The Heights Part 8

"What did she say?"

"Just another grateful fan," Coach said.

I glanced out the back window, and this time I was able to read her lips as she shouted it again. Pervert!

"See, son? People love your old man."

KATE.

"ARE YOU THERE? PLEASE BE THERE. PLEASE BE THERE."

It was Tim calling from Ohio. I had let the machine answer, and for a moment I didn't want to pick up.

"Dammit, I wish you were there . . ."

Out of guilt I lifted the receiver. "I'm here."

"Oh, G.o.d. Oh, thank you, G.o.d!"

"Sorry, didn't hear the phone-"

"You can't believe how bad it is here, Kate. It's horrible. You know how I thought he was being fired for his record? Well, I was wrong." Tim continued, spitting out half-formed sentences, hinting at something horrible but not explaining it clearly. And then he said something about how, in a few hours, he had to address a packed room. "He wants me to speak. And I don't know what the f.u.c.k to say!"

I tried to listen and sympathize, but ultimately, it was his family, his father, his speech to give.

"And, Kate, I found out the real reason . . ."

In my defense, whenever Tim visited his dad, there was always a crisis. Still, I should've listened better.

"The Athletic Director pulled me aside-"

"Honey, I have company. Anna's here."

"Who?"

"Anna Brody."

"She's there? Oh, why didn't you say?"

"Because you haven't stopped talking."

Tim was quiet. "You better go, then."

"Look, we can talk a few more minutes. I'm only saying-"

"No, Kate, I'm fine. I'm actually doing great. Believe me, I am. And be sure to tell anyone who asks."

Click.

Earlier that morning, right after Tim left for the airport, I called Bruno to explain why I wouldn't be at work for the next few days. "A family emergency," I said. Bruno, ever concerned, asked, "Is everything all right?" "Yes, here at home. But for Tim and his dad, not good." Bruno wanted details, but I told him I'd have to explain later because Sam had wandered into the kitchen, having just crawled out of bed.

The breakfast/get dressed/brush teeth rituals all went smoothly. Sometimes it's just easier with one parent. I made pancakes in the shapes of animals and, according to Teddy, did "better than Daddy." While the boys watched a few minutes of TV, I called Claudia to see if she wanted to meet for coffee, but she and Debbie Beebe were off to Pilates.

At drop-off, stay-at-home-dad Wendell Carson was talking with a mother whose back was to me. I always wanted to laugh when I saw Wendell. Not because of Tim's nickname for him-the Weasel-which was perfect, by the way. No, it's because lately, Tim had taken to imitating Wendell, and he had him down pat: his pursed lips, his fey gestures, and his annoying tendency to poke you repeatedly in the arm while talking with you.

That morning Wendell was gesticulating wildly, having cornered, I soon realized, none other than Anna Brody. I eavesdropped while he described a "fffabulous" play s.p.a.ce in Chelsea where he had taken his son, Jasper. As expected, Wendell poked Anna in the arm twice for emphasis, and as he started in for a third poke, she moved slightly aside so that his finger stabbed the air. I must have laughed out loud, because Wendell turned to look at me. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I said. "I just thought of something my husband said."

"Oh, by the way, tell him to call me. We're starting a men's group. And we need men."

"I'll tell him," I said as Wendell hurried off.

Anna said, "How lucky." (Meaning, I thought, his leaving.) "Yes," I said, turning toward Anna. "Hey, are you doing anything now?"

As we climbed the stairs, I worried that this was a terrible idea. I started to apologize for what she was about to see, but for some reason, I stopped myself. I'm unable to explain why. Maybe I was testing her.

