The Days of Summer. Jill Barnett
the white clusters of beach towns, their piers, marinas, and homes staggered in the coastal hillsides.
Jud snored louder, lying there deep in sleep—something Cale hadn’t had much of lately. You’ll get in. His brother said it with such assurance.
“Yeah, Jud,” Cale said quietly. “Easy as taking your next breath.” He felt like his stomach was going to explode. Too much spaghetti. His next breath was as shallow as his confidence. Jud didn’t have a clue what his life was like. Cale closed his eyes and the thought hit him that maybe the lump in his stomach wasn’t from the mouthfuls of spaghetti he’d swallowed whole. Maybe it was his pride.
Jud woke up late in the afternoon with melted meat on his face. He heard Cale shooting baskets out front. Once inside, he put the steaks on a plate in the fridge and strolled out the front door. “Hey. Let me show you how the game’s played.”
Cale stopped, holding the ball in one big hand. “Yeah, right. Who just took a nap, Pops?” He casually tossed a hook shot over his head high into the air. It dropped through the net without ever touching metal. Crowing, Cale grabbed the ball, then faced him, dribbling it and shuffling back and forth.
“You cocky ass.” Jud laughed.
“We’ll see who’s the ass, big brother. I’ll give you six points. Two for old age, and four for your beat-up face. Remind me to teach you how to duck. Or throw a punch.”
“I don’t need your points, hotshot. Give me the ball and I’ll show you old.”
Cale gave him a shit-eating grin and shoved the ball right at his face.
Jud moved fast, twisted around, and went right under his little brother’s long arms to score. “Two to zip! Screw your points.”
They played one-on-one for forty-five minutes straight, faces red, hair stringy, sweat-soaked T-shirts stuck to their skin, legs and arms gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. At the hour mark, bent eye to eye, they were like two dogs facing off in an alley, both panting so hard neither could speak. Jud had the ball, his face burning up and his eyes stinging from salty sweat. He rasped out the word “water.”
Cale gave him a slight nod. At the same instant they looked at the garden hose. Whoever got there first won the water, and the added luxury of a few extra breaths while he waited for the other one to finish. It was a footrace. Cale stuck out his leg. Jud jumped it, sidestepped quickly, spun, and dove for the hose. He drank for a full two minutes while Cale stood there, hands on his knees, panting.
Sun-warmed water ran through the nozzle and he took a long time to drink, then let the cold water spill over his sweating head until it stopped throbbing. He shook like a wet spaniel and tossed the hose to Cale.
Jud walked over and picked up the ball, dribbling. “You gonna cry uncle?”
“Me?” Cale looked up from the hose and swiped his mouth. “No way. I’m just getting warmed up.”
“Good,” Jud lied and threw the ball right into Cale’s stomach.
For just an instant his little brother looked as if he was going to heave, then they went at it again for another savage half hour. Jud bounced the ball through his brother’s legs and jammed his elbow hard into Cale’s gut. “Ooh, college boy. You’re getting soft.”
“Go to hell, Jud.” Cale’s body slammed him. “Who’s soft, now, doughboy?” They were all over the court, legs and arms, punching and socking, until Cale slapped him in the head with the flat of his hand, stole the ball, then stood there, four feet from Jud, the ball bouncing from palm to palm.
Jud waited for an opening to the metronomic hammer of the ball on the asphalt and their hard breaths, then moved like lightning, stole the ball, laughing though his ribs hurt like hell. He held out the ball. “Come and get it, asshole.”
Cale shot forward. Jud stuck out his foot and his brother skidded across the asphalt. They beat the hell out of each other in the name of basketball. By the time the sun set behind the hills, Cale’s knees were bleeding, and Jud thought he was going to die, legs like rubber, his head killing him, but he wasn’t going to lose. He stared into the crumpled look of concentration on Cale’s angry red face, waiting for the patience Cale didn’t have, and never had. His little brother’s movements were jerky, blind, his motions looking desperate.
In the end, they lay on their backs on the warm ground, panting, hurting, bleeding, staring up at the night sky, which was clear and sharp, with no light of day left behind the hills. Music broke in the distance—drums and electric guitars. A band was playing somewhere downtown. When Jud finally spoke, he said only two words: “You lost.”
Cale raised up and pitched the ball at him.
Jud deflected it with his arm and lay there as the ball rolled away, his arm across his eyes, so tired he didn’t know if he could stand. He sat up with a grunt and rested his arms on his bent knees. “You wouldn’t have lost if you played with some patience. You give yourself away.”
“I know how to play basketball.”
“I’m just telling you how to win.”
Cale wouldn’t look at him.
“I’ll light the barbecue and cook those steaks.” Jud figured that was a peace offering. It was just a basketball game.
“I’m not hungry.” Cale limped to the door and paused in the doorway, looking back, his expression bitter and intense. “I’m not staying home tonight.” He slammed the door shut.
Jud stood up slowly, wobbled slightly. Standing just about killed him. He limped across the driveway to the hose and let the water run over his head for long seconds. The water pressure cut suddenly from the bathroom shower. Inside, he could hear Cale in the shower down the hall and thought about apologizing but stumbled toward the kitchen. He wouldn’t apologize for giving his brother a little advice, or for winning. His swollen face had a date with an ice pack. He wasn’t going anywhere tonight. Hell, he said to himself, I’ll eat both steaks.
Laurel wanted to believe that somewhere in the big wide world was a boy who would love her. Of course, he could easily be in France while she was stuck on the western fringes of another whole continent. Alone, she walked along the crowded island waterfront, music from the live band on the pier drifting away from her, the scent of abalone burgers and caramel corn sweetening the night air. She bought some saltwater taffy and sat down on a bench, under the glow from brightly colored paper lanterns strung overhead. All around her was laughter, chatter, music—life, even if it belonged to other people.
At home, her mother was sitting in her chair reading novels about characters with lives bigger than theirs, or watching TV where nothing but the news was real. Instead of hiding in Seattle, her mother hid here.
Laurel felt as if she had been picked up and planted somewhere far from home. Miserable, she stuffed a piece of taffy in her mouth and watched people in pairs and groups on the sand. When she glanced up at the beach, she spotted an old man walking slowly away from everyone like some kind of lost soul and she wondered what went through the minds and hearts of other lonely people.
Another loner stood away from the crowd, facing the water, hands in the back pockets of his jeans, hip cocked, broad shoulders, and narrow waist—a classic masculine triangle. His height and sandy hair were all too familiar. He’d looked the same yesterday when he was standing at the boat rail before she told him she was seventeen.
This was her chance to set everything right. She would ask how he was feeling—as if nothing he could say would faze her—and say, “I haven’t seen someone drop that fast since Cassius Clay beat Sonny Liston.” Here was her opportunity to be witty, sophisticated, and worldly to someone who thought she wasn’t. He wore an aqua blue polo shirt and she followed it through the crowd, but his steps were longer than hers and soon she had to run to catch up. She reached out and