Read Online Deep Down True by Juliette Fay - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Juliette Fay
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keep the conversation light.
“Yeah, a bit.” The woman managed to smile back. “The oldest is pretty well behaved, but my daughter, she can wear you down without even breaking a sweat. And the little one is just into trouble like all toddlers are. I’m lucky my husband’s around to help.”
Lucky? She acted as if her husband were on vacation instead of fighting for his life. “Has he been sick long?” Dana asked.
“Just a few months.” The woman’s face darkened. “They say it’s aggressive, but I know he’s going to beat it. He’ll be one for the case studies.” She took a quick breath. “He has to be.”
Vicarious sorrow pinched at Dana. She felt her chin begin to tremble and attempted a smile to control it. She reached her hand out to the woman’s forearm, knowing it was possibly the exact wrong thing to do but unable to stop herself. “There’s plenty here,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “Not that you’re probably all that hungry . . .”
“Not much. The kids will have some,” the woman said. She patted Dana’s hand. “But thank you. It just feels good to have it here.”
As Dana drove back home, letting tears drip off her chin, the streetlights came on. It gets dark so early now, she thought. Seems like nighttime lasts for days.
Grady had a football game on Sunday morning, and Kenneth planned to meet Dana there with the kids. She and Alder arrived a few minutes early.
“Stelly’s mom! Dana!” Coach Ro was motioning her toward him with his clipboard. It was strange to hear him calling her name. Did he know all the parents’ names?
“You can go on up to the stands,” she said to Alder. “I’ll be right there.”
Coach Ro seemed to be watching her as she came toward him. “I knew you’d be here,” he said. “Would you mind . . . Can you do MPR?”
“MPR?” she asked. He talked to her like she knew his language.
“Minimum play requirements. You see who’s on the field for each play and mark off their numbers on this sheet. Each kid has to be in at least eight plays per half or I get in trouble with the league.” He handed her the clipboard. “You’re on the field with us—best seat in the house!”
Except she never got to sit, since the job required skittering up and down the sidelines, trying to make out jersey numbers, which were folded like skirt pleats across the boys’ chests and jammed into their skintight pants. Each play lasted about ten seconds before someone went the wrong way, or the catch was missed, or the ball carrier was mobbed by a swarm of opposing players. Coach Ro motioned players on and off the field, adjusted chin straps, and tied flapping shoelaces. “Ow! That’s too tight!” one boy complained. “It’ll loosen up,” Coach snapped.
Dana followed his lead, corralling players who were wandering too far up the sidelines and reminding them about good sportsmanship when they howled at bad plays. At halftime Coach Ro opened a container of sliced oranges, placed it in the grass, and let the kids crawl over each other like newborn piglets to get at them. He took Dana’s elbow and guided her away from the jostling boys. “How’m I doing? Everyone getting a fair shake?”
She sighed. “I’ll be honest, I’m just not sure. The numbers are so hard to see, and they never stop moving. I’m amazed you can tell who’s who under their helmets.”
“What good’s a coach if he doesn’t know his players? Parents like you helping out—that makes it easier. Hey,” he said, giving her shoulder a playful poke, “you’re pretty good out there yourself, corralling them and telling them to stop messing around. We make an excellent team.” His cheery blue-eyed gaze rested on her a few seconds too long, and she turned away toward the boys.
“Oh, now, stop that, please!” she called as another orange rind flew through the air. “Peels in the trash basket, boys, that’s where they go!”
The second half was easier because
“Yeah, a bit.” The woman managed to smile back. “The oldest is pretty well behaved, but my daughter, she can wear you down without even breaking a sweat. And the little one is just into trouble like all toddlers are. I’m lucky my husband’s around to help.”
Lucky? She acted as if her husband were on vacation instead of fighting for his life. “Has he been sick long?” Dana asked.
“Just a few months.” The woman’s face darkened. “They say it’s aggressive, but I know he’s going to beat it. He’ll be one for the case studies.” She took a quick breath. “He has to be.”
Vicarious sorrow pinched at Dana. She felt her chin begin to tremble and attempted a smile to control it. She reached her hand out to the woman’s forearm, knowing it was possibly the exact wrong thing to do but unable to stop herself. “There’s plenty here,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “Not that you’re probably all that hungry . . .”
“Not much. The kids will have some,” the woman said. She patted Dana’s hand. “But thank you. It just feels good to have it here.”
As Dana drove back home, letting tears drip off her chin, the streetlights came on. It gets dark so early now, she thought. Seems like nighttime lasts for days.
Grady had a football game on Sunday morning, and Kenneth planned to meet Dana there with the kids. She and Alder arrived a few minutes early.
“Stelly’s mom! Dana!” Coach Ro was motioning her toward him with his clipboard. It was strange to hear him calling her name. Did he know all the parents’ names?
“You can go on up to the stands,” she said to Alder. “I’ll be right there.”
Coach Ro seemed to be watching her as she came toward him. “I knew you’d be here,” he said. “Would you mind . . . Can you do MPR?”
“MPR?” she asked. He talked to her like she knew his language.
“Minimum play requirements. You see who’s on the field for each play and mark off their numbers on this sheet. Each kid has to be in at least eight plays per half or I get in trouble with the league.” He handed her the clipboard. “You’re on the field with us—best seat in the house!”
Except she never got to sit, since the job required skittering up and down the sidelines, trying to make out jersey numbers, which were folded like skirt pleats across the boys’ chests and jammed into their skintight pants. Each play lasted about ten seconds before someone went the wrong way, or the catch was missed, or the ball carrier was mobbed by a swarm of opposing players. Coach Ro motioned players on and off the field, adjusted chin straps, and tied flapping shoelaces. “Ow! That’s too tight!” one boy complained. “It’ll loosen up,” Coach snapped.
Dana followed his lead, corralling players who were wandering too far up the sidelines and reminding them about good sportsmanship when they howled at bad plays. At halftime Coach Ro opened a container of sliced oranges, placed it in the grass, and let the kids crawl over each other like newborn piglets to get at them. He took Dana’s elbow and guided her away from the jostling boys. “How’m I doing? Everyone getting a fair shake?”
She sighed. “I’ll be honest, I’m just not sure. The numbers are so hard to see, and they never stop moving. I’m amazed you can tell who’s who under their helmets.”
“What good’s a coach if he doesn’t know his players? Parents like you helping out—that makes it easier. Hey,” he said, giving her shoulder a playful poke, “you’re pretty good out there yourself, corralling them and telling them to stop messing around. We make an excellent team.” His cheery blue-eyed gaze rested on her a few seconds too long, and she turned away toward the boys.
“Oh, now, stop that, please!” she called as another orange rind flew through the air. “Peels in the trash basket, boys, that’s where they go!”
The second half was easier because
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