Mark Gimenez - Accused

"Damnit!" Scott pointed at the TV. "Who's leaking this stuff?"

"That detective," Bobby said.

Back on the screen: "Earlier today I interviewed Louise, a prostitute who spent three nights in the same cell with Rebecca Fenney."

A hard-looking female face filled the screen. Louise was not a high-priced hooker. She worked the street corners on the north side of Galveston. She said, "Oh, she bad. I seen it in her eyes. She killed that white boy. She guilty as sin."

"Pick and roll, Mr. Fenney," Pajamae whispered.

They were playing basketball on the court next to the house. Three on three: Pajamae, Boo, and Scott versus Bobby, Carlos, and Louis. Sitting in lawn chairs in the shade of the house were the fans: Rebecca, Karen, Consuela, and Maria. Two brown pelicans perched on the rooftop seemed amused. Pajamae was dribbling in place, and Bobby was guarding her. Scott circled the court then came up from behind and took a position right next to Bobby-the "pick"-blocking his path to Pajamae; she darted past Bobby, and Scott pivoted off his pick-the "roll"-and went hard to the basket looking back for Pajamae's bounce pass and-

"Unnnhh."

— collapsed to the concrete. He had rolled right into Louis with a good head of steam; running into a brick wall would have been a more pleasant experience. He first heard Rebecca's voice-"You okay, Scott?" — and then Karen's laughter and her voice-"I peed in my diaper. Maria, you need a clean diaper, too?"

It was the following Sunday, Father's Day, and this father was now stretched out flat on his back on the warm surface staring up at Louis's broad face and the blue sky and white seagulls beyond. Boo's frantic face appeared above him and she cried out, "Oh, my God-is he breathing?"

She dropped to her knees next to him and gently slapped his face.

"A. Scott, speak to me!"

She put her ear to his chest then came up with her arms spread to the heavens.

"He's alive!"

"I'm fine, Boo."

"Oh."

More faces came into view-the amused faces of Bobby and Carlos and finally the frowning face of Pajamae Jones-Fenney. She punched her hips with her fists.

"Damn, Mr. Fenney, can't you run a pick and roll?"

"No. I can't. Not against Louis. And don't cuss."

"Well, you wanna be my daddy, you gonna have to man up on a B-ball court. You ever see homies playin' hoops in the 'hood? You playin' street ball now, mista."

"Pajamae, it's not the NBA finals."

But she had already returned to the game. "Yo, my man." She shot the ball over to Carlos. "Your ball out, bro. We two down." Scott heard her muttering to herself. "Black girl got a white man for a daddy, how she gonna learn basketball good enough to get a college scholarship, tell me that?"

Louis extended a big hand to Scott. He took it, and Louis lifted him to his feet like he was air.

"You okay, Mr. Fenney?"

Scott nodded, but he wasn't sure.

"Boss," Carlos said, "we'll trade Mr. Herrin for Pajamae."

"Thanks a lot, Carlos," Bobby said.

"No offense, Mr. Herrin, but you ain't got no shot."

"I got you out of jail six times."

"That's true. Never mind."

Carlos passed the ball to Bobby, who air-balled a ten-footer, which evoked a "see what I mean" expression from Carlos. Scott grabbed the rebound and passed it over to Pajamae. She faced off Carlos. He spread his legs wide and got down low.

"Come on, girlie, show me what you got?"

Pajamae smiled, made a quick fake right, then passed the ball through Carlos's open legs, picked up the ball behind him, and nailed a banker over Louis.

"That's what I got, homeboy."

" Homeboy? I'm Mexican."

"Pajamae," Scott said, "your mother insisted you use correct English, and you do, except when you're on a basketball court. Then you street talk. What's up with that?"

"Oh. I'm being authentic."

"Authentic?"

"Unh-huh. See, black folks street talk when they play hoops, it's part of the culture. So if I'm gonna be a black basketball star when I grow up, I've got to sound authentic, like I came from the streets. Shoe sponsors love that kind of life story."

It actually sounded reasonable.

"And I'll have to get tattoos."

"Why?"

"You ever see an NBA player without tattoos?"

Boo joined them. "If she gets a tattoo, I'm getting my ears pierced."

"She's not getting a tattoo and you're not getting holes in your ears."

"Shit."

"Don't cuss."

Being a father wasn't easy, on or off a basketball court. Texting, sexting, sex, drugs, cable, profanity, porn, tattoos, NBA, NFL, MLB-there were just too many bad influences in kids' lives these days. But a good parent fought the fight every day. As Scott Fenney had and would. He would get these two girls through middle school, high school, and college, hopefully without any permanent damage or tattoos. He would be there for them when they were tempted or taunted or teased. He would answer their questions about sex honestly. And he would never use drugs.

He would be their father.

"Happy Father's Day, Scott."

Two hours later, Rebecca brought him a bowl of ice cream out on the deck. She sat and watched the waves wash ashore. Just beyond the surf, a guy and a girl cut through the water on a jet ski, moving fast. The girl screamed with either delight or fear.

"Those are fun," Rebecca said. After the jet ski was gone, she said, "Do you still have fun, Scott?"

"Sure."

"But you're broke and you don't have anyone."

"I have fun with the girls."

"Do you have the kind of fun a man needs?"

"I have father fun."

"Is that enough?"

"It may have to be."

"It doesn't have to be, Scott. You can have man fun with me again."

The girls needed a mother, and he needed a woman. Could Rebecca be a mother to Boo again… and to Pajamae? Could she be his wife again? Could they all go back to the way they were, as if the last two years had never happened? As if she had not run off with the golf pro, as if he were not now dead, as if she had not been accused of his murder, as if she had not used cocaine? How could she be a good mother if she were a bad influence? Would that work? Could it ever be the same? Could they have fun again?

And when they went to bed, would Trey lie down with them?

"Pete still winning?" Scott asked.

"He's up by one, on the fourteenth hole."

"Unbelievable. Better eat this inside, see if he can finish it off."

They went inside and found everyone lounging on the couch and chairs and eating cake and ice cream and the girls rolling on the floor laughing hysterically.

"What's so funny?" Scott asked.

"Cialis commercial," Karen said. "They mentioned the possible side effects, you know, 'seek immediate medical help for an erection lasting more than four hours.' That tickled the girls."

"That'd damn sure tickle me," Carlos said. "But I wouldn't call no doctor. I'd throw a party." He gestured at the TV. "What I don't get is, that Cialis commercial always shows the man and woman in separate bathtubs. How can you do it like that?"

"Oh," Bobby said, "what you do is-"

"Bobby!" Karen said. "The girls."

"Oh." To Carlos: "Later."

"When those commercials come on," Scott said, "change the channel."

"They're on every channel," Karen said.

"What's a four-letter word for 'Turkey neighbor'?" Louis said.

"Peas," Carlos said.

"Iran," Bobby said.

"I ain't never had no turkey and iran for Thanksgiving."

"They're countries-Turkey and Iran."

"Oh."

Scott plopped onto the sofa and watched the U.S. Open, which featured pudgy white boys and Tiger playing golf on narrow fairways and fast greens, glamour shots of WAGs in the gallery, and commercials targeting WM squared: fast cars, long drivers, and drugs for prostates that have enlarged and penises that won't. Pete Puckett resorted to his trusty one-iron and hit every fairway and green the final round. On the eighteenth hole, he tapped in a short putt to win.