第 17 页

When the Asian Invasion drops me off in front of my house, it’s late, so I ask Ashwini not to blow the Eagles chant horn and he reluctantly agrees—although when the bus rounds the corner at the end of my street, I hear fifty Indian men chant, “E!-A!-G!-L!-E!-S! EAGLES!” I can’t help smiling as I enter my parents’ home.

I am ready for Dad. After such a big win—a win that puts the Eagles in first place—surely Dad will want to talk to me. But when I enter the family room, no one is there. No beer bottles on the floor, no dishes in the sink. In fact, the whole house looks spotless.

“Dad? Mom?” I say, but no one answers. I saw both of their cars in the driveway when I came home, so I am very confused. I begin to climb the steps, and the house is deadly quiet. I check my bedroom, and my bed’s made and the room is empty. So I knock on my parents’ bedroom door, but no one answers. I push the door open and immediately wish I hadn’t.

“Your father and I made up after the Eagles victory,” Mom says with a funny smile. “He aims to be a changed man.”

The sheet is pulled up to their necks, but somehow I know my parents are naked underneath the covers.

“Your boy Baskett healed the family,” my father says. “He was a god out there on the field today. And with the Eagles in first place, I thought, Why not make up with Jeanie?”

Still, I cannot speak.

“Pat, maybe you’d like to go for a run?” my mom suggests. “Maybe just a little half-hour run?”

I close their bedroom door.

While I change into a tracksuit, I think I hear my parents’ bed squeak, and the house seems to shake a little too. So I slip on my sneakers and run down the stairs and out the front door. I sprint across the park, run around to the back of the Websters’ house, and knock on Tiffany’s door. When she answers, she’s in some sort of nightgown and her face looks confused.

“Pat? What are you—”

“My parents are having sex,” I explain. “Right now.”

Her eyes widen. She smiles and then laughs. “Just let me get changed,” she says, and then shuts the door.

We walk for hours—all around Collingswood. At first I ramble on and on about T.O., Baskett, my parents, Jake, the Asian Invasion, my wedding pictures, my mother’s ultimatum actually working—everything—but Tiffany does not say anything in response. When I run out of words, we simply walk and walk and walk, and finally we are in front of the Websters’ house and it is time to say good night. I stick my hand out and say, “Thanks for listening.” When it is clear that Tiffany’s not going to shake, I start to walk away.

“Turn around, bright eyes,” Tiffany says, which is a very weird thing for her to say, because my eyes are brown and very dull, but of course I turn around. “I’m going to give you something that will confuse you, and maybe even make you mad. I don’t want you to open it until you are in a very relaxed mood. Tonight is out of the question. Wait a few days, and when you are feeling happy, open this letter.” She pulls a white business envelope out of her jacket pocket and hands it to me. “Put it away in your pocket,” she says, and I do as I am told, mostly because Tiffany looks so deathly serious. “I will not be running with you until you give me your answer. I will leave you alone to think. Regardless of what you decide, you cannot tell anyone about what is inside of that envelope. Understand? If you tell anyone—even your therapist—I’ll know by looking in your eyes, and I will never speak to you again. It’s best if you simply follow my directions.”

My heart is pounding. What is Tiffany talking about? All I want to do is open the envelope now.

“You have to wait at least forty-eight hours before you open that. Make sure you are in a good mood when you read the letter. Think about it, and then give me your answer. Remember, Pat, I can be a very valuable friend to you, but you do not want me as an enemy.”

I remember the story Ronnie told me about how Tiffany lost her job, and I begin to feel very afraid.

I Will Have to Require a First-Place Victory

“Question number one,” my father says. “How many touchdowns will McNabb throw against the Saints?”

I can hardly believe I am actually eating a sit-down meal with my father. Mom smiles at me as she winds spaghetti around her fork. She even shoots me a wink. Now don’t get me wrong, I am happy that Mom’s plan has worked out, and I am delighted to be eating a meal with my father, having a conversation even—and I am especially happy to see my parents playing with love again—but I also know my father, and I worry that a single Eagles loss will turn Dad back into a grump. I worry for Mom, but decide to ride out the moment.

“Ten touchdowns,” I tell my father.

