Chinese Handcuffs (3 page)

“Think we can win this one?” Coach asks.

“Yes!”

“Okay. Get in there and put it away. I'm tired and I want to go home.”

The players join hands in the center of the huddle, jerk them up and down in unison, yelling, “Kick ass!” in a meter that sounds more like “Ki-kass” and can't be picked up by the fragile sensibilities of the crowd, and walk to their positions.

At the whistle Jennifer takes Renee down low, then cuts back to receive the pass, shaking her for the split second it takes to get free. She starts a move to the hoop but is blocked and passes back out quickly. Vickie Knight, Chief Joe's point guard, takes it back up top and sets up, calling a number and looking for an inside pass. She's trapped, and Jennifer comes up top to help, gets the pass, and instantly drives to the hoop, catching Renee Halfmoon off guard for a split second, driving behind her to the baseline for a short jumper that barely disturbs the net. Chief Joe goes immediately into a full-court press, and Wenatchee can't fast-break, instead bringing the ball up slowly amid the deafening roar from the crowd and tremendous court pressure. Renee Halfmoon works her side of the court, trying to shake Jennifer, but Jen fights her way through two poorly set screens, denying Renee any chance at the ball. Wenatchee's point guard drives toward the hoop and dishes off to the forward on the other side. Out of the corner of her eye Jen sees her own teammate beaten and slides over to help. Renee moves outside and is free to receive the pass and, in the same fluid movement, pops a jumper to put Wenatchee up again by two.

Jen takes a chance as the ball leaves Renee's hand and breaks for the opposite basket while Vickie
snatches it out of the net, steps out, and fires a perfect strike to her on the fly. Wenatchee's point guard streaks after her but has no chance, and Jen goes up untouched for the easy two, tying the score with less than thirty seconds to play, and Chief Joe's players walk over to Coach Sherman for some of that late-game magic that got them here.

Only in concentration is there magic. “Just don't give them a good shot and don't foul. They have to be hitting at least seventy-five percent from the line. Let's don't lose this on a freebie. They'll go to Halfmoon. Jen, stay on her. If she gets the ball, whoever's close give Jen some help. No room for mistakes here, ladies. In thirty seconds either we'll have our excuses or we'll have this game.”

The buzzer sounds, and the players take their spots. Wenatchee gets the ball in easily and brings it up slowly, once again under tremendous pressure, working down those last agonizing seconds. Each of Chief Joe's players is glued to her man, and Wenatchee works furiously to get someone open on picks but is shut off. With eight seconds remaining, Renee Halfmoon breaks for the hoop up high behind her high post's perfectly set screen on Jen, and Jen spins off to catch her. For a second it appears Renee has her beaten, but Jen miraculously
slides to a spot between Renee and the hoop and plants herself. An astonished Renee desperately strains to switch direction at the same time that she pulls up short to avoid the charging foul; but it's too late, and she flips the ball underhanded toward the hoop. It bounces straight back at them off the front of the rim, striking the court at their feet, headed for out-of-bounds. Both girls dive, neither sure who touched it last, and Jen is able to get her fingertips on it a split second before Renee crashes off-balance into her legs, and the crowd rises in unison to the sound of Jen's head cracking against the hardwood like a cantaloupe dropped from the rafters. The ref's whistle calling a loose ball foul on Renee Halfmoon and the game-ending buzzer sound together, and with both teams in the penalty situation, Jen is about to get a chance few athletes ever get and, truth be told, few want. She struggles to her feet; but the court and the crowd and the players spin as if in a slow-motion food processor, and she sinks back to the floor. The players gather around her, followed closely by Dillon Hemingway, the trainer, pushing his way through, kneeling and sticking three fingers in front of her face. “How many?” he yells over the crowd.

Jennifer slaps his hand away. “I can see,” she lies. “Just give me a sec.”

Dillon looks back to Coach Sherman, who is still on her way, and waves her back to the bench.

