One Shot Away (29 page)

“Ma, that's the same stuff Pops did.”

“It's a little discount. It beats lutefisk, right?”

Jimmy's not laughing. “You and Pops are like this joke my English teacher told us. A guy gets arrested and tells the police he's not a thief, he's into steel and iron. He steals and his wife irons.”

“That's not nice.”

“Except you stopped ironing.”

“It's a five-dollar discount, for heaven's sake,” she says. “And I would appreciate it if you didn't announce this to your brother. I don't need him on my back too.”

“What if you get caught? You could get arrested.”

“They would never arrest me for a discounted ham.”

“What if you lose your job? That would be bad enough, wouldn't it?” He wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Doesn't she know that something has been taken from him, not just his father, but part of him? Today, in the supermarket men's room mirror, two Jimmy O'Sheas stared at him—one wrestling Jimmy, who must win, will win, and will leave Molly Pitcher, and this other boy who once suspected his father might be a crook and now knows the truth. “It's not just Pops, it's everything,” he says.

“Repeat after me: This is tem-po-rary. Temporary.”

“It's not only this job.” He pulls the minivan from the lot.

“When your father is released we'll see …”

“When is the big question, isn't it?” His father has twenty-five months left, and is trying for a sentence reduction with a new lawyer. Each court action costs two weeks of his mother's salary. She's taken a second mortgage. His mother thinks Pops is going to emerge from jail with a brand-new set of rules to live by, but can time wipe away who you are or what you've done?

She takes his hand. “Doesn't everyone deserve a second chance? You got one.”

Maybe she's right. His father could learn from his mistakes, but it's too soon to think about it.

“Tonight's the wrestling dinner,” she says. “We should put our problems on hold and have a good time.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Things could be worse. I heard Diggy—”

“Is that the way I look to you?” he asks. “In the same league as Diggy?”

“No,” she says. “I didn't mean it that way.”

“For the record”—his voice explodes in the car—“I didn't steal anyone's dog. Except for the single time when Pops convinced me to help him, I never stole anything in my life. Diggy quit. I would never quit. So don't include me with Diggy.” He makes a sharp right onto Molly Pitcher Road. He's doing sixty in a forty-mile-an-hour zone.

“Okay, I'm sorry,” she says in a small voice.

T
HE
S
PARTA
C
ATERING
H
ALL IS BEHIND A NEW SHOPPING CENTER.
The neon sign, with half its letters dark, twinkles next to a highway overpass. From the backseat, Ricky sounds out the sign: “Co—tail Lounge, -appy -our every Hour.” He leans into the front. “What's that mean?”

“It means you shouldn't act like a comedian tonight,” snaps Jimmy.

“Oh, your brother's cute.” Trish examines her face in a folding makeup mirror. She touches her fingertip to her tongue and rubs it over her eyebrows. “Let's try to be civil to each other.”

“Remember last year?” Ricky laughs. “Pops took us for haircuts in the afternoon and he got his sideburns cut off and there were white patches on his face.”

“And he wouldn't let me put a little makeup on him,” says Trish.

“I bet he doesn't get his hair cut the whole time he's in there,” says Ricky.

Trish snaps the makeup case closed. “Your father will be home before you know it.” She turns to Jimmy and lifts her eyebrows, daring him to disagree.

Home before you know it
is her mantra. Jimmy will be a sophomore in college when his father's up for parole. That's not “before you know it.”

They pull next to Greco's Jeep. Jimmy jams the car into park and shuts off the engine. “Let's take a break from talking about Pops.”

“We weren't talking about him,” says Trish, like she's explaining to a two-year-old. “I was saying …”

Jimmy gets out, considers waiting for them, then strides across the parking lot toward the hall, knowing it's going to piss her off. He wants to save a table near the dais. For three years, he's attended the dinners and listened to the coach make speeches and the seniors announce their college plans. Now it's his turn.

“Hey, wait up!”

Ricky chases after him. Jimmy's hand-me-down soccer shirt flaps above Ricky's knees. “Jimmy, wait for Ma.”

“Can't we walk in like a family?” yells Trish, crossing the parking lot in high heels, a black skirt, and a puffy vinyl jacket.

Jimmy stops and Ricky catches up to him.

“I want to take pictures for your father,” she says.

“Here?” asks Ricky.

“Yes, in front of the fountain. We took pictures there last year.”

Trish asks a waitress on her way into the hall to take their picture. Jimmy buttons his sport jacket in front of a six-foot-tall concrete Poseidon with one arm raised at the dark sky. The jacket is an Italian wool blend. A closeout, but a name brand, and he feels good in it.

“Closer,” says the waitress holding the camera.

Jimmy puts his arm around his mother and brother.

“Say cheese,” calls the waitress.

“Butt cheese,” says Ricky.

Everyone smiles. The waitress snaps the photo.

The Olympian Room is classy: gold drapes, red carpeting, white tablecloths with red napkins, and fresh-cut flowers. A warm feeling floods Jimmy's fingers and face. He crosses the dance floor to the gleaming gold trophies and row of silver and bronze medals. Ricky dashes off toward the pitchers of soda on the bar. Jimmy won last year's “Most Valuable Wrestler” trophy, and he doesn't care if he wins it again. He's already earned a scholarship and is the only wrestler in his district who qualified for the State Tournament in Atlantic City. The other two trophies are for “Best Sportsman” and “Most Improved Wrestler.” Jimmy's sure Trevor will receive “Most Improved.” The medals are for “Most Exciting Match” and “Most Promising Wrestler.” Thick red-and-white varsity letters are placed in front of the trophies.

Greco folds white cards for the nameplates on the dais. “Here he is,” he says, “first one to arrive.”

Jimmy smiles broadly.

