Authors: Eddie Joyce
Gail listened halfheartedly, her eyes drifting to the gym’s entrance. Where was he? She’d waited two weeks for this night and he wasn’t going to show up? The enormity of her disappointment was unnerving.
Out on the court, the ref blew the whistle and pointed at Bobby. He gaped at the ref incredulously, the picture of innocence. In the past year, his gangly limbs had thickened with muscle, but his face was still comically boyish. His second foul. He’d have to sit out the rest of the first half. She watched him trot to the bench, a frustrated look on his face. He sat down, his back to her; a sickle of bright red acne ran out from under his maroon jersey and curved onto his neck. She brought her right hand to her mouth, started to run her front teeth over her fingernails.
Without Bobby, they were having trouble keeping Wagner off the boards. A Wagner player grabbed an offensive rebound, took a low, steadying dribble, and rose for a putback off the glass. Another whistle. And one. Bobby flapped a towel in exasperation on the bench. She looked up at the scoreboard. Tie game, 22–22. Four minutes left in the first half.
This was supposed to be an easy win, but the whole team was out of sorts. Pat Keegan couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn and Vinny was turning the ball over at an alarming rate. The Wagner player made his foul shot: 23–22. Gail bit down on the knuckle of her thumb.
A few seconds later, Vinny threw another ill-advised pass; this one sailed out of bounds. Nancy Duggan exhaled in frustration, a little too forcefully. Gail noticed Dana Baddio’s ears turn scarlet in front of her.
“Jesus, they need to take Vinny out of the game, let Matty run the point for the rest of the half,” Nancy said, ostensibly to Gail, but loud enough for the crowd. Gail glanced at the Baddios nervously.
Paul turned his head.
“Nancy, I’d appreciate it if you kept your opinions about Vinny to yourself. He’s doing his best.”
Nancy rolled her eyes.
“Jeez, Paul, you can’t be so thin skinned. It was a bad pass.”
“Yes, it was. I’m sure Vinny knows that. We do too. Enough.”
“It’s not his fault, Paul. Coach Whelan should have Matty playing point guard.”
Dana exploded off the bleacher, swung around, and put her finger in Nancy’s face.
“Shut the fuck up, Nancy. Shut the fuck up. I’m sick of hearing about your fucking Matty.”
Paul reached a hand over to corral his wife.
“Dana, take it easy. Calm down.”
Nancy swung her hand, knocking Dana’s finger away. Dana lunged, her hands reaching up for Nancy’s neck. Gail stepped in, tried to move Nancy away.
“Nancy, move. Jesus.”
Paul was holding Dana at bay, but it was taking some effort. Dana tried to wriggle out of her jacket so she could get at Nancy. Other parents noticed the commotion; some of the players on the Farrell bench did too.
“Fuck you, bitch.”
Dana’s face was red, maniacal. Gail tried to hustle Nancy down out of the bleachers.
Jesus Christ,
she thought
, there may actually be a fight.
Nancy finally stopped resisting, stepped down, and walked off the bleachers to the other side of the gym. With a little help from the Keegans, Paul calmed Dana down. The whole gym had been watching, even a few of the players on the court. Dana turned to Gail, apologetic, the fury gone as quickly as it came.
“I’m sorry, Gail. I just couldn’t take another fucking word.”
Gail laughed nervously.
“It’s okay, Dana, most excitement I’ve had in weeks.”
Her heart was still racing. She looked up and there was Danny, looking sharp in a blue pinstriped suit and beige overcoat. In all the commotion, Gail hadn’t even noticed him come in. He waved hello to the whole group. He sat down next to Gail.
“So,” he said, a wry little grin on his face, “I miss anything?”
* * *
Two weeks of intermittent practices and holiday indolence had put the whole team in a torpor, but they somehow pulled the game out in the last few minutes. Gail watched, distracted, not sure how to act around Danny. He was quiet too, his charm shelved for the night. She felt like she was on a first date, as ridiculous as that seemed. After the game, they all moved down to the court, the usual crew huddled together, discussing the game. Nancy Duggan waited on the other side of the gym, giving Dana a wide berth.
Gail stood, not listening to John Keegan’s complaints about the referees. She was despondent. She’d thought for sure there was some connection between Danny and her, but she’d been wrong. They didn’t even have anything to say to each other. The whole thing had been foolishness. A bit of fantasy. Stupid.
