"Wilber-ImagineJimmy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilber Rick)

RICK WILBER

IMAGINE JIMMY

JUST TOUCHING HER excited him. Sitting next to her at the morning meetings at
WDA & Associates, accidentally bumping knees or shoes, he found himself getting
excited, had to move in his chair to get himself more comfortable. So when she
asked him over to her place for lunch yesterday he said yes.

He couldn't have imagined it any better. They never did get around to eating
much of that lunch she'd made, some chicken and rice thing. Instead they bumped
around in the kitchen, just making the slightest contact hip to hip or that
light touch on the hand as he helped her with the salad, or that leaning over
her from behind, feeling her dark hair against his cheek while they rinsed a
couple of glasses at the sink.

The tension was electric, was palpable until she broke it with a nervous laugh
and asked him if he felt it, too, and that led the two of them into an
admittance of things they'd been hinting at for a month or more now at work.

They almost made love. Almost. But Robert, who doesn't think of himself as
someone like this, who thinks of himself as a lot more down-to-earth than this,
really, backed away at the last moment, right in step with Alice, who pushed him
away, too.

They stood there, looking at each other for a long, long minute, saying nothing
until Alice finally spoke, said "Oh, Robert."

He was dizzy, felt like it was all some weird out-of-body experience, that it
couldn't possibly be real, couldn't be him standing there, watching himself
watching her.

She reached out to touch his face, her fingers brushing his cheek lightly,
stopping there for a second before she brought her hand back. "I need to think,
Robert."

He nodded, trying to will it all to be real. "Yes, me, too."

"Give me the weekend to think about it, okay? Maybe we'll have lunch on Monday
or something."

"Sure. Lunch. On Monday." It was about all he could manage to get said.

She laughed awkwardly. "I don't know, Robert. I've thought about this so much. I
figured I knew what I wanted; but, it's just too much right now. Look, you have
to go now, Robert, you really have to go."

So he left, slowly calming down, returning to reality.

Now, just a couple of hours later, he is still trying to piece together his
recollection of it all as he drives to pick up his Down Syndrome older brother
Jimmy at the group home, fighting the afternoon traffic to get there in time
while he thinks about her, wondering if it all was real. It's almost like he
imagined the whole thing, like it was a dream. He's tempted to call her just to
check his own memory of it.

He's not proud of this, he tells himself, but he feels drawn to her somehow,
like some satellite that circles around her, its orbit narrowing until it
finally angles in sharply toward her.

And burns up as the atmosphere thickens. That's the problem, all the destruction
that is possible here. Today's little lunch was at her place while her husband
was out of town and her kids off in school.

Her husband, Robert thinks, and sighs. He's never met the guy, and is glad of
that. And her kids. He shakes his head. Great kids, he met them once, quite
accidentally, when he and Jimmy were at the mall one rainy Saturday afternoon. A
boy about ten, and his little sister, a six-year-old as pretty as her mommy.

Alice introduced him to them as her friend from work and his brother, and they
all chatted politely for a minute about the new Disney movie (the boy officially
found it boring, the girl thought it was wonderful) before the little girl's
tugs on Mommy's hand took the family off toward the ice cream shop. Robert
walked away slowly from that one, taking Jimmy by the hand then walking back out
into the educational cold rain and his Mustang and the drive back to the group
home.

Jimmy just looked at him as they drove, not saying much at first. Finally, "You
like her, my brother?" he asked.

"Yeah, Jimmy. I like her. She's nice," Robert said, hoping that would end it.

"She has nice kids," Jimmy said, and smiled, added "I like them."

"And a nice husband, too, Jimbo," Robert added. "The kids' daddy, you know?
Look, it's nothing, Jimmy, just don't worry about it, okay? Just let it go."

And Jimmy did, or seemed to, just nodding yes and then sitting back and getting
quiet again before falling asleep as they drove the last couple of miles to the
group home.

Alice is a big girl, dammit, Robert tells himself now as he's driving, and she
says the marriage is rocky anyway, that her husband Nick isn't home much anymore
and seems to have lost interest in her and all the rest. And, Robert thinks, if
she didn't want this, all she had to do was say no.

