Now he took a deep breath and tried to shove his pain into the background. “Late or not,” he grinned as he stepped onto the court and touched fists with DeLeyon, “I’m going to kick your bony ass.”
“Keep wishin’, white boy.”
“It ain’t wishing,” he said, giving DeLeyon’s ball a quick swat as he attempted a steal.
DeLeyon recaptured the ball then dribbled it easily a step or two away. Brent headed to the foul line. “Okay,” he said, feeling his knees wobble. “Let’s not waste time. Gimme the ball.”
“Uh-uh,” DeLeyon said. “We shoot for it.”
Brent missed his first shot, while DeLeyon hit, giving him first possession. Immediately, he blew past Brent to score on a spinning lay-up. Brent lost the ball on his first turn, and DeLeyon took it back behind the line then swished a long three-pointer. The game went like that for the next hour and fifteen minutes, and DeLeyon won forty-four to twenty. Twice, Brent had to bend over, hands on his knees to catch his breath.
“That’s the worst ass-kicking yet,” DeLeyon said with a broad smile as they walked off the court.
“Yeah,” Brent admitted as he stripped off his sweat soaked shirt, used it for a towel on his chest and underarms. “You’re getting better, and I’m getting worse.”
“You bad today,” DeLeyon laughed. Then he sobered and gave Brent one of those dead serious looks that made him seem years older than sixteen. “But I appreciate you coming, man.”
They headed over to Broadway to a little pizza place, and Brent grilled DeLeyon like always about his grades and everything else in his life. DeLeyon mumbled his answers, pretending to resent the intrusion, but after a bit he reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a sweat soaked report card. He handed it to Brent, who unfolded it with care and scanned DeLeyon’s grades.
Brent smiled as he saw nothing less than A+. “You need to work a little harder.”
“You ever quit, man?”
“Not until you get into Harvard.”
“Yeah, right,” DeLeyon said, shrugging it off.
DeLeyon didn’t know it, but Brent had long ago determined he’d put him through college and pay whatever the scholarship didn’t cover. “Okay, gotta go,” he said. “Keep it up. I’m proud of you.”
“You really are, aren’t you?” the boy said, the tough outer layer disappearing for a brief second.
Brent nodded. “Yeah, I really am.”
By twelve thirty, after a shower, several cups of coffee, and three power bars, Brent’s hangover had faded to a sort of depressed exhaustion. As he toweled off he looked around at his confusion of unpacked boxes and scowled as he realized the problem. Being with DeLeyon always left him with a feeling of vague dissatisfaction and reminded him that there were more important things to do than trying to make himself rich.
He pulled open one of the boxes, started to unpack a stack of plates, but then glanced out the window. He’d planned to spend the day getting the apartment organized, but the sky outside was cloudless, the temperature pleasantly cool. Besides, why unpack? He wasn’t going to be here that long. Soon, he’d find a way to get Simmons her proof and then get on with his life, whatever that meant.
Fifteen minutes later he was in the BMW, roaring out of Manhattan on his way toward Morristown. It was much too perfect a day to be trapped inside, and he hadn’t seen Fred in almost two weeks. Of course, Fred would act like his visit was no big deal, but Brent knew that down deep it mattered.
The Lincoln Tunnel traffic was light, typical for a Sunday, and when he emerged on the other side, the summer afternoon was so delightful that even Newark’s grunge didn’t seem too oppressive. He sped through the Oranges and crested the Ramapo Hills, where New Jersey transformed itself from a wasteland of abandoned factories and ruined tenements to the green rolling hills of Morris County.
On reaching Morristown, he drove straight to his old neighborhood and parked in front of a white clapboard bungalow on a quiet street close to the town center. A few miles away grand homes sat on multi-acre lots, the estates of investment bankers and lawyers who commuted to Manhattan, but the close-in neighborhoods contained small neat homes, most built after World War II and owned by people like Fred who lived and worked in Morristown—policemen, firemen, city workers, and teachers.
Brent found his uncle in the back yard, wearing dark pants and a threadbare wife-beater. He was bent over, trimming his roses and humming a little tune, and if he heard Brent approach he gave no indication. In spite of a knee injury that had forced his early retirement, Fred Lucas was big boned and still thickly muscled. Although Brent could see places where the flesh was starting to sag, his uncle’s shoulders and arms still looked powerful.
“Need some help?” he asked when he got close.
Fred turned his head just enough to see Brent in his peripheral vision. “You wouldn’t know a rose from a freaking dandelion.”
“Yes, I would,” Brent countered. “Dandelions grow in the middle of the lawn. Roses grow around the sides.” He paused. “Otherwise, I think they’re almost indistinguishable.”
His uncle had gone back to cutting. “You’re a moron.”
“Which one of us went to Yale?”
“A liberal moron. I rest my case.”
Brent laughed and raised his hands in surrender, knowing Fred never admitted defeat in any contest nor gave an inch in any argument. When Fred was wrong—not an infrequent occurrence—he’d simply revert to foul language, insults, and name-calling until his opponent lost focus. He’d won dart-throwing, arm-wrestling, and beer-drinking contests over more able competitors simply because he needled them to distraction. The same was true with family arguments.
“Did I ever tell you what a pain in the ass it was to grow up with an uncle who couldn’t stand to lose?” Brent asked.
“You only whined about it maybe a thousand times. It was your way of thanking me for giving a wissy like you a sense of perseverance.”
“That must have been it.”
Fred finally cracked a smile, straightened, and slipped his clippers into his back pocket. “So, how’s the big-shot-money-man?” he asked as he straightened up, limped toward his nephew, threw his arms around him, and gave him a hug that left the front of Brent’s shirt stained with sweat.
“Pretty good.”
Fred eyed him a second then tossed his head. “Yeah, right,” he said. “And I’m rich and handsome.”
“Everything’s fine,” Brent insisted.
Fred walked up the back steps and through the screen door, letting it slam behind him. He came back out a moment later with two cans of Budweiser and handed one to Brent. “Don’t shit a shitter,” he said as he cracked his cold beer and sipped the foam off the top.
“Really,” Brent insisted, trying to mean it.
Fred went over and flopped into a cheap aluminum lawn chair. “Know who I saw the other day?”
“Who?”
“Maggie.”
“That was quick.” Brent glanced at his watch. Usually it takes you at least five minutes to bring her up.”
Fred sighed. “Man, she’s pretty.”
Brent shrugged.
“Pretty dumb move.”
“She broke up with me. Remember?”
“Only cause you were stupid.”
Brent waved his beer. “’Preciate the support.”
“Or decided you weren’t rich enough.”
Brent looked at the curling paint on the back wall of the house. “There’s nothing wrong with having enough money to take a trip or paint your house.”
“A: I don’t want to go anyplace, and B: there’s nothing wrong with letting it peel!”
Brent shook his head.