Not Easily Broken Read online

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Julie said, shaking Brock’s hand. “My ex is a lawyer, so you never had a chance to begin with.”

  Brock threw up his hands. “No respect. Not a single grain.”

  “Mom.”

  “Sorry, Bryson. I promised him I’d lay off the lawyer jokes,” she explained.

  “Hey, we tell ’em all the time,” Brock said. “Like, there were these three lawyers in a lifeboat—”

  “Okay, okay, down, boy,” Dave said. “Here’s your new key, Julie. And I really want you to think about what I said about letting this guy come play some ball.” He grabbed Bryson’s shoulder. “What about it, homie? You ever think about taking up baseball? I know it’s not as challenging as swimming, but . . .”

  Bryson gave him a doubtful look. “I don’t know, Coach. I’ve played a little, but not on a team or anything. And I don’t have a glove.”

  “Hey, wait a second,” Brock said, trotting toward his car. He came back with a creased, well-worn fielder’s glove. “Try this one on.” He handed it to Bryson.

  “Hey, isn’t that my extra glove?” Dave asked.

  “Yeah. You loaned it to one of the kids and I found it lying by the water fountain after practice last week. I forgot to tell you.”

  “Well, I’ll be.”

  Bryson slid the glove onto his hand. He wiggled it. “I guess it’s okay . . .”

  “No, let me show you,” Dave said, slipping the glove off Bryson and wriggling his fingers into it. “It’s a little tight for my big ol’ hand, but here. What you gotta do is pop it with your fist.” He balled up his right hand and smacked it into the palm of the glove, where the leather was dark and shiny from frequent use. “Like that, see? Just pop that fist in there and that’ll seat the glove on your hand real good.” He handed the glove back to Bryson. “Go ahead and give it a try.”

  Bryson put on the glove and gave it a couple of experimental slugs.

  “Yeah, there you go. Pop it in there real good. You’ll get the feel of it.”

  “Well, I hate to break this up, but it’s time for A-Rod here to get started on his homework,” Julie said, ruffling Bryson’s hair. “Hand over the glove.”

  “No, let him keep it,” Dave said. “It’s just an extra I’ve got for when one of the kids forgets his stuff. He can bring it with him when he comes out to the park.”

  Bryson looked up at his mom. She looked at Dave. “I’d object, but so far I haven’t won a single one of these exchanges.”

  “No, Dave can be pretty bullheaded sometimes,” Brock said. “I’d just humor him if I were you. And that’s coming from a lawyer.”

  She grinned at Brock, and Dave was surprised to feel something a little like jealousy starting up inside him. Naw, that ain’t nothing. Besides, Brock’s too goofy for her; anybody can see that.

  “I guess it’s okay,” Julie said. Bryson grinned and took off for the house before his mom could change her mind.

  They said their good-byes as Dave and Brock headed for the car. Then Julie called to Dave, and he looked back.

  “Thanks so much, Dave. For everything.”

  He smiled at her for a few seconds, then turned. When he got in the car, Brock was giving him a funny look.

  “What?”

  Brock shook his head. “Nothing, man. Never mind.”

  Chapter Ten

  It felt so good to sit behind her desk at the office. If she’d had to stay at home one more week staring at the walls and the TV, Clarice thought she might have lost what was left of her mind. Of course, it also helped when Friday came around and Freddy showed up to take Mama back home.

  She’d finally talked David into driving one of the company pickups until the insurance company made a settlement on his pickup. She’d worked out a way of driving left-footed since the walking brace didn’t have the flexibility to let her operate the gas pedal with her right foot. She’d taken it easy and stayed off the busy streets on the way here, but it was worth all the trouble to be back in the office. Clarice felt the earth right itself; she felt competent and in control. Here at the office, everything in her world sorted itself into the proper categories.

  She looked up and saw Michelle escorting her prospective buyers from the reception area. Clarice looked over the Farbers. They appeared to be plain, non-adventurous people. The husband had pale hair almost the same color as his skin; he wore it in a bad comb-over. Mrs. Farber had a worn, creased look, like somebody who’d been driving into the sun all afternoon. But Michelle was chatting them up like they were Tom Cruise and Sandra Bullock. Clarice hoped she wasn’t telling them about her sex life. The image got caught in her mind, though, and she was glad no one suspected the source of her wide grin when they walked into her office.