Dad smiles, pops a small sausage into his mouth, chews enthusiastically, and then tells my mother, “Pat says ten touchdowns.”

“Maybe eleven,” I add, just to be optimistic.

“Question number two. How many touchdowns will undrafted rookie sensation Hank Baskett catch?”

Now, I fully realize that Baskett has only caught one TD in the first five games, but I also know my family is being overly optimistic tonight, so I say, “Seven.”

“Seven?” Dad says, but smiling.

“Seven.”

“He says seven, Jeanie. Seven!” To me Dad says, “Question number three. In what quarter will quarterback Drew Brees finally suffer a concussion because he has been sacked so many times by the Eagles’ superior defense?”

“Um. That’s a tough one. The third quarter?”

“That is incorrect,” my father says, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “First quarter is the correct answer. Question four. When are you going to bring home that broad you’re always running with? When are you going to introduce your girlfriend to your father?”

When Dad finishes asking question four, he slurps a load of spaghetti into his mouth and then begins chewing. When I fail to respond, he encourages me with his left hand, tracing invisible circles with his index finger.

“Did you see that Pat found his wedding pictures and put them back up in the living room?” Mom says, and her voice sort of quivers.

“Jake told me you were over Nikki,” Dad says. “He said you were into this Tiffany broad. No?”

“May I be excused?” I ask my mother, because my little scar is itching, and I feel as though I might explode if I don’t start banging my fist against my forehead.

When my mother nods, I see sympathy in her eyes, which I appreciate.

I lift for a few hours, until I no longer feel the need to punch myself.

In the new reflector vest my mother has recently bought for me, I run through the night.

I was going to open Tiffany’s letter this evening because I was so excited about having dinner with my father, but now I know I am most definitely not in a good mood, so opening the letter would be a violation of the rules Tiffany clearly laid out for me two nights ago. I almost opened the letter last night, when I was in an excellent mood, but it hadn’t been forty-eight hours.

As I run, I try to think about Nikki and the end of apart time, which always makes me feel better. I pretend that God has made a bet with me and if I run fast enough, He will bring Nikki back, so I begin sprinting the last two miles of my run. Soon I’m running so fast, it’s amazing—faster than any human being has ever run before. In my mind I hear God tell me I have to do the last mile in under four minutes, which I know is almost impossible, but for Nikki I try. I run even faster, and when I am a block away, I hear God counting down from ten in my mind. “Five—four—three—two—” And when my right foot lands on the first concrete square of my parents’ sidewalk, God says “One,” which means I ran fast enough—that I made it home before God said “Zero.” I am so happy. I am so impossibly happy!

My parents’ bedroom door is closed when I go upstairs, so I shower and then slip under my comforter. I pull Tiffany’s envelope from under the mattress of my bed. I take a deep breath. I open the letter. As I read the several typed pages, my mind explodes with conflicting emotions and awful needs.

Pat,

Read this letter start to finish! Do not make any decisions until you have read the entire letter! Do not read this letter unless you are alone! Do not show this letter to anyone! When you have finished reading this letter, burn it—immediately!

Do you ever feel like you’re living in a powder keg and giving off sparks?

Well, there was nothing I could do to bring my Tommy back, and the inability to accept his death kept me ill for two whole years—but then you came into my life. Why? At first I thought, God is sending me a new man, a replacement for my Tommy, which made me mad, because Tommy is irreplaceable (no offense). But when I listened to the way you talked about Nikki, I realized God had sent you to me so I might help you find the end of apart time. This was to be my mission. And so I have been working on it.

“What?” I can hear you saying right now. “How can my friend Tiffany end apart time?”

Well, this is the part that might make you mad.

Are you ready, Pat? Brace yourself.

I’ve been talking to your Nikki on the phone—regularly. Every night for the past two weeks. I got the phone number from Veronica, who—through Ronnie’s conversations with your mom—has been providing Nikki with information about you ever since you were permanently assigned to that neural health facility in Baltimore. It turns out that your family banned Nikki from obtaining information about you, which they could do because Nikki divorced you soon after you were permanently admitted. I know this bit of news has most likely upset you terribly. Sorry, but it’s best just to state things plainly at this point. Don’t you think?

