Chasing Forgiveness (8 page)

We are led to a room, take a number, and then we wait and wait and wait.

Finally we are led to another gray room, divided in the middle by a long scratched-up counter and a thick glass wall that goes to the ceiling. It's like a big ticket booth at a movie theater in a bad part of town. On the other side of the glass are the inmates, talking on the phone to their visitors. How stupid, I think. They're just inches away, but they have to talk by phone.

Most of the inmates on the other side of the glass
look
like criminals. Most of the
visitors
look like criminals, too. I stay close by Grandma's side, not caring if I look like a wimp.

A guard leads Dad to the room on the other side of the glass, and Dad sits in a chair. He doesn't look at me. He pretends he doesn't know I'm there yet, but he knows.

This has been the longest I've ever been away from my dad. Three months. I figured he'd be in a wheelchair or something, or walk with an awful limp, on account of he shot himself, but he doesn't. He's healed.

Dad's long blond hair is cut short. He looks like he's lost even more weight. His eyes are sunken in farther than I've ever seen them, and there are dark rings around them.

He
looks like a criminal, too.

Grandma goes to talk to him first. . . . Then
Grandpa. . . . Then they bring Tyler and me. I pick up the phone on my side of the wall, and Dad picks up his at the same time. Like two sides of a mirror.

“Hi, Preston,” he says. “How are you?”

“Fine.” I don't tell him that I have nightmares.

“How's school?”

“Fine.” I don't tell him that my friends treat me like I'm from another planet.

“How's everything?”

“Fine.”

He nods.

“I missed a few weeks, but my grades are back up,” I tell him. “They even let me stay on the track team.” That seems to make him happy.

“Have you won lots of races?”

“Most of 'em,” I say with a shrug. “Maybe Grandpa could take pictures for you at our next meet,” I tell him. I don't tell him that the season's over and there won't be any more meets.

I look at him closely through the reinforced glass. I sort of wish I could hug him, but in a way I'm glad the glass is there. But I can't tell him that. Used to be I could tell my dad anything.

“Pictures,” says Dad, “pictures would be nice.”

I suddenly realize I can't think of anything to say. I get scared. Real scared. I turn to see Grandma and Grandpa standing behind me. They just smile at me, like this is the
most wonderful moment in the world. It makes me feel better. If they think this is wonderful, then maybe it is.

I turn back to Dad. “Do they feed you good?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Every day's Thanksgiving.” I laugh at his joke even though it's not all that funny.

“Hey,” says Tyler, “gimme a chance. I wanna talk to him, too.” Tyler grabs the phone away from me, and I grab it back.

“You don't grab things!” I tell him. “Ask nicely. Use the
p
word.”

Tyler sighs. “Can I
please
talk to Dad now?”

“Much better.” I hand him the phone, and he steps up to the glass. He's so small his head barely clears the little ledge in the booth. Dad looks down on him with his sunken eyes.

“You like it here?” asks Tyler.

“It's okay,” Dad says.

“You get your own room?” asks Tyler.

“I share it,” Dad says.

“Bunk beds?”

Dad nods.

“Who do you share it with?”

“A guy named Bob.”

Tyler nods and wrinkles his brow, trying to picture what a guy named Bob might look like.

“Can I see your room?”

Dad shakes his head.

“Oh,” says Tyler, a bit disappointed.

“I miss you, Tyler,” says Dad.

“Me too,” says Tyler. “Why did you kill my mommy?”

I instantly bodycheck Tyler against the wall and grab the phone away from him. Tyler whines and complains, but I push him back behind me.

“What?” says Dad. “What was that? What, Tyler?” He pretends he didn't hear. But he heard. I know he heard, and he knows that I know he heard. But we play the game. We both pretend.

“Are you coming out soon?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “I still have to go to trial.”

“Oh.”

Behind me Tyler is sniffling, more upset about the way I pushed him out of the way than anything else.

