“Really?”
“Partly,” says Clay. He washes his hands in the sink. “Soccer players do fake getting hurt sometimes so the other team gets a foul. And it is kind of embarrassing. The refs are starting to crack down on it. On the other hand, unlike American football players or hockey players, soccer players wear no pads or helmets. They collide into each other going full speed and jump to head the ball when another player is jumping to head the ball. You have to be really tough to play soccer. Tough and brave.”
Braedon nods. This he understands. “I still can’t get used to calling football soccer, and American football regular football. Because American football shouldn’t even be called football. The ball hardly ever gets kicked. It should be called tackleball or something like that.”
Clay salts the flipped-up side of the chicken. “That’s a good idea, Brae. How about you and me just start calling it tackleball. See if we can get it to catch on. We’ll say tackleball and clay disks. See if we can make some changes around here.”
Braedon nods. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
The doorbell rings, and Braedon goes to answer it. Clay actually hopes it’s someone selling magazine subscriptions orasking them to make a political donation instead of someone they know. He doesn’t want the interruption. Clay cherishes his one-on-one time with Braedon. He can’t imagine life without his son. How empty it would be. But every time he feels the overwhelming gratitude and love for Braedon, he can’t ignore the dark juxtaposition to his relationship with his own father.
Judd had the same opportunity Clay has now. To be the sole parent. To be a guide and a friend. A disciplinarian and playmate. To be present for his child’s new discoveries, thoughts, and feelings. But Judd seemed unwilling to be that parent. Or maybe he was simply incapable. Or maybe he does blame Clay for Pam’s illness and death. Not that pregnancy can cause breast cancer, but it can, in rare instances, make it more difficult to detect. Clay knows. He’s looked it up a hundred times to see if there’s any new research shedding light on how he may have contributed to his mother’s death.
Clay knows it’s not his fault. He didn’t ask to be brought into this world. He had nothing to do with it. But still. It’s an unsettling feeling knowing that both he and cancer grew inside Pam at the same time.
“Hey, Dad,” says Braedon, walking into the kitchen and jolting Clay from his thoughts. “Can Daniel stay for dinner?”
Clay looks over to see Daniel standing next to Braedon. Daniel is one of those twelve-year-olds who hasn’t had even the faintest growth spurt. Braedon, who isn’t particularly tall for his age, stands a full head higher than Daniel. The kid looks more like he’s nine or ten. Maybe to make up for his literal shortcoming, Daniel exudes a cockiness. He’s not a bad kid, thinks Clay. He’s just trying to find his place in the hierarchy of Riverwood’stwelve-year-old boys. Besides, Daniel is a neighbor kid who goes to the local middle school. Braedon will meet plenty of other kids and influences at Dorset-Cornwall when school starts, but it’s nice that Braedon has a friend until then.
“Of course,” says Clay. He supposes getting to know Daniel a bit better has its own value. “We have plenty of food. Daniel, do you like chicken and french fries and salad?”
“I like chicken and french fries,” says Daniel.
“That’s good enough,” says Clay. “Make sure to let your parents know, okay?”
“Already did,” says Daniel.
Clay laughs.
“Dad, is it okay if we ride Daniel’s new mountain bike out back?”
“Sure,” says Clay. “Just wear a helmet. When did you get a new mountain bike, Daniel?”
“Today,” says Daniel. “Some guys gave it to me.”
“Some guys?” says Clay. He sees worry in Braedon’s eyes. And fidgety hands.
“Some older boys,” says Daniel. “They seem nice. Just walked up to me pushing the bike and said I could have it and that maybe I could ride with them sometime.”
“What else did they say?” says Clay.
“I don’t know…” says Daniel, his confidence waning. “They said something like now I owe them.”
“Owe them money?”
“No. I asked if I owe them money. They said maybe a favor sometime. They didn’t say when.”
“Is it okay if I see your new bike?”
The mountain bike is on the front porch, leaning against the limestone facade. It’s flat black, painted recently, and Clay spots a few drips from the shoddy spray job. “Nice bike,” says Clay.
“Thanks,” says Daniel.
Clay lifts the bike. “Light.”
“Yeah,” says Daniel. “I think it’s a good one.”
“Cool if I flip it over?”