And, Jesus, the excitement, the potential, was so explosive that he could hardly
think about anything else. Earlier this morning, at the meeting, he had to force
himself to concentrate on the project, about how much money they could make once
the deal was done. Millions of dollars being talked about, millions risked, his
career on the line, and what he was thinking about was how her skin might feel
against his fingertips as he ran them along her back, her stomach, her breasts.

It's all suddenly moving way too fast for him, his imagination outrunning his
reality, like that time in college when he came in off the bench against Ohio
State and that Buckeye guard was so quick that Robert felt like his feet were
lead, that time had changed somehow so that the guy was zipping by him in some
frenzied, perfect, higher speed while Robert could only turn and watch. It was
the worst basketball game of his mediocre college career and a nightmare he's
never forgotten.

Now, driving along, thinking about what might be about to happen, he's excited
and fearful at the same time. He can hardly breathe.

He sucks in air slowly, deeply, trying to gain some control. He's glad to be
picking up Jimmy, who is as down to earth as it gets, who can ground him, pull
him down from all these light-headed imaginings. Jimmy, he thinks, will slow
things down for him. Jimmy knows what's real and what isn't.

To get to Jimmy's group home Robert has made the seven-mile drive up 66th
street. There are one or two lights every mile, and he has caught them all at
red, every single one of them, and this is tourist season to boot, so the drive
has taken nearly forty minutes, with Robert mumbling curses at the Ontario and
Ohio plates the whole way, watching from behind, frustrated, as those gray heads
bob in their huge, maroon Buicks, ambling toward wherever they are going on a
Friday afternoon in Florida in March.

But now he's finally here. He shakes his head, takes another deep breath, trying
to bring the world into focus as he pulls into the driveway of the Samuel
Crockett Independent Living Facility, Jimmy's group home.

Jimmy, dressed in gray slacks, a red button-down shirt and that awful pink tie
with the smiling cow on it that he likes so much, waits on the bench that sits
outside the group home's front door, staring off into the distance. He has his
favorite little athletic bag with him, the black one with the red Chicago Bulls
emblem on it. Jimmy is a real Bulls fan. Robert likes the Celtics. It is a
historic point of contention between the two.

Robert stops the Mustang by the bench, hits the power window switch and leans
over that way to give Jimmy a shout.

"Hey, Jimbo. Ready to go, pal?"

Jimmy just looks over at him, slowly, his face in that serious expression he
gets sometimes, eyes narrowed, mouth tight. Something's going on.

Then Jimmy seems to notice it's Robert and the whole world brightens.

"Hey, Roberto. What's going on, my brother? You okay?"

"Yeah, Jim, I'm fine. Sorry I'm a little late, brother, but I had some business
and then the traffic was terrible. Man, these tourists!"

"Yeah," Jimmy says, opening the door and slowly easing himself in. "Yeah, these
tourists!"

Then he settles in, clicks the seatbelt into place, and looks at his younger
brother. "You are late, my brother. I love you and I like you, but Mom said
three-thirty o'clock and it is," he looks at his digital watch, "three-forty
o'clock, my brother. That is late. We hurry now, okay? I can't miss it,
confession."

Robert smiles. Time matters to Jimmy, seems to give him a sense of order, of
organization, something he can control, so it's not surprising that he's a
little upset that Robert is late.

Robert tries to explain it away. "Like I said, Jimmy, I'm sorry. It was bad
traffic, you know? Lots of cars going slow."

Jimmy just nods, and slips back into the staring thing, looking out the window
now as Robert pulls the Mustang back onto the main road, heading south on 66th
Street, back toward Holy Innocents and confession. Every Friday at four in the
afternoon Robert does this, takes Jimmy to confession. It's important enough
that he juggles his lunch hours all week to do it, building up enough time that
he can get out early on Friday, pick up Jimmy and get him over to Father Curran
in his little booth.

The first light is green as they approach it, then goes amber and then red as
they pull up to the broad white line marking the intersection.

"Damn," Robert says, downshifting.

"I not like it when you say that word, my brother," says Jimmy, coming out of
his reverie long enough to let Robert know that he's listening. Robert just
smiles, thinking Jimmy will probably add it to his list for confession -- "Heard
a bad word from my brother." Probably get him another Hail Mary.

