Never Blame the Umpire (8 page)

Last week’s Fourth of July fireworks displaywas spectacular. It must have lasted for half an hour with one exploding shower of color after another. I didn’t enjoy it much, though. Every explosion and every stream of colors sprinkling from the sky to the ground made me think of things dying. I’d never thought about it before, not in all the years I’d been watching fireworks and feeling all tingly at how pretty I thought they were.

Mama was right beside me and oohing and aahing like she does every Fourth of July. I keep looking for signs that she’s getting better. Mostly, though, I keep hoping I don’t see signs she’s getting worse. If I don’t see them that might mean the doctors are wrong and she’ll be all right after all.

In the two weeks since Valley Lakes School ended, I haven’t left home much. There’s no place I want to go. I just want to spend time with Mama. She seems the same as always, always busy doing something. She doesn’t seem sick, not really. I notice that she takes more breaks from whatever she’s doing than she usually does. Like when she works in her garden. She would spend hours without stopping except to get a drink of water or something like that. Now she’s starting to get tired sooner. She’ll go and sit down, or maybe go inside and not go back to the garden at all for the rest of the day.

Today’s been a good day, though. The way Mama is playing tennis today makes me think that she’s not sick after all. The two of us are beating Dad and Ken. It’s not like they’re letting us win. I can tell. We’re just hitting better shots than they are.

There’ve been a few balls that Mama usually returns for winners that have caught the top of the net, but I’m thinking that’s only because she’s rusty. She hasn’t played much the last few weeks. Even so, we won the first set 6 – 4 and we lead in the second set 4 games to 2. Mom is serving at 40 – 15.

I have to admit, I’m playing as good as I ever have. I’m not going to let us lose today, no matter what.

Just beyond the end line on the other side of the net, Ken is bouncing on the balls of his feet, balanced,
waiting for Mama’s serve.

“We need this point, partner,” Dad calls over his shoulder to Ken.

“No way,” I shout.

The ball whizzes past my right ear and lands well in service court. Ken lunges across his body, and the ball pings off the center of his racket. He doesn’t hit it deep. It’ll come down in the middle of our court, perfect for a winning return.

I move back toward the ball just as Mama moves forward. We’ve been partners long enough that I know she’ll back off and let me take it. The overhead smash is my best shot. I win a lot of points with it.

I race to where the ball will bounce so I’ll be ready. I see Mama still coming toward the ball as if she plans to hit it.

“Mine!” I call out and Mama backs away.

I swing.

I can’t believe it. Either there’s a gust of wind or else I take my eye off the ball for an instant. But instead of hitting a sure winner, the ball hits the top edge of my racquet and goes straight up about twenty feet, then almost hits me on the way down.

Ken drops his racquet and falls to the court, laughing. He lies on his back and kicks his legs in the air. He bounces up and imitates my overhead swing. He holds his sides and laughs harder.

“Son,” Dad says. He sees I’m laughing too and
just shakes his head.

“No problem,” I say. “We’re still up 40 – 30. Sorry, Mama.”

Suddenly Dad is running toward our side of the court. I look back and see Mama sitting down. I know I didn’t hit her with my racquet, I would have felt it.

“Are you okay, honey?” Dad asks.

“Just feeling a little dizzy,” Mama says. “I’ll be okay in a minute.”

“I think we’ve had enough for today,” Dad says. “Sixteen games, and it’s pretty hot this afternoon.”

“Just give me a minute,” Mama says. “We’ll be able to finish the set.”

She walks to the bench and takes a drink of water. She sits down and towels herself off.

“We don’t have to finish,” Dad says.

“We’ll finish this set,” Mama says firmly.

Mama serves at 40 – 30, a good serve, and Dad’s return goes wide. We lead 5 games to 2.

As we switch sides of the court, I see Dad talking softly to Ken.

It’s Dad’s serve. It’s not his best serve, and I hit a hard baseline winner. “Love-fifteen,” he calls out. “Okay, Ken, let’s get this point.”

Serving toward Mama’s court, he double faults. He hardly ever double faults.

Mama glares at him, her hands on her hips. “Just
play the game,” she calls out.

He serves to me, and Ken hits my return into the net. It’s Love – 40. Match point.

