and we’d won.”
“Was your father standing over you?”
“No, he was up there accepting the trophy. Then he came and balanced it on my chest as they lifted me onto the stretcher—big gold monstrosity with three pedestals that multiplied and looked like infinity. I wasn’t seeing too clearly. That was 1964; things were just beginning tofocus.” He looked over at me. “You were about twelve years old then.”
I looked back at him. “You didn’t go to SMU.”
“Not a chance. Football nearly killed me. I couldn’t read print for two weeks.” He sank lower in the deck chair, stroking the lush grass with his foot. His legs were long and muscular and fair. “If I’d hit an inch more to the right, I’d have bought myself a box. But even without the concussion, I was sick of it. I went to Colorado and ski-bummed and ran dope up from Mexico and went to school, did the Peace Corps trip. Didn’t see my father for years.”
“Why didn’t the war get you? The concussion?”
“No. Knees. Got my brother though, the middle one. Killed him. He didn’t even have to go. He was almost twenty-eight years old and enlisted, like a fool. My father thought it was the right thing to do. They shipped him over there and killed him in nine weeks. Nineteen sixty-eight. Saw my father at the funeral. Kept saying to me, ‘Barnes was on drugs, wasn’t he. They’re all on drugs over there. He wouldn’t have died otherwise, he was an athlete. Still worked out every day. Drugs killed him.’ I said, ‘Dad, the war killed him. War doesn’t give a shit about athletes.’ I did two tours in the Peace Corps after that. I just wanted to stay the fuck out of the country.”
“Thurman … Thurman?” His mother’s voice wavered out across the lawn. I turned and saw her at the kitchen window. “Supper,” she called, “come on in now.…” Her every phrase was punctuated with a silence.
Thurman didn’t move.
“Do you come back here often?” I asked. “How much do you see them?”
“Once a year, maybe twice. He’s getting old. There’s not much more time to figure it out, any of it.”
I couldn’t sleep, I crept down the stairs to get a glass of water. Disoriented, I turned the wrong corner into the dim living room and found myself facing the shrouded portraits.I knelt beside the last. If I looked now, no one would know; carefully, silently, I pulled the cloth away. First, a shine of glass, then, in moonlight, the features of a face. I thought it was Barnes, the dead brother, serious and young in his black suit, already marked—but no, the eyes—it was Thurman. I stared, puzzled.
“High school graduation,” he said behind me. “We were all eighteen.” The rocking chair creaked. “What are you doing up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“No one sleeps much in this house.”
“Who else is awake?”
“My mother. I heard her in the kitchen. When I came downstairs, she went back to bed. That’s the way we do it around here.” He nodded at the closed door of the little den. “She seems to have had a few drinks.”
“Is that usual?”
“Who’s to say? Her drinking progresses, like everything.” He took a drag off his cigarette, and the glow of the ash lit his face for an instant. “She forgets things when she drinks. Conveniently.”
“I doubt it’s just convenience.”
“What else would it be?”
I shrugged. “Pain?”
Thurman sighed. “You never know when to keep your mouth shut. Do you think I want to sit here in this house at three in the morning and talk about pain?”
“No.” I could see him very clearly in the darkness. I moved closer and touched his forehead. “You talk, Thurman, and let me know when I should speak. I’ll say whatever you want.”
He stood, and put his arms around my shoulders and held me. We turned to go upstairs, then Thurman paused. We heard broken words, a murmuring. He stepped closer to the den and stood listening, then pushed the door softly open. His mother
“Was your father standing over you?”
“No, he was up there accepting the trophy. Then he came and balanced it on my chest as they lifted me onto the stretcher—big gold monstrosity with three pedestals that multiplied and looked like infinity. I wasn’t seeing too clearly. That was 1964; things were just beginning tofocus.” He looked over at me. “You were about twelve years old then.”
I looked back at him. “You didn’t go to SMU.”
“Not a chance. Football nearly killed me. I couldn’t read print for two weeks.” He sank lower in the deck chair, stroking the lush grass with his foot. His legs were long and muscular and fair. “If I’d hit an inch more to the right, I’d have bought myself a box. But even without the concussion, I was sick of it. I went to Colorado and ski-bummed and ran dope up from Mexico and went to school, did the Peace Corps trip. Didn’t see my father for years.”
“Why didn’t the war get you? The concussion?”
“No. Knees. Got my brother though, the middle one. Killed him. He didn’t even have to go. He was almost twenty-eight years old and enlisted, like a fool. My father thought it was the right thing to do. They shipped him over there and killed him in nine weeks. Nineteen sixty-eight. Saw my father at the funeral. Kept saying to me, ‘Barnes was on drugs, wasn’t he. They’re all on drugs over there. He wouldn’t have died otherwise, he was an athlete. Still worked out every day. Drugs killed him.’ I said, ‘Dad, the war killed him. War doesn’t give a shit about athletes.’ I did two tours in the Peace Corps after that. I just wanted to stay the fuck out of the country.”
“Thurman … Thurman?” His mother’s voice wavered out across the lawn. I turned and saw her at the kitchen window. “Supper,” she called, “come on in now.…” Her every phrase was punctuated with a silence.
Thurman didn’t move.
“Do you come back here often?” I asked. “How much do you see them?”
“Once a year, maybe twice. He’s getting old. There’s not much more time to figure it out, any of it.”
I couldn’t sleep, I crept down the stairs to get a glass of water. Disoriented, I turned the wrong corner into the dim living room and found myself facing the shrouded portraits.I knelt beside the last. If I looked now, no one would know; carefully, silently, I pulled the cloth away. First, a shine of glass, then, in moonlight, the features of a face. I thought it was Barnes, the dead brother, serious and young in his black suit, already marked—but no, the eyes—it was Thurman. I stared, puzzled.
“High school graduation,” he said behind me. “We were all eighteen.” The rocking chair creaked. “What are you doing up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“No one sleeps much in this house.”
“Who else is awake?”
“My mother. I heard her in the kitchen. When I came downstairs, she went back to bed. That’s the way we do it around here.” He nodded at the closed door of the little den. “She seems to have had a few drinks.”
“Is that usual?”
“Who’s to say? Her drinking progresses, like everything.” He took a drag off his cigarette, and the glow of the ash lit his face for an instant. “She forgets things when she drinks. Conveniently.”
“I doubt it’s just convenience.”
“What else would it be?”
I shrugged. “Pain?”
Thurman sighed. “You never know when to keep your mouth shut. Do you think I want to sit here in this house at three in the morning and talk about pain?”
“No.” I could see him very clearly in the darkness. I moved closer and touched his forehead. “You talk, Thurman, and let me know when I should speak. I’ll say whatever you want.”
He stood, and put his arms around my shoulders and held me. We turned to go upstairs, then Thurman paused. We heard broken words, a murmuring. He stepped closer to the den and stood listening, then pushed the door softly open. His mother
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