Part 5 (2/2)

Then at lunch, as he pulled out a peanut b.u.t.ter and banana sandwich, an apple and a baggie of chips, the black hair clip he had taken from the many in his mothers nightstand fell out of the bag too. His mothers hair. Such a symbol of her. Every night she sat at her bedside table and combed her hair while the news of the day was grimly told over the radio. When it was all combed out she clipped it in place with clips-so many clips! To have one with him was to have her with him, even when she wasnt, even when it was becoming clear to him that she didnt want to be.

The kids at the table laughed at his clip, at him. Arent those for girls? So he threw it in the trash-a thin, rare thread that connected him to a deeper part of his mother, gone.

Then recess and salvation. Outside, he saw two cla.s.smates pa.s.sing an orange ball-a basketball-back and forth. Of course hed seen basketball played from the back seat of his fathers van driving through town, flickers of it while flipping through channels on TV, but hed never actually played it himself. If someone were playing it at the park his father led him into a new game, if it came on the tube, his pops turned the dial.

Right then though Jimmy was alone, and couldnt help but be drawn in. That ball, suspended briefly in the air, seemed magical-something worth chasing until he could hold it. Once held, it seemed big enough to anchor him, at least until he was home again. He was a year older than Dex, but more comfortable drafting off his wisecracking sibling than leading things himself. The background was a place Jimmy preferred. It was from there he was let into his mothers affections most often. From a quiet game played on the floor he could watch her as she talked on the phone, sucked salted edamame skinny, discarding the green husks until a small mountain crowded her plate, crossed off check numbers in her checkbook, one ear to the phone, painted her nails or watched daytime television-Judge Judy her favorite. Through this study from his blind of shyness he had spotted the rare flash of her smile on occasion, stalking across her face like the deer that sometimes high-stepped into their yard, trembling and ready to bolt. A thrilling peek into what it might be like to always be loved by your mother. And with boisterous, banging, always talking Dex in the picture, Jimmys contrasting quietness went unnoticed all the more. Alone and trained for anonymity, basketball suddenly seemed like a tempting way out. Just shoot the ball, just pa.s.s the ball, just dribble the ball and you were doing it right. It seemed perfect and it overrode his instinct for shyness. He walked right up to boys hed never met before in his life.

”Let me,” Jimmy said.

The little blond-haired boy looked at him, shaking his head. ”We arent letting you, right Pedro?”

Pedro didnt miss a beat, as if it were all planned out. ”Yeah, yeah! Come on, pa.s.s it to me, David!”

This boy was even browner than Jimmy, about the same shade as Dex. It made Jimmy like him even as he was being mean.

”You dont talk, so youre dumb,” David said and pa.s.sed to Pedro. ”We only like people who talk.”

”I can talk,” Jimmy said. ”Look, Im talking.”

They ignored him and his una.s.sailable logic. Pedro accordioned his body down, and then unwound in a burst that pushed the ball up toward the hoop. He missed badly.

Jimmy felt itchiness in his nose and around his eyes. He might cry. All morning he carried an aching loneliness at being away from his pops and Dex, at seeing everyone elses mom come and drop off their kids, at the hair clip thrown in the trash, and now this? Also, he felt-no, our kid Jimmy knew-these two little boys were doing this magical thing wrong. He knew their playing was a sacrilege, even before he learned what a sacrilege was. Like farting in church, p.i.s.sing in the pool, stepping on cracks and breaking grannies backs. There was an itch in his bones to step up and show them. Correct it. But he couldnt because these kids wouldnt let him play. It hurt. He s.h.i.+fted his weight back and forth and stayed at the edge of the court while the rest of recess boiled around him.

Pedro and David kept missing badly. They shot blindly, trusting strength over aim. On one heave from David, the ball careened off the back of the rim-a ”brick,” Jimmy would soon learn-and flew right into Jimmys hands.

”Hey!”

”Give it.”

And. Well. Jimmy gave it all right. h.e.l.l, our kid was born with the dribble, dribble, drive pumping in his veins. He was a natural-he was the natural. So Jimmy shot two-handed, somehow still beautiful with no form, and the ball arced up and into the hoop, straight and true. Dropped so clean it took the bottom off all three of their little worlds, in different ways.

”Sweet,” said Pedro. Jimmy noticed something for the first time on his lips-an accent.

”Bet you cant do it again,” David said.

”OK.”

So Jimmy teed off again. And he made it again. Our kid was lights-out. He dropped two in a row, and then extended the string to five, then seven, then eight shots in a row. With each shot he made, he got his change-another shot. A rhythm developed. Pedro kept yelling, ”Give em his change!” and they pa.s.sed the basketball back to Jimmys tingling hands and he made another; but also each time he made a shot, David became more angry. Soon he was jumping up and down, screaming, ”No fair! No fair, youre cheating!”