Robert looks over and Jimmy's eyes have closed again. There's something about
driving along that almost instantly lulls Jimmy into a half-sleep, a kind of
meditative state. Over the years since Dad's death Robert has seen this hundreds
of times, the peaceful look on that wide face, the flattened nose, the folds
around the eyes. There's a slight drool from the mouth as Jimmy mumbles in his
sleep.

God, Robert loves this guy. He's never understood how brothers could not get
along, though he's heard it from his friends all his life, about the fights some
brothers have, about how they drift apart over the years, never talking, not
really knowing each other's successes and failures.

That's not the way things are with Robert and Jimmy, not even close. The kid
needs him, dammit, and Robert's gotten a lot in return, too. The love he gets
from Jimmy is amazing the hugs and devotion, the joy.

Jimmy takes his responsibilities as the older brother very seriously. Back in
high school when Robert was the shooting guard of the Crusaders, leading
Catholic High to its best season in years, Jimmy was there at almost every game,
home and away, cheering his brother on, telling everyone just who that was out
there hitting those three-pointers, finishing up with a slam on the fastbreaks.

One game, against Cleveland High, Jimmy was sick and had to stay home. Robert
was awful that night, hitting just one of eight from the field, giving up four
turnovers, playing miserably the whole time. It was the only league game they
lost all year, and Robert was the reason. He capped off the awful night by
missing a pair of free throws with four seconds left when he could have tied the
score. Jimmy blamed the loss on himself. Robert came home with the news and
found Jimmy, flu and all, waiting up for him.

"I stunk it up, Jimbo," Robert told him. "I mean I was really awful."

"I so, so sorry I not there for you, my brother," Jimmy said in return. "Never
again, okay? I promise, I always be there for you."

"Sure, Jimmy, you'll always be there," Robert said, worn out and depressed,
though never too tired to talk to Jimmy.

That was fifteen years ago now, and seems even longer, but Jimmy still protects
his baby brother.

They're within a block of Holy Innocents, so it's time to wake Jimmy up. Robert
reaches over and shakes him gently on the knee. "Hey, Jimmy, time to wake it up,
pal. We're almost there."

Jimmy stirs, those eyes open slowly. He smiles. "Holy Innocents?"

"That's it, Holy Innocents, Jimbo. Confession time."

Then Robert laughs as he makes the turn into the wide driveway of the church and
heads up toward the parking area. "Hey, brother," he adds, "what's the big sin?
You been messing around with the girls lately, or something?"

Jimmy just turns and looks at Robert for a moment, his face contorted, like he's
struggling to find the words to say something.

Then he gives it up, just smiles, says, "I not tell you, Robert. It is my
confession, and I need it, that is all."

Whew, Robert thinks, serious stuff here. But what could be serious for Jimmy?
The kid -- hell, he is in his mid-thirties now but Robert still thinks of him as
a kid -- is as innocent as new snow, there just aren't any sins possible for
Jimmy.

They pull into the space closest to the side door of the church. There arc no
other cars in the lot. "C'mon, brother," Robert says, "it can't be that serious,
can it? What happened? Tell your little brother and maybe I can help, eh?"

Jimmy just stares, though, then slowly shakes his head and looks out the car
window as Robert comes to a stop, turns the engine off and tugs on the parking
brake. Then, while Robert watches, puzzled -- can this quiet, worried guy be his
brother Jimmy? -- Jimmy gets out and walks into the church. Robert sits back to
wait.

It takes maybe ten minutes, no more, and then Jimmy comes walking out, smiling
now, obviously happier.

"Hey, my brother, I better now."

"Father Curran have some good advice for you, Jimbo?"

Jimmy looks at him, shakes his head. "This is confession, Robert, I not tell
you. It is private."

Robert smiles, shoves the Mustang into reverse, pulls out of the spot and then
heads for 66th street and the drive back north to the group home.

But when they get to the intersection to make that turn, Jimmy says, "Hey,
Robert. Let's play it some basketball, okay? Me and you, brother, one on one."

Robert smiles. The two of them have been shooting hoops like this since they
were kids. It's a kind of ongoing ritual, in Robert's mind, a frequent reminder
of their connection to each other. Occasionally, it's even more than that, like
the time Dad died in that stupid car wreck.