“Gail?”
He touched her arm.
“Yes.”
“You okay?”
“Grand.”
He pulled her gently out of the larger circle, lowered his voice. He put his hand in his coat pocket, took something out, and placed it in her hand.
“Late Christmas present.”
She looked down: a tiny box wrapped in solid red.
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
He leaned down and kissed her cheek. A surge of desire welled up inside her. The smell on him. Jesus.
“Merry Christmas.”
She wanted to say something clever, something flirty and witty, but there was no opportunity because the team had begun emerging from the locker room in small groups; the huddles of parents were breaking down or expanding to accommodate their presence. Danny’s son, Kevin, was one of the first to emerge—bench players always were—and his sulky, disgruntled air did not square with the larger group’s geniality. He walked straight up to Danny, ready to go.
“Say hello to Mrs. Amendola.”
“Hello, Mrs. Amendola.”
Kevin pulled on his father’s arm, urging a hasty departure. Danny snuck a wink to Gail. She watched him walk across the gym, his hand draped over his son’s shoulder, his mouth near his ear, giving counsel she wished she could hear. Gail put the gift in her coat pocket, rejoined the other parents.
“What’s the matter with that kid?” Paul asked her, nodding in the direction of Kevin and Danny.
“His mother’s nuts. Certifiable,” Dana said.
“So sayeth the woman who nearly got into a donnybrook this evening.”
“I never said I wasn’t nuts. Besides, you knew who you were marrying. You can take da girl outta Bensonhurst, but you can’t take Bensonhurst outta da girl.”
She kissed her husband, her anger a distant memory. Gail winced. How long since she had kissed Michael? A long while.
Bobby and Pat Keegan emerged from the locker room, walked into the semicircle. The usual congratulations and idle commentary ensued. After a few minutes, Gail and Bobby broke away and walked toward the exit. Gail tucked her hands in her coat pocket and felt the gift. She was curious, but she couldn’t open it in front of Bobby.
Only Bobby was no longer beside her. She turned and he was five paces back, leaning down to talk to a short girl who was staring up at him with lovesick eyes. Gail watched their interaction with a smile. When Bobby noticed her watching, he shuffled over.
“Can we give Tina a ride home?” he asked. Gail tried to remember whether he’d ever mentioned someone named Tina. No, he’d never mentioned the name. Or any girl’s name, for that matter.
She’d been a little worried, in fact, at the lack of girls’ names. Peter and Franky had shown interest—could barely hide their interest—at much younger ages and each had had a girlfriend, of sorts, by their sophomore years in high school. But Bobby had said nothing on the subject, had shown no progress in that arena, and he was a senior. Gail wasn’t worried about his proclivities—she’d found a magazine shoved between his bed and the wall; was disturbingly relieved when she opened it and found the right kind of naked pictures—but he didn’t seem to possess any ability or desire to interact with actual, living girls. He barely seemed to notice them and he never talked about them, no matter how delicately Gail tried to raise the subject.
Yet, suddenly, here was Tina.
“She lives in Eltingville, on Winchester,” he added, the words flying out of his mouth.
“I hope it’s not too much trouble, Mrs. Amendola,” said Tina.
“No trouble at all.”
She was a sweet girl, cute as a button, and unfailingly polite. Everything was Mrs. Amendola this and Mrs. Amendola that. When they reached Tina’s house, Bobby got out of the car and walked her to the door. They didn’t kiss or hold hands. When he got back in the car, he offered no explanation. They drove home in silence and as soon as they walked in the door, he went straight up to his room, stopping briefly at the fridge for a plate of chicken cutlets and a jug of the ubiquitous yellow Gatorade. Gail waited in the kitchen for a few minutes, wondering whether she should say anything at all. She slipped the tip of her index finger into her mouth, gnawed at the worn nail.
She had to know.
She opened the door slowly in case he wasn’t decent. He was lying on his bed, still clothed, flicking a basketball up at the ceiling. His feet dangled off the edge of the bed. Thick headphones covered his ears, but he removed them when he saw her.
“Jesus, Mom, you scared the hell out of me.”
“Who’s Tina?”
His cheeks reddened, but the smile was irrepressible. She took another step into the room.
“Bobby, is Tina your girlfriend?”
