Flights

MOM. Stopping the Sweep

Walter is not an alarmist. By no means is Walter an alarmist. He wants that made perfectly clear. If the kid’s arterially bleeding, everyone remain calm; if he’s slowly turning into someone we’ve never seen before, wait it out, watch and see what happens. Above all, do not overreact. His wife, you see, overreacts. I overreact. I scream and rant and ask questions and worry. I set a bad example. I get the kids all worked up. I give the kids ideas. I’m never satisfied and I’m always wrong. That might be a good rule to keep in mind here all the time: Judy is always wrong. Judy does not support this — mania for sports, one after another, season in, season out: Judy is wrong. Judy thinks we should talk a little, that we have to talk a little, to try and make the kids a little less impenetrable: Judy’s wrong. Judy wants to do some of the things normal families do: Judy is a pain in the ass. But I’ll tell you this: I saw trouble coming with these two long before I spoke up, and I spoke up a hell of a long time ago. I love these kids and I’ve loved them and agonized over them every step of the way and no one’s going to tell me at this point that I’m the only villain in this thing. Judy might’ve made some mistakes, but I’ll be goddamned if she made all of them.

There was a rope swing at the end of Prospect Drive, the street perpendicular to Biddy’s, which was long and knotted and hung from high in the branches of an old oak. Prospect Drive, which ran the length of Lordship from the salt marshes to the Gun Club, met the salt marsh abruptly at that oak, the pavement and earth covering the roots dropping away to expose four feet of yellowish dirt running into cattails and reeds. Motorists were expected to have turned left for Long Beach or Lordship Boulevard by that point.

He had swung on the rope once, the grass below worn through to form a runway of dirt that fell away as he swept high over the reeds, the brown fur of the cattails waving up at him. It was slipperier than it looked.

One of Biddy’s friends, Teddy Bell, lived nearby, on Oak Bluff. Teddy had serious fights with his older brother, Neil, fights of frightening intensity, four or five times a week. Teddy was Biddy’s classmate and Neil a year older. They came to blows over everything. Neil had once tried to break his brother’s arm by levering it across his leg. Friends had pulled them apart. Their fights were approaching legend in the neighborhood and Biddy had seen three, convinced during each that one brother or the other would not survive.

And one day Teddy broke his wrist on the rope swing. He slipped off on the downswing. He came home crying and was mocked and goaded until his wild temper broke loose and he went after his older brother with a shriek and one arm, and Neil, who usually won anyway, beat him up. Their father separated them and threw Neil bodily out of the house—“The goddamn kid’s got a hurt arm!” he’d yelled — and Neil, panting, still full of energy, had stalked past Teddy’s friends, wide-eyed witnesses, down the block to the rope swing, out of sight behind the oak, and had fallen himself minutes later, breaking both wrists. He had returned running and crying, holding both hands in front of him with his elbows next to his belly. When Teddy, waiting to be driven to the hospital, saw him, he’d managed to laugh, and Neil had gone through the car window after him. Teddy’s friends had stood unable to move as they kicked, wrestled, pulled, and scratched, tumbling half in, half out of the car with one unbroken wrist between them. Their father separated them again.

“Imagine that,” someone had said to Biddy on the way home. “Imagine how much it must’ve hurt to beat up his brother with two broken wrists?”

Later that day Biddy had helped his mother with the macchina, the macaroni machine. They were making homemades. Kristi sat at the kitchen table nearby, forming peanuts into rows. He was still shaken by the fight, and he guided the long macaroni strips like flat soft tongues away from the machine’s rollers as his mother cranked. The machine was clamped to the table but still shifted and squeaked. As the pale ribbons would emerge Biddy would drape them, like diminutive scarves, over towels on the backs of chairs. His sister had assembled a row of peanuts fully a foot long, and had refused to tell either of them why.

His mother fed already thin strips expertly into the crack between the stainless-steel rollers with one hand, cranking rhythmically with the other. He lifted the thinner sheets as they emerged, palms supporting the cool, elastic weight. He could see Neil’s flailing legs, the ferocity of the speed of the blows, Teddy’s foot stomping wide of his brother’s face. “Did kids fight a lot when you were a kid?” he asked his mother.

“As much as they do now, I guess,” she answered. “Watch the end of that. It’s going to bunch.”

“Did you used to fight?” He carried a moist and pliant strip to a chair.

“I’m sure I was no brighter than anybody else. Aunt Sandy and I used to have real fights. She hit me on the head with a bottle once.”

Biddy flinched. “Did it break?”

His mother laughed. “No. It was a Coke bottle. I had a huge bump, though.”

He envisioned his mother on her rear with the bottle nearby, slightly stunned in the backyard of his grandmother’s old home.

“Once I pushed her into the street, and she hit a fire hydrant, I think. We were about even, overall.”

Biddy supported macaroni, palm crossing under palm to cradle the emerging piece. The image of his mother as having once been very much like his sister unnerved him, seemed to make the kitchen slightly unsteady beneath his feet. He felt separated, again.

“I don’t get into many fights,” he said, his words half confession, half offering.

“Well your sister does fine for both of you,” his mother said, adjusting the rolling thickness.

Kristi swept her hands across the peanuts, one ticking loudly off the floor. “I’m just sitting here and even then you pick on me,” she said.

Teddy was an altar boy on Biddy’s team, and served with the broken wrist. He looked heroic, Biddy’s mother said. Father Rubino referred to him now and then as the walking wounded. Teddy was bored with the whole thing and was planning to quit.

Every four weeks they were assigned seven-thirty Mass and Teddy came down with an ailment. This Sunday two others on the four-man team did as well. Biddy was left to go it alone, which he knew to be exceedingly difficult, even if the priest was extraordinarily patient and helped out. And Father Rubino was not extraordinarily patient and did not ever think to help out.

The Mass was always deserted. He counted eight people in the pews. He yawned, peeking out of the sacristy, fumbling with the cassock around his shoulders.

Father waited a full two minutes longer than usual before finally asking irritably if his friends were coming or what. Biddy couldn’t say. He rubbed his eye and straightened his cassock. Father gestured him out and fell in step behind him at the sound of the organ, and he led the two-person procession embarrassed, half asleep, and beginning to wonder if he could handle everything on the altar alone. Father followed, muttering.

He performed erratically. He was late covering the chalice, slow with the wine and water, and forgot the bells during the Liturgy of the Eucharist. Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again, and Father turned to him and said piercingly, “The bells.” Scattered among the pews eight people shifted and coughed.

During Communion, he let the plate drop and was told sharply to hold it up, at which point he jerked it into a sleepy woman’s throat, causing her to gag.

He was giving the morning up for lost, thinking, This is nuts, when a girl appeared before him in the Communion line, her face smooth and wide and serious, her gaze startling. She looked at him as though the whole ungainly, tottering ceremony were running so smoothly that there was room for only reverence in one’s perspective of it. He blinked and steadied the plate. She was wearing a white dress with blue trim and her hair was swept away from her face with perfect brushstrokes. She was beautiful. It surprised him, in that time and that place. In her solemnity she somehow began to redeem or confirm the idea of a seven-thirty Mass with one altar boy and eight people attending. He felt silly, foolishly theological, but she gazed directly at him as she received Communion, and he held the plate level.

He led the closing processional with little enthusiasm, dreading facing Father Rubino in the sacristy, wondering at his revelation with the girl. They were barely free of the tones of the organ when a woman poked her head in and asked for a moment of Father’s time, leading the same girl with the beautiful hair and face. She was Mrs. Ransey; this was Laura. She was new in the diocese, in the neighborhood; she wanted all sorts of information, not the least of which was whether or not her Laura could attend Our Lady of Peace at this late date. Seventh grade. She knew it was late, but — Father cut her off: Yes, yes, fine, fine. Nice to see her. As for the school, she’d have to check with Sister Theresa: she ran everything over there. He didn’t know what her policy on late entry was. Biddy continued to watch Laura as he poured back the excess wine and water, her attention wandering through the thicket of chalices and covering linens as the adults spoke.

“Sin,” Sister Theresa said. It was first period Monday morning and Biddy was still looking at Laura, hovering quiet and serious beyond his catechism book.

“You’re getting to be young adults,” Sister said. “I’ve told you this before. Too big to be just memorizing catechism. ‘Who is God?’ ‘God is good’: you should be expected to do more than that now. You’re old enough, you’ve been old enough, to start to take responsibility for your Christian lives. And that responsibility means having to deal with sin. Laura.” Laura flushed, looking down. “What is sin?”

“Sin?” Laura said.

“Sin.”

“Thirty-four,” Biddy whispered, but her eyes remained away from the book.

“No coaching, Mr. Siebert.”

“Sin is …” She waited, and Sister waited with her, more tolerant with new students. “Sin is doing something wrong.”

“Is that all? Biddy?”

“Sin is knowingly doing something wrong?” Biddy said.

Sister sat back, for some reason unhappy with the answer. “Well, let’s take an example. Let’s say Teddy there broke his arm hitting his brother.”

“I broke it before then.”

“This is just an example.”

“And it’s my wrist.”

“Teddy. Would you like to stay after and go over all the blackboards? Keir. Suppose Teddy hit his brother and broke his own arm. Is that a sin?”

“Breaking his arm?”

“No, hitting his — Jimmy.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a sin?”

“Yes.”

“Why.”

“Because — you shouldn’t hit your brother.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll get in trouble.”

“Wrong.” Sister pounded the desk and everyone jumped. “Why is that wrong? Come on, let’s start to do some thinking here.” Laura looked over at Biddy, and he smiled.

“Jimmy. Suppose no one was around and you knew you wouldn’t get caught.”

“It’d still be wrong.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because — you shouldn’t hit your fellow man.”

A few students snickered, and Sister sighed. “What about Jesus?” she said. “What does he have to do with all of this?”

“He’s in all of us,” Jimmy offered.

“So if we hit someone it’s like we’re hitting Jesus,” Keir said.

“That’s right.” Sister stood to emphasize the point. “Isn’t sin — any sin — always an offense against yourself and against someone else? So isn’t it always an offense against Jesus?”

Various students looked agreeable. No one spoke.

“This class is going to make progress,” Sister said. “In 1989.”

“Do you know Mr. Ransey?” Biddy asked. He and his father were sitting high up in the cheap seats at Shea Stadium, in the wind. They were freezing. The Jets were playing the Saints. They were Minnesota Viking fans.

“Who?” his father said, rubbing his thigh.

“Mr. Ransey. He lives on Spruce Street.”

“No. Should I?”

“No.”

In the distance the Jets ran wide and fumbled. The Saints leaped up and down, pointing downfield to indicate the change of possession.