  “Clarice, this is Phil and Barb Farber.” Clarice was pretty sure she was the only one who heard the giggle threatening to break out in Michelle’s voice as she said their names. “Folks, this is Clarice Johnson.”

  Clarice shook their hands—limp and clammy though they were—and gestured them into the upholstered armchairs in front of her desk. “Can Michelle get you folks something to drink? No? Well, all right, then, let’s just go over a few things before we go look at some properties, shall we? Thanks, Michelle.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Clarice profiled the Farbers. She already knew from their call-in why they were moving to town and roughly what price range they had in mind. But that was the easy stuff, the basic facts that meant these people would buy from anybody. That kind of information was little more than a commodity. Before she started showing them homes, Clarice wanted to know the kinds of things that got them excited, the little details that would thrill them and transform these wary house shoppers into motivated, eager homebuyers. Though from the look of them, excitement wasn’t a major feature of life with the Farbers.

  “Well, I think that about covers it for now,” Clarice said, jotting a few final notes on her folder. Lord, have mercy. Getting anything useful out of these folks is harder than pulling teeth with tweezers. Oh well. I’ve seen worse . . . I just can’t remember when.

  “Would you like to look at some properties now?” she asked. “My assistant, Michelle, is going to drive us around because I’m still recovering from a little accident a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, I had to wear a walking cast a few years back,” Phil said. “The doctor said I’d be out of it in six weeks, but I ended up wearing it four months.”

  Thank you, Mr. Sunshine.

  “My goodness! Well, I’ll be glad to get this off, but this is such an improvement over the fiberglass one—”

  “Yeah, the insurance paid about half what it was supposed to,” Barb said. “We had to borrow money to pay off Phil’s medical bills.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  They were still sitting in the armchairs; they hadn’t budged since Clarice mentioned looking at houses. She grabbed her crutch and started the process of getting herself up and moving, hoping Phil and Barb would take the hint.

  They watched her like two big blond toads sitting on mushrooms. She started moving from behind her desk and their eyes followed her. She kept thinking about Tweedledum and Tweedledee, but she doubted these two had the gumption to work up any sort of tussle.

  “Well? Are you folks about ready to go?” She gave them a smile that was about a hundred and eighty degrees from what she was feeling.

  Phil squished up out of his chair and then held Barb’s elbow as she got up. The gesture, which Clarice would have never expected of him, struck her as sweet . . . all the more so because it suggested personality and caring—something she’d had no clue to expect with the Farbers.

  Michelle was standing by the door to escort them outside. Michelle had reserved one of the agency’s minivans for this tour; getting them all in and out of Clarice’s Accord would be too much to handle, especially for Clarice. And the minivan seemed like an even better idea now that she’d seen the Farbers.

  Clarice could hardl
y wait for the orthopedist to clear her to start using a cane. She might look like one of the little old ladies at church, but at least a cane wouldn’t be so hard to maneuver. It was giving Clarice a headache in the relatively close quarters of the office. She was always having to swivel her head around to make sure she wasn’t about to knock something over, whack somebody, or trip herself. Fortunately, Michelle was making the obligatory small talk with the Farbers so Clarice could concentrate on navigating the hallway and the lobby. And Phil—sweet Phil!—held the door for them as they went out to the parking lot.

  “Michelle, let’s start over in Tanglewood, all right?” Clarice said when they were all in the minivan. “Barb, there’s a really nice 3–3–2 over there I think you’ll love.” Barb shrugged as Michelle started the vehicle.

  While they drove, Clarice gave them the standard patter about schools, hospitals, museums, and other community services and amenities. She could do this bit with about half her attention. With the other half, she was still thinking about Phil holding Barb’s elbow as she dislodged herself from the armchair in the office.