After following me into our apartment, Anna looked around but said nothing for the longest time. When she finally spoke, it was something about the advantages of a small home. I believe the word she used was intimate. She mentioned how, in her house, it seemed all she did was look for one of Sophie's lost socks or the house keys. "Same thing with us," I said, proving the thesis of a book from some years back that argued men by nature compete and women seek consensus. Anna moaned about the upkeep of a house (as if she genuinely did the up-keeping). I nodded as if I knew how she felt. In an attempt at humor, I demonstrated how, if one cleared off the table in the living room, it became a dining room. I demonstrated how, by moving the movable bookshelf in the wall unit (which Tim had designed and built), it allowed that same room to become a home office.

I hoped she would laugh.

She didn't. She said almost too sincerely, "What a great place."

I wondered whether to believe her.

Where I saw a much too small bedroom for two growing boys, she saw the walls covered with their watercolors, crayon drawings, and art projects of my own invention. She noticed the homemade picture frames made of corrugated cardboard that the boys and I had painted. She said, "Nice," and in an effort to be completely honest, I admitted the idea for the frames had been appropriated from an arts-and-crafts magazine. "Still," she said, meaning I had done it. Yes, she was impressed, and not because it was my idea but because I'd taken the time to find and implement someone else's good idea.

Where I saw the trundle bed Tim had built for the boys as a kind of primitive configuration of white pine, she admired the ingenuity of the design, the care he'd taken, the charm of the names painted on the headboards.

To my surprise, the opposite of what I'd expected occurred. I saw our home with her eyes, and for the first time in a long time, I liked what I saw. The evident care taken, the make-do practicality, the creative touches. The art in our home was the simple art of our children. Still, I nearly gasped when she said, "There's so much love here."

I smiled and said, "That's kind."

"It's not kind. It's what I see."

I left the room to compose myself, wipe my eyes.

I was in the kitchen boiling water for tea when Tim called. As I described earlier, he was in a panic. As I half listened to him, I checked to see if Anna was all right. "Don't worry about me," she said from down the hall, where she was looking at the framed photos on our wobbly bookcase. The teapot whistled. After I hung up with Tim, I asked Anna to come back to the kitchen. Using a yellow sponge, I wiped the breakfast table clean.

"That was Tim," I said, gesturing for her to sit in the good chair. "He had to leave town."

I straddled a stool. Because of the metal security gate that covered our kitchen window, the morning sun cast fractured shadows across both Anna and me. She seemed much too bright and vibrant for our little kitchen. Rather akin to Greta Garbo in Kmart. But she didn't seem to mind.

She asked where Tim had gone.

"Back home," I said. "A family crisis."

I explained that Tim had a complicated relations.h.i.+p with his dad and that it was hard for me to have sympathy because I never had a father.

"Oh," she said with a sad smile. "What's the problem with his dad?" There were countless stories about Coach that I could have told, but for some reason, this is the one I chose.

That previous Christmas he'd sent Tim a box of Cayton College Lady Revolvers swag-a light blue and pink warm-up suit, tennis shoes, even a team jacket, all with the Nike insignia prominently displayed. This was his gift. p.i.s.sed, Tim promptly threw everything in the trash. Several days later, while walking across the Heights, he saw a man decked out in Cayton College athletic apparel. Shocked, Tim approached the man to ask if he'd gone to Cayton. But then he realized the man was homeless, and the clothes had been the ones Tim had thrown out.

"Perfect," Anna said.

I went on to brag about Tim, saying that ever since that day, he had taken special interest in the homeless man, whose name was Lenny. He became Tim's charity project. Every so often Tim gave him money to sweep our building's stoop, or bought him slices of pizza, or gave him a Cayton College stocking cap.

"Your husband is a good man," Anna said.

"Yes, I think so."

"A good, good man."

Later, after she was gone, I realized she hadn't touched her tea. Maybe because I'd forgotten to pour it.

Downstairs, I found the mail scattered on the vestibule floor. Bills, mostly, and junk mail, and a large manila envelope that I opened. Halfway in, I realized what was inside. I'd forgotten that I'd even ordered it. It was easy to do, and I'd done it from work. When the woman from The Tonight Show asked where to send it, I had to think for a moment. My first impulse was to give my work address, but then I thought, I have nothing to hide. So I gave my home address, telling myself that if Tim found it, I'd explain.