Coming home late from work, a summer thunderstorm with that torrent of
heat-driven rain so thick you can't see where you're going, a little mistake on
the interstate just where the bridge comes down from its elevated ramp over the
waters of the bay onto that long stretch of fill land.

A little mistake, some sliding, some banging and crunching with that other car
and that semi and that was that, off into the bay. There's only ten feet of
water at that spot, Robert went out into it one day to see for himself. Did some
skin-diving on that exact spot. But ten feet deep is all it takes when the car
is on its side and you're trapped in there and no one can see where the car is
and that, Robert remembers, was that. A dumb way to go.

A couple of months later, looking through his father's stuff from his office
desk, Robert found out that Dad was making it with some woman, someone who
signed her letters Licia.

He never told Jimmy, or Mom, about what he found. But Jimmy has a strange way of
figuring things out, of sensing them somehow, and it all came out later in one
of their brotherly basketball games, Jimmy winning like Robert always makes sure
he does, and then Jimmy standing there, sweating in the late summer sun, crying
hard, sobbing, saying stuff about Dad, about Morn, about Dad and women and what
was going on. Robert, to this day, has no idea how the kid could have come up
with it, but he did.

All this recollection and more, of the funeral, of the legal hassle, of the
polite well-wishers and the money troubles and all the rest, flashes by in an
instant when Jimmy mentions shooting the ball around, and then Robert says,
"Yeah, that's a great idea. I got my stuff in the trunk, what about you?"

"I brought it my stuff, Robert. I am a ready guy. Let's shoot it some hoops."

"Okay, okay, Jimbo, but I got to warn you, I'm going to thump you good this
time, pal. I'm due."

Jimmy laughs, "You watch it, my brother. Be a good sport, okay?"

And Robert laughs with him.

They are only a few minutes away from the Pass-a-grille courts, the ones in the
little park across the street from the main beach, just up from the Hurricane
Restaurant, the one where Dad first met that Licia woman, from what Robert read
in those letters.

The off-shore breeze is blowing pretty good as they park, open the trunk and get
out the ball and Robert's shoes and shorts and walk over to the court.

Jimmy has a great little jump shot, he's been a big star at the Special O's with
that shot. But there won't be much outside shooting today, Robert thinks, as the
two of them sit down on the bench and start putting on their shorts and shoes.

Jimmy laces his shoes up tight, and has that look on his face, so Robert knows
this one is serious. Somehow, Robert figures, this connects up to going to
confession, and Father Curran, and Holy Innocents and god knows what else, but
Robert has no idea how or why.

Before Robert has finished lacing his first shoe, Jimmy is done and walking out
toward the basket, dribbling the ball five times with his right hand and then
five times with his left, the way his father taught him all those years ago. Dad
was a heck of a player, was a starter in college, a forward for the Golden
Gophers at Minnesota.

Robert has a framed picture of his dad from those playing days, that long right
arm reaching up and out toward the rim, his body rising for a layup on a
fastbreak, two Purdue Boilermakers hopelessly late behind him, both of them
reduced to watching. The picture shows his father's certainty, at least for that
moment.

Robert inherited some of those talents, enough of them to sit on the bench in
college at any rate and get a free education in the bargain. That's more than
most guys can say.

And Jimmy? Well, hell, Down Syndrome or not, he can play this game. Robert
remembers watching Jimmy play in one Special Olympics game a couple of years
back where the other team had some pretty good players and Jimmy's team really
had only Jimmy.

Jimmy scored twenty-eight points in that game in a losing cause, keeping his
team in the game with a series of steals that led to layups, and with a nifty
little turn-around jumper that he hit seven or eight times. It was only in the
last few minutes that the poor kid, worn out, just couldn't keep up the pace.

Robert was so proud of his brother that he ran onto the court after the game and
lifted him up off the floor in celebration. Jimmy was embarrassed by that since
his team, after all, had lost.

Jimmy's ready to play, so Robert finishes lacing them up and joins him on the
court. Robert takes a couple of jumpers to loosen up, stretches out a bit doing
a couple of toe touches and a few windmills with his arms, and then they go at
it.