  Looking at them now sitting beside each other in the second seat of the minivan, Clarice realized that Phil and Barb, nondescript and impassive though they might be, really liked each other. He sat with his arm casually draped along the seat back behind her, and she leaned into him slightly. These two unremarkable people had something Clarice and David didn’t: they had each other. Clarice could easily imagine that Phil and Barb would always be there for each other. There might not be many surprises or thrills along the road, but these two were traveling it together.

  Clarice felt the sadness coming back, oozing out from wherever it had been hiding inside her. She and David had so many advantages: good health, rewarding jobs, a nice home, good friends . . . and even, she liked to think, a reasonable amount of good looks. When the two of them got dressed up and went out someplace nice, people noticed them entering a room.

  So why wasn’t it working?

  They reached the address of the house in Tanglewood and Clarice asked Michelle to go get the key from the lockbox and open the house. She moved up the sidewalk with the Farbers and started giving them the pep talk: lots of built-ins; the previous owners had remodeled the den and screened-in back porch, creating a combination family-entertainment-sun room; new appliances in the kitchen; ceiling fans throughout the house. Next Clarice told them about the new intercom system. Phil and Barb looked at each other and smiled.

  Paydirt! Barb is all about talking to somebody on the other side of the house without having to walk over there.

  Clarice’s hunches about people nearly always paid off.

  They saw Julie and Bryson at church the next Sunday. They were walking up the aisle after the service when Dave heard somebody yelling “Coach! Coach!” He turned around and saw Bryson hurrying toward him, with Julie following in his wake.

  “Hey, Coach, remember what you said about me coming to practice with you sometime?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well . . . Mom says it’s okay if you say it’s okay. So is it okay?”

  Dave looked at Julie. She gave him a little shrug.

  “All right, then. We’ve got a practice next Tuesday after school. Can you make it?”

  “Yeah, I think so. We had a meet this weekend, so practices’ll be light this week.”

  “Cool. Where you want me to pick you up?”

  “I’ll just bring him with me to your house, if it’s not too much trouble,” Julie said. “Clarice and I have a session that day, so he’ll be there waiting for you. About four?”

  “Yeah, we start at four thirty, so four would be good. All right then.” Dave stuck out his hand. “Come on, my man, don’t leave me hangin’.”

  Bryson slapped his palm.

  “I’ll have to show you the rest of the shake later,” Dave said, grinning. Julie gave him a little wave as he turned back toward Clarice.

  “He’s a baseball player?” Clarice said as they walked on.

  “I don’t know. But he wants to come out and try, so I guess we’ll find out. Nice kid, no matter what.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Dave got out of the truck and reached into the bed to pull out the green canvas bag of bats, balls, catcher’s gear, and extra gloves. He slung the bag over his shoulder and started walking toward the rusty chain-link backstop where the boys and Brock waited in a loose half-circle. He heard the passenger door shut behind him and looked back for Bryson.

  The boy was moving forward, but barely. His eyes fastened on the faces staring back at him. He was walking like someone trying to cross a field full of snakes.

  “Come on, Bryson, they not gon’ bite you,” Dave said with a grin. “And if they do, I’ll put my foot alongside somebody’s skinny black butt.”

  Bryson gave him a halfhearted smile and walked a little faster. They got to the backstop and Dave set down the bag with a grunt. “Ya’ll, this is my man Bryson.” He laid a hand on Bryson’s shoulder. “Bryson thinks he might be interested in playing a little ball. Anybody got a problem with that? Good. Bryson, you already know Coach Houseman. Why don’t ya’ll go around and tell Bryson your names?”

  “Jaylen.” “Deshawn.” “Malcolm.” “George.”

  As the boys mouthed their names at Bryson, one after the other, Dave saw it—the look—the dead-eyed, empty-faced expression these kids gave anybody they didn’t know. Especially somebody white. The first time Dave had been able to coax Brock into coming out and helping him with the team, the kids had given Brock the look. It made sense when you thought about it, of course. In the kinds of places some of these kids lived, what sort of second chance did they have if they guessed wrong about somebody? Caution and distance were safest, usually. That was one thing that kept Dave coming back. If these boys ever got a chance to make something of themselves in or out of the hood, it would help to know at least one black male role model who cared enough to keep showing up when he said he would. It would also help them to know it was okay to do something for somebody who couldn’t necessarily do anything for them in return. Trust was a tough sell to these boys, but how could you ever be human without it?

