Perfect Grave

Chapter Forty

“ H eard what happened at recess?” Ryan bounced his basketball to Brady.

“Nope.”

Justin clapped his hands, took Brady’s pass, and made a successful backboard shot.

“ Yes! Dex pulled a knife on Billy Hay in the yard behind the addition.”

“Whoa, that’s serious,” Brady said. “What happened?”

Ryan eyed the ball coming back to him.

“Billy steps into Dex’s face, does like a quick kung fu move, grabs Dex’s arm, nearly breaks it until Dex drops the knife, then Billy leans it against the pavement and building and stomps the knife, breaks the blade!”

“No way!”

Ryan shoots and misses. The ball swishes under the net.

“Way!” Justin said. “It happened. Billy turned into Superman.”

The ball rolled across the basketball court, by the swings, then by the mommies and babies at the kiddie seesaws, and then it bounced along the grass toward a park bench, where a man reading a newspaper tossed it back.

“Thanks,” Ryan said.

“Dex is such an asshole,” Justin said. “Billy’s my hero. He should form a gang and be the leader. Call it the Justice Squad, or something cool like that.”

“Hey,” Brady said, “You think Spider-Man can beat up Superman?”

“Not in a million years,” Ryan said. “Superman’s not human and Spider-Man is.”

“Well, he could,” Justin said bouncing the ball, “if he could web him with green kryptonite.”

“What if Superman had, like a tumor?” Brady said.

“A what?” Ryan said.

“Like a brain tumor that was going to kill him unless he had this operation?”

Justin stopped bouncing the ball. He exchanged a look with Ryan, then looked hard at Brady. The three boys had been best friends ever since they could talk.

“That’s what you’ve got, isn’t it?”

“That’s it.”

“You’re joking, right?” Ryan said.

“Clue in, doofus,” Justin looked at Brady. “This is why you’ve had all those doctors’ appointments and went in that MR deep-sleep-chamber thing, right?”

“Right.”

“So, are you going to die?” Ryan asked.

“I’m supposed to have this operation soon to take it out. And if everything goes okay, then I should be fine.”

“If it doesn’t?” Ryan asked.

“Then, I guess I’ll die.”

“Does the tumor hurt right now?” Ryan asked.

“No. And I take medicine.”

Justin resumed bouncing the ball, giving it hard slam bounces.

“You’re not going to die, dude,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re not, okay?”

“But how do you know, Justin?”

Justin turned his back, slam-bouncing the ball, pretending to position himself for a crucial shot.

“Justin, tell me, how do you know?”

“Because you’re twelve years old and you’re our friend and people close to us are not supposed to die. Not until they’re old and shit.”

“Brady’s dad died, right in front of him,” Ryan said.

“Shut up,” Justin said. “You just shut up.”

“Guys, stop. No one knows what’s going to happen to me.”

“I do,” Justin turned. Still bouncing the ball, his sights locked on the basket. “I’m going to take this shot, and if it’s good, Brady will have his operation and live.”

“And if you miss?” Ryan said.

“I won’t miss. I’m going to make this shot and then we’re going to start building that tree house we’ve always talked about. In the forest behind the warehouse.”

Justin softened his bounces, preparing to make the shot.

“Hey”-Brady held his hands out for the ball-“give me the ball. This is kinda dumb. Don’t do this, Jus, cause if you miss, everything will get weird.”

“I’m not going to miss.”

“Justin, listen to Brady.”

“I’m doing it!”

Justin raised the ball, moved it slowly behind his head, concentrated on the target, and sent the ball spinning from his fingertips in a high arc. During the time it traveled, the boys held their breath, hearing nothing and seeing nothing but the ball, as if collectively willing it to complete its mission.

Which it did.

In a clean swish.

The boys shot their fists into the air and jumped.

“Yes!” Justin said, “I told you I wouldn’t miss.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Brady noticed the ball rolling away. Their glorious victory ball. Still wearing a smile, he started chasing it as it followed the same course as before. The ball rolled from the court, passed the swings, and then the mommies and babies at the kiddie seesaws. Then it bounced along the grass toward a park bench until a man’s shoe stopped it.

Dead.

The man on the bench set aside his take-out coffee and his copy of the Seattle Mirror. He’d been reading the articles under the headlines, HOMELESS MAN HELD IN NUN’S MURDER: ARRESTED AT FUNERAL and SISTER ANNE BRAXTON REMEMBERED AS THE SAINT OF SEATTLE.

The man picked up the ball and spun it playfully in his hands until he raised his head to look directly at Brady, who saw himself reflected in the man’s dark glasses. The stranger studied Brady’s face for an intense moment, as if it held the key to a mystery.

“This belongs to you?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“And I bet you expect me to give it back?”

Brady’s eyes cast around. He just wanted the ball back.

“I guess, yes.”

“When someone has something that belongs to you, it’s only right for you to expect them to give it back, right?”

“I guess.”

“It’s a rule to live by.” The man bounced the ball back. “Be sure you remember that.”