Jimmy opens the game with a furious drive, dribbling right past Robert and then
laying it in for two.

Robert, still not really loose and ready to play, is surprised by his brother's
intensity. So that's the way it's going to be, eh? He responds with a soft
jumper from the free-throw line that goes cleanly through the net. Tie game.

It goes on like this for a while, the two of them playing even as they hit the
ten-point mark, the fourteen, the sixteen-point mark in a game to twenty.

Robert, of course, is really a much better player and so controls the game.
Jimmy, for all his excellence in the Special Olympics, is not nearly as quick or
as strong as Robert, and so would lose every game if they played straight up.

But Robert hasn't played Jimmy straight up in fifteen years, not since they were
just kids. Robert has always figured that Jimmy faces plenty of losses in life
every day and doesn't need any from his brother, so Robert always makes sure
that Jimmy wins these brotherly games. Then, afterward, they'll head over to
Tastee Freeze for some ice cream so they can celebrate Jimmy's big victory.

Robert keeps it close every time, making sure he misses at critical moments, or
that he has just the right lapse on defense to let Jimmy score a critical layup
or two. Then, usually, toward the end of the game Robert takes a lead, then lets
Jimmy make a dramatic comeback and win the game.

This is always cause for jubilation from Jimmy, arms outstretched in joy, that
round face grinning before he runs over to shake Robert's hand, give him a big
hug and tell him what a good player he is and too bad he couldn't win it.

Robert always just smiles. Good old Jimmy.

And this game goes that way, too, though Jimmy is working so hard, trying so
hard, that Robert almost feels bad about not playing it dead seriously. He can't
recall Jimmy putting this much into it in a long, long time.

At the end, Jimmy hits a long jumper, out from behind the three-point line, to
win it, but then there is nothing of that victory dance that Robert is used to
seeing, none of the joy.

Instead, Jimmy tosses the ball to Robert and says, "Okay, brother, let's play
again. You try harder now, okay?"

And so Robert does try harder, putting a little more into the acting, making
sure that he looks like he's really trying, making the victory worthwhile for
Jimmy. This one is close, too, a one or two-basket margin the whole way until
they approach the game's end at the twenty mark. Robert really gets caught up in
it, lost in the game, putting a move on Jimmy here and there, hustling by his
brother for a rebound, hitting that outside jumper consistently.

Then, toward the end, Robert backs in on Jimmy, protecting the ball as he moves
in toward the goal, getting ready to take a little turn-around fadeaway jumper
that should end it.

He finds his spot, gives a little head fake to the left and then spins around
off the right leg and jumps. Perfect.

But Jimmy has backed off him, not gone for the fake and is up in the air, trying
for a block.

He's reaching, straining upward, soaring higher and higher as the ball leaves
Robert's fingertips. Jimmy gets there, slaps the ball away and then both
brothers come down, sneakers squeaking against the hot pavement.

How did Jimmy do that? The kid cannot jump, he's never gotten up that high in
his life. But there it was.

Jimmy retrieves the ball and Robert turns to face him. All right, then, this
one's for real.

Jimmy gives a little fake to his left, then pulls up for the jumper. Robert
comes at him and jumps to block it, but Jimmy doesn't leave his feet and,
instead, stays down, puts the ball on the court to dribble and blows by Robert,
heading toward the basket.

Robert watches, hung up there, useless, as Jimmy goes by, and then, as Robert
comes back down he turns to see Jimmy, this thirty-three-year-old Down's kid,
take a final dribble and grab the ball with both hands and plant both feet and
then jump, up and toward the rim, soaring from underneath, straining, getting
his fingertips over the rim, then his whole hand, then up past the wrist and
slamming the ball home, a thunderous dunk, to win it.

Jesus Christ.

Robert doesn't know what else to say. A dunk? By Jimmy?

Robert just stands there as Jimmy comes down, feet flat against the court and
then grabs the ball, turns to face his brother.

"I win," he says, simply.

Robert wonders if he just imagined all that. It has, after all, been that kind
of day, one filled with vivid imaginings. Maybe it never happened, maybe it was
just a layup, just another nice shot.

"I win, but you tried hard, my brother. Good game." And Jimmy holds out his
right hand for a game-ending handshake.