“Can I get a gun?” Biddy said.

“A what?” His father looked at him.

“You know. A BB gun.”

“You don’t need a gun.” He returned his attention to the game.

“I was thinking about getting one.”

“Forget it. What’re you, Daniel Boone?” They fell silent, watching the Saints struggle upfield. “I take you to see a football game, and all you can think about is guns?”

The wind whipped through the Sunday crowd, lifting pieces of wrappers and program pages. Biddy had a scarf bundled loosely around his neck and he buried his chin in it. His hand played with the ticket stub deep in his jacket pocket.

The Jets’ green was not interesting or colorful against the turf, and the black-and-gold Saints looked dirty and tired. Much of the glamour of professional football seemed drained away in the lights reflecting yellow off the dirt and the flat dinginess of the players’ uniforms. It was late Sunday and they had driven over an hour for an interconference game between the New York Jets and the New Orleans Saints, and they shifted and huddled in their seats in the wind, watching the incoming jets cut through the growing darkness toward La Guardia.

The next Saturday, they sat inches from the bench straining to see over the heads of the players and coaches on the sidelines, watching the Stratford High North Paraders play Fairfield Prep, paying particular attention to senior defensive end Louis Liriano of the North Paraders, the first slightly retarded defensive end in Stratford’s history, as far as anyone knew. They sat next to Dom. Mickey, Ginnie, and Cindy were coming along later.

The solid red helmets bobbed in an extended line before him, and he could pick out Louis’s above the rest as the defense prepared to go back in.

“All right, let’s stuff ’em here,” Dom called.

Fairfield Prep wore black: simple, villainous, no frills. They were Stratford’s main league rivals. Both teams were undefeated.

This was one of Stratford’s best years ever, Dom was claiming as he watched the defense stream onto the field. No matter what happened, whether they won the MBIAC or not.

Louis wore number 89 and a full cage face mask. On the first play, he pressured Prep’s quarterback and forced him to throw the ball away, and Dom worried aloud that his son wasn’t mean enough, that he was holding back when hitting people.

“That’s all you need. Louis to grow up like Jack Tatum,” Biddy’s father said.

Dom shrugged. “It sounds awful, but that’s the way the game is played. Give him a shot now and maybe the next time instead of thinking about coverages he’s thinking about you. Or maybe he throws it a little sooner than he should.”

They watched the Prep fullback trundle around the end for eighteen or twenty yards.

“He still gets fooled on those traps,” Dom said. The officials moved the chains.

“The All-MBIAC team comes out this week, after the Milford game,” Dom said, unzipping his jacket. The flap of one side was restless in the wind. “A lot depends on how he does here and against Milford. Most of the tube steaks who vote only pay attention to the big games.”

Biddy’s father mentioned that it was too bad. Dom brought up the Bullard-Havens game as an example, likening it to watching men against boys.

On the next snap, Louis got good penetration, sweeping around his man, but the play went the other way.

“He always loved football,” Dom said. “I always said I’m not going to pressure this kid into anything. He wants to play, he’ll play. Anyway, how could you pressure him?” Biddy’s father smiled.

“He never quits. He’s just a hell of a good kid.” The three of them raised their hands to their mouths to warm them, a shortened chorus line. “Imagine if he makes All-MBIAC?”

Prep scored, the halfback leaping into the tangle of bodies at the goal line.

“Hey, Dom,” a fat man said across the aisle. “What’s wrong with Louis today? They’re goin’ right over him.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Dom said. “What game you watching?”

The first quarter ended with Prep ahead 7–0 and threatening again. Ginnie and Cindy threaded their way down the aisle. “What’d we miss? Anything?” Ginnie said.

Dom looked over the field sourly. “Where’s Mickey?”

“He’s coming. He’s getting some ice cream. We miss anything?”

“Not a goddamned thing.”

Cindy turned to Biddy. “We behind?”

He nodded. “Seven nothing.”

“Oh, that’s not too bad. Dad, you make it sound like it’s fifty-seven to seven.”

“Yeah, I’m terrible. Seven looks like a lot to me right now.”

“We’ll get it back.”

“I just hope he doesn’t get hurt,” Ginnie said.

“What else is new?” Dom said. “Come on, defense.” Prep continued to drive, and he sat down. “He’s not stopping the sweep on his side,” he said to no one in particular. “They’re moving him out and going right over him.”

“They’re running on the whole side, not just Louis,” Biddy’s father said.

“Bullshit. He’s the defensive end on that side. And right now he’s invisible out there.”

“He’ll adjust,” Cindy said. “They’ll adjust.”

“Yeah. Well one more touchdown and we won’t have to worry about it.”

Prep set up near the Stratford goal line. “You gotta get the uniform dirty,” Dom said. “They have to be more aggressive. He has to be more aggressive. He’s gotta start throwing himself at people out there.” He looked around. “Where the hell is Mickey? I thought he was just getting an ice cream.”

“He was,” Ginnie said. “Maybe he found some friends.”

“Come on, Louis!” Cindy yelled. Louis waved. Prep, all in black, came out of their huddle. Biddy craned his neck to see, felt himself digging in with Louis, mentally trying to push Prep back.

At the snap the defense rose up on Louis’s side and threw back the sweep and the crowd roared and shook the bleachers. A second-down pass failed, and on the third down the runner was chased out of bounds.

“Hit ’em again! Hit ’em again! Harder! Harder!” the bleachers began to chant, Biddy’s row picking it up. The chant had been growing in strength with each successive down, and he began to feel a part of that unity of spectators and players that was halting and mastering Fairfield Prep, and he shouted, “Defense, defense,” with the others, the air cool on his throat and their voices mixing and filling the air above the red line of defenders on the field. They leaped together, Cindy hugging him and Dom hugging them both when the red of the North Paraders overwhelmed Prep, the fullback slipping and stumbling on fourth down under a wave of bodies with houses and telephone wires rising beyond them, in the second quarter of an MBIAC high-school football game in Stratford, Connecticut.

The next Monday, he played kids from Bridgeport on the bluffs near the beach. Ronnie Pierce was the only spectator, having pulled his car onto the grass to watch. The game was rough and quickly grew mean; no one knew anyone on the opposite side or intended to lose under those circumstances. Mickey had the sweat shirt torn from his back; a kid from Bridgeport had his nose bloodied. They decided to call a halftime at five touchdowns, and when they did Bridgeport was ahead five to two.

Ronnie left his car and walked over. “Bad guys look tough today,” he said.

“That one kid’s fast,” Biddy panted.

“Those sweeps’re killing you, all right. That was some shot you took at the end there.”

“I’m okay.”

Ronnie sat and zipped up his jacket, and Biddy took off a sneaker and began to relace it. The wind was cold on his sweaty foot.

“You guys are gonna have to force that play.”

Biddy nodded. Ronnie retied his sneaker as well, a mirror image. “How come you’re not working today?” Biddy said. He had the uneasy feeling that Ronnie knew him very well and lacked the interest to pursue any insight he might possess further.

“I took the day off. Spring fever.”

“Now?”

Ronnie shrugged. “Fall fever.” He grinned, and Biddy grinned back.

“Where’s Cindy?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know. Work, right?”

Biddy kept lacing. “You have to do a lot of stuff to get ready for the wedding?”

Ronnie sucked at a tooth with his tongue. “A lot of stuff has to be done. Doesn’t mean I have to do it.”

“You’re not going to help?”

“Hey, you know how long it took just to find a hall? Three weeks. Three weeks for the hall. You’re talking about serious hours here when you put everything together.”

Someone from Bridgeport punted the ball off the side of his foot into the thickets and dune grass below the bluffs.

“Do you think about getting married a lot?” Biddy asked.

“On and off,” Ronnie said. “Not much.”

They gazed out over the water beyond the bluffs, gray and whitecapped. The wind was running parallel to the shore. He had the nagging sense of being like Ronnie in some fundamental, elusive way.

“Your mother says I don’t think about it enough.”

“My mother?”

“We had a talk about it one day. I think the worry is I’m not good enough. Or I’m not going to treat Cindy good enough.”

Biddy looked at the grass guiltily.

“And she worries about other things,” Ronnie said.

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s all grown-up stuff. You wouldn’t be interested.”

“About Cindy?”

“No, other things. Your mother worries I don’t grapple with the larger problems,” he said. “I think Ginnie and Dom do, too.” He smiled. The Bridgeport kid struggled back up the steep side of the bluffs with the ball. “I told her I don’t grapple with anything I can’t take the top off of.” Biddy stood as the teams reformed. Ronnie smiled, and seemed younger to him suddenly. “That didn’t go over so big. Anyway, go get ’em. And don’t let that kid turn the corner on you.”

But they couldn’t stop the kid outside and still adequately cover the middle. They continued to get pounded. He was acutely aware of Ronnie. He fumbled. He was run over and faked to his knees. He fumbled again the next time he touched the ball, and, outraged at his performance, he raced up and threw himself at the blockers and runner on the first play afterward.

“Take it easy,” Ronnie called. “This isn’t the Super Bowl.”

On the next play, he threw himself forward again, driving in low and turning away from the oncoming legs that kicked and trampled. Two or three people went down, but not the runner, who leaped the tangle and kept going.

“Too aggressive,” Ronnie called. “Keep your head up. Don’t commit yourself too soon.”

“Who is that guy?” one of the Bridgeport kids said. “You got your own coach?”

Some kids laughed and he hunched over, bruised, panting, waiting for the snap. He couldn’t stop this kid, they were playing up to 10, the score was already 7–2.

They were on the road at night, jostling back and forth with the bumps, coming home from visiting. His mother’s sister lived in Norwich and the ride was not a short one. They went rarely because of it. He was slumped against his mother in the front seat, gazing into the darkness as they descended from the highway exit to the lonely road through the meadows and flooded salt marsh that connected Lordship to Bridgeport. Officially it was Lordship Boulevard, a two-and-a-half-mile blacktop outlined in low wooden guardrails which meandered through the swamp, skirting bays and tidal wetlands. Biddy’s father called it the Burma Road.

Kristi was taking up the entire back seat; she’d been sick the last few days and it was hoped she’d sleep on the way home. His father was driving badly. His mother was angry.

There were no lights on the road; the darkness was complete except for the tiny points of the houses ahead and the multicolored lights of the airport to the left. On the curves the car’s headlights flashed stands of cattails fading from yellow to deep brown in the glare, and white speed-limit signs surfaced from the black and swept by.

Curves were handled loosely, gradual turns corrected by jerks that made his shoulders quiver. His mother, looking out her window toward the sea, finally said something sharp and his father seemed to settle down.

