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.The buck’s dead eyes seemed to follow me across the room.Next to the woodstove was an old brown La-Z-Boy recliner.I followed voices into the back room.Buzzy’s father was sitting on the edge of the bed, back straight, collarbones at attention.His skin hung on him like someone else’s suit, as if the pith and marrow of his once powerful frame had been sucked out, leaving a haggard, poorly fitted husk.His blond hair was striped with occasional gray, which made his miner-white skin seem almost transparent.His breathing was ragged, urgent.He looked up at me with miner’s eyes.Buzzy was clearly taken aback by my arrival.“What are you doin here?” he asked.His usual friendly tone was suspicious, questioning.“I haven’t seen you around and I was up at the tree house, so I thought I’d just walk over the mountain and see how you are doing.”“I’m helpin my daddy to his sick chair is how I’m doin,” he said and carefully held his father’s thin upper arms as he tried to stand.Mr.Fink was wearing worn-out blue pajamas; on his long, thin feet were dirty white hospital slippers.He shuffled one foot forward, then another.Buzzy grabbed the handle of an oxygen trolley and pulled it forward—one wheel squealed and shuddered like a bad shopping cart.I backed out of the room to give them space.Isak Fink’s condition stunned me to silence.I imagined the way he must have been before—the way Buzzy surely would be.Tall and thick; jagged face, powerful arms and shoulders; sturdy legs and a purposeful stride.I saw it all in that single instant the way you can sometimes see the past in the stones of a ruined castle—the glorious battles, the inexhaustible feasts, the confident knights.Now he just seemed old and rubbled.His hands were chiseled and cracked as if years in the dim mines had layered on a translucent yellow film, like old surgical gloves, over his white bones.Mr.Fink watched each foot slide forward as if walking was some new form of transport requiring extreme powers of concentration.“We’re almost there, Daddy,” Buzzy said gently.“Jus a few more steps is all.”He paused after every other step and breathed in long and slow through the hose attached to his nostrils.Buzzy attended his father patiently, mirroring his small steps and waiting as he caught his breath.Finally they arrived at the La-Z-Boy.Buzzy positioned the oxygen bottle at the side of his chair, then held both arms as Isak eased his back to the seat.Slowly, with Buzzy guiding him, he lowered himself into the recliner and let out a long, labored breath as he settled into it.Buzzy’s brother, Cleo, came out of another bedroom holding a football.“Hey, Peebles kid,” he said when he saw me.“His name is Kevin,” Buzzy said with a splash of anger.Cleo laughed.“Easy, my man, I’m jus jokin.How are you this fine mornin, Kevin?” he said with an exaggerated bow.“Good.Just came over to see Buzzy.” For some reason I felt like an intruder who needed to explain his presence.“Hey, Buzz,” Cleo said and tossed the football to him.“Shag some balls for me?”“Can’t, man.Kevin an me are doin somethin.”“Come on, Buzz, I need you to shag.I’ll let you throw some.”“Why don’t you get Tilroy to shag.Looks like you an him is tight now.”Cleo stood silent for a moment, looking at his brother quizzically.Suddenly from the chair came a raspy voice, almost a whisper.“Buzz, you be helpin your brother train, now.” A wheezing cough.“Only thirteen days to camp.”Buzzy’s face hardened and he followed Cleo wordlessly out to the yard.In a forty-yard space behind the house, Cleo had set up a makeshift football training ground with white spray-painted lines, old tires hanging from trees, a single lashed sapling goal post.He had fashioned a zip line across the end zone with a pulley system that whizzed an old tire along the line like a crossing receiver.He positioned me on the sideline and put a rope in my hand.“Kevin,” he said.“You pull the line in quick an Buzz’ll shag.You ready?”“Ready,” I said.Buzzy nodded unenthusiastically.Cleo made like he was crouching behind an imaginary center; he barked some numbers and smacked the football with a loud “Hike.” He backpedaled five paces; I pulled on the rope furiously to bring the tire across the space.He cocked and fired a perfect spiral right through the middle of it.Buzzy caught the ball and threw a wobbly pass right back to him.“Bring it over your ear, Buzz,” Cleo said, demonstrating proper technique in slow motion.He turned to me.“Kevin, you gotta pull like you got a world-record jimmy on the line.” He set up at center again.“Y’all ready? Sixteen, sixteen, blue thirty-two, hike.” He back-pedaled exactly five steps.I pulled the rope with newly found pace; the tire whipped across the wire at running-back speed.He stepped up and threw another perfect pass through the opening.Buzzy caught the ball and tossed it back, careful to follow Cleo’s passing instructions.“Great throw, Buzzy.Way to get your hip into it.Kevin, that was good pullin.Our guys can’t run that fast, but in college they all do.” Buzzy and I switched places.Cleo fired another pass, this time missing the tire.I brought my hands up to catch it, but it came so hard and fast that it bounced off my chest, nearly knocking the wind out of me.I picked it up and threw a wobbly pass back to Cleo.He laughed and said, “Who taught you how to throw?”“No one,” I said.“I taught myself.”“I can see that.You stink,” he said with a grin.“Come here for a minute.”I walked over to him.He put the ball in my hands.