A Jacks - Passion_s Her Game

How long ago was it that she had stopped ignoring me? When had it first happened? Not the second time Leighton was in the hospital. No, it was the first time, in Pittsburgh, when he'd busted a couple of ribs. I went to see him and she was there in the room with him.

"Matt, I don't think you've ever met. This is my wife, Joan."

I looked at her, straight into those big blue eyes that just went on looking right through me.

"Oh, I think we've met," I said. "The team party."

"I don't remember," she said.

"How's it going?" I asked Leighton.

"Hell, I'll play in a week. Flying back tonight?"

I nodded and looked at Joan. I didn't expect to see her here. I figured she'd be back in Minneapolis with all the other Viking wives. Leighton must have seen my puzzled look because he said: "Joan's folks live just out of Pittsburgh, in Chatsworth, so she flew down for the game."

"How nice," I said.

"It was," she said. There was an edge in her voice.

"Ah, come on, honey," said Leighton. "I'm only in the hospital overnight."

"I know. I know," she said. "Then next month you'll be in again."

"Lay off," Leighton said in a weary voice.

"He'll be okay," I told her and she turned her face away and looked out the window while Leighton and I started talking about the game. We'd won 13-10, using screen passes to set up the running game, but Leighton had dropped a couple flare passes and I thought we better iron out the matter now, even if he were in the hospital.

"What was the trouble?" I asked. "You never drop that ball on a flare pass."

He looked away, ashamed, like I'd stuck a knife in him.

"Well, think about it," I said. "Stiff fingers?" "No, they're okay. Maybe I was just pressing."

"Hell, you've caught that flare too many times to press."

He shook his head and I saw his wife glance at him and then quickly look away.

"Forget it," I said. I looked at my watch. "I better get going. Have to check out and catch the plane."

I picked up the telephone and dialed for a taxi.

"Send a cab to -" I started to say when Leighton reached across to the stand, put his hand down on the phone and cut the connection.

"Save your money," he said. "Joan's got her father's car. She'll give you a lift."

I raised both hands to protest the offer.

"I'll be happy to," she said.

I damn near fell over. I know I blinked I was so damn astonished. I looked at her, but she didn't bat an eyelash. Just looked at me with that cool smile and said, "Really, no trouble at all."

She rose, leaned over the bed, kissed Leighton on the cheek and then on the lips, but it wasn't much of a kiss, not quite a peck, but not a real deep kiss, either, kind of a routine warm peck.

What the hell, I thought, maybe that beautiful body's frozen. Maybe that's why he's dropping passes. His old lady's got her legs crossed. All that body and She didn't say anything on the elevator going downstairs. Nor did I. She got in behind the wheel and I got in beside and told her the name of the motel but she knew it anyway. I thought it might break the ice, but the freeze was so deep in the car I thought it was February in Minnesota. She just nodded her head and we went tooling along the freeway, both of us looking straight ahead.

That beautiful ass and tits, I thought, and she's an iceberg. Ah, to hell with the bitch. I'd break her ice.

"I understand you won a lot of contests here down east before you were married," I said.

"What contests?" Her voice was cold, harsh, bitter.

"Miss Glacier of the Decade," I said.

"Don't be funny!" she said in a furious voice. "Don't you try to be funny with me for one second!"

"The guy's got busted ribs and maybe a concussion and you kiss him like he had a skin disease."

"A lot you know!" she said. Her-voice filled with cold rage.

"No wonder he drops flare passes."

"Shut up!"

"I know the type," I said. "Thinks her ass is Baked Alaska and we all ought to come running with spoons."

"Shut up!" she screamed, and lashed out with her right hand and back handed me across the mouth with her wrist. I tasted blood.

She was weaving all over the freeway and everybody in Pittsburgh was honking at her. I grabbed the wheel and she grabbed it back and steered us back into the lane where we belonged.

"If you want to commit suicide, I'll take a cab," I said.

"You and your big mouth."

"You and your frozen tits and ass. No wonder your husband's dropping easy passes."

"Just shut up, please," she said quietly, but I could hear her breathing fast, almost panting, controlling her rage, keeping her eyes straight ahead, her knuckles clenched white around the steering wheel. I watched her. She looked r "I'm sorry," I said. "What's the trouble? What's eating him?"

She said, "Please. Just be quiet."

"Hell, if it's the team that's going to get hurt, maybe. I can do something about it."

"Just don't talk," she said. "I'll tell you. Not now."

"Where?"

"When we get to the motel. Please."

I let her think. She did about five minutes of thinking going along the freeway.

I didn't look at her, nor say anything. I just let her think, and then I heard this sound coming from her. At first I didn't know what it was.

I looked at her and I saw her crying.

"What the hell," I said, turning toward her. She was making a terrible noise, like crying, only like an animal crying.

She pushed me away. So I just sat back and let her cry. I listened to her cry all the way into the parking lot of the motel.

She stopped the car and I turned the keys in the ignition. And she was really letting it hang out all the way now. Whatever it was. God, I didn't know. She was sobbing, with her face down on her hands on the steering wheel, her shoulders shaking with each sob.

I put my arm around her. She just went on crying and shaking.

I got out of the car and went around to her side and opened her door. I put my hand on her shoulder and lifted her out. She leaned against me like she'd been shot, staggering a little, just limp, and I put my arm around her waist. She reminded me of helping a tackle off the field in college. He was gone, like he was completely air sick or half knocked out, with some legs left, but not much, just sagging against me. That's the way I got her to the door of the motel.

Inside she flopped away from me like a dead fish and fell face down on the bed. For a second I thought she was ill, not with tears, but with a fever or something like that.

But that wasn't it. Not quite. It was her heart, all right. The trouble was there was nothing wrong with it that her husband couldn't fix but he hadn't beep able to fix it.

I went into the bathroom and took a piss and got a couple of glasses. She was still lying on the bed when I walked past her and went outside and down to the end of the building where the ice machine stood.

She was still lying face down on the bed when I came back, but she wasn't making any noise, so I fixed a couple of drinks, just Old Crow and plain water.

I lifted her up. "Here." I put the glass in her hand. She looked dead, glassy eyeballs just staring, looking past over her hand with the glass in it, her wrist so limp I thought she'd drop the glass until I reached down and put the rim against her lips.

She took a big swallow, then another, then she sat blankly staring at the wall, only her eyes weren't quite as blank and gone looking as before the two big swallows.

"Take another drink," I said. I took one, but she didn't move. Just sat there staring at the wall.

"Come on," I said and lifted the glass to her lips.

She threw the glass of booze in my face and laughed, a real crazy laugh, almost cackling. I thought, Jesus, this is all I need, to call the men in their white suits and have her hauled away and some newspaper reporter picks up the story from the hospital.