His father had been angry since late afternoon; when they had been leaving Lordship, he had said, “Get in, get in, get in,” holding the car door open. “Your mother isn’t happy unless we’re on the move.” To which his mother had replied, “Your father isn’t happy unless he’s sitting on his ass.”

They continued around curves in the dark, Lordship’s lights growing larger. The grace of the movement of lights across the windshield gave him the pleasant sensation of being part of a dance.

“Just what makes that little old ant,” his father sang in a soft voice. “Think’ll he’ll move that rubber tree plant.”

His mother sighed.

“Anyone knows an ant, can’t, move a rubber tree plant. But he’s got — high hopes.” He patted Biddy’s thigh in time to his singing. “He’s got — high hopes.”

“Kristi’s sleeping,” his mother said.

His father’s voice dropped in volume. “He’s got high apple pie in the sky hopes. So any time you’re gettin’ low, ’stead of lettin’ go, just remember that ant: whoops, there goes another rubber tree plant, there goes another rubber tree plant.” His voice trailed off.

“Wanna take the wheel?” he finally said, and Biddy looked at him closely and realized with a start that he might be drunk. He looked hot and lazy. His hat was perfectly straight and there were beads of sweat under his sideburns. He was leaning back against the seat and had one finger hooked over the bottom of the steering wheel.

“Walt.”

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon, take the wheel. Don’t reach over. Get on my lap.” Biddy had never touched the wheel of their car while it was moving and had never wanted to, but he climbed onto his father’s lap.

“Walt.”

“Got it?”

“Walt. Biddy, leave the wheel alone.”

“I’m lettin’ go,” his father said.

The car sailed in a sickening diagonal across the road before big hands around his righted the wheel with a jerk. “Take it,” his father said.

He held on, feeling awesomely responsible for all of this, wanting his father to take the wheel back. In the distance he saw lights turn onto the road.

“Dad. There’s a car coming.”

“You’re fine.”

“Dad.”

“Walt.”

“You’re all right.”

The car came on them quickly and he seemed too far to the right, too close to the wood and cable of the guardrails, and he tried to compensate and the lights blinded him, his mother’s cry filling the car, and she grabbed the wheel just as his father did, and suddenly they were jerking to a stop, his father laughing, his mother leaning across him, her hands still on the wheel.

“You asshole,” she hissed, and he could see the dashboard light in her eyes, reflecting in small points off her lipstick.

That night in bed at Three Rivers Stadium he came out of a huddle next to Bobby Bryant and Matt Blair, turning to face the Pittsburgh Steelers. Strip the interference, Blair told him as he drifted into position. If they come wide to your side, you’re gonna have to strip the interference. Don’t think you can stop the sweep by just waving at them as they go by. The crowd noise resounded on the artificial turf, and TV cameramen hustled along the sidelines. He waited, opposite John Stallworth. The Steelers were in deep black and yellow, and the lights reflected in bright white circles off the gloss of Stallworth’s helmet. It was a Monday night in Three Rivers Stadium with the whole world watching, and he was trying desperately to hold up his end of the Minnesota Viking defense. The white horns of his teammates’ helmets angled in unison as they bobbed close to the line of scrimmage, waiting. Bradshaw was shouting signals over the crowd noise.

At the snap there was an explosion of speed and power and he watched the play develop for too long, picking up Stallworth only as the Steeler receiver lashed into him, driving him onto his back so that his helmet bounced on the artificial turf and the condenser microphones on the sidelines could pick it up. He was aware of his father somewhere in the crowd.

Blair stood over him, eyes looming out of the white cage and purple helmet. Man, you’re gonna have to deal with that, he said. Stallworth’s gonna be comin’ at you and you just gotta beat him to the guard or whoever’s leading the play. He pulled, lifting Biddy off the cold artificial surface, and in the defensive huddle Biddy felt as he had in the Oriole dugout: he wasn’t doing the job and they were going to get rid of him. Or worse, as he left the huddle and hunched opposite Stallworth once more: he was letting everyone down until they did.

While he diagnosed the next play, Stallworth moved like light and drove his shoulder and helmet into Biddy’s thigh, pinwheeling him around and knocking him out of the runner’s path. He lay on his side, arm pinned at an odd angle, watching Franco Harris score.

Oh, man, Blair said from behind him. You are just not willing to do what it takes, are you?

Every day for a week he sat next to Laura at recess. She sat alone during the free time the nuns allowed after organized games.

Her father was a doctor and she used to live in Toledo, Ohio. She didn’t like Connecticut so far, but they were going to visit Mystic soon, her father said.

“You know what’s at Mystic?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Boats?”

They sat under a smallish tree at the edge of the playground. She raised the plaid of her skirt and nudged a beetle off her thigh. “The nuns are nicer here,” she said, watching Sister Theresa.

“Some are nice,” he said.

“They don’t hit you so much.”

Kristi flopped down next to them. “It’s hot out there,” she announced. “You guys got all the shade.” She studied a kickball game across the yard before turning to Laura and squinting. “Who’re you?”

“This is Laura,” Biddy said.

Kristi peered at her. “Do you have a sister in the first grade?”

“No.” Laura said.

“Are you an orphan?”

Laura looked up, wide-eyed. “No.”

“Look like an orphan.”

“Kristi,” Biddy warned.

“You’re not very nice,” Laura said.

“Well, you’re an assface.”

“Kristi get out of here,” he said. “Go sit under your own tree.”

She stood and left. “Assface,” she called over her shoulder.

Laura squinted after her.

“My sister’s creepy sometimes,” he said. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She started to cry. She said, “I don’t know anyone here.”

“It’s okay,” he said meaninglessly, surprised. “You know me. You’ll know other people.” She stared moodily at the tree, a lone hair lifting from her head in the breeze. “I don’t know many people either,” he offered. “And I’ve been here my whole life.”

She didn’t cheer up. He looked off in the direction she was looking.

Sister Theresa was approaching, gesturing for them to assemble with the others. She had a small oval of blood inside her nose, dark in the shadow of her nostril.

“What happened to Sister?” Laura breathed as Sister came closer.

“Probably picked it too hard,” he said, and she laughed, startling him. Sister stopped, equally surprised, and dabbed her nose with a handkerchief and noticed the blood. She looked up at them and walked over. She waited.

“My bloody nose is funny, Laura?” she said. “Is it funny?”

They didn’t speak.

“That’s very nice. You see someone bleeding and you laugh.” She paused. “I think you should stay after with me today, young lady.”

“No,” he said. “That’s not fair. She wasn’t laughing at you. She was laughing at something I said.”

“Oh?” Sister held the handkerchief back up to her nose. “And what was that, Jack Benny?”

He looked away, sullen.

“What’d you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Was it that terrible?” She dabbed again. “You might as well tell me. You’re staying after as well.” She gestured toward the school. “You’ve held up the whole recess line now. Not brave enough to tell me?”

“I said you must have picked it too hard,” he said.

She slapped him across the face.

Laura drew in her breath sharply, and his eyes filled with water. Sister stood them both up and followed them back to the recess line.

They stayed in separate rooms after school and Laura was released a half hour before he was. He wasn’t allowed to leave his seat. He spent some time in Three Rivers Stadium but couldn’t find the will to stay and was beginning to derive less from it in any event.

On his way home he thought, I could write a note.

Dear Mom and Dad.

I’m all right. It’s real nice here and everybody’s nice to me. I’m learning how to do all sorts of things. I found a new dog and he’s really good. I’m eating a lot. I’m sorry I left. Today we went for a hike and saw farms and mountains. Today we went swimming. Today we went skiing.

Where was he going to go, he thought. How was he going to go anywhere? He didn’t know where to go, didn’t have any money, and didn’t know anyone. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go.

I don’t know anything, he thought, and threw his lunch box into his yard as he came down the street.

“Kristi,” he called up the stairs as he climbed. “Don’t do that again.” The bannister slipped and whistled under his palm.

“What are you fighting about?” his mother called. “Stop it.”

He called her again, and went into her bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

“Shh,” she said.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m watchin’ Mr. Fraser back the car out.”

He went to the window. “What for?”

“He’s runnin’ over his rake.”

“His rake? Where?”

“There.” She pointed at the long, thin-handled rake, prongs up, lying in the driveway.

“Why don’t you tell him?”

She looked at him. “I want to see if he sees it.”

They both watched, charmed into silence as Mr. Fraser edged the car out slowly, looking farther down the driveway. The bumper crept nearer so incrementally that the scene began to resemble something from an inept thriller. The prongs disappeared under the car’s shadow.

Fraser stopped and got out of the car, checking behind it, and pulled the rake out of the way.

Kristi turned from the window. “I’m thirsty.”

“Kristi, don’t act like that with Laura anymore.”

“You like her.”

He stared at her. “What do you care?”

“I don’t have to like her just because you do.”

“You don’t have to like her. Just don’t be mean to her. Don’t be so mean to anyone.”

She sat on the bed, bored. “Can we get a cat since Lady’s dead?” she said.

“Shut up.” He looked at her blue eyes, her nose. “We don’t need a cat. And you’d just treat it awful anyway.”

“Well I wouldn’t kill it.”

They could hear noises outside. She rummaged in a drawer for a sweater, seemingly realizing she might have gone too far.

“Why are you so mean to everybody?” he asked, in almost a whisper. He very much wanted to know.

“I’m not. Leave me alone.” She found a bright red sweater and pulled it over her hair.

He felt sad, beaten in some way. He said, “Put on a jacket if you’re going out.” I sound like them, he thought.

“Leave me alone.” She went to the stairs. “And get outta my room.”

“He’s always in my room,” he heard her complain to his mother as she passed through the kitchen.

On the stairs later that evening, he heard his father and mother discussing him. “Well, we gotta do something,” his father said.

He couldn’t hear his mother’s response.

“Well, Jesus Christ, he walks around with his face down to here. Everything is ‘I don’t care’ or ‘I don’t feel like it,’ and he’s got no interest in anything anymore. Now all I have to hear is that his grades are suffering.”

His mother said something.

“Well, I got Al Greaves looking for me, for a dog. Something small, you know, and it won’t cost us anything, and I’ll make sure it’s not something that’s gonna take your hand off.”

“You think it’s that simple?” His mother was closer now.

“What do you want me to do? Hire a psychiatrist? Bring in a team from Yale?”

“He’s unhappy about more than the dog and you know it.”

“Well, let’s start small, all right? We’ll surprise him with the dog, and if he ends up strangling it then we’ll know what our next move should be.”

Dishes collided and rattled.

“Look, I’m not saying—” His father moved away, fading out under the clatter.

