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You hear his truck in the driveway, his boots on the walk. The dull thud of his game-bag thumping the door as he fiddles with the lock, only to realize—to remember—that you’re here, and you’ve left the door open.
Tim, not Billy, keeps walking back into your life.
The old house is damn depressing, but this boy of yours grew up into somebody who can make something of himself. Something you can make something out of, maybe, if it makes sense for you to stay. You’re not sure about that yet. There aren’t any good joints in Dillon for you to shoot the breeze, to take a real shot at anything.
Put another way, you don’t think sober and Dillon go together.
Tim will need to understand that; Billy never did. ‘Course, Billy’s a drunk now himself. Can’t hold a job. Can’t get free of the splotchy flush, the bloodshot eyes.
Tim, on the other hand, knows how to drink like a man.
“Long day, Timmy?”
He has a smile for you quicker than a word, which has always been his way. You’re conscious of the fact that his smiles can go missing, too: his no-good bitch of a mother left a mess that you couldn’t clean up by staying, real adult stuff. He took it hard.
Hey, you weren’t perfect, you’ll never say you were, but you couldn’t bring him to Dallas or San Antonio or Corpus or any of the other places you’ve needed to be. Under the influence of Billy’s bitterness, it’s a real testament to the kind of kid Timmy is that he’s so ready to make things right.
“Yeah, long enough,” he says. “Coach has me babysitting these JV kids.”
“They up to snuff?”
He snorts a laugh on his way to the fridge. “Keep dreaming.” The familiar pop and ping of an opened beer follows, and you shut your eyes briefly. Savoring. Then Tim says, “They’re just dumb and clumsy. Coach thinks they’ll learn.”
“Why’d he put you in charge of ‘em?”
He’s quiet again. Then,
“I’m a team captain. Coach says that makes me a leader.”
Here’s an opportunity. “You’re a leader, no doubt.” You shrug, trying to infuse it with generosity you don’t feel for a man you’ve only seen across a room, holding everyone’s attention just because of a job he’s managed to hold onto.
A job he’s gone and screwed up already, putting a kid like Jason Street in a wheelchair.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You should be leading on the field, though.” You shake your head. “Not dragging a tail of some runny-nosed brats who don’t know a dive from a draw.”
“Maybe.” Tim sips his beer, sets it down. “Coach knows what he’s doing, though.”
That has an effect: a spark lighting in your belly. Not that you show it. You say,
“Oh, I’m sure.” Then you have another idea, pull a pack of cards out of your pocket.
Might as well practice the art of the bluff.