He kicked his legs up at the ceiling like he was pedaling a bicycle. He started laughing; threw the ball against the ceiling and it ricocheted downward, hitting his stomach and then bouncing across the room. He sat up in bed.
“Not just my girlfriend, Mom. The love of my life. The girl I’m gonna marry. The mother of my children.”
He was dead serious.
Right,
she thought,
sure. Heard this story before.
“Easy, Romeo,” she said. “She seems very nice.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She walked across the hall to her bedroom, euphoric from Bobby’s long-awaited progress with the ladies. Another worry crossed off the list. It had turned out to be a good night, the first one in a long while. She looked at Michael’s empty half of the bed and felt a kind of gloom creeping over her, threatening her good mood.
Not today. He wouldn’t ruin today. She wouldn’t let him.
The gift! She’d forgotten all about it. She sat down on the bed, reached into her pocket, and took out the tiny, rectangular package. She removed the red wrapping with a quick rip to find a small black box. With two fingers, she eased the lid off the box. A shiny, metal object lay inside. She tilted the box and the item fell into her palm. It took her a few seconds to identify it: a nail clipper.
A nail clipper?
She found a tiny note tucked inside the box. A schoolboy’s shaky printing on it.
Gail, Take it easy on those nails. It’s a long season!!! Danny.
She brought her hands up for inspection. The tips of her fingers were all red and raw. Her nails were the jagged edges of broken plates. She giggled and fell back onto the bed. She fell asleep in her clothes, jovialities flecking her dreams for the first time in months.
* * *
She brought the nail clipper to the next game. Danny was waiting for her, his knees jutting up to meet his elbows, a knowing smile on his face. She took out his gift and waved it at him.
“You dirty dog.”
He laughed and tapped the wood on the bleacher beside him in invitation. She sat down next to him and he laid a hand on her shoulder and gave it a hearty shake, like they were old friends. His hand remained there throughout the lazy pregame layup lines until the Baddios walked in before the opening buzzer and sat in front of them. They watched the game together in restless silence, their thighs pressed together, nervous energy pulsing between them.
The game was a blowout; Farrell cruised. Without any real drama, Gail’s fingers remained out of her mouth until Bobby went to the foul line in the third quarter. Despite hours of practice, he was mediocre from the foul line and whenever he was sent there, Gail’s stomach tightened with nerves, no matter what the score. This game was usually so fast, so team oriented, that it jarred her whenever the action halted and an individual was singled out to perform a seemingly simple task. Bobby’s first shot clanged off the side of the rim. He shook his head in frustration. Gail lifted her left hand and moved it toward her mouth, but Danny intercepted it.
“Uh, uh, uh,” he said. “You’ve been a good girl all game.”
She laughed and squeezed his hand. Dana Baddio looked back over her shoulder at them with a raised eyebrow. Bobby sank his second shot, and Gail wriggled her hand away from Danny and clapped softly.
Alone in bed that night, she felt a longing come over her, a need borne of deprivation and anger and new attraction. Months had passed since she’d slept with Michael; she would not sleep with a man she was not speaking to. The anger had stifled any carnal yearnings, but, that night, she put her hand between her legs and found an impatient wetness waiting. She closed her eyes and thought of Danny’s crisp breath and all the places she wanted it to find.
Afterward, she scurried down to the basement, tiptoeing past Bobby’s room, to deposit her soaked underwear in the washer. In the damp, cool air of the basement, she was overcome by an acute sense of adolescent shame. She bawled while the washing machine chugged, her bare feet growing frigid against the hard cement of the basement floor. When she finally calmed, she walked back up the stairs, a queasy feeling in her stomach. She slipped into bed and a lifetime of admonitory sermons sprang to her memory. She remembered her childhood parish priest, Father Kenny, a tiny sprig of a man who railed and spit his way through mass. She remembered his voice, could nearly hear him saying, “Thou shall not, Gail.”
Her shame came from the thoughts of Danny, not the masturbation. She’d long ago reconciled her faith with certain aspects of the human condition. Touching herself was okay, her thinking went, as long as she thought of Michael. Sometimes your husband was away, sometimes he was stuck at the firehouse. What could you do?
God help her, it had never been an issue. Michael, or the thought of him, had always been enough. The other women laughed at her. They talked about Tom Selleck or Tom Cruise or whomever was that moment’s heartthrob. They talked about closing their eyes and thinking of someone else, anyone else. And Gail had never understood. Until now.