He thought for a while about a dog. The image of Lady as a puppy returned to him. “Lady the second,” he said, standing and turning in to his bedroom. “I’ll probably kill her, too.”

The Lirianos came over. He avoided Mickey and went outside and sat next to Louis, who was sitting alone at the redwood table as though it were summer.

“Button your jacket, Louis,” he suggested.

“Thanks.” He buttoned his jacket. His voice always seemed to have an odd extra bit of volume.

“That was a great game last week,” Biddy said.

“Thanks.”

“Now all you gotta do is beat Milford.”

“Uh-huh.”

A leaf fell directly between them, resting on curved points on the table. “How come you’re out here?”

Louis shrugged. “I’m tired. Came from practice.” He pulled up some grass and twiddled it between his fingers. Biddy felt sadder than ever.

“You know,” Louis said, startling him, “we hate Prep.” There was a silence, and Biddy waited for him to continue. “They do terrible things. Last year in pileups they were pulling the hairs out of my legs.”

Biddy sat forward. “The hairs out of your legs?”

He nodded sadly. “You couldn’t see who was doing it, and everyone on top would hold you down.” There was an odd, rumbling sound from the airport. “It used to hurt,” he added.

“I believe it,” Biddy said.

“Darien was mean, too. They used to come in three buses. It was like an army, Coach said.”

“How were they mean?”

He shook his head vaguely. The tree branches above him moved in the wind, clacking like dice in a cup.

“How have you been, Louis?” he asked after a while.

“I’m okay. I hurt my hand in the game.” He looked at his hand.

“No, I mean have you been happy and stuff?”

“Yeah. I been happy.” He sounded flat.

“You sound blah.”

He nodded, undisturbed. “People say that.”

Biddy leaned forward. “Louis, do you ever see yourself doing other things? Playing in other games? Like pro football?”

“Oh, I’m not good enough for pro football.”

“No, I mean imagine — like pretend you’re in a game. Or dream?”

“Sometimes I have dreams.”

Biddy slumped back.

“Is that what you mean?”

“No, not really.” A private plane droned by, banking around to its approach pattern. “What’s your favorite team?”

“Football?” Louis said. “Browns.”

“Okay, do you ever, like imagine you’re playing with the Browns?”

Louis looked at him strangely. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” Biddy said, discouraged. “I thought you might.”

“You should button your jacket,” Louis said, scolding.

Biddy nodded, feeling the cold. “I know,” he said. “Thanks.”

Laura wasn’t in school the next day. He sat under the tree anyway, by himself. Sister Theresa walked over and sat next to him.

“Going to play today?” she asked.

“No.”

Across the yard, the ball was kicked back and forth.

“I’m noticing a real change in attitude with you, Biddy,” she said. “What do you think?” She looked at him. “Feel any different?” She returned her attention to the game, her profile sharp and striking. “Like what happened yesterday. That surprised me. I wouldn’t’ve expected it of you. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that, but even so. Is anything bothering you you’d like to talk about?”

“No,” he said.

“You could talk to Father if you’d be more comfortable.”

“No.”

“What about your grades?”

He gazed at the grass.

“They’re not what anyone expects of you. You’re just getting by this year. And letting a lot of people down. A lot of it is carelessness. As you know.”

He rubbed a hand on his shoe.

“Is the work too hard? It’s not too hard for Janet. It’s not too hard for Sarah Alice. Laura was just dropped into a strange situation and she’s doing fine. Do you think you’re going to get honors every year for slapdash work?” She waited. “What are your parents going to say after this report card?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“You don’t know. You should know. Should I arrange a meeting with them? Do we need a meeting with them?”

“No.”

“Straighten up, Biddy. You’re a bright boy and you stay out of trouble. You’ve got a good future ahead if you work at it.” She stood, checking the back of her habit for grass. “I’m still assuming you’ll represent Our Lady of Peace in the spelling bee. With Sarah Alice and Janet.”

He nodded.

“It’s an honor, by the way,” she called back over her shoulder. “Let’s go. We’re going in now.” She gestured at the line of boys and girls in plaid and gray, fidgeting and jostling one another under the cool overcast sky.

He took the pitch and sprinted wide, turning, twisting, darting, ripping away from people, making grunting, desperate noises in the exertion. He was upended finally and fumbled, landing on his shoulder. Someone tore his sleeve off.

Bridgeport had returned for a rematch, and Biddy and the rest of Lordship were now back on defense.

The fast kid was back, as well. He was wearing a shirt that said HELLO on the front. When he’d arrived Teddy had asked “What does that mean?” And he’d turned around to reveal a GOODBYE on the back.

“Give it to me wide,” the fast kid said audibly in the huddle. “These kids suck.”

They threw themselves at him when he took the pitch; threw themselves, arms and legs splayed out, hoping to hurt him, hoping to stop him, hoping at least to force him out of bounds. In the confusion and tangle of bodies they did.

“Asshole,” he said, to no one in particular.

The next time, he drove into them and kept going; the time after, he went around.

Teddy stood up, brown grass hanging from his ear. “We’re gonna stop that kid and that play if it takes all night,” he said.

Biddy sat panting on the ground, legs out, nearly heaving. He’d been kicked in the chest.

Blair knelt over him. C’mon, man, he said. Let’s go.

He looked up in wonder at the black face under the brilliant purple helmet. The lights around the stadium were utterly dazzling and he was blinded if he took his eyes from him.

You can’t sit here, Blair said. There’s a football game goin’ on.

And Biddy slowly got off the artificial surface, checking himself, straightening his face mask, shifting a pad. His hands were taped. He had purple wristbands. Brilliant purple and yellow stripes ran down the outsides of his thighs. His ears filled with people roaring his name, and the names of his teammates.

Let’s go, Blair said, hustling back to his position, and the snap caught him unprepared as Stallworth came after him, and he fought him off and caught a glimpse of Franco Harris surging toward him, and he shucked Stallworth to see Harris’s onrushing helmet lowering, his eyes closing and his face screwing up in anticipation of the impact, and Biddy drove into him and hung on, the fast kid jarring backward and twisting to get free, Teddy leaping on as the kid spun and fell.

“Your nose is bleeding,” the kid said as he lined up and then went into his stance as Franco Harris, roaring forward toward Biddy like a black-and-yellow refrigerator coming down a flight of stairs, and Biddy cut and ducked in toward his knees, lowering a shoulder, and was knocked out of the way. He chased and dived, leaped and grabbed, sprinted and dug in, and sprawled, and when it was over he was left in the dried grass in the middle of the bluffs, holding his arm, staring into the gloom, grass in his hair, dried blood on his face, one sleeve missing, and both the fast kid and Franco Harris gone.

“You know, you really are crazy,” Teddy said, hunched next to him. “You know that?”

“I know it,” Biddy said. “Now all I gotta do is do something about it.”

Punting

Biddy is a wonderful boy. Kristi has her moments, too. I’m not going to pretend we’ve had nothing but trouble from them, because we haven’t. I’m not trying to make us into martyrs. God knows we don’t qualify. It’s just that most of the time people seem to wonder what I’m worrying about. What’s wrong with Judy? Why can’t she leave well enough alone?

What am I supposed to tell them? How long do you have to be around Biddy to know there’s something wrong, there’s something he’s keeping inside of him? How long can you ignore what Kristi does or write her off as still too young to know what she’s doing?

My husband doesn’t agree. We’re fine, the kids are fine, and we don’t need to talk to anybody about anybody. It’s not surprising, really: if we don’t talk to each other, why should he be willing to talk to strangers?

Whether it’s the kids’ behavior or a new addition, I’m always pushing, he says. Always after something. Never satisfied. He says the kids learned how to sulk watching me. And what seems so awful, especially when I know the kids are hurting and we’re not helping them, is that every so often I think he may be right.

“My story’s called ‘The Girl Who Interrups,’” Kristi said. “You wanta hear it?”

Biddy looked from the TV to the rain outside. “Sure.”

“You can’t and watch TV at the same time.”

“Yes, I can. Go ahead.”

Kristi turned on the overhead light. “‘In my class I have a girl named Interruping Libby. She always interrups reading groups.’”

“How did you spell ‘interrupts’?”

“I-n-t-e-r-r-u-p-s.”

“That’s wrong. There’s a ‘t’ at the end, too: p-t-s.”

“‘Sometimes she even interrupts our silent period. I really do not like her. When my teacher is talking she says I want to talk to you so talk to me and not to her. Interrupting Libby always interrupts. People do not do that to her. My mother got fed up with her and sent my father to see her. He said she better stop that people are going to start hitting her in the mouth. So she didn’t interrupt anymore.’”

“You made that last part up,” he said.

“You like it?”

“It’s better than your other one.”

“I like it.”

The back door opened. “From the beat, beat, beat, of the tomtoms,” his father sang. Biddy and Kristi went into the kitchen. Their father was dripping with rain, setting packages along the counter in a row.

“Did a little shopping,” he said. “Got a little liquor, got a little mixer, got some rolls. You want a sandwich?”

Biddy said no and Kristi returned to the TV.

“Oh, and got a little this.” He handed a package to Biddy, who felt immediately the heft and shape of a big book.

“What is it?” he said.

His father shrugged. “Have to open it.”

He tore at the wrapping, and underneath it said in big red letters The Lore of Flight.

“God,” he said. “How’d you know I wanted it?”

“Well, you asked me questions about Bill Carver’s plane until I thought I’d drop. This’s got all that stuff in there.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Never mind where I got it.” He opened it. “See? It’s got ‘Flying a Small Aircraft,’ ‘A Typical Flight,’ a section on weapons. … It’s interesting stuff.”

Biddy closed it.

“It’s a good book,” his father said. “It’s not cheap.”

“I didn’t think so.”

His father smiled and went into the bedroom to hang up his jacket.

“What’re you doing home?” Biddy called.

“I just took off a little early. I’ll work on the cellar. You guys turned it into a real shithouse.”

“What’d you get me?” Kristi called from the den.

“Oh, Jesus.” His father came out of the bedroom and started down the cellar stairs.

“Biddy gets everything.”

“It was a book sale,” he called, his voice ringing hollow under the floor. “You want a book? You don’t read the ones you got now.”

“I want a cat,” she said.

“We’re not getting a cat.” There was the scraping sound of boxes being moved across concrete. “We can’t even take care of ourselves.”

Biddy went into the den. His sister put both feet under a hassock from her perch on a chair and kicked upward violently, flipping it across the room and off the wall.

“Jesus Christ!” his father yelled from below. “What’re you doing now?”

No one said anything. There was an angry white mark on the paneling where the leg of the hassock had hit.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Kristi called. “The hassock fell over.” She looked back at the TV. “It falls over all the time.”