I think I know what will happen next, but I hope it doesn’t.

It does. Another double fault. The match is over.

Mama doesn’t even look at Dad. She just grabs her drink and towel and tennis bag and heads for the car. Mama and Dad hardly ever argue or even get mad at each other, but there’s sure plenty of anger in her eyes right now.

After the tennis match last week, Mama and Dad both kept trying to out-apologize the other.

“I’m sorry,” Dad said.

“No,” Mama said. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. I know you were just worried about me.”

“I was,” Dad said. “But I should have known you were strong enough to finish the set.”

“I should have known I wasn’t,” Mama said.

And so on and so forth.

I know now it was an important day. I have to write about it. I have to try, anyway. The blank page of my notebook stares back at me. If it could talk it would probably say, “I dare you to write a poem. I bet you can’t.”

The trouble is, it’s right.

I try to remember some of the things that Mr. Gallagher taught us. One thing I remember him saying is, “A poem, whether it’s a story poem or picture poem, is simply an accumulation of details. You just start writing about the things you see, the things that happen, the way you feel. Just let one thought lead into another, just the way you think them.” So I take my pen and just let the thoughts come.

Dad was right.

Mama was wrong. I’m sorry, Mama, but you were.

I wish with all my heart you weren’t.

The cancer is making you sicker. Weaker.

When you think no one is looking

I see you bite your lip to try to hide your pain.

I watch you sit to rest, more often than you ever have.

I hear your laughter, treasure your every smile.

I know yours are real; I have to force mine.

I have to pretend I’m happy.

I know you’re not giving up.

You’ve seen other doctors, gotten other opinions.

They all agree.

Chemo won’t help.

Radiation treatments won’t help.

Surgery isn’t an option.

Nothing is left except time. Time and hope.

It seems as if time has wings and is carrying

you away, Mama, far away,

and so fast I can’t keep up.

I don’t want you to leave my sight

but no matter how hard I try

I can’t figure out how to stop time.

I can only hope it’s flying toward a miracle.

I read over what I wrote. I don’t tear the page out and throw it away like I have some other things I’ve tried to write.

I know, though, that I’m not going to show it to Mama.

So much has changed this summer. At least our Friday nights have stayed the same. Mostly. Except on those nights when we go to a football game or a play or visit friends or something, we keep to our Friday night tradition: the four of us in the TV/game room, playing games or watching DVDs and eating popcorn and other snacks, our normal Friday night.

Normal is a strange word. I don’t even know what normal is anymore.

That first Friday, right after I found out about Mama’s cancer, I couldn’t be with Mama and Dad. I just couldn’t. But that was the only time I haven’t been part of our tradition.

Mama and Dad must be picking out funny movies to watch on purpose. I’m glad. It helps me forget for a little while about the bad thing that’s taking over our lives.

Last Friday something different happened. Just a few minutes before the end of the movie, Ken got up and started to leave the room. He didn’t say anything.

Dad picked up the remote. He said, “I’ll pause it until you come back.” We all just figured he was going to the bathroom or something.

“That’s okay,” Ken said. “Keep it running. I have to go to my room. I’m not going to watch the rest.”

“But it’s almost over,” Mama said.

Ken didn’t answer. He just left. The three of us watched the rest of the movie without him.

The movie had a really cool ending. I wished Ken had stayed to see it. He would have liked it. I know he would have. I think Mama and Dad felt bad, too, that he didn’t see it.

Tonight, same time as always, Mama gets out the popcorn popper. I’m not talking about those air poppers that throw out dry, tasteless popcorn, or even microwave popcorn which is sometimes tasteless but sometimes even pretty good if you buy the kind with gobs of butter melted into it. I’m talking about the old dented popcorn pan Mama always uses, with popcorn popped in just the right amount of vegetable
oil and doused with just the right amount of melted butter with just the right amount of the special seasoned salt Mama sprinkles on it.

That’s the kind of popcorn I get to look forward to almost every Friday night. That’s the only night we have it. “We don’t want to every get tired of it,” Mama says every time I beg for it on any other night. “If we pop it more often we’ll get tired of it. It won’t be special anymore.”