“You look snazzy.” Greco squeezes Jimmy's shoulder.

“Is that a compliment?”

“It used to be.” He swats him with a nameplate.

“So this is the big night,” says Trish.

“The end of a wrestling dynasty.” Greco winks at Jimmy. “All Jimmy has to do now is take a little ride down the Garden State to Atlantic City and win.”

“That's all,” says Jimmy, playing along.

Little Gino comes across the hall in a tight blue suit that looks like he wore it to his First Communion. He tugs Jimmy's arm. “I've got to tell you something.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes at Greco and heads away.

“I heard Diggy's in the parking lot.” Gino's eyes are wide with fear.

F
ROM INSIDE HIS
M
USTANG,
D
IGGY WATCHES THE WRESTLERS
enter the hall with their parents. Trevor passes in a stiff new suit. “Chief Big Shit,” says Diggy.

Jane dials in her lipstick and snaps on the top. “Leave him alone, he's harmless.”

“More like my kryptonite,” says Diggy.

“I'll call you when it's over,” she says. “You sure you'll be all right?”

Diggy isn't sure. He's sweating and his hands are moist on the steering wheel. It's not missing the dinner that bothers him. It's everything else. Greco passes him in the hall like he doesn't exist. Gino and Bones don't return his texts. Trevor Crow has a fan club. And Diggy didn't get into Springfield. Randy said Diggy had no one to blame but himself. His class rank is in the lower bottom third. “Let me put it this way,” said Randy, “if the school was a skyscraper, you'd be just above the trees.” The guidance counselor told him not to worry and recommended a refrigeration trade school or community college. His mother enrolled him in a college entrance refresher course, hoping he could raise his SAT scores, but Diggy didn't have the energy to even copy from the blackboard. Ninth-grade algebra and tenth-grade geometry theorems, stuff he once knew—gone.

“I don't have to go.” Jane studies his face.

Diggy's sure if he tells her not to go, she'll stay with him. “You're the team's manager,” he says. “You earned it. The guys always chip in for flowers, and you know Greco got you a plaque.”

“I know.” She sighs.

“Just see if you can bring the guys out for a toast, or something.” He pats a brown paper bag on the floor in the backseat of the car. “I've been to plenty of those dinners. Do you think I need another plate of limp broccoli and rubber chicken?”

“What if they won't come?” asks Jane.

“I didn't do anything to Jimmy or Bones. But if they don't want to”—he shrugs—“I'll have a party by myself.”

“So you're going to wait here the whole time?”

“Don't worry about me. Randy gave me the night off. I'll have a couple of beers and you can drive me home.” Saying this makes him feel like he's not Diggy Masters anymore, but some poser. Why should Randy have any control over his life? Randy, who barely talks to him, Randy, who told him “you're dead to me” after he quit the team, has him interning at the dealership. Stretched across the leather sofa, Diggy listened to Randy's speech about responsibility and earning a living in “the real world.” Diggy ignored him and continued channel surfing. Randy grabbed the remote from his hand, smashed it on the fireplace bricks, and yelled, “You're not lying on the goddamn couch every afternoon!”

Diggy goes to the dealership after school on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays and stays till closing time. He wears a tie and a bright blue blazer with the Range Rover insignia on his breast pocket. His mother, trying to keep the peace, says he's got to give it a month. “You have to get used to it,” she says. Diggy hasn't told Nick. And yes, it's boring as hell. The other salesmen won't let him near a customer. Diggy wanders around the shiny square cars thinking about Jane and what she might be doing. He misses the pin-or-be-pinned pressure of the wrestling season, the feeling of urgency. After a fast-food dinner in the break room, he sneaks to the back of the lot, gets in a car, and plays video games on his iPhone or talks to Jane. Randy's too busy to care. He keeps saying, “Shadow someone, keep your eyes open and your mouth zipped.”

Diggy takes Jane's hand. She's wearing a silver friendship ring with a heart-shaped blue topaz on her right index finger. Diggy put the ring box in four larger boxes and wrapped each with different paper. She had no idea what was inside and kept ripping the paper on each box.

“I did tell you I love it, right?” she says maybe for the hundredth time that week.

He wants to kiss her but watches Pancakes cross in front of the Mustang. He's wearing a plaid jacket and baggy jeans. He doesn't notice Diggy and Jane in the car's dark interior.

“I think I saw him in ‘Night of the Walking Couch,'” says Jane.

Diggy thinks about making a scene, just showing up at the dinner as Jane's guest. He could stroll in with her hooked on his arm, like a full-fledged couple. But no one would talk to him and he'd ruin Jane's night. Greco would ask him to leave because he didn't buy a guest ticket. Greco wouldn't make an exception.

Bones passes by with his mother trailing. He's wearing a baggy white buttondown shirt with the tails out and a tie with jeans and white unlaced Nikes. Diggy is tempted to yell, “Where's your bass?” But he's afraid Bones would look at him like he's some loser sitting in the parking lot with nothing better to do.

“You should get going,” he says to Jane.

“Well, if you're sure you're going to be all right....” She climbs from the car slowly, with her eyes on him. “I'll text you.”

She steps in front of the car and poses like a dancer with one hand raised, her knee lifted, and her head tilted to her shoulder. She's pushing a pop star-at-the-MTV-Video-Music-Awards look in fur-topped boots, miniskirt, and blouse with a leopard collar and cuffs. She's going to blow them away.

J
ANE TAPS ON
D
IGGY'S WINDOW.
“L
OOK WHO
I
FOUND,” SHE
singsongs.

The door locks snap up. Jane folds the front seat forward and climbs into the back of the Mustang. Jimmy takes shotgun. Diggy smiles in the interior light. Between his legs is an open bottle of beer. “I was starting to think you guys were dissing me,” he says.