All it took was a phone call and payment by credit card. I didn't even need to know the airdate. Did I know the guests? I knew only one, I said. One was all they needed. "And the guest's name?"

The transcript read like your standard late-night interview. Small talk: You look great. It's great to be here, etc. I confess to skimming it quickly, looking only for my name, thinking that he must have mentioned me. Hadn't he said on our answering machine I'm talking about you when I'm talking at the end?

I didn't find my name, but he was right. It was at the end. When I found the section, I had to read it twice.

JEFF SLADE: Well, Jay, I'm basically a normal guy. I go to work. I love my dog. But like all people, I have my regrets.

JAY LENO: Can you give us an example of a Jeff Slade regret?

JEFF SLADE: Actually, I can only think of one.

JAY LENO: Just one?

JEFF SLADE: But it's big. And she's probably not watching.

JAY LENO: Aw, we're out of time. You promise to come back and tell us all about your one big regret?

JEFF SLADE: I'd like that, thanks.

So I was Jeff Slade's one big regret. Now he tells me. I tore the transcript into pieces, stopped at a neighbor's garbage can, and buried the sc.r.a.ps deep in the trash.

TIM.

"CAN YOU HEAR ME? CAN EVERYONE HEAR ME? JUST RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU can't.

"Good evening. My name is Tim Welch. I'm the son. What a privilege it is for me to speak with you tonight. And what a remarkable turnout, especially considering the short notice. There's so much one can say at a time like this. Hey, wasn't the video presentation terrific? Excuse me while I look for my notes. Oh, here. On behalf of my sister, Sally, and our mother, Bobette, we'd like to thank the Cayton College community for your rousing send-off of my father. Several of you have mentioned your surprise at learning Coach Welch had a son. This, I think, reflects the intensity with which Coach-yes, even I call him Coach-went about his work. A tough man to label, Coach was more than a father, a friend, a teacher, more than a taskmaster, more than the Great Motivator-he wasn't just any one thing.

"For those of you who don't know, I am, by profession, a history teacher. So hopefully, not only can I bring the family perspective to tonight's celebration, but perhaps the historical perspective can be illuminated as well.

"I would like to tell you about a memory of my father that I didn't quite understand until this very day. It happened when I was seven, in our bas.e.m.e.nt. Our bas.e.m.e.nt is wood-paneled and, over the years, has basically become a museum to Coach's unprecedented career. Framed team photos hang in sequence along the walls-plaques, medals, certificates, lighted trophy cases, large squares of illuminated Plexiglas that house the five hundredth Victory Ball, nets from the eight national champions.h.i.+ps, framed letters from Richard Milhous Nixon, Ronald Reagan, and George H. W. Bush. There's even a display case I made in ninth-grade Wood Shop for his lucky tie-the light blue one with an American flag set off in bold relief . . .

"But I digress.

"I was only seven years old, so I didn't understand what my father's erect p.e.n.i.s was doing in the mouth of Linda 'Minus' Callahan (13.2 ppg., 3 to 1.2 a.s.sist-to-turnover ratio, All Conference honorable mention). Is Linda here tonight? I didn't think so.

"Anyway-confused by what I had seen and perhaps a bit shaken-I asked him what he was doing. He said that Linda was having problems, and he was helping her out. Now it turns out he's been helping out a succession of young women for over forty years.

"Only five-five so far-have come forward, five who are partic.i.p.ating in the lawsuit-Oops, wasn't supposed to mention that. Yes, the rumors are true. The college wants to keep it hush-hush. Many more of you could receive a nice chunk of change. You see, the college hasn't realized that for every one of you who has come forward, there are ten or twenty of you who yet could. So spread the word. Close the school down. Most important, let's gut the motherf.u.c.ker . . ."

