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“Somebody should take a look at that,” Oz said when I walked back onto the court and we huddled briefly. “You could have a real bad sprain.”

I waved him off through gritted teeth. “It's nothing. Remember what Coach Von used to say whenever one of us went down in practice?”

“Walk it off,” came the simultaneous reply from Phillip, Bobby Ray, and Oz, and they raised their heads and looked at one another with happy recognition.

“Let's see some more movement,” I said. “We need to screen Bobby Ray for some open shots.” I looked meaningfully over at him and gave him a wry smile. “I know he's going to find the range eventually. We may have to double-screen Martel. He's tenacious today, for some reason. Phillip, you and Jimmy need to crash the boards on both ends. Work for position. You remember how.”

“It's been a long time, Coach,” Jimmy said.

“No kidding,” Phillip said. “But we'll do our best.”

And we made a game of it. Not if you were keeping score, of course; we were so far behind that all we really could have claimed was a moral victory, whatever that is. But we stayed roughly even with the varsity from that point on, and it felt good. Even without Bill in the middle, we hit some shots from outside, put some offensive rebounds in, and closed the sieve that had been our defense.

I myself didn't do much besides limp, and B. W. could have driven on me at any time, but he was generous, or maybe still feeling guilty; he was prone to that. When we decided to call a halt after an hour or so, I was grateful. I could see the swelling coming up and out of my high-topped Nikes and knew that when I took off that shoe I was not going to like what I saw.

“Dad, I really think you need to get that ankle looked at,” B. W. said. “It looks like trouble.”

“If I ice it down when we get home, it'll be fine,” I lied. I didn't want to go to the emergency room; too much money, even with Michelle's insurance. “Could you run Phillip out to his place?”

“I'll walk,” Phillip said. “Y'all shouldn't have to cart me around.”

“Hey, it's freezing out there,” B. W. said. “I don't mind.”

“One of these days I'll get my old truck running,” Phillip said, and B. W. was asking him what was wrong with it as I limped for the exit door.

“You sure you can get home okay?” Bobby Ray asked as we pushed out into the cold.

“Just need one foot to drive this truck,” I said, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks for asking. And good shooting.”

“I did all right,” he said. “Maybe we won't make fools of ourselves after all.”

“Maybe,” I said, hopping off like an idiot. I still had more than a few doubts on that score, at least where I was concerned.

Crutches

I don't know why we protest when doctors tell us what to do. If we make the mistake of entrusting our well-being to them, what can we expect but advice? I suppose it makes us feel better to complain; it doesn't seem to accomplish anything else. I left my doctor's office on crutches. It was a bad sprain, I should get plenty of rest, I should stay off it completely for at least five days, and it could take months before it felt completely trustworthy again. This was more answer than I wanted.

“But I've got to coach basketball,” I protested. “I've got to go out and feed cattle. I've got to play point guard after Christmas.”

“You've got to stay off that ankle,” he ordered me, and rightfully so. After I removed my shoe on Sunday night I was in the worst agony of my entire life. My ankle was about the size of a softball—a red, throbbing softball. The pain was so overwhelming it made me sick to my stomach, and I couldn't stop myself from groaning. Michelle couldn't sleep with me lying there mooing, and anything that disturbed her sleep had to be momentous indeed. Then on Monday morning when I tried to get out of bed to feed the cattle, stepping on it was like setting off a three-alarm fire from my knee down.

Michelle ran in from wherever she had been when she heard my plaintive noises and found me on the floor. She took me to the doctor in Watonga, with the results I have already described. This was a solution to my pain, but still left the cattle hungry. B. W., Michelle, and Lauren fed them Monday and Tuesday—Lauren under protest—but it was apparent to me that with their busy lives and anticattle convictions, I couldn't count on them to do it daily. I would have to come up with another idea.

Meanwhile, I asked Carla to help with basketball practice when on Monday it became evident that I couldn't stay on top of things from the bleachers.

“Glad to,” she said. And I was glad too; we could learn things from her.

When I went out for practice Tuesday afternoon, I seated myself gingerly in the fourth row, my ankle propped on the seat in front of me. I figured I would be safe there from errant passes and out-of-control bodies. Shortly before the kids started to arrive, the outside door opened and Phillip walked in, wearing a jean jacket and a T-shirt with Joe Camel on it. His hair was clean and gathered in a ponytail; he was wearing his tennis shoes.

“Hey,” he said, and walked across the court to sit next to me. He looked down at my bare foot and swollen ankle. “That looks awful.”

“That's how it feels,” I said. I sniffed discreetly and couldn't pick up any trace of alcohol, which was heartening. “I've got some Percodan. Helps some.”