There is no time on the clock as Jen stands at the top of the key alone. Players from both teams stand behind her, awaiting the outcome of their season, which rests unconditionally on Jen's ability to drop a freebie under pressure. There will be no rebound, no last-second desperation jumper, but none of that is clear to Jen, whose brain is swimming. She bounces the ball slowly, shaking her head, willing away the throbbing pain deep in the rear of her skull and forcing together as one the two hoops she sees floating before her. Jennifer Lawless has made a living out of free throws all season long, and she has yet to give in to pressure of any kind, and she won't now if she can just focus on the rim. She shakes her head again, bouncing the ball deliberately, buying precious seconds, and blocking out the screaming crowd. She holds the ball a second longer, then lets it go as darkness crowds in. She does not see it snap the bottom of the net, nor does she hear the Chief Joseph fans erupt.

Jennifer tried to lift her head from the pillow, but the throbbing pain forced it back. Lights flashed across the ceiling and walls, and a vaguely familiar silhouette sat motionless against the window to her left. It took her a moment to realize the wail of the siren came from the vehicle in which they rode. Slowly the evening's events crept back into her head. She squinted again at the figure in the window and realized it was her sister, Dawn. Tears streamed down Dawn's face as she stared silently out the window. Jen felt a hand on her head, looked up and behind her to see Coach Sherman, sitting next to Dillon.

“Nasty spill,” the coach said, and Dawn's head snapped around, relief pouring almost instantly over her face. She leaned over and hugged Jen, then buried her face in Jen's shoulder.

Jennifer looked back up at her coach. “Did it go in?”

“Yes indeedy, it did,” Kathy said.

Jen pushed back into the pillow. “Thought so.” She rubbed the back of Dawn's head as Dawn held tightly to her. “Hey, little sis, what's the matter with you? I got a bump on the head, is all.”

Dillon reached over and put a hand in the middle of Dawn's back. “Yeah,” he said. “A bump. About the size of an avocado.”

“I thought you were dead,” Dawn sputtered into Jen's shoulder. “I was yelling at you and you wouldn't answer. I thought you were dead.”

Coach Sherman laughed. “She
was
yelling at you. Would've woke
me
up.”

“Next time,” Jennifer said to Dawn, “put a mirror under my nostrils.”

“What?”

“If it fogs up, I'm still alive.”

Dawn was feeling better, raised her head, and sat back on the ambulance seat. “Hey,” she said, “it's not funny. I thought something was really wrong.”

Jennifer flashed on what that could mean for Dawn if it were true. She was relatively certain Dawn didn't know all—knew the violence, but not the rest.

“Well, nothing's really wrong.” She looked to her coach. “Hey, Coach, I'm okay, right? I mean, I won't have to stay at the hospital or anything, right?”

“Do you see my medical degree hanging anywhere on the wall?” Kathy asked. “I don't have any idea. But if the doctor says you stay, you stay. We couldn't get hold of your parents, so I have the say, understood?”

“I feel fine,” Jennifer said. “Really. I don't want to stay overnight, okay?”

“It's okay that you don't want to,” Kathy said. “But it doesn't mean you won't.”

The ambulance pulled up to the emergency door at Sacred Heart Hospital, and in seconds the back doors swung open and medics swooped Jennifer out.

Following a relatively short wait, lying flat on an examination table, staring into a bright light, Jen heard the door open and the ER doctor step quietly into the room. He looked over the paperwork her coach had filled out with Jen's help upon entry, then walked over and stood above and behind her. Jen knew from reading his nametag upside down that his name was Christian.

“Hi,” Jen said. “I can't stay.”

“Is that right?” Dr. Christian answered flatly. “Guess we shouldn't have sent out for Chinese.”

“Guess not. Really, I have to go home. There's no one to take care of my sister.”

“How 'bout you let me examine your gourd before we waste time on an argument we may not need to have?” the doctor said.

“Okay, I'll shut up. But I can't stay.”

Dr. Christian proceeded to shine his light into Jen's eyes, asking her sometimes to follow it and sometimes to look straight at a point in front of her. He mumbled a couple of medical
mmm-hmms
before asking her to sit up. As she made the attempt, the room immediately spun, and nausea swelled in her stomach; but she held on. Dr. Christian watched her sway, a little annoyed she would not be straight with him, then asked her to stand. Jen tried to keep up the charade but, as she stood, felt an overwhelming urge to vomit. She choked it back, one hand grasping the examination table.

“Let your hand fall free, please,” Dr. Christian said, and Jen complied. The doctor caught her under the arms as her knees buckled. “Can't see any problem here,” he said sarcastically. “Why don't you just trot along home?”