Ronnie and Cindy sat opposite each other at the Lirianos’ kitchen table. There was a fruit dish with three pears between them. Biddy was waiting for Mickey, who couldn’t find his shoes. Ronnie was drinking anisette.

“How about this,” Ronnie said. “‘Fair trial? Whaddaya mean, fair trial? If I get a fair trial, I’m dead. What I need is an unfair trial.’”

“Oh,” Cindy said. “I know it’s George Raft, but I don’t know which movie.”

Ronnie swirled his anisette. It left a clear film on the glass.

“I don’t know,” she finally said.

“That’s two in a row. Go ahead.”

“Well, what movie was it from?”

He wouldn’t tell her. “All right,” she said. “‘Dignity. Always dignity.’”

“Gene Kelly. Singin’ in the Rain.”

She made a face.

“‘When you side with a man, you stick with him. Otherwise you’re no better than some animal.’”

She played with a spoon. “I should know this,” she said.

“You should. William Holden in The Wild Bunch.”

“How do you play this?” Biddy asked.

“Badly.” Cindy swept some hair behind her ear.

“We’re trying to stump each other a certain amount of times,” Ronnie said.

“‘She just goes a little mad sometimes. We all go a little mad sometimes,’” Cindy said. “‘Haven’t you?’”

Biddy lifted a salt shaker. “Who said that?” he asked.

“Poor Norman.” Ronnie sat forward. “Anthony Perkins in Psycho.”

“Rats,” Cindy said.

“Might as well run up the white flag,” Ronnie suggested. “I think you’re in over your head here.”

“Over my head. Listen to this nine-inch worm.”

“Nine-inch worm?” Biddy said.

“It’s a joke,” Ronnie said. “A filthy joke, I might add. Ms. Liriano here apparently designed and built the sewers of Paris.”

Biddy sat back, lost.

“What do you think, Biddy?” she said. “Why am I marrying this yim-yam? Do I have a soft spot in my heart for strays?”

“The soft spot’s in your head,” Ronnie said.

“Our first fight,” she said. She leaned closer to Biddy, conspiratorial. “Isn’t he a homely sucker, Biddy? Look at the face. Looks like a fist with eyes.”

Ronnie laughed.

“You’d better watch yourself,” she said. “I might come to my senses.”

“I’m worried,” he said. He picked at a tooth. “Start something on the side with Biddy here.”

Biddy shifted his weight in the chair, wondering where Mickey could possibly be. He said he’d see what was keeping him, and got out of the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time.

Mickey was rummaging through his toy box.

“Are you coming out?” Biddy said.

“I don’t feel like it.” He didn’t look up.

“Why not?”

“I don’t feel like it.” He looked at him. “Who asked you to come over anyway? Why don’t you go home or move away or something?” Biddy stood flatfooted, stunned. Mickey threw another toy in the box. “Jerk.”

Page 279 of The Lore of Flight, “Flying a Small Aircraft”:

In these days of swing-wing supersonics, jumbo jets and airline passengers by the millions, it is not generally realized that the great majority of aircraft are small and simple machines. For example, there are over 100,000 privately owned small aeroplanes in the United States, where they outnumber airliners about a hundred to one.

He was taken back to the day he and Louis were caught by the yellow jeep near the runway: they had crept to the very edge of the reeds, lying on their bellies, the crushed straw warmer than the ground underneath, and had watched the private planes turn and wait for clearance, running the engines up, before accelerating down the tarmac away from them and lifting free into the air in the distance.

They watched five aircraft go off like that in succession, plane after plane revving, vibrating, gathering power, it seemed, before the final release. Each one in succession turning to show its colors, broad stripes of red and blue and green, each one spellbinding him in turn, seducing him further from the reeds, blinding him until too late to the approach of the yellow security jeep in the periphery of his vision.

He compared The Lore of Flight to an old Cessna manual Mr. Carver had given him after the flight to East Hampton. He reread “Flying a Small Aircraft,” comprehending bit by bit throttles, rudder bars, angles of attack, trim, and drag. He read about the tendency to yaw, and about stalling. He studied the Cessna specifications and the preflight checklist, reproduced in full. At the end of the chapter, in a red Magic Marker box, he outlined and highlighted:

Most of the time, the task of flying a light aeroplane is easier than driving a car, less strenuous than riding a horse, and requires less skill than fishing for trout.

And a final sentence, next to which he soberly drew a thick, double line:

It does, however, require constant alertness, and any lapses of concentration can be serious.

He sat alone watching Louis and some other members of the team horse around in the wide, empty practice field. He’d come to watch the practice and had stayed despite learning it had been canceled, unhappy with the idea of returning so soon after arriving. He had come on the bus, and had sat next to a black couple who had argued all the way out. The woman had been holding the man’s cassette deck while he tucked in his shirt, and he’d said, “Shit, you ain’t nothing but a nickel-diving bitch anyway,” and she’d hit him so hard with the cassette deck that the batteries had fallen out. The image and sudden violence had stayed in his head and he considered it from his perch on the dark green bleachers.

While most of the team had left, some had stayed around, waiting for rides and making fun of each other’s girlfriends. They started a pickup game of touch out of boredom and moved away from where he was sitting, but he didn’t follow, content to watch from where he was. An odd boy about his age, his hair sticking out at spiky angles, came up and sat near him.

In the game across the field, Louis tumbled backward over a pileup with his legs spread, someone else landing on top of him. When he got up, something shook between his legs and Biddy leaned forward.

“That kid’s pecker is hangin’ out,” the boy next to him said.

Louis had split his pants up the leg and was wearing nothing underneath.

No one he was playing with told him. The game continued. Whenever he ran it hung out, jiggling around. Tacklers made an elaborate display of getting out of the way.

Finally, with everyone stricken with laughter, someone pointed it out to Louis, who looked down and clapped both hands over his crotch, causing the laughter to intensify. They followed him to the bleachers and sat below Biddy.

“Nice secret weapon, Louis,” one of them said.

“Here I’m tackling the guy and I’m face to face with his nine-inch worm.”

Biddy reddened, Cindy’s phrase defining itself. Louis was smiling sheepishly.

“He’s tryin’ to distract you out there, Moretti.”

“He’s gotta do better than that.”

“Why? Not your size?”

“It’s your mother’s size.”

They kept after each other, everyone pitching in except Louis, who grinned and kept both hands on his crotch. The talk turned to girlfriends.

“Nice chick, Moretti. What an operator. He gets her drunk and she throws up in the back of his car.”

“Your mother threw up in the back of my car.”

“And then he gets so pissed he leaves her there and comes back to the party. Class act.”

“Maybe you oughta give up girls.”

“Or find somebody younger.”

“What was this one, junior high?”

“Maybe you should give up girls,” Louis said, rocking forward into the conversation.

“Shut up, Louis,” Moretti said. “You can’t even keep your dick in your pants.”

Louis sat back and his grin disappeared. When they left, he stayed and Biddy went down and sat next to him.

The field was deserted now except for the boy with the spiky hair, running patterns for an imaginary pass. Biddy put his hand on Louis’s back. “He wasn’t that mad,” he said. “He was just ranking you.”

Louis looked at his hands on his crotch.

“I don’t think he expected you to make fun of him.”

“I shouldn’t’ve said anything,” Louis said. The spiky kid loped into the end zone, hands cradling an invisible ball. “I make everybody do that.”

“No you don’t.”

“C’mon.” Louis got up. “Let’s go home.”

All the way home Biddy tried to cheer him up, talking about odd, unrelated subjects in bursts and giving up and surrendering to the silence for ten to fifteen minutes at a time before trying again.

When they reached his house, Louis turned and said he’d see him later and disappeared, leaving Biddy to walk the last few blocks alone and unhappy with everything.

Up in his room he opened all the drawers of his desk for no reason and stood before them, gazing at the mess.

His father came softly up the stairs and stood behind him. “What’re you doing?” he said.

“Nothing,” Biddy said.

“Where’d you go?”

“To watch Louis practice.”

His father crossed to the window and shut it. “That’s nice. It’s November and you got the windows open. When your mother sees the oil bill she’ll scream.”

Biddy stood in front of the open desk, unenthusiastic about doing anything else.

“Why’s Mickey mad at you? Dom says he pretty much threw you out of the house the other day.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I wouldn’t let it bother you. He’s a little off the wall for extra bases, that kid.”

Biddy took his jacket off.

“What’s on the agenda now? A little dice baseball?”

He shrugged and his father came over to the desk alongside him. “Get a load of this.” He reached into the drawer and pulled out a sheaf of box scores. “How many games do you play? Baltimore-Oakland, Baltimore-Oakland, Baltimore-New York … What is this, a whole season?”

“A whole season,” Biddy said.

“Jesus Christ. If you’d been reading all this time, you’d be a Ph.D.” He sat on the bed, leafing through the pile. “What are these K’s? Strikeouts?” Biddy nodded. “And what does this mean?”

He looked over. “Out stealing third.”

“Well, I gotta hand it to you, guy. Biddy Siebert and his magic violin. Some imagination. Look at this: batting averages, half-year statistical leaders — is there anything you don’t have in here? When you want to, you can make things up with the best of them. But listen: think maybe we can cut back the number of games eventually, Commissioner?”

“I’m not playing now.”

“No, I mean when the season starts.”

“It doesn’t bother anybody.”

“It bothers me. Jesus Christ, there’s a thousand things you could be doing in the summer and you’re up here throwing Doug DeCinces out at second base.”

Biddy looked down.

“C’mon. This next year let’s give it a rest, okay? I bought you the book about airplanes. Learn about airplanes. Or find another interest. At least cut back on this stuff. Otherwise I’ll flush every pair of dice in the house.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, the reason I came up here was to tell you I got a surprise for you. So keep tomorrow after supper free.”

“Okay.”

His father made a face and sat farther back on the bed, dissatisfied.

Biddy sat at the desk and put the box scores away. He sharpened a pencil.

“How do you like that book?” his father said.

“I like it a lot.”

“You sound like it.” He lay back with a noisy intake of breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Gettin’ old.” He remained in that position for some few minutes, annoying Biddy for some reason, and finally said, “You seen Ronnie lately?”

“No. Why?”

“No reason. He’s just never around. Poor Cindy’s always looking for him.” He stretched, Biddy watching. “He’s always going somewhere. Probably got something going on the side.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I’m just talking to myself.” He got up, rubbing his eye, and stopped by the door. “Listen, forget I said that.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” He started down the stairs only to lean back into view. “Your mother’s making hot dogs again for supper. C’mon down.” He straightened up out of sight and continued down the stairs. “Don’t start any trouble. All your mother needs to hear is more of this ‘I’m not hungry’ stuff.”

