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Authors: Mark Gimenez
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like men and brains like boys. Testosterone and stupidity had
apparently joined up to produce another bad result. He knew Saturday's meeting
would not be a happy affair. Happy people don't call criminal defense
attorneys.
"We've
got the society luncheon tomorrow."
His
wife's perfume announced her presence. He turned to her. She was forty-two
now, but daily workouts and regular spa treatments had deferred her aging. She
was still lean and fit; climbing the social ladder in Houston required stamina.
"What
time?"
"Noon."
"I
can't."
"You
promised."
"Nancy's
son is coming home from Iraq."
"So?"
"In
a casket."
Her
son had died at twenty-two, only eight years older than William. Where would
Frank's son be at twenty-two? Not dying from a roadside bomb in a foreign land
to help people who hated Americans. Would he be playing pro football for
Americans who loved the game more than life itself? Was his son's dream in
Frank's hands? Was Sam the scout right? What would a good father do?
"Who
was that you were talking to?" his wife said.
"On
the phone?"
"No.
That man."
"College
scout."
"Why?"
"He
came to see William play. Scouting a fourteen-year-old boy."
"So
what did he say?"
Frank
recounted his conversation with Sam Jenkins to his wife.
"He
really thinks William could be a star in the NFL?" she said.
"Apparently."
"Then
we've got to do it."
"Hold
on, Liz. We need to think this out, the consequences for William. Not just
what he wants, but what he needs. What's best for him. He's as big as a man,
but he's still just a kid without a clue."
"What's
a vagina look like?"
Frank
spit out the beef from his beef taco. Becky covered her face.
"Oh—my—God!
William, that is so disgusting. And at the dinner table."
Liz
had gone into the kitchen to check on Lupe. They were not sitting at the table
in the kitchen in the old house. They were sitting at the formal dining table
in the formal dining room in the new eight-thousand-square-foot house. They
had sold the old house and moved into this house a year ago. It was new and
austere and filled with marble, like a mausoleum. It did not feel like home to
Frank. Or to the kids. Or to Rusty, one holdover from the old house. This
new house had cost four and a half million dollars. Frank was carrying a
two-million-dollar mortgage. All to keep the peace. To be with the kids.
Becky, who was sixteen now and had only two more years at home, and William,
whose size made him seem older when in fact he was just a fourteen-year-old boy
working his way through puberty. Sometime in the last year, girls had become
interesting.
"It's
my one question," William said.
About
a year before William had figured out that there was a secret world called sex,
so he began peppering Frank with questions. A lot of anatomical and mechanical
inquiries. Five, ten a day. Frank felt as if he were being deposed. So he
reminded his son of the rule—if he asked a question, Frank would tell him the
truth; but he had to be sure he wanted to know the truth—and then limited his
sex questions to one per day. He couldn't deal with that much sex talk each
day, particularly given that he was no longer a practitioner. But the
preferred place for the daily question was not the dinner table.
"So
how did this particular topic come up?"
"Some
of the guys were talking about it at practice. Timmy McDougal said he had seen
a picture online. Then his mother blocked porn sites on his computer. Petey
Perkins said he had seen his sister's, but that made us all want to throw
up."
Lupe
came in with a platter of Mexican food. She was the other holdover. The house
was new and the furnishings were new, but their maid was two years older. She
did not wear a colorful peasant dress but instead all black, like a waiter at a
fine restaurant. Liz had decided that Lupe needed to upgrade to a uniform when
they moved into the new house.
"So
why do you want to know?" Frank asked.
"I'm
the only fourteen-year-old kid who's never seen one,
apparently joined up to produce another bad result. He knew Saturday's meeting
would not be a happy affair. Happy people don't call criminal defense
attorneys.
"We've
got the society luncheon tomorrow."
His
wife's perfume announced her presence. He turned to her. She was forty-two
now, but daily workouts and regular spa treatments had deferred her aging. She
was still lean and fit; climbing the social ladder in Houston required stamina.
"What
time?"
"Noon."
"I
can't."
"You
promised."
"Nancy's
son is coming home from Iraq."
"So?"
"In
a casket."
Her
son had died at twenty-two, only eight years older than William. Where would
Frank's son be at twenty-two? Not dying from a roadside bomb in a foreign land
to help people who hated Americans. Would he be playing pro football for
Americans who loved the game more than life itself? Was his son's dream in
Frank's hands? Was Sam the scout right? What would a good father do?
"Who
was that you were talking to?" his wife said.
"On
the phone?"
"No.
That man."
"College
scout."
"Why?"
"He
came to see William play. Scouting a fourteen-year-old boy."
"So
what did he say?"
Frank
recounted his conversation with Sam Jenkins to his wife.
"He
really thinks William could be a star in the NFL?" she said.
"Apparently."
"Then
we've got to do it."
"Hold
on, Liz. We need to think this out, the consequences for William. Not just
what he wants, but what he needs. What's best for him. He's as big as a man,
but he's still just a kid without a clue."
"What's
a vagina look like?"
Frank
spit out the beef from his beef taco. Becky covered her face.
"Oh—my—God!
William, that is so disgusting. And at the dinner table."
Liz
had gone into the kitchen to check on Lupe. They were not sitting at the table
in the kitchen in the old house. They were sitting at the formal dining table
in the formal dining room in the new eight-thousand-square-foot house. They
had sold the old house and moved into this house a year ago. It was new and
austere and filled with marble, like a mausoleum. It did not feel like home to
Frank. Or to the kids. Or to Rusty, one holdover from the old house. This
new house had cost four and a half million dollars. Frank was carrying a
two-million-dollar mortgage. All to keep the peace. To be with the kids.
Becky, who was sixteen now and had only two more years at home, and William,
whose size made him seem older when in fact he was just a fourteen-year-old boy
working his way through puberty. Sometime in the last year, girls had become
interesting.
"It's
my one question," William said.
About
a year before William had figured out that there was a secret world called sex,
so he began peppering Frank with questions. A lot of anatomical and mechanical
inquiries. Five, ten a day. Frank felt as if he were being deposed. So he
reminded his son of the rule—if he asked a question, Frank would tell him the
truth; but he had to be sure he wanted to know the truth—and then limited his
sex questions to one per day. He couldn't deal with that much sex talk each
day, particularly given that he was no longer a practitioner. But the
preferred place for the daily question was not the dinner table.
"So
how did this particular topic come up?"
"Some
of the guys were talking about it at practice. Timmy McDougal said he had seen
a picture online. Then his mother blocked porn sites on his computer. Petey
Perkins said he had seen his sister's, but that made us all want to throw
up."
Lupe
came in with a platter of Mexican food. She was the other holdover. The house
was new and the furnishings were new, but their maid was two years older. She
did not wear a colorful peasant dress but instead all black, like a waiter at a
fine restaurant. Liz had decided that Lupe needed to upgrade to a uniform when
they moved into the new house.
"So
why do you want to know?" Frank asked.
"I'm
the only fourteen-year-old kid who's never seen one,
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