“Funny man,” Jen said as he laid her head back down on the examining table. “What's wrong?”

“Probably a moderate concussion,” he said. “I'm
sorry, young lady, but I can't grant your request for a pass. We need to keep an eye on you until this dizziness goes away, and we'll need to keep you awake for a while. If no one's at your house, there's no way I can allow you to go there.”

“My sister's there.”

“How old's your sister?”

“Twelve.”

“Sorry, Charlie,” Dr. Christian said, “StarKist wants tunas that are thirteen—”

“You don't understand.”

“Yes, I do,” he said, looking again at the chart. “I understand you want to go home. It's you who doesn't understand. You're not going.” He looked at his clipboard. “Who's Kathy Sherman?”

“My coach.”

“She brought you in?”

“Yeah.”

The doctor disappeared for a few seconds, returning with Kathy and Dawn, explaining the situation on the way. Dillon remained in the waiting room.

“You're here for at least twelve hours,” Kathy said. “Don't worry. I'll let your parents know what happened when I take Dawn home. They'll probably want to come see you.”

Jen's throat closed as her mind raced. She was caught. There was no way out of here tonight. She hated her body for betraying her but knew she couldn't make it to the door if her life depended on it. “Okay,” she said. “But could I talk to you alone for a minute, Coach?”

“Sure,” she said, glancing at the doctor and Dawn, motioning them with her eyes toward the door.

“We'll be right out here,” Dr. Christian said. “I'll get someone going on your room.”

When the door closed, Jen took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Coach, could you do me a
big
favor?”

“If I can.”

“Could you not call again? Take Dawn home with you, just for tonight?”

“Jennifer, I can't do that. What would your parents do if neither of you came home tonight and no one told them why? Besides sue my ass off, I mean.”

“They won't sue,” Jennifer said. “Just take her home with you, okay?”

“Jen, what's this all about?”

“I can just tell you it's really important,” Jen said. “
Really
important. They're probably not home yet anyway. You could say you called and no one answered. You could say I gave you the wrong number.”

“Jen, this is a little strange. . . .”

“I know it's strange, but could you? Just this once?”

Coach Sherman searched Jennifer's eyes for a clue to the sense of this but saw only the urgency. Truth was, this kid could get almost anything she wanted from Kathy. Jen was the most easily coached kid she'd had, and her intensity reminded her of a young Kathy Sherman. She was aware that alone bought Jen extra room with her. Not that she needed it. “Okay, I'll take her home. But I have to call in the morning. And if you're going to ask me to do things like this, I'm going to expect an explanation sometime in the near future.”

“Thanks,” Jen said, and closed her eyes.

 

Knowing Dawn was with Coach Sherman released Jennifer into a warm, half-conscious state as she lay back to await being transferred to a room. Vaguely aware of her damp, cold uniform covered only by her warm-up top, and her hair matted against her forehead with sweat, she drifted, floating weightlessly back to the last time in her life she really felt safe—felt as if she didn't have to be suspect of everything around her.

She's five. Her grandfather is there, sitting in his overstuffed chair with a storybook in his lap, a Dr. Seuss book. . . .

 

“C'm'ere, J. Maddy. Let Grampa read you some poetry,” and Jen automatically glances up in delight. “This here's
real
poetry. None of them ‘silver bells and cockled shells' an' the rest of that foolishness.”

To Jennifer and Grampa,
real
poetry means Horton. Or the Long Legger Kwongs from
Scrambled Eggs Super,
or Bartholomew Cubbins' five hundred hats. Jennifer slides across the room and crawls up into her grandfather's lap, leaning in against his soft red plaid flannel shirt, which smells of cherry pipe tobacco and car engine grease, easily the best-combined olfactory experiences in existence to a five-year-old girl who worships the old man who always keeps her safe and always reads
real
poetry.

“Now, J. Maddy, you can read right along with me if you want,” Grampa says. His voice is rich and deep, and he talks in a slow drawl, though there is nothing southern in his history. He's a big man, with a huge, round head full of silver hair and a handlebar mustache. His fingers are short and thick, with dirt under the nails, always dirt under the nails, which Gramma complains about night and day, but which Jennifer considers part of Grampa's fingers.