He waited until his father reached the bottom and then pulled the heavy Flight book over, intending to open it but losing interest and settling, finally, on resting his chin on top of it, and staring out the window at the Frasers’ house next door.

He called Teddy Bell and told him to come over that night and bring his gun. Teddy owned a Winchester Special Edition BB gun and snuck out of the house periodically late at night to shoot out streetlamps or torment cats.

One o’clock, Biddy said. Wait for him in the driveway at one o’clock.

He went to bed at ten — he had school the next day — and crept down the stairs at one, easing out the front door. Teddy was wandering nervously back and forth beneath the kitchen window.

“Where’s the gun?” Biddy whispered.

“It’s in the bush,” Teddy said. “What do you want to do?”

“C’mon.” Biddy crossed to the garage, reaching down for the door handle and pausing before edging it up a foot and a half.

“What’re you doin’?” Teddy whispered.

“It’s too loud. It’ll wake everyone up.” Biddy crouched at the black opening and gestured through it. “Get in.”

Teddy slithered under and Biddy followed.

“Grab that end,” he said in the darkness, holding part of the ladder. The moonlight flooded through the garage-door windows. “Set it by the door. I’ll slide out and you hand it to me.” Teddy nodded, impressed by the amount of planning, and together they edged the long aluminum ladder under the door and straightened up.

“Get the gun,” Biddy said, and carried the ladder, swaying back and forth with the danger of a huge noise if it struck anything, around to the back of the garage, and set it gently against the roof.

Teddy returned with the gun. “What’re we doin’?”

“Shh,” Biddy said, climbing.

From the roof much of the surrounding area opened up, became visible. The big maple blocked the view in one direction, its branches reaching to touch the shingles, but they could see clearly in all other directions, and between the Frasers’ house and another they had an unencumbered shot at Prospect Drive.

“How’s your wrist?” Biddy said.

“All right,” Teddy said. “This is cool.”

“Let me see.” Biddy took the gun. “Is it pumped up?”

Teddy shook his head. Biddy pumped it up. He leveled it toward Prospect Drive and sighted along the barrel. A car went by, flashing over the gunsight in the distance.

“Whaddaya gonna do?” Teddy said.

Another went by and he squeezed firmly, the sound an echoing burst of air. There was a sharp metallic pang in the distance.

“Oh, God.” Teddy flattened against the rooftop. “Did they stop? You’re nuts.” He giggled.

Biddy pumped it again.

“Don’t pump it up too much,” Teddy said. “You’ll bust it.”

He leveled at the sound of another approaching car and fired when it crossed the barrel. The sound of the impact on the door rang off the houses in the darkness and the car pulled over immediately.

“Oh, God,” Teddy said. “Get down.”

They waited, chilly against the rough surface, but the car remained silent. Finally, Biddy poked his head over the edge. The driver had come all the way down the Frasers’ driveway. He ducked back and put his finger hard to his lips.

“Goddamn kids,” they heard, and Teddy’s eyes widened at the proximity of the voice.

Biddy edged the barrel up again. The driver was walking back to the car. He leveled the barrel, sighting along the spur of the gunsight into the man’s black back, and whispered, “Pow.” The man turned off the driveway, got into the car, and drove away.

“What were you going to do if he came after us?” Teddy said. “You’re a maniac.”

“Someone’s coming out,” Biddy said. Teddy rolled closer and peered over the roof beside him. Mr. Fraser appeared on his back porch, in a bright yellow fisherman’s raincoat and hat, with a garbage can in his hands.

“What’s he doin’?” Teddy whispered.

“Taking out the garbage.”

“At one in the morning?”

They watched him cross the lawn.

“He had the can in the house?” Teddy whispered.

“Looks like it.”

Mr. Fraser stopped to rest halfway down the driveway. The can was apparently heavy.

“What’s he doing in a raincoat?” Teddy said.

Biddy looked up at the sky. It was absolutely clear.

Teddy shook his head. “This whole neighborhood is nuts.”

“Get down,” Biddy said. He lifted the barrel over the top of the roof and squeezed off a shot at the garbage can.

Mr. Fraser shrieked and dropped it on the pavement.

They both shook in their efforts to prevent the laughter from bursting out, making little nasal noises. Mr. Fraser circled the can in his raincoat and gingerly picked it up by the handles again.

Biddy aimed swiftly and squeezed off another shot and again the can rang supernaturally and again Mr. Fraser dropped it with a cry. He backed away as if something dangerous were inside about to get out. He stood eyeing it for a few moments and then looked around, wiped his mouth, and swept the can up, hustling it over to the garage, his hat lofting off in the exertion. The hat lay like a piece of litter on the lawn in the moonlight.

Biddy sighted on Mr. Fraser’s rear end as he walked back to retrieve the hat. “Pow,” he whispered.

Fraser went into the house. Biddy lifted the rifle barrel away.

“God,” Teddy breathed, relieved, turning over on the roof to face the stars. “I’m surprised you didn’t shoot him.”

“Can I borrow this again sometime?” Biddy whispered, still facing the Frasers’ house.

“Sure,” Teddy said. “Keep it over here.” He looked at the wrist he’d reinjured playing football. “I can’t use it anyhow.”

Biddy remained in the car with his mother, and his father slammed the door and climbed the slight rise to the adjoining parking lot.

“You guys stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

He returned with a little black puppy, furry and curling awkwardly in his arms.

“Well, come on out,” he said. “Look at him.”

Biddy scrambled out, surprised and excited by how pleased this puppy, squirming and twisting to get at him, made him feel.

“He’s great.”

His father grinned. “Were you surprised?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Here, take him. I’m gonna go thank Al.”

He took the dog from his father’s arms like a baby, feeling enormously grateful. It arched its back and tried to twist around, licking in all directions.

His mother got out of the car. “Isn’t he cute?” she said.

“He’s so tiny.”

“Oh, he’ll get big, don’t worry. Besides, we can’t have a horse with our yard.”

Across the street his father and Al waved. He felt uncomfortable, his happiness diluted by being on display.

“There’s a box in the trunk,” his mother said. “Let’s put him in that.”

His father returned and they put the box on the floor of the front seat, where Biddy could watch it.

“What’re you going to name him?” his mother asked from the back on the way home. It was a very bright day and the grass still showed green in patches beneath the fallen leaves as they passed the park.

“I don’t know,” he said. The dog made tiny cries and scraped around the bottom of the box. “Thanks,” he added, turning around so his mother was included.

“Don’t thank us,” his father said. “Thank Al Greaves.”

“I’ll thank you,” he said. “And you can thank Al Greaves.”

Upon their return Kristi, playing on the back porch, stood up, saw the box, heard the scrapings, and pushed over a potted palm. It tumbled heavily to the carpet, spilling dirt.

Her mother grabbed her arm and shook her, but she pulled away and bolted out the door, fighting past her father and running up the driveway. They followed her at a run into the garage, where she turned, trapped and furious at having trapped herself.

Biddy stood rooted next to the car, still holding the box, the dog yelping with excitement inside.

They cornered her in the garage, and she ran along the rows of shelves on the left wall, sweeping the coffee cans and baby-food jars of screws and flanges and hinges off with a cascading crash of metal and glass before they could reach her.

They shouted for her to stop and she shouted she hated them, the words echoing in the garage.

He put the box down, the dog’s legs making hollow noises against the cardboard, and ran over, unable to do anything to help, and unable to watch as well.

He sat in the grass next to a low pail of water, with his father standing over him, watching the puppy blunder around. Kristi had calmed down and shut herself in her room. The puppy ran aimlessly back and forth, barking and yipping, feinting at Biddy’s hand and making harmless snapping noises with its jaws. It ran weak-legged in a wide circle, looking around wildly. On its second circuit of the yard it ran into the larger maple tree, coming to something of a halt, and toppling over.

It scrambled back up, and they laughed, relieved.

“November,” his father said, his jacket open. “Nice for November, isn’t it?” He crouched and grabbed the puppy’s rear, swinging it around so it sprawled lightly on the grass. “It’s a he, you know. What are you gonna call him?”

“Stupid,” Biddy said.

“Stupid?”

He dangled his hand out, and the puppy leaped for it and missed.

“You can’t name the dog Stupid.”

“I don’t mean it mean. It’s a good name for him.”

“Stupid.”

“If you don’t want to name it that, you can name it something else,” Biddy said.

“It’s your dog,” his father said. “C’mere, Stupid.”

On a windy Saturday, he stood in the front yard punting the ball back and forth. The Lirianos were visiting and everyone was in the kitchen. He punted it lightly from one end of the yard to the other, and then walked after it and punted it back.

Simon rode up, his bike still grinding. He smiled.

“Hey, Simon,” Biddy said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Hi,” he said.

“You want some cheesecake?”

Simon looked around, not seeing any. “Sure.”

Biddy put the ball down and went into the house.

“What’re you doin’ out there, champ?” Dom asked.

“Punting around.”

“Oh. You need cheesecake for that?”

He put a slice on a paper plate. “Uh-huh. Bye.” He returned to the front and handed the plate to Simon.

“Pick it off the plate,” he suggested. “I didn’t bring a fork.”

Simon took a tentative bite and Biddy resumed punting.

“I’m gonna run away,” Simon said.

Biddy looked at him, startled. The ball thumped to the ground.

He walked over to him. “You shouldn’t run away,” he said.

Simon shrugged, limp and unhappy, mouth working on the cheesecake.

“Going to go to your father?”

He didn’t answer.

“You shouldn’t go,” he repeated, searching for a reason. “Your mother’d be all upset. You’re too young.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m too young to do anything.”

Biddy imagined him in the Cessna, his white hair shaking with excitement and the vibration of the engine, refusing to sit still, crying in terror at what they were about to do, grabbing at disastrous levers and switches.

“Things’ll get better,” he said. “You’ll see.”

“I don’t think so.” Simon set the paper plate on the grass and climbed onto his bike. “Thanks for the cake.”

He decided to talk to Cindy about it. “What’s up, sexy?” she asked when he appeared at the door, and he said simply, “Simon’s going to run away.”

“Simon’s going to run away? Who told you that? Simon?”

He nodded and stepped back from the doorway, changing his mind about the whole thing, ready to go.

“Well, come on in. You walk over here? This is worth some coffee at least. Or would you rather have soda?”

He shrugged and she put a mug in front of him.

“You make up with Mickey yet?” she said. She set a glass sugar bowl and a carton of milk near the mug.

“I don’t even know what he’s mad at me for.”