Okay, this next part is bad too. Nikki was able to divorce you because you committed a crime, which you do not remember. (I am not going to tell you what that crime was, because you have probably blocked it from your memory intentionally; most likely, you are not yet mentally ready to deal with this very frightening reality. My therapist Dr. Lily and I theorize that you will remember committing this crime when you are mentally and emotionally ready.) Nikki was granted a divorce and all your assets, and in exchange, someone else dropped all charges against you. Of course, the deal also sent you to the bad place indefinitely for “rehabilitation.” You agreed to all of the above at the time and were deemed to be “of sound mind” by your therapist Dr. Timbers, but soon after being put away for good, you “lost” your memory and your marbles as well.

I am not telling you all of this to be mean—quite the contrary. Remember, God put me in charge of helping you end apart time. It turns out Nikki has wanted to communicate with you very much. She misses you. This is not to say she wants to marry you all over again. I want to be clear about this. She still remembers what you did—the crime you committed. And she is a little afraid of you as well, as she fears you might be mad at her and want to retaliate. But she was married to you for years and she wants to see you well, and maybe even become friends again. I have reported your desire to reconcile with Nikki. To be honest, your desire is much stronger than hers. But you never know what might happen if you begin to communicate again.

Two problems: One. After you committed that crime, Nikki took out a restraining order against you, so technically it is illegal for you to contact her. Two. Your parents—on your behalf, and probably in retaliation—took out a restraining order against Nikki, claiming any contact she made could jeopardize your mental health. So it is also illegal for her to contact you. Even still, Nikki would like to communicate with you, if only to smooth over what happened. Her guilt is glaring. She walked away with all your assets, and you had to spend years in a mental institution, right?

So. Coming to the point. I am offering myself as a liaison. The two of you can communicate through me, and there will be no trouble. You will be able to write Nikki letters—one every two weeks. I will read these letters to Nikki over the phone. She will be able to dictate her responses to me, again over the phone, which I will type up on my laptop, print out, and present to you.

Pat, we are friends, and I value our friendship very much. That having been said, you must appreciate that what I am offering puts me in a very precarious position. If you decide to take me up on my offer, I would be putting myself at risk legally, and also I would be jeopardizing our friendship. I need to inform you that I will not be your liaison for free, but am offering you a trade.

What do I want?

Remember when I said I was scouting you?

Well, I want to win this year’s Dance Away Depression competition, and I need a strong man to do it. “What is Dance Away Depression?” I hear you asking. Well—it is an annual competition organized by the Philadelphia Psychiatric Association that allows women diagnosed with clinical depression to transform their despair into movement. The sole focus is supposed to be diminishing depression through use of the body, but judges award a wreath of flowers to the second-best dance routine and a golden trophy to the first-place dance routine. Dancing solo, I have won that fucking wreath two years straight, and this year I want to win the golden trophy. This is where you figure in, Pat. God sent me the strongest man I have ever met in my entire life; tell me this isn’t divine intervention. Only a man with your muscles could perform the type of lifts I have in mind—award-winning lifts, Pat. The competition will be held at the Plaza Hotel in center city, on a Saturday night—November 11th. Which gives us just under a month to practice. I know the routine already, but you’ll be starting from scratch, and we both will have to practice the lifts. This will take a lot of time.

I told Nikki about my conditions, and she wants to encourage you to be my dance partner. She says you need to broaden your interests, and that she had always wanted to take dance lessons with you. So it is more than okay with her; she encourages you to do this.

Also, I’m afraid I will have to require a first-place victory in exchange for being your liaison. Lucky for you, the routine I have choreographed is first-rate. But in order to win, you will have to immerse yourself in dance. Below are the non-negotiable conditions.

Should you decide to be my dance partner, you will:

Give up Eagles football for the duration of our training. No going to games. No watching games on television. No discussing Eagles football with anyone. No reading the sports pages. You may not even wear your beloved Baskett jersey.

End your weight training by two o’clock each afternoon, at which point we will go for a five-mile run, after which we will rehearse from 4:15 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. on weekdays. On weekends we will rehearse from 1:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. No exceptions.

Make sure at least 15 of your friends and relatives attend the dance recital, because the judges are often swayed by applause.