The One & Only(88)

So by the time five o’clock rolled around, I had worked myself into a resentful lather, and called him to cancel altogether, blaming it on a “work crisis.” He seemed bummed enough to bring me some sick pleasure, and I couldn’t help thinking of that dreary “Cat’s in the Cradle” song—and how many times he had blown me off over the years. Yet the chief difference between the song and my life was that my father was still just as busy as he ever was, and I was in a desolate office with no evening plans whatsoever and a familiar holiday melancholy welling inside me. Lucy called it my Charlie Brown funk, and had always done her best to force traditional cheer upon me, but obviously she was in worse shape than I was this year and, on top of everything, had made the mistake of offering to host Neil’s family from Oklahoma City. What she had thought would be a welcome distraction was turning out to be nothing but an enormous culinary burden. I had already offered to help her a couple of times, at least keep her company while she cooked, but she had declined, insisting that she and Neil had everything under control.

What I really wanted, I realized, as I merged onto I-35 toward Walker, was to spend the night at Ryan’s, as much for his company as for the tranquillity of his home, but he had already checked into the Gaylord Texan Resort & Convention Center in Grapevine, where the team was always sequestered before home games to ward against “unwelcome distractions.”

“Just turn around at the next exit and go to my house,” Ryan offered when I reached him in his room and told him I was stuck in standstill rush-hour traffic. “You have a key.”

I briefly considered this option, but decided that I didn’t want to be there without him. During the day it was fine, but, at night, I found myself picturing gruesome crime scenes. There was something about all the white marble, white linens, white walls, even white carpet and furniture that conjured the splattering of blood. Like giant red psychiatric inkblots.

When I made the mistake of sharing these involuntary images with him now, he gasped and said, “Good Lord, Shea. You’re watching too many horror movies. That’s sick.”

As soon as he mentioned movies, I thought of one in particular that haunted me whenever I was alone at his house: Sleeping with the Enemy, one of the most disturbing films of all time in my opinion. I told myself that it was only his sleek, cool décor and propensity to be neurotically neat that Ryan shared with the antagonist—nothing else—but couldn’t help wondering if Blakeslee’s accusations were factoring at all into my subconscious, making me imagine things whenever I noticed that a towel was askew in his bathroom.

“I know. I just get a little scared in a house that big,” I said, then gratuitously added, “Besides. Being there without you would make me miss you more.”

“Aw. That’s sweet,” he said. “I really miss you, too. Wish we didn’t have these damn hotel bed checks.”

“Stop lying,” I said in a teasing tone. “You know you like ten hours of sleep before games.”

He laughed because it was true. Everything Ryan did on the night and in the hours before a game was carefully calculated, designed to maximize his performance, right down to the temperature in his room—the thermostat always set to sixty-eight degrees, apparently the ideal temperature for REM sleep.

“Okay, you got me on that one … Here’s a fact for you … I haven’t had sex the night before a game since high school …” He laughed.

“Wait. Let me guess. You had sex before the state championship game? And because you lost, you vowed to never do it again?” I said, picturing his high school girlfriend, whom he had described as a half-Pakistani beauty.

“Yep,” Ryan said, but he no longer sounded amused.

I thought of Blakeslee’s story and very nearly confessed to him our conversation, but decided against it, once again. If nothing else, the day before a big game and the meeting of potential in-laws wasn’t the right time. Instead I said, “You’re as superstitious as Coach, aren’t you?”

“Hey, now. I’m not that bad,” he said. “I just save my legs for the game … It’s a question of stamina … It’s not like I’m out there catching bugs in Tupperware containers.”

“Mason jars,” I said, annoyed at myself for bringing Coach up. It was like an involuntary reflex, and I wondered when Ryan was going to catch on. He was so perceptive, and given his jealous tendencies, I was surprised that he hadn’t yet. But the fact that he had not also underscored how far-fetched the whole notion of Coach and me was. I had revisited the look that Coach Carr gave me in his house at least a hundred times and had gone from feeling starry-eyed to foolish. Surely, it had to have been in my head.