“Don’t worry about it. He probably doesn’t know either.” She sat comfortably opposite him. “Ronnie, your pal’s here,” she called.

“Where’s Ronnie?”

“He’s indisposed.” She looked back at the bubbling coffeemaker.

“He’s taking a dump,” Ronnie called.

“So what’s this about Simon?” she said. “Do you think he’s serious?”

He was beginning to feel this whole thing might have been a mistake. “I don’t know. He’s pretty unhappy.”

“Poor little dork,” Ronnie said.

“Well, you must think so or you wouldn’t be coming to me with it. You tell his mother?”

“No.”

“Well she should know, don’t you think?”

Ronnie sang from the bathroom that he had to dance.

“All right, you,” Cindy called back. “Try and concentrate on what you’re doing.”

Ronnie sang that the Broadway rhythm had him and that everybody had to dance. Cindy laughed and said he was crazy. He kept singing.

“We’re just going to ignore you,” Cindy said. “That’s all.” She got up for the coffee. “Don’t you think you should tell his mother?”

“I don’t know,” Biddy said. “She’s never around.”

“Well, I’m sure she cares,” she said.

Ronnie was still singing about that Broadway rhythm. “Ronnie, we’re tryin’ to talk. We got a serious problem out here,” she said.

“Serious problem? Who cares?” he called. “Biddy and I crush serious problems. We destroy serious problems. When I get out of here, we’re gonna put our heads together and bury that serious problem.”

“Well, hurry up.”

“Ah, you’d rush a wet dream.”

She was quiet.

“Sorry.” He bumped around, muffled noises coming through the walls. “You didn’t hear that, did you, Bid?”

“No,” Biddy said.

She poured the coffee, and the phone rang. Ronnie continued to sing. She put a finger in one ear. “Who?” She darted a look at Biddy. “Hold on.” She stepped around the corner into the living room, stretching the cord taut.

After a moment he went over to the corner to listen.

“I don’t know when,” she said, keeping her voice low. “What are you, nuts? What are you calling me here for?”

Ronnie swung open the bathroom door, the toilet flushing behind him, and caught Biddy. “Hey, champ,” he said. “What’re you, master spy?” He sailed into the kitchen. “What’re you guys having, coffee out here?”

Cindy came back in, hanging up the phone.

“Who was that?” Ronnie said.

“A friend from work.” She sat down and tapped the table with her open palm. “Biddy, let’s get back to Simon.”

He sat in the front line of desks with five girls in the otherwise empty classroom. Laura was on one side and Sarah Alice on the other. The second hand of the clock above the blackboard ticked off calibrations silently. Sister Theresa returned to the room and sat at her desk, facing them.

She looked up and snapped her pencil down with a curt, pleasant snap. “Okay,” she said. “Before we begin, I should say I’m proud of all of you, and I only wish you all could go. You’re all our best spellers and I would hate to have to pick two of you. So this is as good a way as any.”

They were the five finalists from the classwide spelling bee that day. The class period had ended before any of them had been eliminated, so after several extra rounds Sister had decided to have a special extra session after school. Of the five, only Laura was a surprise, still something of an unknown quantity.

“Now I don’t have to remind you to take your time and give the game your undivided attention.”

He smiled. Teddy had been first in the earlier spelling bee, and had immediately spelled “awful” o-f-f-l-e.

“Janet,” she said. “‘Obvious.’”

Janet spelled “obvious.” Margaret spelled “resource.” Mitsu spelled “algae.” Laura spelled “conservative.” Biddy spelled “political.” Sarah Alice spelled “expressive.”

On the second round, Margaret and Mitsu missed on “enigmatic” and Laura spelled it correctly, halting and picking her way over the word like someone barefoot stepping from boulder to boulder. They went through three more rounds.

Sister picked up another vocabulary book. “Well, I can’t send four of you,” she said. “Three is the absolute most.”

“‘Architect,’” she told Janet. They went through another round.

“It’s okay,” Laura said suddenly, out of turn. “I quit.”

The others sat shocked, Biddy included. Sister stared at her.

“I quit,” she repeated, an offering. “They can go instead.”

In Sister’s dumbfounded silence, Janet offered to quit as well, and then Biddy.

“You can’t quit,” she said, recovering. She focused on Laura. “See what you’ve started? Now, miss, if you don’t want to represent Our Lady of Peace, we don’t want you to represent us — and this goes for the rest of you as well — but you’re not going to decide that for yourself. You’re not the only ones sacrificing extra time to do this. You’re going to take part in this and only be excused when you’re eliminated. Laura. ‘Excretion.’”

Laura looked down. “E-x … c-r-e-a-t-i-o-n,” she said.

Sister looked at her. “You misspelled that on purpose. Janet.”

“No, I didn’t,” Laura protested.

“Yes, you did. And if anyone else tries that they’ll be in trouble. Believe you me. Janet.”

Janet, thoroughly rattled, misspelled it as well.

Sister stared at her for a moment. “You’re eliminated,” she said. “Biddy.”

Biddy spelled it correctly, the others already having eliminated other plausible versions.

“Okay,” Sister said. “Biddy, Sarah Alice, and Laura, you’re the representatives. Laura, you’re also staying after today and tomorrow.” She stood up. “It seems even the simplest things become aggravating with this class. Tomorrow I’ll have some practice vocabulary sheets for the three of you to work on over the holiday.” She made a small, dismissing gesture with her hand. “Go ahead, go home. Congratulations.”

“I didn’t miss on purpose,” Laura said.

“Laura, please,” she said. “I can’t argue with everyone today. Stay in your seat.”

Biddy filed out, turning at the doorway. “And don’t bother to wait for her, Mr. Siebert,” she said. “She’s going to be a while.”

“Keep an eye on him,” his father said from the kitchen. The dog circled around in the backyard, trailing a leg through its own manure.

“Stupid,” Kristi said. “That’s a good name for him.”

“Not the way you say it,” Biddy said. They sat at the redwood table, Kristi waving a Milk-Bone toward the dog and pulling it away as the dog approached, producing an occasional whine or impatient snort.

Stupid stopped, barking furiously.

“It’s all right,” his father said from the kitchen. “Hold him. It’s only the garbageman.”

A large black man dragged some cans from behind the Frasers’ garage. Stupid, straining at Biddy’s hand on the collar, twisted free.

“Hold on to him!” his father said, hearing the dog sprint past, and he rushed to the door and swung out onto the frame and yelled, “Come back here, you black bastard!”

Biddy heard the clang of the cans dropping at the foot of the driveway.

“Oh, not you,” his father said. “I was talking about the dog. I’m sorry—”

“Jesus Christ,” his mother said, her voice coming from the bathroom. “He can embarrass me with the garbageman.”

“All right, all right, all right,” his father said, hustling the collared Stupid back onto the porch. “No harm done. Get in there, you goddamn idiot.”

“Do you have to fly off the handle every time that dog does something?” his mother said. The mirrored door on the medicine chest swung shut. “You scream like a banshee. The whole neighborhood’s got to know Walt Siebert’s missing his dog.”

“Get away from me,” Kristi said from the porch, giving the dog’s rear a rough shove. It snapped at her and she bounced the Milk-Bone off its head. There was a crash from the bathroom and his mother wailed, “Oh, no.” Stupid barked at the noise.

“Jesus Christ,” his father said. “This whole family’s nuts.”

Biddy lay in bed with his eyes on the ceiling, listening to his parents prepare the manicotti they were going to take to Norwich for Thanksgiving dinner. He looked up into the lights and turned away blinded, red fluorescent streamers and curlicues twisting and whirling when he closed his eyes, and when he could see again he was calling signals for the snap and the Vikings were in punt formation with himself as the punter.

Over the hunched Vikings, Steelers massed, wedging into cracks, mentally laying down lanes of attack, waiting for the snap. Eleven sets of eyes, all watching and waiting to hit him as hard as they possibly could while he hung in the air with one leg extended and vulnerable in his kick. He received the snap and took his step and a half forward, trying to concentrate with the Steelers bursting through all over, and as he connected and the Steelers swept up and over him he rebelled, revolted, wrenched himself from the moment, and returned forcibly to his bed, crying out, his cry waking Stupid, who slept with him now on the floor by the door, and the dog shifted in the dark and thumped the rug reassuringly with its tail, leaving Biddy to roll over and whisper for it, grateful for the thumping and not knowing what else to do at that point.

He woke to unusually bright sunshine. Stupid was still thumping and his father was laying his jacket and pants out over his legs on the bed.

“Let’s go, Admiral Peary,” his father said. “The expedition’s about to begin.”

“What time is it?” he asked groggily.

“Time to get ready. Time to hit the ginzos. Let’s go. We’re supposed to be there by noon.”

Biddy climbed into his pants and sat at the edge of the bed, stroking the dog. Kristi went by, her mother trailing behind combing out snarls.

“Let’s go,” his father repeated. “I polished your shoes. They’re downstairs. And comb your hair. It looks like a rat’s nest.”

Sandy and Michael, his aunt and uncle, lived just north of Norwich on what Michael liked to call a kind of a farm. It was a new ranch house of a sort, with a garage on one end and a huge family room on the other, the whole structure spreading across the property lengthwise, with the land sloping away on both sides. Each time they visited, Sandy had a new addition to show his mother. And each time, his father said, his mother came away with a bug in her ass.

Behind the house a fenced-in corral ran up an easy grade to trails leading into the surrounding woods. Sandy and Michael had five children, three of them girls, each of whom had a horse of her own. There were rabbits as well, and ducks and cats and dogs. All this was fairly new.

Upon arriving at their house he said hello to everyone and slipped away in the confusion. The backyard was full: girls surrounded the captive horses and boys were slinging footballs back and forth across the uneven ground. He found himself in the den, a new addition. It resembled a ski lodge, with a pitched white ceiling supported by thick dark beams. There was a giant picture window and a new rug and sofa.

His father came in behind him. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “Wait’ll your mother sees this.” He smiled. “Gonna go out?”

Biddy didn’t think so.

“Why don’t you see what’s on, then?”

He flipped the remote switch on the TV. He heard his father, back in the kitchen: “I saw it. It’s really something. Has Judy seen it yet?”

The picture rose up from the dark screen and fixed itself.

— We’ve only got a quarter, don’t you understand? What’s wrong with you?

Abbott hustled Costello off the chair.

— Well, a quarter. We can get something to eat.

— Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll order a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee, see? And I’ll give you half. But if she asks you if you want anything, you say no, I don’t care for anything.

Biddy laughed, dropping to the rug and pulling a foot in close, crossing his legs.

“Hey, hey, crusher.” Dom reached down, shook his hand. “The Lirianos make the scene. Mickey’s out back.”