“Dad,” I ask, looking at his eyes, trying to see if they're the same eyes I remembered, “are you better now?”

“I'm feeling okay,” he says, rubbing his stomach just above his belly button.

“No,” I say, clearly and slowly. “I mean are you
better
now?”

He looks at me for a moment, then looks down and starts picking at his fingernails.

“Preston,” he says. “I love you, Preston. And I'm sorry.” He starts to cry. “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.”

And that's about enough. I turn around and give the phone to Grandma. I will not cry. I will not cry now. All these
criminals looking at me, all these stone-faced guards. I give the phone to Grandma, and she talks to Dad. She cries a bit and calms him down. She's good with people who cry. She should be a professional grandmother.

I lean back against the ugly gray wall. It's sticky even though the paint has probably been dry for years and years. I stand back, close my eyes, and force down the tears so the criminals won't see, and I count the minutes until we can get out of this awful place and go home.

There is nothing but the football field now. That's the way I like it. My uniform pads me against the tackling force of the other team; the cheering people standing on the sidelines pad me against the outside world. And now, there is nothing but the field.

I'm almost twelve, but I feel much older in my uniform. My shoulders seem to stretch out a mile on both sides. The quarterback yells “set,” and I dig my cleats into the sod, ram my knuckles into the ground. I feel as hard and stable as a rock when I get down into position, but I feel as fast and light as a tiger when I run.

The kid facing me on the other team is too slow, and we both know it. We both know I'll be sailing far away from him the instant the ball is snapped. He can't cover me. No one can.

The center snaps the ball to the quarterback, and I leave the jumble of bodies and helmets far behind. In front of me, there's nothing but the field. I am a rocket blasting out of orbit, and my cleats burn grass as I go. I will not turn around until I am in the end zone.

A bigger kid from the other team comes up alongside me, like a missile trying to take me out—but he knows he can't touch me until I have the ball. He runs just beside me, so I activate my second stage and roar on ahead, leaving him in smoke. I am in orbit, and it's beautiful. The most perfect feeling in the world—having nothing to think about but the field. This is
my
quilt. Grandma has hers; this is mine.

I am in the end zone. I am alone. And I turn. The ball is already spiraling in the air toward me. Almost toward me—it's off to my right. Reflexively, I dig my cleats into the end zone and push off to the right. The field is gone. Now there is nothing but the ball. It seems to fly at me in slow motion, spinning closer and closer. I watch it dock smoothly and cleanly in my hands. I feel the lace and the rough imitation pigskin against the balls of my fingers. I clamp down tight, and the ball is mine.

Now there is nothing but me.

Holding the ball close, I dive, then roll on the hard, damp earth—not because I have to, but because I want to. I want to feel my body slamming down, hard enough to sting but not hard enough to hurt. I want to scream for joy at the top of my
lungs until I have no voice. I want to enjoy this moment, and I want it to go on forever and ever.

I am the fastest!

I am the strongest!

I am . . .

Weavin' Warren Sharp?

With that thought, the world rushes back in on me with the tackling force of the entire NFL. Grandma and Grandpa watch from the side cheering. My teammates race to me, trying to lift me onto their shoulders.

But all that doesn't matter. The good feeling is gone.

Grandpa holds a camera, taking pictures. For Dad. This is the first touchdown I've ever made that Dad wasn't here to see. That Mom wasn't here to see. And although I am the center of attention—although I've put our team in the lead—the play is over, and the smile on my face is only there to mask what I'm feeling inside. It's the feeling that something is missing—like all my guts, or my brains, or my heart. Or my soul. My hands can catch footballs fine, but they can't do what I really want them to do. I want them to reach inside my body. I want to use my fists to fill that empty space inside, wherever it is.

“Yeah, Preston!” scream my friends and teammates while the other team takes a walk down the field. “You'll be MVP for sure.”

