Rust and Bone by Craig Davidson Page A

stuff. Kev’s only got a Neon, right?”
    â€œWe could squeeze, couldn’t we? Get buddy-buddy?”
    â€œI don’t know. Gotta do some running around first.”
    â€œI love running around. It’s good for the heart.”
    Without looking up, Jason says, “Dad, listen, Kev’s still on probation—his license, right?—so, it’s like, he can’t have anyone in his car who’s been drinking. If the cops pull us over, Kev’ll get his license suspended.”
    â€œOh. Alrighty then.” Stare into the sky, directly into the afternoon sun. Close my eyes and the ghostly afterimage burns there as a sizzling imprint, searing corona dancing with winking fairylights.
    The boys gather their bags and waterbottles. Shake Kev and Al’s hands, hug my son. His skin smells of other bodies, the sweat of strangers. Used to love the smell of his hands after practice, the scent of sweat and leather commingled. When I let him go the flesh around his eyes is red and swollen and it gets me thinking of that distant afternoon, grape soda and a sense of horrible pressure.
    â€œGreat game,” I tell him. “You’re gonna show ’em all one day.”
    He walks down the street, hitching the duffel up on his shoulder. Charting his departure, it’s as though I’m seeing him through the ass end of a telescope: this tiny figure distorted by an unseen convex, turning the corner now, gone. Sun high in the afternoon sky, brilliant and hostile, beer’s all gone and it’s the middle of the day though it feels like it should be later, much later and near dusk and it dawns on me I’ve nothing to do, nowhere to be, the day stretching out bright and interminable with no clear goal or closure in sight.
    NIGHTTIME AT THE KNIGHTWOOD ARMS subsidized housing complex. My bedroom window overlooks a dilapidated basketball court, tarmac seized and buckled, nets rotted from the hoops. Early mornings I’ll head down and shoot baskets beneath a lightening sky, mist falling through the courtyard’s arc-sodium lamp to create a cool glittering nimbus. Often someone’ll crack a window in one of the overhanging units, Knock it off with the damn bouncity-bounce . Don’t make much fuss anymore, just go back to my room.
    Eleven o’clock or so and the bottle’s almost empty when the phone rings.
    â€œHey,” Jason says. “It’s me.”
    â€œGlad to hear it.”
    â€œYeah, well, wanted to talk to you about something.”
    Good news, I’m guessing: Duke, Kentucky, UConn. “Your old man’s all ears.”
    â€œWell, it’s like, I’ve decided to not play ball.”
    â€œYou mean you’re going to take the year off?” Try to remain calm. “Don’t know that’s the best idea, kiddo—gonna want to keep in the mix.”
    â€œNo, I sort of mean, like … ever . I mean, for ever.”
    â€œForever? Don’t get you.”
    The mouthpiece is shielded. Jason’s muffled voice, then his mother’s, then Jason’s back on the line. “I’m sick of it. Sick of basketball. Don’t want to play anymore.”
    â€œWell,” I struggle, “that’s … sort of a childish attitude, son. I don’t always like my job, but it’s my job, so I do it. That’s the way the world … works .”
    A sigh. “You know, there are other things in life. Lots of jobs out there.”
    â€œYeah, well, like what?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he says. “I was thinking maybe … a vet?”
    â€œYou mean … a veterinarian?”
    â€œUh-huh. Like that, or something.”
    â€œOh. Well, that’s … y’know … that’s grand. The sick cats and everything. A grand goal.”
    â€œAnyway. Just thought I’d tell you.”
    â€œYeah. Well … thanks. What say you sit on it a bit, Jason, let it stew awhile. Who