I always start pouting when she says that, but deep down I know she’s right. That popcorn—not just the taste but the tradition—is one thing that makes our Friday night family time so special.

“It’s almost time for the movie,” Dad calls out while he gets the DVD ready. “Tell Ken.”

“Ken. Hurry up!” I yell from the hallway. I wait a few seconds for him to come out of his room. He doesn’t even answer.

“Ken!” I shout again.

Nothing.

I finally give up and go to the door of his room. His door is shut, so I knock. I’ve learned not to go in his room without knocking. Even last year I could go in without knocking, but now he gets really mad, like his privacy is the most precious thing in the whole world. Heaven forbid I should open his door and see him in his underwear or something. Like I’ve never seen his underwear before.

And I know he’s not going to be in his room smoking or taking drugs or looking at naked girls on the Internet. Ken’s my little brother. I know him. You can’t be as close as we have for all that time to not know the things he does and doesn’t do.

I knock louder.

“Come on in,” he calls out. “It’s not locked.”

He’s lying on his bed with his earphones on. I’m surprised he heard me at all, as loud as his music is playing. I can even hear it through his earphones, and I’m way across the room.

He takes them off.

“You’ll be as deaf as a stone before you’re in high school,” I say.

“Like it matters,” he says.

“Well, what about Grandma Chambers?” I say. She’s not completely deaf, but she’s close to it. We all have to shout really loud for her to hear anything we say. It’s hard on her, but it’s hard on us, too, because we can’t really carry on a conversation with her. “Do you want to end up like her?”

“I’m not playing it that loud,” he says.

I figure this isn’t the best time to argue with him about his music. “It’s time for the movie. Mama’s doing popcorn and Dad has the movie all ready to go.”

Ken shakes his head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I can’t watch it.”

“It’s Friday night. We all watch it. Mama and Dad are waiting. You can’t disappoint Mama.”

“I don’t want to disappoint her. But I can’t watch a movie. I can’t even watch any television.”

I start to ask why, but I suddenly realize I haven’t seen him watching TV at all in the past week. The last time was when he walked out of the room before the movie was over a week ago.

“But you love movies,” I say. “You love television.”

“That was before,” he says. “I can’t watch anymore.”

“Before what?”

“You know.”

“Okay. Things are different,” I say. “You don’t think I know that?”

He just shrugs.

“Are you just going to stay here and make me go out and tell Mama you don’t want to be with her?”

“Tell her I’m sick.”

“But you’re not,” I say.

“I will be,” he says, “if I go out there and somebody dies in whatever movie we’ll be watching. Like they did in the last one.”

Now I remember. It starts to make sense. Last week’s movie had been a funny one, but there was a scene, just a little one, not important really, where a kid who was invited to a party couldn’t go because
his grandmother had just died. I mean, we hadn’t even met his grandmother in the movie. It’s not like it was any big, sad thing. I remember that Ken walked out right after that.

“Every time I watch something on TV,” Ken says, “somebody dies. I never noticed before. I mean, I did, but it didn’t seem to matter. A dozen guys could get shot in just one hour and I didn’t care. Just so long as the story was exciting, that’s all I cared about. But now I know it does matter. One second a person is breathing and has his whole life ahead of him. The next minute he isn’t. It scares me too much. It’s too sad.”

“But…” That’s as far as I get because he interrupts.

“And I know it’s going to happen. It’s going to happen to Mama.”

“Hurry up in there!” It’s Dad, calling from the TV room.

“Okay!” I call back.

“How about this?” I say. “I’ll go out and find out what we’re going to watch. If it’s something where nobody dies, will you watch? Mama needs you, now more than ever.”

“I don’t know if I can. What if I have to walk out in the middle of the movie? You can’t be sure nobody will die.”

“I know,” I say. “But Mama’s alive. Tonight she
is. That’s all that’s important now.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“For Mama,” I say. “You have to.”

Ken shakes his head. He takes a deep breath. Then he gets up from the bed and clicks off his music. He rubs the back of his hand across his eyes.

The thing is, I know how Ken feels. It’s how my thoughts about the orphans in the play
Annie
changed after Mama got sick.

“It better be a funny movie,” he says. “It had just better.”