Regrettably, I didn't give the above speech. I was either too chicken or still too stunned.

Earlier that night, while we drove toward the governor's room of the Holiday Inn North in Toledo, Coach asked for a copy of my prepared text. I told him I hadn't written anything. He asked if I thought that was a good idea. He was understandably nervous about what I was going to say, especially since I'd gotten wind of the real reason for his retirement. I explained that it was too difficult for me to put into words the enormity of how I felt about him. He nodded, looking dubious.

The crowd that had gathered was much smaller than he had imagined. The room was decorated with photos on foam core. Bouquets of light blue and pink carnations added to the occasion's funereal feel. As featured speaker, I would go last. After the twelve-minute video presentation set to Queen's "We Are the Champions" and Dionne War-wick's "That's What Friends Are For," I walked to the podium with no idea what would come out of my mouth. What did I say? Nothing for a good long time. Then I said, "The facts." I proceeded to recite his career statistics. That took a good ten minutes. At the conclusion of the endless litany of his triumphs, applause broke out, and someone threw a handful of confetti.

Then I said, "And what do they mean?"

I felt my father s.h.i.+ft in his seat. The air in the room grew cold. Pin-drop silence. Here was my chance to speak truthfully. But somehow, when I opened my mouth, a piece of confetti lodged in my throat. People thought I was choking up when, in truth, I was just trying not to choke.

"Coach is my father. I am-his-son. What else-is there-to . . . ?"

Something about how I was trying to spit out the fleck of confetti gave the impression of my struggling with great emotion. The guests broke into applause, and Coach ascended the small platform, slapping me on the back so hard I still feel the sting. As the Cayton College jazz band played the fight song, more confetti continued to fall, and Coach shouted over the music and the cheering, "Thanks, son. I couldn't have said it better myself!"

On the small plane from Toledo to Chicago, I smiled as the flight attendant used the microphone/intercom to go over safety procedures. There were only a handful of pa.s.sengers, but the flight attendant was behaving as if we were on a 747 headed to Milan. As she dutifully pointed out the emergency exits, I noticed her carefully coiffed hair, her excessive makeup, how hard she was trying, and I couldn't help but think about how hard I'd been trying to not be my father. I would do anything to not be my father, especially now.

As the flight attendant pushed past with the beverage cart, I surprised myself by asking for a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary. She was handing me the miniature bottle of Absolut when the pilot asked all pa.s.sengers to be seated and belt themselves in, as a b.u.mpy approach was expected. We were, it turned out, already on the way down.

As the plane jerkily made its descent, yet another inappropriate Anna Brody thought came to me. So I gripped the armrests and tried to beat back that thought by repeating to myself: I am not my father, I am not my father, I am not my father . . .

Late that night, after my return home, Kate ran me a bath, and I climbed in. She sat on the toilet seat with the lid down as I told her everything. And she heard my every word.

Before she went off to bed, she kindly quoted what a wise woman (Kate) had once written to me on a birthday card: "Growing older-contrary to what everyone tells us-is one of the nicest parts of being alive. Growing older, and not becoming our parents, but rather, slightly better versions."

As she left me alone in the tub, she called back, "So tell me, Mr. Welch, can we safely conclude that we're both already that?"

KATE.

MY FIRST MORNING BACK, BRUNO GREETED ME WITH THE NEWS THAT HIS TRIP TO St. Louis had been an unqualified success.

"So it went well?"

Bruno coughed his recurring tubercular-like cough and held up his hands in victory. He'd gone to visit Louis Underfer to achieve one simple goal: finding out how much money we have to give away in the near future.

One point five million dollars.

"We can work with that," I said, pleased.

"It has its peculiarities. Thirty-five grants-for up to thirty-five thousand dollars each-announced in St. Louis at Cortez Headquarters on the thirteenth of June."

"Why St. Louis? Why the thirteenth of June?"