Biddy nodded.

“What’ve we got goin’ here?”

— You mean we’re going to put something over on her?

— No, no, we’re not putting anything over on her.

— Gonna try and slick her?

“Click this a minute,” Dom said. “See if the game’s on.”

He turned to a football field, pale green in the bright sun, with players milling around the sidelines, hopping up and down or high-stepping here and there. He switched back.

— Aw, go ahead, have something.

— Give me a turkey sandwich.

Abbott pulled him off the chair, both of them tumbling toward the camera.

— What did I just get through telling you?

— No matter how much you coax me?

— No matter how much I coax you. You just say you don’t want anything.

— I’ll say I’m filled up, that’s all.

— That’s all. We only got a quarter.

— I ain’t, but I’ll say I am.

— Well, say that.

“Biddy, come on.” Dom shifted in his chair. “I don’t need to see these two for any reason.”

“Let’s go,” an aunt called from the kitchen. “Everything’s ready. Call the kids.” They rose together, Biddy lingering to catch the end of Abbott and Costello. They left the television on.

Five aunts and four uncles — one divorce in the family — and a sweeping majority of the twenty-seven cousins as well, entered the dining room at once. The Lirianos, friends of the family, squeezed in besides. The adults would be seated at one long table, elbow to elbow. “This is nice,” Dom said as he edged in. “Camp Lejeune.”

The children were divided roughly into age groups along five other odd tables that spilled out into the front hall and kitchen: He stopped as he passed the main table: his aunts had suddenly moved to reveal the multitude of choices and offerings before him. Crystal and china serving dishes ringed the middle ground, clustered toward the center, supporting steaming areas of color: in the china the moist, rich green of mounded asparagus, the off-white of the cauliflower and creamed onions, the red and yellow of the manicotti; in the crystal the cool, isolated colors of black olives, cherry peppers, celery. Turnips lay beside yellow summer squash, brown gravy near the mottled stuffing. Rising from the center like an island at which these boats hoped to dock was the turkey, glistening and giving off heat and holiday smell. His mother was beside him, her hand reassuring on his hip. This was her world, not his father’s, and he touched her fingers with his own, wanting to communicate how much it meant to him. He was transfixed, and only under her gentle pressure reluctantly moved on, to unclog the aisle.

Cousins were still streaming into the room, laughing and arguing over seats. Kristi was sitting at the farthest table with four other girls her age. Mickey sat sullenly opposite Biddy. Louis was not there; in two hours Stratford would attempt to complete its undefeated season against Milford, and the team had gone somewhere to eat together or be together, he wasn’t sure which. Cindy was having dinner with Ronnie’s parents. She cruised briefly through his thoughts and he wished she were present, though he wasn’t sure why. He thought of Laura and Sister Theresa and the spelling bee, and focused on the water glass in front of him, draining all his thoughts into it, going blank.

His uncle told everyone to remember their seats and come up and get what they want this way, kids first, before the adults sat down. Dom, his wife noted, was already sitting.

“I might as well stay sitting,” he said. “We’d need engineers to get me out anyway.”

So they carried their plates to the central table, listening to the warm, pleasant voices of the parent chorus urging them to take more of this, try some of that. “Is that all you’re having?” voices asked. “Try Aunt Judy’s manicotti. Take more of Aunt Frankie’s stuffing.” He filled his plate and followed the line back to his seat, and they all settled in, waiting.

“Let’s have one of the kids say grace,” his uncle said. “Biddy’s an altar boy. Biddy. Give us some grace here.”

Everyone at his table grinned, off the hook. He looked at the adult table in genuine surprise but they all smiled back encouragingly.

“Grace?” he asked.

“An altar boy doesn’t know grace?” someone said.

“He knows it,” his mother said. “Shh.”

There was a silence, forks tinkling.

“Thank you O Lord for these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty to Christ Our Lord Amen.” He realized immediately that he’d botched it, muffed one of the easiest, most mechanical of prayers, but no one noticed; in fact, there was a murmur of appreciation, and the sound of knives and forks digging in.

Dinner for him was a blur, as most of the best holiday dinners were: a taste, a smell, and some cooling water on the back of his throat, appreciated and savored, standing out at each precise instant but fading quickly into the rest as the meal wore on. The adults’ table was noisy and festive while at Biddy’s the food was handled with dispatch. He was one of the first finished, and picked a piece of pumpkin pie and some coffee from the dessert assortment, heading for the den. He slipped into the sofa, setting the pie dish on the table, and sipped the coffee with both hands. He loved coffee and had grown up on it, his earliest breakfast memories being of Sanka and farina. The Abbott and Costello movie was over, and he changed the channel to the game with the remote switch lying on the cushion next to him.

The maroon and white of the halfback lunged forward, the colors bright and bracing on this brand-new set, and moved with the slow, unstoppable smoothness of instant replay. He drifted from the reach of arms and helmets of white with scarlet trim and tumbled headlong into the end zone, skidding on a shoulder. The replay began again. He broke his eyes away and took a bite of pie.

His father’s hand landed on his head. “What’s the score in here? Who’s playing?”

The score flashed on the screen. “Oklahoma’s kicking ass,” Dom said behind him. “Don’t get too comfortable, by the way. We should leave for the game pretty soon.” Nebraska fumbled the kickoff, Oklahoma recovering.

His father turned from the room. “Hard to beat those Sooners,” he said. “C’mon, Biddy. Get your coat.”

“How you gonna beat these guys?” Dom called after him. “They send those big spades atcha in waves.”

They got their coats and collected Mickey and Ginnie. Ginnie told Biddy’s mother that she thought it was silly, too, but it was the last one she was going to, and the team was undefeated. They got to the game a few minutes into the first quarter.

Milford punished Stratford, up and down the field. Dom suffered visibly, then audibly. Ginnie stood up finally and said she wasn’t going to listen to it anymore. It was ridiculous to aggravate yourself over something you couldn’t do anything about. Biddy’s father agreed to give her a ride back to Michael’s.

In the third quarter the score was 35–7 Milford, and Louis swept around a block and caught the ball carrier’s helmet flush in the face, shattering his face mask. Dom and Biddy stood up, trying to get a better look. “Oh, Jesus,” Dom said, as though he had no more energy for this. Louis was sitting with his head down, trainers and teammates around him, and when one of them moved, Biddy could see jagged pieces of face mask. Louis was making circular motions with his head, bits of blood and teeth beading out along a line of spittle.

“Oh, Jesus,” Dom repeated, turning away.

They stayed a few minutes longer but Dom insisted they go back; they didn’t all have to wait to check on Louis, and there was no sense staying for the end of the game.

Back at his uncle’s, they announced what had happened and quieted the big table to a hush. Ginnie wailed, “Oh, God, I knew it.” Biddy left Mickey to field questions and returned to the TV, shaken.

During The March of the Wooden Soldiers Dom came back, and moved through the dining room faster than the family’s questions seemed to allow. He came into the den and fell heavily into the chair beside Biddy.

Michael followed, asking if he was sure he couldn’t get him anything. Dom was sure. Michael hesitated, and left.

“How’s Louis?” Biddy said.

“Fine. Toothless Joe.”

A headache commercial came on. It was an animation of a head with electric bolts throbbing through it. They watched in silence.

“Is that what you got your thing for?” Biddy asked quietly. “The things they did with your head?”

Dom gazed at the screen. “What?” He rubbed his eyes. “The encephalogram?” He seemed exhausted, sad. “No, that was for epilepsy. That was a test for epilepsy.”

“Why’d they test you for that?”

“I don’t know. Why do they test you for anything? They were short of cash. I was thrashing around in my sleep, Ginnie couldn’t wake me up. I had something in the Navy and they thought there might have been brain damage.”

“Brain damage?” Biddy’s eyes widened.

He changed the channel. “They don’t know. What difference does it make anyhow?”

“Don’t talk like that,” Biddy said, more moved than he wanted to be. “Do you still take pills for it or anything?”

“I’m at that stage now where it doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s almost the end of the line.”

“No, it isn’t.” He detested and feared adults when they spoke like this.

“It isn’t?” He snorted. “Everything’s coming down around my ears. The job, the wife, now this. You know what you do in my position? Take a guess. What do you do when it’s fourth and forty-one? Punt.” He sat back and ran his palm across the back of his neck. “And sure as shit if I did it’d be blocked.”

That night although they got back late he went right out with Teddy’s rifle, allowing only the barest minimum of elapsed time for his parents to fall asleep before creeping down the stairs and out the front door. He carried the ladder silently around to the back of the garage himself, teetering under its awkward weight, and set it against the side of the building, where it promptly sideslipped and slid off the roof onto the patio with a terrifying crash. He ducked behind the garage, throwing the rifle a few yards away in a hedge, and waited. The garage light went on. He crouched, wondering what to do, what to say. The light went out. Finally he eased out of his crouch and retrieved the rifle from the hedge. He brought the ladder back around and, after a second thought, left it on the floor of the garage to account for the crash, then hurried down the driveway and into the house.

The door swung away from him and his father grabbed his arm in the dark. “What the hell are you doing out there?” he whispered. The lights came on. His mother and father flanked him. His mother’s eyes widened at the gun. “What are you doing with this?” she said, voice rising. He didn’t answer and she shook him, his neck snapping back. He started to cry and they shook him harder, demanding answers, and finally led him up to his room. They stalked back and forth past his bed and he insisted the gun was Teddy’s and he wasn’t shooting at anyone. His mother finally threw up her hands and left, taking much of the noise downstairs with her. He lay quiet, his neck hurting.

His father sat on the edge of the bed, scratching the top of his head and rubbing the hair around, looking at the floor. “I don’t know about you, kid,” he said. “We don’t have enough to worry about?”

Biddy sniffled.

“You look thin. You eating enough?” His father laughed at himself. “No. Of course you’re not eating enough. You’re never eating enough. I got those vitamins downstairs; I want you to use them.” Biddy nodded. His father blew some air from his mouth. “Your mother’s upset right now. Go easy on her the next couple days. Don’t do anything more to get on her nerves. She’s unhappy.”

“What’s she unhappy about?”

“Everything. Lots of things. Different things. You know your mother; she gets frustrated. Things don’t work out the way she likes. She worries about you two. She’s got no patience, she gets mad, and then you do something, or Kristi does something, and she, you know … explodes.”

Biddy wiped his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, I know. I get mad, too; I’m no better. C’mon,” he sighed. “Slide down.” Biddy straightened his legs under the covers and his father slapped his thigh and stood up. He paused at the door as if to add something, but said only, “Get some sleep,” the yellow light from the hall narrowing and disappearing with the words.