“First thing, you’re holdin the ball too close to the middle; hold it toward the back like this.” He showed me how to properly grip the ball [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.The buck’s dead eyes seemed to follow me across the room.Next to the woodstove was an old brown La-Z-Boy recliner.I followed voices into the back room.Buzzy’s father was sitting on the edge of the bed, back straight, collarbones at attention.His skin hung on him like someone else’s suit, as if the pith and marrow of his once powerful frame had been sucked out, leaving a haggard, poorly fitted husk.His blond hair was striped with occasional gray, which made his miner-white skin seem almost transparent.His breathing was ragged, urgent.He looked up at me with miner’s eyes.Buzzy was clearly taken aback by my arrival.“What are you doin here?” he asked.His usual friendly tone was suspicious, questioning.“I haven’t seen you around and I was up at the tree house, so I thought I’d just walk over the mountain and see how you are doing.”“I’m helpin my daddy to his sick chair is how I’m doin,” he said and carefully held his father’s thin upper arms as he tried to stand.Mr.Fink was wearing worn-out blue pajamas; on his long, thin feet were dirty white hospital slippers.He shuffled one foot forward, then another.Buzzy grabbed the handle of an oxygen trolley and pulled it forward—one wheel squealed and shuddered like a bad shopping cart.I backed out of the room to give them space.Isak Fink’s condition stunned me to silence.I imagined the way he must have been before—the way Buzzy surely would be.Tall and thick; jagged face, powerful arms and shoulders; sturdy legs and a purposeful stride.I saw it all in that single instant the way you can sometimes see the past in the stones of a ruined castle—the glorious battles, the inexhaustible feasts, the confident knights.Now he just seemed old and rubbled.His hands were chiseled and cracked as if years in the dim mines had layered on a translucent yellow film, like old surgical gloves, over his white bones.Mr.Fink watched each foot slide forward as if walking was some new form of transport requiring extreme powers of concentration.“We’re almost there, Daddy,” Buzzy said gently.“Jus a few more steps is all.”He paused after every other step and breathed in long and slow through the hose attached to his nostrils.Buzzy attended his father patiently, mirroring his small steps and waiting as he caught his breath.Finally they arrived at the La-Z-Boy.Buzzy positioned the oxygen bottle at the side of his chair, then held both arms as Isak eased his back to the seat.Slowly, with Buzzy guiding him, he lowered himself into the recliner and let out a long, labored breath as he settled into it.Buzzy’s brother, Cleo, came out of another bedroom holding a football.“Hey, Peebles kid,” he said when he saw me.“His name is Kevin,” Buzzy said with a splash of anger.Cleo laughed.“Easy, my man, I’m jus jokin.How are you this fine mornin, Kevin?” he said with an exaggerated bow.“Good.Just came over to see Buzzy.” For some reason I felt like an intruder who needed to explain his presence.“Hey, Buzz,” Cleo said and tossed the football to him.“Shag some balls for me?”“Can’t, man.Kevin an me are doin somethin.”“Come on, Buzz, I need you to shag.I’ll let you throw some.”“Why don’t you get Tilroy to shag.Looks like you an him is tight now.”Cleo stood silent for a moment, looking at his brother quizzically.Suddenly from the chair came a raspy voice, almost a whisper.“Buzz, you be helpin your brother train, now.” A wheezing cough.“Only thirteen days to camp.”Buzzy’s face hardened and he followed Cleo wordlessly out to the yard.In a forty-yard space behind the house, Cleo had set up a makeshift football training ground with white spray-painted lines, old tires hanging from trees, a single lashed sapling goal post.He had fashioned a zip line across the end zone with a pulley system that whizzed an old tire along the line like a crossing receiver.He positioned me on the sideline and put a rope in my hand.“Kevin,” he said.“You pull the line in quick an Buzz’ll shag.You ready?”“Ready,” I said.Buzzy nodded unenthusiastically.Cleo made like he was crouching behind an imaginary center; he barked some numbers and smacked the football with a loud “Hike.” He backpedaled five paces; I pulled on the rope furiously to bring the tire across the space.He cocked and fired a perfect spiral right through the middle of it.Buzzy caught the ball and threw a wobbly pass right back to him.“Bring it over your ear, Buzz,” Cleo said, demonstrating proper technique in slow motion.He turned to me.“Kevin, you gotta pull like you got a world-record jimmy on the line.” He set up at center again.“Y’all ready? Sixteen, sixteen, blue thirty-two, hike.” He back-pedaled exactly five steps.I pulled the rope with newly found pace; the tire whipped across the wire at running-back speed.He stepped up and threw another perfect pass through the opening.Buzzy caught the ball and tossed it back, careful to follow Cleo’s passing instructions.“Great throw, Buzzy.Way to get your hip into it.Kevin, that was good pullin.Our guys can’t run that fast, but in college they all do.” Buzzy and I switched places.Cleo fired another pass, this time missing the tire.I brought my hands up to catch it, but it came so hard and fast that it bounced off my chest, nearly knocking the wind out of me.I picked it up and threw a wobbly pass back to Cleo.He laughed and said, “Who taught you how to throw?”“No one,” I said.“I taught myself.”“I can see that.You stink,” he said with a grin.“Come here for a minute.”I walked over to him.He put the ball in my hands.“First thing, you’re holdin the ball too close to the middle; hold it toward the back like this.” He showed me how to properly grip the ball [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]