comforts he didn’t deserve.

12

Don had to make fifty consecutive free throws after each practice before he’d permit himself to hit the showers. Number fifty dropped through the net as Coach Mozz approached him.

“Hey, Freeway,” he said. “Let’s go grab a steak.”

“Tonight?” he said.

“Yeah. I need to talk to you.”

“Give me thirty minutes.”

He showered and met Coach Mozz outside the locker room. Mozz had a weird smile on his face. Distant. Like a mannequin. A look Don had never seen before.

“How about Ernie’s?” Mozz said.

“Sounds great.”

“I’ll drive,” he said.

The two men got into Mozz’s Kool-Aid-blue Volvo station wagon and headed for Ernie’s, Clarkton’s best steakhouse.

Coach Mozz didn’t say anything for three or four minutes.

Then he whispered, “Jesus.”

“You okay, Coach?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah. Big one against Findley Friday night.”

Mozz didn’t look at Don. He gripped the steering wheel hard. His hands were ashen. As they approached the red light at the Wheeler and Mortimer intersection, Don watched a couple, hand-in-hand, step off the curb and begin to walk across the street. He looked at the speedometer. Forty-five.

Slow down. Slow down.

Mozz didn’t.

“Coach. Red light. Coach! Red light!”

“Shit!” Mozz said, and pushed the brake pedal against the floor.

The tires wailed. The back of the wagon swung out to the right, and Mozz corrected, working the wheel to the right, missing the couple by a foot. Don looked into the woman’s eyes as they barreled through the intersection. It had happened too fast. She was still laughing at something the man had said.

“Gordy’s out for me,” Mozz said, slowing down to twenty. “It don’t look good, Freeway. Jesus. I hate what I’m about to say. Jesus. Freeway, Ronny, I need a favor.”