Page 2 of The Cadence
He shifted in the chair, and it creaked. “When did things get bad for her?”
“The last few months were hard,” I answered. I sat again on the bed, glad for the relief from the pain due to my shoes. “How have you been?”
“I’m fine,” he said briefly, but then paused. “I got traded so I’m not with the Rackers anymore. I play in Michigan now.”
It had been a blockbuster deal that had shaken up both teams’ lineups a few seasons before, but it hadn’t made much difference to me. I watched him wherever he went, regardless of the team, and his new location way up north didn’t change how often hereturned home to Tennessee. As far as I knew, he rarely came back, except now he was here for my grandma.
“I read about that trade,” I mentioned.
“Did you? You were never a football fan.”
That was true. Before meeting him—before I’d been foisted on him—I’d never paid attention to any sport at all. “I’m still not really a fan of any specific team, or even football in general,” I admitted. “I notice you because it’s different when you know a player personally. My grandma and I watched your games.”
He raised an eyebrow. “All of them?”
Yeah, all of them. At least, that was true for me and she had also caught a few, but she hadn’t been a willing spectator. In fact, she hadn’t wanted me to watch him at all and on the days when he’d played, she’d often tried to devise activities to take me out of the house. She hadn’t known that I’d been sneaky and had come home when I wasn’t supposed to, turning on the little TV in her living room. I’d also recorded everything so that I could get up late at night to rewatch them. I had kept the volume low so that I didn’t wake her and I’d sat on the floor instead of the couch, so that I could get closer to him.
“I liked to watch,” I answered. It was boring when his team’s quarterback ran onto the field because then Will wasn’t out there with the defense. I definitely didn’t enjoy the parts where he got up slowly and sometimes limped. But seeing him had made me feel as if we still knew each other, even though our connection was only on a tiny screen with hundreds of miles between us.
“I hardly ever come home,” he told me next. “Maybe I could have…” He let the idea fade away but he looked toward the other bedroom, where my grandmother had spent her last moments.
“There was nothing that anyone could have done for her,” I said firmly, which was same thing I’d repeated to more than a few people who’d returned here with me after the Funeral Mass. They wanted to be reassured that I didn’t blame them for anything or, more importantly, that my grandma hadn’t.
He shook his head. “I could have…” He stopped again, but this time he was looking at me. “Are you all right? You don’t look so good.”
I had watched him on the screen, but it really had been a long time since he’d seen me. He might have been surprised by the differences after seven years, or maybe I did look terrible. Several of my grandma’s friends had also seemed worried and had suggested that I needed to eat or get more sleep.
“I’m holding up,” I answered, which was another stock phrase that I’d used to respond to their concerns. “The last few months have been hard, but I’m holding up.” But as I spoke those hopeful words, I felt tears fill my eyes. I had done really well today, so well! I had cried a little at the church but I had mostly bottled it up, so that the paper napkin I’d carried in my pocket had been sufficient. I’d cried harder at the internment, but the napkin had still done its job, and then I’d calmed down enough to drive myself home and also bring along two of my grandma’s friends when their ride hadn’t shown. Once we were all here, I’d been busy putting out food, making sure everyone had something to drink, and circulating to comfort the peoplewho had filled my grandma’s living room. I hadn’t even needed another napkin.
So there was no reason for me to fall apart at this moment, but my tears came faster anyway. I reached next to my bed and took a towel from the pile of laundry I hadn’t put away, because I had cleaned most of the house but had figured that I could keep the mourners out of my room. First I dabbed my cheeks, then I wiped, and finally I just pushed my face into the soft, old cotton. The only sounds I heard now were my sniffles and a few creaks from the chair as Will shifted again. I tried to stop. I really tried.
“Calla, do you want me to leave? I didn’t mean to make you cry like this.”
“No,” I said, my voice breaking and catching. “You should stay. There’s sweet potato soufflé and I made cookies, too.”
“I’m not hungry.” The chair creaked really loudly, and then my bed sank about a foot under his weight as he sat on it, next to me. “I came because I thought I should, since I knew her. And since she’d been nice to me.”
“She was nice to everyone.” I kept the towel in place but turned my face and leaned forward, so that I rested against him.
I felt his body go rigid. “Ok,” he said carefully. “Ok, you can do that.”
I had never actually touched him before. Maybe we’d accidentally brushed hands when he’d slid his calculator across my grandma’s table, or he’d had to nudge me out of the way with his backpack as I’d held open the front door for him to leave. But that was it—there had been nothing prolonged and nothingintentional. Now I had pressed against the warm wall of Will Bodine and I let myself stay there.
“It’s just nice to have somebody here for me,” I explained. “I’ve been comforting everyone else but it’s nice to have it for myself, too.”
“I understand,” he said stiffly.
“Thank you for coming. I really appreciate it,” I went on. “I know that you’re busy with football and whatever that might entail, but you took time away and traveled to Tennessee just for my grandmother’s funeral. I’m glad that you remembered her.”
“Sure, I remember her.” He moved, a little shift away from me.
“Sorry.” I sat up and scrubbed over my face with the towel. “I’m making a lot of assumptions. Are you actually here because of your dad? Is he all right?” I knew about his recent problems, just like everyone else with eyes and ears was also aware of them.
“He’s fine,” Will answered, as briefly as he’d said it about himself. “Should we go out to the other room? People will start getting the wrong idea.”
It was probably too late, but I nodded and we both stood up. “Do I look tearstained?” I asked.
He bent down to get a better idea. Unlike my tiny grandmother, I was a tall woman and was eye-to-eye with most people or looking at the tops of their heads. But Will had to stoop and then he nodded.