“Be careful with that stuff,” he said solemnly. “It gets a hold of you and doesn't let go.” He shrugged off his jacket to reveal Joe Camel in his full glory.

“You own any clothes that don't advertise cigarettes?”

He smiled a little. “Ralph Lauren and them guys don't hang out in my neighborhood.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I just don't want the kids getting the message that smoking's okay for them. What brings you up here?”

“You do. My grandmother heard you were bad off. I thought you might need some help with practice.”

“Your grandmother?”

He shrugged. “She has her sources.”

I was thinking mystic spirit guides, maybe animal totems. I raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Someone told her at the beauty shop,” he said.

“Well,” I said. “Thanks. I'm glad you came. Carla Briggs—the girls' coach—is going to help out today, but you're welcome to stay if you want to.”

He shifted uncomfortably and shot a glance at the door. “That lady coach? The one who was up here that Sunday?”

“That's the one.”

He fidgeted some more, raised his first two fingers and thumb to his lips and tapped for a minute, then decided. “Well, I guess I better get going.”

“Why?” I started to ask, but that's when a voice came from the gym doors.

“Hey, boys,” Carla called. “I left my class watching a film so I could come over early.” She crossed the court with her ground-eating stride, and I pushed myself slowly to my feet, not because I always rise in the presence of women, but because Phillip seemed to be towering over me, and I guessed that Carla would too.

“Carla, you remember Phillip One Horse,” I said. “My old teammate. Phillip, Carla Briggs.”

She held out her hand, and his rose from his side to take it. “Good to see you again,” she said.

“Ma'am,” he said, nodding. When his hand dropped back to his side, it patted his leg a few times. Then he nodded again and said, “Well, I'll let you two get to work.”

“Phillip came up to see if I needed any help with practice.”

“Why don't you hang around?” Carla asked. “Three heads are better than two.”

“Nah, I'm in training,” he said, and he looked down at his shirt and smiled. “Down to a pack a day. Next stop, the Atlanta Olympics.”

“Wait a sec,” I said. “Carla, will you get the balls? I've got a little business to talk over with Phillip.”

She went off toward our offices, and Phillip and I sat back down for a moment. “What do you need?” Phillip asked, watching Carla disappear into the hallway before he turned his full attention back to me.

“I've got a bunch of calves I can't feed because of this thing,” I said, grimacing at my ankle. “Could you come out morning and evening and give me a hand for a week or two? I can't pay much, but I could give you a couple head of cattle when we're done. And I heard you talking to B. W. about your Chevy the other day. I can't walk, but I'm still good with a wrench. Maybe I could help you get that thing running.”

“Okay,” he said. “But you know, John, you don't have to pay me. I'd help you for nothing.”

I patted his shoulder. “Well, you're worth more to me than nothing. Do you still have a driver's license?”

“For all the good it does me.”

I pulled my keys out of my pocket. “Why don't you take my truck. I'll catch a ride with Michelle. Until I'm up and around, you drive out in the morning, move the cattle around, fill the feed troughs. I'll show you what needs to be done. When the weather's good, I'll come home with you and we'll work on the Chevy. Then in the evening we'll feed cattle again, and you take the truck home.”

I held out the keys in my upturned palm. He stood looking at them. “Go on,” I said. “I'll see you about six or seven. Stay for dinner if you like.”

He nodded, as much to himself as to me, and placed his palm under mine. I turned my hand and transferred the keys in a sort of handshake.

“Okay,” he said. “I'll be there.” He looked around quickly, turned, and, by the time Carla tugged the cart of basketballs to the side of the court, had vanished.

“Phillip has a kind face,” Carla said when she was seated by me again. “Was he really in prison?”

“A long time ago,” I said. “He's trying to put his life back together now.”

“And you're trying to help.”

I looked over at her. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess I am.”

“That's nice,” she said, patting my shoulder. “Now let's talk about the agony I'm going to inflict on your kids today.”

And thus was set my routine for the next few weeks: Phillip arrived early in the morning, and after he'd fed the calves per my instructions, we spent the day troubleshooting beneath the hood of his old pickup—I was convinced it needed a new carburetor, Phillip insisted it needed at the least a valve job—then Phillip would take me up to basketball practice, loiter a few minutes to say hello to Carla, and go on out to the farm to do my evening chores. He worked hard and did the job right. With a minimum of effort, he moved the unweaned calves in and out of the pens where the milk cows were tethered, talking softly to both cows and calves to keep them calm. Before he left at night, he filled buckets of feed so he could go immediately to work in the morning.

“I may fire you and keep Phillip,” Michelle said one Wednesday night after he'd taken supper with us and headed home.

“I may fire myself,” I said from the kitchen table, where I remained while dishes were taken up.

