Grady leashed to an indoor machine like this. Grady, always up for anything. Even last month, when he’d smacked into him at the airport here, he himself changing planes and Grady on his way back to Panama, Grady had seemed to have so many irons on the fire he couldn’t get close enough to keep warm. Grady was so unchanged, it had taken Tchernak a while to realize that more than a decade had passed since their college year together. He was happy to see the guy, but mostly, he realized, he was relieved. He’d never have let himself think of a broken neck, a crushed back, un-working limbs when he was still in football. Then he was as untouchable as the guys who swore God was rooting for the team, and as a corollary protecting them. But when his disks ruptured, he understood that life was fragile and that no higher power was taking time off from running the universe to worry about his back. Then, when he thought of Grady Hummacher, who had already flipped his car, totaled a hog, and was talking skydiving, he pictured crutches, cervical collar, and back brace.
There had been time for only one drink in the sports bar that afternoon. The place had been mobbed, the semicircular bar two-deep in sports fans frantic to see the last possible play before racing for their gate. Carry-on luggage was crammed between their feet, duffel bags poked out behind them, roll-aboards, held loosely by handles, fanned out at oblique angles. Grady had sat at the tiny table near the wall, pushing the plastic menu board around the ashtray. What had he said about his job? Tchernak squinted his eyes shut trying to bring up the film. Grady sitting there, grinning, his pale eyes suddenly framed by a myriad of tiny wrinkles and for the first time his years in the sun and wind betraying his age. Grady put down his beer, hands cupped around the glass, and leaned in toward him. “Bet you figured I’d be walking with a cane now, huh?”
Was Grady reading his mind? He’d shrugged away the question. “What happened? When you left school, you were all hot about skydiving.”
“Broke my ankle on the first dive and had a few weeks hobbling around to think. So, I took advice, my parents’, my doctor’s, the minister’s, my girlfriend-of-the-moment’s—it was all the same.”
“You were more careful?”
“Hell no. I went back to school. I’m a geologist now. Hunting oil down in Darien Gap.”
“Where the Pan-American Highway ends?”
“Ends going south. Begins again on the other side of the rain forest,” he’d said. And somehow he’d gotten onto complaining about his latest girlfriend ragging him about tearing up the rain forest. “Former girlfriend.” Grady grinned then shrugged it off. “She doesn’t get it yet. It’s going to take a couple more of those miserable ‘we have to talks’ before it gets through to her.”
What was her name? Lesley? No. Linda? Lucille? No.
Damn. Grady’d said her name, but it was gone now. He couldn’t remember it because, because … because he was thinking there was something odd about what Grady was saying. He remembered now, the staccato bursts of noise from the television kept breaking Grady’s train of thought. Grady’d jerked toward it every time the announcer got excited or the crowd cheered. “You a Broncos fan?” Tchernak had asked.
“Nah. I’m gone too much to keep up with sports or much of anything here.”
“Be glad to get back to Panama, then? Think you might just stay down there awhile?”
“Thought about it. Lots of things to like down there. Living’s good if you’re not in the camp. And the hunt, well …” He had leaned forward, and lowered his voice. Tchernak recalled biting back the urge to say, “Do you really think people are more interested in you than the game?” Grady had paused a moment, then grinned and said, “Oil exploration is ninety percent hype. I tell them I’ve got a sixth sense, a nose for oil, a rare ability to read the sediment. But here’s the
There had been time for only one drink in the sports bar that afternoon. The place had been mobbed, the semicircular bar two-deep in sports fans frantic to see the last possible play before racing for their gate. Carry-on luggage was crammed between their feet, duffel bags poked out behind them, roll-aboards, held loosely by handles, fanned out at oblique angles. Grady had sat at the tiny table near the wall, pushing the plastic menu board around the ashtray. What had he said about his job? Tchernak squinted his eyes shut trying to bring up the film. Grady sitting there, grinning, his pale eyes suddenly framed by a myriad of tiny wrinkles and for the first time his years in the sun and wind betraying his age. Grady put down his beer, hands cupped around the glass, and leaned in toward him. “Bet you figured I’d be walking with a cane now, huh?”
Was Grady reading his mind? He’d shrugged away the question. “What happened? When you left school, you were all hot about skydiving.”
“Broke my ankle on the first dive and had a few weeks hobbling around to think. So, I took advice, my parents’, my doctor’s, the minister’s, my girlfriend-of-the-moment’s—it was all the same.”
“You were more careful?”
“Hell no. I went back to school. I’m a geologist now. Hunting oil down in Darien Gap.”
“Where the Pan-American Highway ends?”
“Ends going south. Begins again on the other side of the rain forest,” he’d said. And somehow he’d gotten onto complaining about his latest girlfriend ragging him about tearing up the rain forest. “Former girlfriend.” Grady grinned then shrugged it off. “She doesn’t get it yet. It’s going to take a couple more of those miserable ‘we have to talks’ before it gets through to her.”
What was her name? Lesley? No. Linda? Lucille? No.
Damn. Grady’d said her name, but it was gone now. He couldn’t remember it because, because … because he was thinking there was something odd about what Grady was saying. He remembered now, the staccato bursts of noise from the television kept breaking Grady’s train of thought. Grady’d jerked toward it every time the announcer got excited or the crowd cheered. “You a Broncos fan?” Tchernak had asked.
“Nah. I’m gone too much to keep up with sports or much of anything here.”
“Be glad to get back to Panama, then? Think you might just stay down there awhile?”
“Thought about it. Lots of things to like down there. Living’s good if you’re not in the camp. And the hunt, well …” He had leaned forward, and lowered his voice. Tchernak recalled biting back the urge to say, “Do you really think people are more interested in you than the game?” Grady had paused a moment, then grinned and said, “Oil exploration is ninety percent hype. I tell them I’ve got a sixth sense, a nose for oil, a rare ability to read the sediment. But here’s the
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