“You're gettin' right smart for your age,” Grampa
says, then laughs. “And for your breeches, too. So if you wanna read along, you go right ahead.” He calls her J. Maddy because her middle name is Madeline—his own sister's name—and he put up a pretty good fight for an old man in the hospital five years ago, when his son and daughter-in-law were filling out the birth certificate, to have Jen's first and middle names in the reverse order of what they wanted, but he lost in the end, as he always does in this family. He wanted her named after his sister because she had been the only human being on the face of the earth he really trusted. She was gone now, and he hoped he could re-create that trust with his granddaughter, the way he failed to do with his wife and family.

The trust is there, and to him Jennifer is J. Maddy.

 

“Sighed Mayzie, a lazy bird hatching an egg:

‘I'm tired and I'm bored

And I've kinks in my leg

From sitting, just sitting here day after day.

It's work! How I hate it.

I'd
much
rather play. . . .'”

 

Jennifer reads right along with Grampa. She doesn't really recognize many of the words by sight, but she's
heard Horton's saga of hatching Mayzie's egg so many times she can say it in her sleep.

 

“We're moving you now.” A nurse, one Jennifer hadn't seen before, touched her gently on the forehead. “I want you to slide off the table and sit in this wheelchair, okay?”

Jennifer opened her eyes, unable to tell if she had been asleep or simply daydreaming. Seconds passed before she realized where she was. Grampa was
so
real. “Yeah, sure,” she said after a moment, and sat up slowly, then eased herself down into the chair. The dizziness seemed to have passed, and the maneuver was not difficult.

She was being moved to a private room because it was the only one available, the nurse explained, and because they intended to wake her up periodically during the evening to check her responses.

The nurse was out of the room only seconds before . . .

 

Jennifer is back in her grandfather's lap, clapping with glee as the egg hatches and out flies a miniature elephant with wings, an exquisite replica of Horton himself, his reward for patience and tenacity through
what could only be described as pachyderm hell.

Jennifer's dad, her
real
dad—who appears in her dreams and fantasies only as a shadow, with no real face or weight or size—lurks in the kitchen doorway and watches them read. A coldness washes over Jen, and she moves tighter into Grampa's flannel shirt, concentrates harder on Horton's delight and Mayzie's rage, as if to wipe out her father's presence. She does not know he will be out of her life very soon, only to be replaced by something worse. Only with Grampa is she safe.

“You're spoiling that girl rotten,” says Jen's grandmother from the front porch. “You won't live forever, you know. What's she gonna do when you're gone? I can't be reading to her twenty-four hours a day, and neither can her mother. Who even knows if her father can read?” These last words—the words about her father—are spit out with such contempt they feel like arrows to Jennifer.

Grampa is always short with Gramma. It seems the only way to protect himself from her poisonous tongue. There is little warmth between them even in the best of times, little warmth anywhere in the family, really. “Can't be done,” Grampa says. “Can't spoil a five-year-old. Not with time. Not with love.” He shakes his head.
“Can't be done.” He runs his thick fingers through Jennifer's hair, smiles his tired smile, and whispers, “Don't ever believe that. Anytime anyone tries to spoil you, just soak it up. You hear?”

Jennifer smiles secretly at him and nods. Though she can't put words to the feelings, she senses that her days of being “spoiled rotten” by Grampa are numbered. She has seen him do strange things lately, things that cause the rest of the family to look at each other and shake their heads behind his back. Yesterday at lunch Grampa put chicken gravy on his ice cream. Jen started to laugh—she thought Grampa was making a joke—but he looked so confused it scared her and she didn't tell him.
He thinks it's potatoes,
Jen thought when she saw him pour the full ladle of gravy over his dessert;
he just forgot.
But then he ate it.
He must think those are awful cold potatoes,
she thought, but she couldn't shake the idea that something was going wrong with Grampa. Not long ago he got lost coming home from the store, and the police brought him back. Jen watched him get out of the police car and stand at the end of the walk, looking confused, and she ran out to him, yelling and squealing, and that brought him right back. She does that sometimes, and sometimes it works. She makes loud noises when he seems confused.
But he's okay way more than he's not okay, and Jen sees it as her job to help him when she can.