J’Quarius laughed, as his dad rubbed the back of his head. Then he went right back to picking at his pasta.
“You’re not worried about tomorrow night are you?” Arlene asked, sensing something more was bothering him. Normally he’d have been be on his second helping by now.
“A little,” he said, as he mechanically sawed off a couple slices of bread and passed one over to each of his parents.
“Mr. Bradford said that was just a one-time deal what happened at the last game. A freak thing,” Hansford said, brushing it off. He and his wife had told J’Quarius all about Aaron Bradford and Avillage when the college scholarship offers had started rolling in.
“Yeah, but I don’t know if I really trust him,” J’Quarius said meekly.
“Well, I know I don’t,” Hansford replied. “But I also know that that man plans to make an awful lot of money off you, and he’s not about to do anything that would put you in danger.”
“I guess. But that didn’t feel right waking up on the court,” J’Quarius said shaking his head. “It felt like I was waking up from a full night’s sleep. But when I opened my eyes, I was on the court looking up at a bunch of complete strangers in the stands, just staring at me. I can’t explain it. It was like a nightmare or something. It just didn’t feel right. I don’t want to go through that ever again.”
“Well, we’ve just got to make sure you get a good night’s sleep tonight, honey. Stay away from caffeine and drink plenty of fluids before the game,” Arlene said.
“Maybe take it easy for the first quarter and see how things go,” Hansford chimed in. “That Ohio team has a couple guys who can play, but they can’t hang with you guys for four quarters.”
“Losing the game is one thing I’m not worried about,” J’Quarius said with a confident smile.
“Well, get to bed early tonight,” Arlene said. “We’ve gotta be in Cleveland by one, which means we have to leave around 6:30 in the morning. And don’t count on getting any sleep on the bus.”
“Leaving the Land of Jordan for the city where LeBron got his start,” Hansford mused delightedly. “Fitting for your last game as an amateur.”
Leonard Weinstien slowly turned the key to his empty Newark law office just before 10PM on Friday night. He had until noon Saturday to be completely moved out before the final inspection.
Where had the time gone? Five days ago, it seemed he had all the time in the world. Now he was staring down an all-nighter just to get everything out.
At sixty-eight with a dwindling client list and increasing rent and employee costs, he felt like he was being forced into retirement. He’d fought it the best he could for the better part of a year, but the inevitability of the collapse of his practice hadn’t been lost on his secretary of 23 years. So when she’d ashamedly submitted her two-week notice, having accepted a position at a bigger, younger firm for significantly more money, he’d finally decided to throw in the towel.
Weinstien moped through the empty area where his clients used to wait for him and cast a nostalgic gaze up at the wires protruding from the wall where the office’s small TV had been mounted. By force of habit he took a circuitous path to his office, veering around the empty space where his secretary’s desk had stood for the past two decades, and gave his door a nudge. A stack of collapsed cardboard file boxes inside stopped it before it reached halfway open.
Organization had never been Weinstien’s strong suit. Towers of unsorted papers, all protected by attorney-client privilege, rose from his desk and the surrounding floor. Legally these couldn’t go in the standard trash, and the commercial shredder had been removed from the office that morning. He was going to have to take all of this home, which, with a 1-series BMW as his only mode of transportation, meant he’d be making several trips.
With the luxury of procrastination officially spent, he finally forced himself to dive in. A few papers went into a file box; then a name would catch his eye and trigger a memory. Ten minutes later, he would find himself immersed in a document, reliving a fairly mundane case from a decade earlier.
An hour into his packing job, with a box and a half filled and at least twenty more to go, he promised himself a coffee break if he could just finish up the second box.
Having met his goal within fifteen minutes, and eager to claim his productivity bonus of a cup of coffee, he headed for the door carrying two deceptively heavy file boxes. But on his way, his foot dislodged something from one of the stacks on the ground. Just in front of him lay an unopened envelope, addressed by hand, with no return address and a postmark from five years earlier. His curiosity piqued, he picked it up and set it atop the boxes he was carting out. A mystery. It would provide some entertainment while he sipped his coffee.
Weinstien left his car running in the driveway, dropped the boxes off just inside the front door of his house, and set a course for a 24-hour diner he frequented midway between his home and office.
“Hey, Mr. Weinstien,” the waitress droned as he sidled up to his standard stool at the bar.
“Black?” she asked, already pouring the coffee.
“No, I think I’ll try your soy latte skinny Chai caramel mochaccino,” Weinstien deadpanned as the waitress slid the steaming mug of black coffee in front of him without breaking stride.
“Thanks,” Weinstien said, running his office key down the side of the sealed envelope and removing a letter written in blue ink on unlined white paper.
Dear Mr. Weinstien,
By the time this gets to you, I’ll be gone. First off, I want to thank you for your efforts in trying to help me connect with my son.
I don’t know if you’ll ever believe me that I was set up. I doubt I would if I were in your shoes, but I think we can at least agree that I no longer have a reason to lie. I don’t have the computer background to prove it, but I give you a dying man’s word: ALL the charges against me are false.
I know my life would have been a little easier (and probably a lot longer) if I’d never heard about my son, but I’m glad I got the opportunity to know of him. I never got the chance to meet him, but I love him. And as stupid as it might sound to you, I can’t live without him.
I promise you that he is being adopted by Avillage. Somewhere around the time you receive this letter, he’s going to be introduced as the second offering on their exchange. I’m asking you just one thing. Please make sure he’s taken care of.
I thought about sticking around and trying to fight for custody, but sitting there by myself in jail and then at home with nothing to do but think, I came to two conclusions: 1. We were never going to win the case against me. 2. He’s better off without me.
That first Avillage kid went to live with an educated mom and dad in the suburbs with all kinds of support and money to spend on raising him the way he deserved. I’m a single guy with a more-than-full-time job, a one-bedroom apartment in the worst school district in the state, an unreliable car, and no prospects for anything better. For me to adopt him (even if I could) just because I love him, would be selfish.
Tell him about me if you ever think the time is right — I want him to know he was loved — not abandoned. And again, please make sure he’s taken care of. I’m sending you this letter because I trust you. Sorry I couldn’t stay and fight with you.