Craig Davidson - Rust and Bone - Stories

“The dagger!” screams the announcer. “Oh lord, he hits the dagger! ”

The crowd breaks up, drifting away in twos and threes to bars and parks and restaurants. A work crew dismantles the nets and sound equipment, packing everything into cube vans to truck to the next venue.

“Great game, son.” Somehow I’ve managed to slop beer down myself so it looks I’ve pissed my pants. Try to pawn it off as excitement. “A real barnburner—look, you got me sweating buckets.”

Jason’s sitting on the curb with his teammates. “Yeah, guess it was a pretty good one.”

To Kevin and big Al: “Lucky Jason was here to drag your asses out of the fire, huh?”

They don’t reply but instead pull off their shoes and socks, donning summer sandals. Big Al’s toenails thick yellow and thorny, curling over his toes like armor plating.

“What say I take you boys out for dinner?” I offer breezily. “A champion’s feast.”

“That’s okay,” Jason says. “Kev’s parents are having a barbecue. They’ve got a pool.”

“A pool? How suburban.” Jam one hand in my pocket, scratch the nape of my neck with the other. “So Kev, where’s your folks’ place at?”

Kevin hooks a thumb over his shoulder, an ambiguous gesture that could conceivably indicate the city’s southern edge, the nearest town, or Latin America.

“Could I tag along?”

Jason sits with his legs spread, head hanging between his knees. “I don’t know. They sort of, like, only did enough shopping for, y’know, us three.”

“Well, wouldn’t come empty-handed. I could grab some burgers, or … Cheetos.”

“You see, it’s like, we kind of got a full car. Y’know, Al and me and all our gear and stuff. Kev’s only got a Neon, right?”

“We could squeeze, couldn’t we? Get buddy-buddy?”

“I don’t know. Gotta do some running around first.”

“I love running around. It’s good for the heart.”

Without looking up, Jason says, “Dad, listen, Kev’s still on probation—his license, right?—so, it’s like, he can’t have anyone in his car who’s been drinking. If the cops pull us over, Kev’ll get his license suspended.”

“Oh. Alrighty then.” Stare into the sky, directly into the afternoon sun. Close my eyes and the ghostly afterimage burns there as a sizzling imprint, searing corona dancing with winking fairylights.

The boys gather their bags and waterbottles. Shake Kev and Al’s hands, hug my son. His skin smells of other bodies, the sweat of strangers. Used to love the smell of his hands after practice, the scent of sweat and leather commingled. When I let him go the flesh around his eyes is red and swollen and it gets me thinking of that distant afternoon, grape soda and a sense of horrible pressure.

“Great game,” I tell him. “You’re gonna show ’em all one day.”

He walks down the street, hitching the duffel up on his shoulder. Charting his departure, it’s as though I’m seeing him through the ass end of a telescope: this tiny figure distorted by an unseen convex, turning the corner now, gone. Sun high in the afternoon sky, brilliant and hostile, beer’s all gone and it’s the middle of the day though it feels like it should be later, much later and near dusk and it dawns on me I’ve nothing to do, nowhere to be, the day stretching out bright and interminable with no clear goal or closure in sight.

NIGHTTIME AT THE KNIGHTWOOD ARMS subsidized housing complex. My bedroom window overlooks a dilapidated basketball court, tarmac seized and buckled, nets rotted from the hoops. Early mornings I’ll head down and shoot baskets beneath a lightening sky, mist falling through the courtyard’s arc-sodium lamp to create a cool glittering nimbus. Often someone’ll crack a window in one of the overhanging units, Knock it off with the damn bouncity-bounce . Don’t make much fuss anymore, just go back to my room.

Eleven o’clock or so and the bottle’s almost empty when the phone rings.

“Hey,” Jason says. “It’s me.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Yeah, well, wanted to talk to you about something.”

Good news, I’m guessing: Duke, Kentucky, UConn. “Your old man’s all ears.”

“Well, it’s like, I’ve decided to not play ball.”

“You mean you’re going to take the year off?” Try to remain calm. “Don’t know that’s the best idea, kiddo—gonna want to keep in the mix.”

“No, I sort of mean, like … ever . I mean, for ever.”

“Forever? Don’t get you.”

The mouthpiece is shielded. Jason’s muffled voice, then his mother’s, then Jason’s back on the line. “I’m sick of it. Sick of basketball. Don’t want to play anymore.”

“Well,” I struggle, “that’s … sort of a childish attitude, son. I don’t always like my job, but it’s my job, so I do it. That’s the way the world … works .”

A sigh. “You know, there are other things in life. Lots of jobs out there.”

“Yeah, well, like what?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I was thinking maybe … a vet?”

“You mean … a veterinarian?”

“Uh-huh. Like that, or something.”

“Oh. Well, that’s … y’know … that’s grand. The sick cats and everything. A grand goal.”

“Anyway. Just thought I’d tell you.”

“Yeah. Well … thanks. What say you sit on it a bit, Jason, let it stew awhile. Who knows—might change your mind.”

“No, I don’t think so. Alright, goodbye.”

“All I’m saying is—”

But the line’s already dead. Hang up and lie back on the mattress, stare out at the starblown sky.

When Jason was a kid I bought him this mechanical piggy bank. You’d set a coin in the cup-shaped hand of a metal basketball player, pull the lever to release a spring and the player deposited the coin in a cast-iron hoop. Jason loved the damn thing. Sit him on the floor with a handful of pennies: hours of mindless amusement. Every so often I’d have to quit whatever I was doing to unscrew the bottom, dump the coins so Jason could start over. The snak-clanggg! of the mechanism got annoying after the first half-hour and I would’ve taken it away if Jason wasn’t so small and frail and I so intent on honing that fascination. There were other toys, a whole closetful, but he chose basketball. Right from the get-go. And yeah, I encouraged it—what’s a father supposed to do? Guide his kid towards any natural inclination, gently at first, then as required. If that’s what your kid’s born to do, what other choice do you really have?

All I’m saying is, I’m no monster, okay? As a father, you only ever want what’s best for your boy. That’s your job —the greatest job of your life. All you want is that your kid be happy, and healthy, and follow the good path. That’s all I did: kept him on the good path. I’m a great father. A damn fine dad. Swear it on a stack of bibles.

So my boy wants to be a veterinarian, does he? Well it’s a tough racket, plenty of competition, no cakewalk by a longshot. Don’t I know a guy out Welland way who’s a taxidermist? Sure, Adam somebody-or-other, stuffs geese and trout and I don’t know—bobcats? Ought to shoot him a call, see if me and Jason can’t pop by, poke around a bit. I mean, you want to be a doctor, got to know your way around cadavers, right? It’s the same principle. Adam’s one easygoing sonofabitch; doubt he’ll mind.

Yeah, that’s just what I’ll do. Finish off this bottle, hunt up that number, make the call. I mean, hey, sure it comes as a shock, but nobody can call Hank Mikan a man of inflexible fiber. When life hands you lemons, make lemonade. Life offers sour grapes, make sweet wine. A veterinarian, huh? Well, that’s noble . Damn noble . And hey, money ain’t half-bad either.