Matt Cowper - The Clerk

It was said so simply, and with such easy confidence, that Frank Copeland was silenced. Who was this mature young man in front of him? Last year, Dennis would have replied with a humble “Yes, Grandpa,” but now he disregarded Frank’s hard-earned advice with the certainty of someone infinitely wiser. Which was impossible. Frank Copeland was a successful businessman who had retired to a pleasant life in Florida, while this kid had done nothing except play video games and pop zits.

Thomas, meanwhile, thought back to his own athletic career. He’d played baseball and basketball for a few years, but quit when he was in middle school. The coaches, he found, did not really believe that “hard work beats talent that don’t work hard.” The kids with the most talent played, and if they faltered, their only punishment was a mild scolding. Meanwhile, the lesser-talented athletes (Thomas being one of these) grinded day in and day out, galloping across the hardwood and winning wind sprints, or diving after pop flies in the outfield — and when game time came, they sat on the bench, where they were expected to cheer and congratulate their contemptuous starting teammates.

He felt like he should say something now, to let Dennis know not everyone shared Frank Copeland’s vision of athletics as shapers of men.

“I agree with Dennis,” he said. “I never got much out of sports either, and the Real World, when you think about it, isn’t like a basketball game at all.”

“Maybe if you had tried harder, brother,” Emily said snarkily, “you would’ve gotten more out of it.”

“Oh, I tried as hard as anyone,” Thomas said, not to be baited. “Dad can tell you. You remember watching me play, don’t you? That is, when you could get away from the store.”

“Yes, I do,” his father glumly replied. “You did put in a good effort.” His son had tried hard, at least the few times Frank had gone to his practices or games, but he’d never gotten the playing time he deserved. Frank Copeland had not been a delusional parent who thought his unathletic child should play every minute of every game. He’d known his son’s jump shot was ugly, almost a comedy act, and he’d known Thomas couldn’t hit a curveball to save his life. But, like Dennis, apparently, Thomas could rebound, and his defense was fierce, and if a cocky or just plain dumb pitcher threw him a fastball, he could tear the cover off the ball. His son would have been an excellent sixth man, or a dangerous pinch hitter, but basketball quarters ticked off and baseball innings slid by, and Thomas sat on the bench.

It wasn’t right, and to Frank Copeland, who believed that hard work had to win out, no matter what, it was an aberration that couldn’t stand. He tried talking with the coaches, but they dismissed him with the same banalities they used on their players. Frank Copeland stewed, but he could do nothing to change the situation.

He didn’t like being reminded of his powerlessness, especially since it directly contradicted what he’d been saying about sports, so he said no more, and poked at his peas listlessly.

Jean noticed the sudden onset of melancholy in her husband, and she rushed to counter it.

“Well, whatever you decide to do, Dennis,” she said, pointing her fork at her grandson for emphasis, “I’m sure it’ll be the right decision. We adults don’t give you young people enough credit, but I know you, in particular, have a good head on your shoulders, and I’m confident you won’t do anything rash.”

“Thanks, Grandma,” Dennis replied through a mouthful of meatball.

“ He won’t do anything rash?” Emily asked in exaggerated disbelief. “Mom, if you knew what I’ve had to deal with this past year…”

Thomas didn’t bother to hide his grin. Judging from what little he’d seen so far, she’d had to deal with quite a bit.

“Like what, dear?” Jean asked.

“First, there was that fight…”

“It wasn’t a fight ,” Dennis said, as if he were explaining a vocabulary word to a hopelessly dense child. “I punched a kid and he fell down, and he didn’t feel like getting up and getting punched again.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a strong punch,” Thomas said approvingly.

“Yeah, I guess — or the kid had a glass jaw.”

“Or both.”

“Thomas!” Emily snapped. “Don’t encourage my son to solve his problems with violence.”

“Since when have you been a pacifist?” Thomas said. “Now, I don’t know exactly what happened, but a kid’s gotta protect himself. And I remember you getting in a few scraps back in the day. In fact, I bet I know of a few instances that mom and dad never even heard about.”

Dennis and Dan leaned forward ever so slightly. Over the years, Emily had built up a mythology around her past. She had been the Golden Child, and had cruised through school with incomparable ease. Her peers loved her, and she loved them. She’d never been disciplined, and she never brought home a grade lower than a B+. Dennis and Dan both believed this was horseshit, but neither of them could call her on it; Dennis, of course, wasn’t yet born when all this was happening, and Dan hadn’t met Emily until they were both in college. They were both ignorant regarding her true past. But the members of the Copeland family weren’t, and their recollections were always listened to intently.

“Thomas, don’t bring up my past,” Emily warned, “or I’ll bring up yours.”

“That’s fine,” Thomas replied, shrugging. “I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

“What do you mean, fights we never heard of?” Jean asked apprehensively.

“Oh, you know,” Thomas said wickedly, “like that one fight after school — believe Emily was in eighth grade — because so-and-so’s boyfriend had a crush on Emily, and so-and-so wanted to make Emily pay…”

“Thomas!” Emily snapped again.

“No, Mom, let him keep going,” Dennis said jauntily. “We love hearing these old family tales. Right, Dad?”

Dan Dowling was wise enough to remain silent.

“Your mother was a little sparkplug back then,” Thomas said. “Kind of like she is now, but imagine her personality in a teenage body.”

“That would be wicked,” Dennis said. “So she got in a lot of fights?”

“Not really,” Thomas admitted. “I’m just riling her up. But she was fierce, and she didn’t care who got in her way — teacher, student, parent, whoever. Again, like she is now.”

This was meant as a compliment, sort of, but, at this moment, Emily’s mind would not have registered a compliment had it been delivered to her by the President in a fawning speech. She tapped her knife against her plate and glared at her brother. Clink, clink, clink, clink-clink, clink… it seemed to be Morse code for “I’m going to murder you once you fall asleep.”

“What about boyfriends?” Dennis asked. “Did she ever date?”

This topic had been discussed a few times in previous years, but never in as much detail as Dan and Dennis would have liked, because Emily had nipped the conversation in the bud. Maybe this time they’d learn some new, juicy tidbits. Dan was especially interested; he suspected his wife had been promiscuous before she met him (and he suspected she had a few paramours now, but he had no proof), though she always maintained she’d only had a few “worthless” boyfriends. He watched his brother-in-law closely; even the slightest involuntarily tic might give something away.

“Well, I remember her first boyfriend,” Thomas said, playfully drawing a heart in the air with both hands. “His name was Brett Hickman…”

To everyone’s surprise, Emily stood up quickly, knocking her chair down. Her knife clattered against her plate, then fell onto the floor, taking a few morsels of food with it. She exited the dining room, stomped down the hall, and stomped up the stairs. When she slammed her bedroom door shut, it rattled the whole house.