They got this Peterson kid who’s a hell of a player. They say a couple of Division One schools have been recruiting him. Meanwhile all our good players graduated last year. We’ll have our hands full.”
Rachel had about as much interest in basketball as Matt had in French literature, but the thought of spending an evening alone at the house, brooding on bloody hatchets, failed marriages and vicious old men had made her an instant enthusiast. “Do we get to sit with the grown-ups tonight? I remember there was this strict segregation, adults on one side of the gym and kids on the other.”
“Of course.” Matt grinned. “Remember how Dad used to sit there with Henry Olson and yell at the refs?”
“Yeah, it was embarrassing.”
“Well, when Billy was playing, he came out of the locker room after one game and wouldn’t talk to me. Because I embarrassed him, yelling at the refs. I did it, what they warn you about. I went and turned into my father.”
Rachel smiled, aware that a large part of what had driven her to Paris and Beirut and beyond was a determination not to turn into her mother. Suddenly she missed her mother with a pang so intense it made her catch her breath.
They were on the outskirts of town now. The lit-up windows of the gym, the biggest building in town, were visible across the railroad tracks. In a farm community social life was built around school events, and Rachel could see a file of cars pulling into the parking lot. She said, “I’m shy all of a sudden. It’s like my debut in public or something. I’m going to be embarrassed walking in there.”
“It’ll be fun. People will be glad to see you.”
“Especially the divorced farmers, huh?”
Matt laughed. “Don’t worry, there’s not that many.”
Just enough to make me self-conscious, Rachel thought a few minutes later, walking into the gym, feeling a couple of hundred pairs of eyes locking onto her. The place hadn’t changed much—maybe a few more conference championship banners hanging from the rafters—but the players going through their warm-up drills and the cheerleaders prancing at courtside and the students clambering on the bleachers were mere children. Rachel was amazed.
She quelled her desire to turn tail and run, instead following Matt along the foot of the bleachers. She heard her name called and she recognized Ann Gerard, twenty-five years older and twenty-five pounds heavier but still wearing her hair in a basic bob with bangs, unchanged. Rachel waved and moved on. Matt was already heading up an aisle toward a group of men sitting together, Dan Olson among them. Here we go, she thought.
“You don’t have to sit with us,” Matt said when she caught up. “All we’re gonna do is bitch about the officiating and second-guess the coach. You might want to go sit with the gals.”
“Which gals would those be?” said Rachel, wishing bitterly she’d thought to ask Susan to meet her there. “I don’t know any gals, I’m afraid.”
“To hell with that,” said Dan, grinning. “Sit here with us. This row’s just a whole lot of ugly without you. Remember Phil?” He elbowed the man sitting next to him. Rachel remembered Phil, and beyond him Chuck and Joe and Darrel; they were all recognizable under the extra weight and the grayed hair and the lined faces, the jocks of twenty-five years ago transformed into the pillars of the community, farmers and business owners and county officials. Matt stepped aside to let her into the row, to sit next to Dan. There were greetings and some banter, and just as Phil took on a serious look and leaned toward her Dan said, “We’ll try not to bore you too bad. If you get tired of us you can go sit with Janey Phillips over there. Remember her?” He pointed.
Grateful for the deflection, Rachel said, “Oh, my God. With the bleached hair? What happened to her? She was like, the mousiest little thing in high school.”
“I guess she decided mousy wasn’t working. She’s
Rachel had about as much interest in basketball as Matt had in French literature, but the thought of spending an evening alone at the house, brooding on bloody hatchets, failed marriages and vicious old men had made her an instant enthusiast. “Do we get to sit with the grown-ups tonight? I remember there was this strict segregation, adults on one side of the gym and kids on the other.”
“Of course.” Matt grinned. “Remember how Dad used to sit there with Henry Olson and yell at the refs?”
“Yeah, it was embarrassing.”
“Well, when Billy was playing, he came out of the locker room after one game and wouldn’t talk to me. Because I embarrassed him, yelling at the refs. I did it, what they warn you about. I went and turned into my father.”
Rachel smiled, aware that a large part of what had driven her to Paris and Beirut and beyond was a determination not to turn into her mother. Suddenly she missed her mother with a pang so intense it made her catch her breath.
They were on the outskirts of town now. The lit-up windows of the gym, the biggest building in town, were visible across the railroad tracks. In a farm community social life was built around school events, and Rachel could see a file of cars pulling into the parking lot. She said, “I’m shy all of a sudden. It’s like my debut in public or something. I’m going to be embarrassed walking in there.”
“It’ll be fun. People will be glad to see you.”
“Especially the divorced farmers, huh?”
Matt laughed. “Don’t worry, there’s not that many.”
Just enough to make me self-conscious, Rachel thought a few minutes later, walking into the gym, feeling a couple of hundred pairs of eyes locking onto her. The place hadn’t changed much—maybe a few more conference championship banners hanging from the rafters—but the players going through their warm-up drills and the cheerleaders prancing at courtside and the students clambering on the bleachers were mere children. Rachel was amazed.
She quelled her desire to turn tail and run, instead following Matt along the foot of the bleachers. She heard her name called and she recognized Ann Gerard, twenty-five years older and twenty-five pounds heavier but still wearing her hair in a basic bob with bangs, unchanged. Rachel waved and moved on. Matt was already heading up an aisle toward a group of men sitting together, Dan Olson among them. Here we go, she thought.
“You don’t have to sit with us,” Matt said when she caught up. “All we’re gonna do is bitch about the officiating and second-guess the coach. You might want to go sit with the gals.”
“Which gals would those be?” said Rachel, wishing bitterly she’d thought to ask Susan to meet her there. “I don’t know any gals, I’m afraid.”
“To hell with that,” said Dan, grinning. “Sit here with us. This row’s just a whole lot of ugly without you. Remember Phil?” He elbowed the man sitting next to him. Rachel remembered Phil, and beyond him Chuck and Joe and Darrel; they were all recognizable under the extra weight and the grayed hair and the lined faces, the jocks of twenty-five years ago transformed into the pillars of the community, farmers and business owners and county officials. Matt stepped aside to let her into the row, to sit next to Dan. There were greetings and some banter, and just as Phil took on a serious look and leaned toward her Dan said, “We’ll try not to bore you too bad. If you get tired of us you can go sit with Janey Phillips over there. Remember her?” He pointed.
Grateful for the deflection, Rachel said, “Oh, my God. With the bleached hair? What happened to her? She was like, the mousiest little thing in high school.”
“I guess she decided mousy wasn’t working. She’s
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