Drinking helped a little. A lot, actually, because if you were drunk and your brain malfunctioned, you could blame it on the alcohol. And if you were hung over, you couldn’t worry too much about the future. It took all your energy and concentration just to make it through the day.
He spent a lot of time at the Instant Replay, a sports bar where he knew the owners. It felt good to be out of the house with a game on and people to talk to, all kinds of welcome distractions. But he was a public figure and needed to be careful about gossip, so some nights he hid out in the Last Call, a gloomy dive where he was often the youngest customer by twenty years. No one bothered him there, which was a relief when it wasn’t depressing. Other times he just parked by the lake and listened to the radio, sipping Maker’s from a flask.
It got bad in the spring. He made some careless mistakes at work—he was Athletic Director as well as Head Football Coach at St. Francis Prep—and got locked into an unpleasant dynamic with his wife, who alternated between accusing him of having an affair—not a terrible guess, considering his history—and begging him to see a therapist. And then, one night in May, it all came to a head at the dinner table.
“Vito,” Susie snapped. “Did you hear a word your daughter just said?”
“Most of it,” he lied. “I just missed the last bit.”
Actually, Vito was a little buzzed and had been frantically trying to remember the name of a Will Ferrell movie, a really popular one he’d seen three or four times. He was pretty sure it started with an S, but it wasn’t Semi-Pro, it was the other one, the one with the frat. He could’ve just looked it up on his phone, but he hated relying on Google to tell him something he already knew.
“It was about softball,” said Henry, who was eight and small for his age.
Vito turned to his daughter. Jasmine was ten, already beautiful like her mom, and very emotional, also like her mom. He could see she was upset.
“I’m sorry, honey. What were you saying?”
“Nothing.” She looked down at her plate. “Forget it.”
“Come on,” he said. “Don’t be like that.”
He reached across the table for her hand, but she yanked it away, and just like that it came to him: Old School. Jesus Fucking Christ. Old School. His body flooded with relief.
“The coach made her play second base,” Henry explained.
“Hannah Park’s the pitcher now.” Susie lifted her eyebrows like this was supposed to mean something to Vito. “We thought maybe you could talk to the coach.”
Vito was all caught up now, back on solid ground.
“No way. I’m not gonna talk to the coach. I can’t interfere—”
“Vito,” Susie said. “Just talk to the man. You don’t have to—”
Vito shook his head. This was a matter of principle.
“I know it’s hard,” he told his daughter. “But you have to respect the coach’s decisions. A team isn’t a democracy. You understand that, right?”
“I’m better than Hannah,” Jasmine whined.
Vito spoke calmly and matter-of-factly, the same way he did with his own players when they challenged his authority.
“Honey,” he said. “Don’t kid yourself. If you were better than Hannah, you’d still be starting pitcher.”
To the best of Vito’s recollection—and he’d had to recollect this moment a lot in the past few months—things got really quiet around the table, and then Jasmine burst into tears. Susie glared at him in disbelief.
“What the fuck, Vito?”
“What?” he said. “I’m just saying—”
She tapped her index finger against her forehead. “Is something wrong with your brain?”
“What? Whoa.” Vito froze, his body flooding with adrenaline. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“I’m not joking,” she told him.
It wasn’t premeditated, he was sure of that. It was more like a reflex, like his hand had a mind of its own.
That wasn’t me, he said, the first time he told his story at a meeting. I love my wife. I’m not the kind of man who would do that.
The second time he skipped the bullshit.
I slapped her pretty hard. Almost knocked her off the chair. And now I’m living in a shitty apartment by the highway, trying to clean up the mess I made.
That was a good first step, telling the truth about himself, acknowledging the pain he’d inflicted. And now it was time to apologize.
- 3 - Jack Weede
It’s hard to give up your life’s work, especially if you’ve had some success. I know, Principal of a midsize suburban high school isn’t the same as Senator or Judge or CEO, but it’s something, and it becomes your identity. Let go of that and you become a smaller, sadder person. Just ask King Lear.
Nevertheless, the inevitable day of reckoning arrives. For me it came on a humid morning in late August, a week before the beginning of the new school year. My wife and I were standing in the parking lot of Green Meadow Medical Associates, both of us crying—not an uncommon occurrence after her appointments—except that on this particular morning we were crying with joy and relief. Alice had beaten the odds; her five-year cancer screen had come back clean.
“Let’s do it,” she said, clutching my wrists and smiling through her tears. “Let’s hit the road.”
Hit the road was our code for buying an RV and cruising around America, visiting the national parks and other points of interest. Not a very original fantasy, I know, but it had kept us going through the dark days of chemo, the wigs and support groups, the false positive that threw her into a tailspin that lasted for six months. On nights when Alice couldn’t sleep—there had been so many—we’d lie awake and plot out the trip: We’ll do Glacier in the summer and Yosemite in the fall. We’ll cook when we feel like it and eat out when we don’t. We’ll learn how to fly-fish and do the crossword every morning.
“I’m serious, Jack.” The disease had aged her in a hundred cruel ways, but there was something girlish and hopeful in her expression that moved me deeply. “Now’s the time.”
Just to be clear, the motor home was more her dream than mine. I was happy to indulge her—it was the least I could do—but I never thought it would actually happen.
“Okay,” I said. “Sure. Let’s do it.”
“Really?” She wiped her nose and gave me a skeptical look, which I knew I deserved. “You’re actually gonna retire?”
“It’s time,” I said. “It’s been time for a while now.”
“You mean right now, or—？”
“No, no, in June,” I clarified. “I can’t just leave them in the lurch at the last minute. That wouldn’t be fair to anyone. I’m the Principal.”
“Tracy can take over. She’s already done it once. You said yourself—”
“Honey,” I said. “It’s just one more year.”
“Fine.” She gave a grudging nod. “You’ll retire in June. That’s a deal, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Scout’s honor.”