It wasnt clear how exactly David thought Jimmy was cheating, but he was red-faced and adamant. By the time the bell rang at the end of recess, Jimmy was squaring up for his last shot, his ninth, and David simply couldnt take it anymore. He ran headfirst into Jimmys stomach just as the ball left his fingertips . . .

Back at the Kirkus house, over on Glasgow Street, Dex sat beside one of the big front windows. His parents and Jimmy were the only stars in his sky, so right then, his pops at work, his mom flickering in the bathroom, drawing a bath, and Jimmy gone for his first day of school, the sky was dark. He tapped on the window. He knew eventually Jimmy would come back home, through the front door, and hed see him first through this window. He tried to imagine the things that were happening to Jimmy at school. He couldnt though. He could only see the things that were really there. The tree. The sidewalk. The mailbox. So he just kept tapping on the gla.s.s, waiting for his brother. Tapped one, two, three. And again and again.

Genny Mori lay on her back in bed. Today would be the same as the last-spend all afternoon putting the house in order with Dex underfoot, then head off to her night s.h.i.+ft at the hospital just as Todd was getting home. Come home later as Todd was leaving, sleep through the morning and then do it again. All told she spent maybe twelve real hours with her husband each week. She complained to Bonnie, but then Bonnie had just said, ”Welcome to real life,” so shed hung up on her.

And then there was the fact that today was Jimmys first day of school. Todd had taken him on his way to work. Didnt even ask if she wanted to go. He was good like that, not putting guilt on her, not weighing in on what she should do, how she should divide her time. Ever since Suzie it had been like this. Fine. Just fine. But that was all. A small part of her wished he would push a little harder, demand a little more. It was too easy to hang back. She had started to feel Todd preferred it this way. Had he asked her to be there, she would have probably said no. Still, to be asked.

Shed be angrier if she hadnt just gotten out of a very hot bath. Genny felt the heat unfold off her in wave after paralyzing wave. Light-headed from the effort of getting out of the tub and walking the short distance to her bedroom, she could picture her heart beating in that particularly strutting way hearts have when seen on monitors in the hospital. Fingertips and toes numb, mind dipping and vision blurred, she gave in, fell asleep.

. . . the ball splashed through the net as Jimmy and David tussled on the cement. Kids gathered around, taking up the universal chant, ”Fight, fight, fight!” It was the last fight Jimmy Kirkus would win in a very many years.

Meanwhile, Pedro was hopping around yelling in his little accent that squished the o on each word, ”WOW! WOW! WOW!” For he was the only one to witness the miracle of the Ninth Shot while Jimmy and David fought. For even as Jimmy was getting piled into by Davids huge head, the ball was dropping through the net. An improbable, impossible, incredible, nine baskets in a row.

The Ninth Shot of Jimmy Kirkus.

It was Princ.i.p.al Berg who pulled them apart. Father to James and grandfather to David, he was a skinny, crooked old man whose interior spring had gone shoddy with age. Hunched and lilting slightly to the left, he gave the impression of constantly being suspicious.

Princ.i.p.al Berg bent at the waist until he was sure the boys felt his hot coffee breath on the tops of their heads. ”Against the wall,” he said. He pointed at Pedro, who had stopped jumping around, but still had his mouth wide open, like another ”WOW” could possibly escape. ”You too.” While the rest of the students lined up to go back into school, whispering about the fight, Princ.i.p.al Berg made the three boys wait in silence. Silence was the best discipline trick hed ever learned.

He tightened the knot of his tie. The incident had made him feel loose, undone. He b.u.t.toned his suit jacket. More trouble between a Berg and a Kirkus.

When the playground was empty, he finally spoke. ”Well?”

Pedro went first. ”He made nine shots in the row!” He pointed at our kid Jimmy, finger trembling. ”And the last one, David hit him.” Pedro patted his own head. ”With his head. And he made it still!”

”Hes lying, Pop-Pop!” David shouted.

Princ.i.p.al Berg ignored his grandson. He knew he should think the world of little David, but he couldnt get over it-kid was a whiner. Actually, hed always taken a weird pleasure in denying David. He was sure it was evilness inside him and so he chose not to think about it.

Princ.i.p.al Berg eyed Jimmy. ”Did you make nine shots in a row?”

”I dont know.” Jimmy looked away. ”I didnt see. He hit me.”

”He made nine in a row,” Pedro said with the firmness of a true believer.

”Pedro cant count, Pop-Pop,” David said. ”He speaks Spanish.”

Princ.i.p.al Berg stomped his foot and the boys flinched. ”Shut your mouth, David.” He took a moment to gather himself, turned and patted Pedro on the head. ”Its great youre multilingual.”

Pedro ducked. ”Huh?”

Princ.i.p.al Berg thought for a moment. ”Do it again, Jimmy.”

”What?”

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