We went into the living room to work. Michelle had papers to grade and I wanted to get off a few letters, but before we had a chance to get too involved with either, Lauren called us to the phone.

“It's the police,” she said, whispering the last word emphatically and handing the phone to Michelle, who naturally reached the kitchen more quickly than I did.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “This is Michelle Tilden.” Then I saw her jaw clench, her lip curl.

“Let him out,” she said. “Now. Every word he told you is true.” She listened for a moment and then yanked the phone away from her ear and thrust it at me. “Talk to this fascist,” she said.

“Hello,” I said. “This is John Tilden. What's wrong?”

“Like I was telling your wife,” the voice of some Watonga good ol' boy said, “we got Phillip One Horse down here at the jail. Pulled him over driving your truck. He said you loaned the truck to him. That he was working for you. Any of that true?”

“My wife just told you it was,” I said. I was headed rapidly toward teeth clenching. “Why did you pull him over?”

“Tail light was out,” he said. “So we should let him go?” He seemed disappointed.

“No,” I said. “You should apologize to him and then let him go.” I hung up forcefully and looked across at Michelle. “Pigs.”

“Fascists.”

“Cool,” Lauren breathed. “My parents are radicals.”

I apologized to Phillip—more than once—when I saw him the next morning. He just shrugged, as though he had gotten used to such things. But when he had finished with the chores, as I hobbled up to the back porch, preparatory to heading out to Phillip's, he said, “Let's not work on the truck today. It's too cold.”

“It's not any colder than it was yesterday.” I looked closely at him but I couldn't read him. “Okay,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow.” After he'd driven off and I'd bummed Michelle's car to get up to practice—I thanked God again for B. W, who agreed to take his mom and little sister to school—I settled back to do some reading. I was just finishing up the last pages of
A River Runs Through It
when I heard the back door open and slam shut.

Maybe Phillip, I thought. Maybe he changed his mind. I started down the hallway to see.

The door to Michael's room was open, and I could hear the noise of wire hangers jangling in the closet. I crutched my way silently to the doorway and inside to see my eldest standing in front of his closet, looking down at the Watonga letter jacket in his hands. It was my old jacket from high school, but when he'd been a kid, he asked me for it, and wore it until he quit basketball.

“Hi,” I said, pleased that my voice didn't fail me.

Michael jumped, but didn't turn around. “You're supposed to be in town guzzling coffee with your buddies. The truck was gone.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry about that. I hurt my ankle playing basketball. The guy who's helping me has the truck.”

He pulled on the letter jacket. “Maybe you should take up something more suited to your age. Bingo or something.” He threw a few more things in a duffel bag and then brushed past me, stepping around my crutches.

I followed him out into the hall. “I hear you're going to be a father.”

His back went straight, and he stopped short of the door. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you disapprove. I guess you think we're messing up our lives the same way you did.” He spat out the last words as though they were bitter, then hoisted his duffel and threw the door open.

“No, Michael, I'm happy for you. Really.”

He paused for a moment on the threshold, and his head turned the fraction it needed to allow his eyes to shift back toward me. He stood there for a moment, met my eyes, and then shook his head and pulled the door shut behind him.

I watched as he got into his truck and drove away. He did not look up again. I turned and went into Lauren's room, sat down on the edge of her bed, set my crutches down on the floor, and stared at her wallpaper, a pattern of lavender ponies.

She had outgrown ponies.

Kids outgrow everything.

After awhile, I reached down to get my crutches and snagged one of Lauren's magazines from under the bed in the process.
Cosmopolitan
. One of those bodacious supermodels was on the cover with most of her breasts exposed.

Well, I'm only human. I looked.

And then I glanced over the rest of the cover, read the promised contents of the magazine.

Are you having your best sex?

How to have an affair with an older man.

Living and loving for the next century.

“God help us,” I said. I slid the magazine back where I'd found it.

Michelle and I would have to talk to Lauren, all right, starting with why she was reading magazines like this.

The last football game of the season was the next night, and I hadn't planned to go because of my ankle, but when Phillip asked about it Friday morning, I told him I might, just to be encouraging. He had also asked if Carla went to football games, which I allowed she generally did. The chill I'd detected the day before was gone; in fact, he apologized for being so touchy. “I'm used to the Watonga cops being suspicious of me,” he explained. “I was just afraid I might have embarrassed you. I wouldn't want that.”

“We weren't embarrassed,” I said. “Michelle and I were furious that they treated you that way.”

“Tell her thanks,” he said. “She's a good woman.” He climbed into the truck—which was cleaner, by the way, than I ever kept it myself—and said, “Want to come out and give me a hand this afternoon?”