  “Awright. Deshawn, take left field and let’s put Carlos in center.” He turned to Bryson. “Bryson, you want to take a turn in right?”

  Bryson hesitated for a second, then gave him a quick nod. He slipped Dave’s glove on his left hand and gave the pocket a pop with his fist, just like Dave had shown him. Then he turned and started following Deshawn toward left.

  “No, boy, you in right,” one of the kids said, grabbing at Bryson’s shoulder and pointing to right field. “Right field, boy. Right.”

  Bryson mumbled something and started jogging in the correct direction. Dave tried to keep the wince he felt from showing on his face. “Okay, then. Jaylen, take Malcolm over there and start warming up your arm. And don’t let me catch you trying that raggedy curveball you keep telling me about. Just keep it slow and easy. The rest of you start playing some catch while I warm up the fielders. Tim, you catch for me.” Tim usually played right field, but giving him the job of catching incoming balls might keep him from resenting Bryson—for a little while, at least.

  Dave started tapping some easy grounders to the infielders. “Okay, Darius, take it to first, okay?” Darius scooped the two-hopper and hummed it into the glove of the waiting Marcus, hitting him right in the letters. Darius had game, no doubt about it. If he could stay out of trouble and in school, he could make some high school coach sit up straight someday. By the time Marcus flicked the ball to Tim, Dave was already reaching for a ball to hit to George, the shortstop.

  He went around the infield and was pleased that only two throws made Marcus jump off the bag, and one of them was catchable. He pointed the bat at Deshawn, who was waiting out in left with his hands propped on his bent knees. He popped a little blooper that made Deshawn get on his horse and race in toward shallow left to take the ball in the air. He made the catch,
though, and flipped the ball to short as if the catch were strictly routine. Dave grinned; Deshawn had a bad tendency to take little mental vacations out in the field. Might as well wake him up early in the practice. “Yeah, Deshawn, baby, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he called. Deshawn flashed him a grin and hustled back to his position. Dave fungoed one out to center and Carlos barely had to move. He made the catch—with both hands, Dave was glad to see—and tossed the ball in to second.

  Dave turned toward Bryson. “Okay, Bryson, here you go.” He took a little off of it so the ball would bounce in front of Bryson; he wanted to ease him in. Bryson stutter-stepped back and forward for a couple of seconds, then ran for the rolling ball like he had a hellhound on his trail. He grabbed the ball and flung it somewhere in the direction of the infield, sailing it high between first and second base. Marcus would’ve had to be twelve feet tall to have any chance of cutting off the wild throw.

  “That’s whack,” Tim said, shaking his head as Bryson’s throw bounced across the third baseline and Brock jogged over to retrieve it. “Yo, where you find that kid, Coach? Cheerleader camp?”

  “Don’t be all up in my Kool-Aid, dawg,” Dave said in a low voice. “I’m still the coach, you know what I’m sayin’? Good hustle, Bryson,” he called. “Try to hit the first baseman next time, awright?”

  “Aw, man, don’t tell him that, Coach,” Marcus said from first. “He fit’n to tag me on the dome next time.”

  “For real,” somebody said, laughing.

  “Hey, George,” Brock said, tossing the stray ball at Tim. “How about me telling Bryson how you threw the ball into the stands behind third base last week during a game? I’ll bet that lady still has a bruise on her arm.”

  George scowled as the other boys snickered.

  “Ooh, boy, he tagged you straight up, man.”

  “I know that’s right.”

  The guys settled down as Dave took them through the warm-up; he kept them moving enough so they didn’t have breath to waste on talking more smack. And Bryson’s throws got better, though Dave never felt safe hitting him a real fly ball; a concussion didn’t seem like a good souvenir from his first organized baseball practice. Dave rotated the other players on and off the field until everyone had gotten a chance to spend some time fielding grounders or fly balls. After about thirty minutes, he called them in for a batting drill. While Malcolm donned the catcher’s gear and Brock organized the hitting order, Dave took Bryson aside.