Yes, I will be. I will push harder than I've pushed for
anything. I will make that happen. I
have
to make it happen. For Mom.

I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and make the outside world go away again. The hold inside that my hands can't reach is hidden once more. I push it back, until it is forgotten. I step forward into the kickoff formation and open my eyes.

In a moment there will be nothing but the field. Good. That's the way I like it.

•  •  •

We moved in July—my grandparents, Tyler, and I—to a brand-new house in a richer neighborhood. The town we moved to is one of those places that's perfectly planned from the day they started building it. The place seems to be trying so hard to be normal, it's just plain weird. All the homes look different, but somehow they all look the same. The grass is always green and as well-trimmed as a golf course—the parks all seem too pretty to be used—and right smack in the middle of town is this huge man-made lake, filled with water that's always dyed a little bit too blue.

This town is like Disneyland without the rides.

Our house is big. We have four bedrooms upstairs, and downstairs there's a sunken living room, a raised den, and a dining room that sort of floats in between.

My room isn't a guest room. It's
my
room. It looks like my room; it feels like my room. It even has my old bed in it.

Grandma tucks me in at night now, like Mom used to. I
don't really need to be tucked in, but I let her do it because I know grandmas love that stuff. Letting her tuck me in is the least I can do.

Grandpa does all the things a dad should do, but he's not as strict about it as my dad might be. Sometimes I even slip and call him Dad by mistake. He just smiles when I do that. Grandma and Grandpa like having us around. I like having them around. It's a good arrangement.

And they never fight.

Life is calm, and life is normal. Of course it's also sort of plain—like the iced tea Grandma always has in the fridge. Weak with no sugar. But maybe that's what life is supposed to be like.

I seem to spend a lot of time on the football field, either at practice or in games. When I'm off the field, I spend a lot of time behind my closet.

Whoever built the house must have had me in mind when they built it, because there's a secret sliding door at the back of my closet, and beyond that door is a secret room, only five feet high. It's my place, and very few people are allowed in. I have a TV in there, and there are some pillows and chairs to sit on when I have friends over, but mostly I sit there alone. Grandma doesn't come in. It's as if, just because it's behind a closet, she feels funny crossing the threshold, so she just tells me to keep it clean and lets me sweep and vacuum the hard plywood floor all by myself.

It's a good place to disappear.

I sometimes pretend that time stops when I sit in there. Now that the trial is coming up, I pretend more and more.

“What trial?” asks my friend Jason as we sit in the secret room. I don't answer him right away. I met Jason when I first started at my new school. The first day I met him, we played pool at his house. He hit the cue ball too hard—it went flying off the table and hit me in the nuts. When a friendship starts that way, it can only get better. “What trial?” he asks again.

“Just some dumb old trial,” I say, hoping he'll back off. Jason doesn't know. None of my new friends know. I think it's one of the reasons why my grandparents decided to move. To give me a new school, new friends. I left everyone behind—I don't write or call any of my old friends now. I thought I might when I left. I told people I would, but the truth is I get all sweaty when I think about talking to them again. As far as I'm concerned, I hope I never hear from any of them ever again.

Especially not Russ Talbert.

It was Russ's parents who lent my dad the gun.

I don't know why, and I don't want to know why. I hate Russ. He always talked about how great separation and divorce was—and then
his
parents end up getting back together.

“What dumb old trial?” Jason's the type of guy who has to know everything—and remembers everything he hears. He's pretty smart, and although he's not as good in football or track as I am, we make a good team. Although we look like
opposites—him with his dark, dark brown hair and me with my light, light blond hair.

“I said, what dumb old trial?” he asks impatiently.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just my dad's trial, so shut up!”

I want to hit him. I want to hit him so hard he'll shut up. I can feel my temper about to explode like a gunshot. Jason's eyes light up. “Cool! Your father's on trial for something?”

“There's nothing cool about it,” I tell him, clenching my fists, wishing that I was here in my secret room alone today.