"Yeah, Jimbo. I tried hard, I always try hard." Robert shakes his head, then
reaches out to take Jimmy's hand. "Did you just...?"

"I win it, my brother. I beat you."

"Yeah, Jimmy, you sure did." Robert is still replaying it, convincing himself
now that it was just his imagination. God knows he's having trouble enough with
that lately anyway.

"Father Curran says I have a good 'magination, Robert."

"Father Curran?"

"At confession. He tells me I have a good 'magination."

"What are you talking about?"

Jimmy stands there, dead serious, ball in his right hand, squinting in the hard,
bright sun. "At confession, I tell Father Curran my sins and he tells me I have
a good 'magination and say two Hail Marys."

"What did you confess, Jimbo?"

Jimmy just shrugs. "Father Curran says I should talk to my brother Robert about
this. Father Curran says 'magination is fine, but not to get it confused with
real stuff."

"Yeah, well, that's good advice, Jimmy. Don't get it confused."

Robert nods. "I thought so," he says.

And then, and as Robert stands there, puzzling through all this, Jimmy walks
over and pats him on the back.

"You a smart guy, my brother. You got it?"

"Yeah, Jimmy, sure. I got it," says Robert, not sure if he does or not.

"Good man," Jimmy says, and then walks over to where they've left their towels.

Robert, though, doesn't walk that way. Instead, he stands there, looking at the
rim, until Jimmy yells at him.

"C'mon, my brother. It is over now, right? Time for ice cream."

"Yeah, Jimmy, right," says Robert, replaying it all one more time, seeing Jimmy
soaring in for that slam.

"Yeah," he says finally, turning away from the basket, turning to face his
brother. "You're right. You're absolutely right. It's over."

And the two brothers head for some ice cream.
--for Jim Smith 1947-1996






RICK WILBER

IMAGINE JIMMY

JUST TOUCHING HER excited him. Sitting next to her at the morning meetings at
WDA & Associates, accidentally bumping knees or shoes, he found himself getting
excited, had to move in his chair to get himself more comfortable. So when she
asked him over to her place for lunch yesterday he said yes.

He couldn't have imagined it any better. They never did get around to eating
much of that lunch she'd made, some chicken and rice thing. Instead they bumped
around in the kitchen, just making the slightest contact hip to hip or that
light touch on the hand as he helped her with the salad, or that leaning over
her from behind, feeling her dark hair against his cheek while they rinsed a
couple of glasses at the sink.

The tension was electric, was palpable until she broke it with a nervous laugh
and asked him if he felt it, too, and that led the two of them into an
admittance of things they'd been hinting at for a month or more now at work.

They almost made love. Almost. But Robert, who doesn't think of himself as
someone like this, who thinks of himself as a lot more down-to-earth than this,
really, backed away at the last moment, right in step with Alice, who pushed him
away, too.

They stood there, looking at each other for a long, long minute, saying nothing
until Alice finally spoke, said "Oh, Robert."

He was dizzy, felt like it was all some weird out-of-body experience, that it
couldn't possibly be real, couldn't be him standing there, watching himself
watching her.

She reached out to touch his face, her fingers brushing his cheek lightly,
stopping there for a second before she brought her hand back. "I need to think,
Robert."

He nodded, trying to will it all to be real. "Yes, me, too."

"Give me the weekend to think about it, okay? Maybe we'll have lunch on Monday
or something."

"Sure. Lunch. On Monday." It was about all he could manage to get said.

She laughed awkwardly. "I don't know, Robert. I've thought about this so much. I
figured I knew what I wanted; but, it's just too much right now. Look, you have
to go now, Robert, you really have to go."

So he left, slowly calming down, returning to reality.

Now, just a couple of hours later, he is still trying to piece together his
recollection of it all as he drives to pick up his Down Syndrome older brother
Jimmy at the group home, fighting the afternoon traffic to get there in time
while he thinks about her, wondering if it all was real. It's almost like he
imagined the whole thing, like it was a dream. He's tempted to call her just to
check his own memory of it.

He's not proud of this, he tells himself, but he feels drawn to her somehow,
like some satellite that circles around her, its orbit narrowing until it
finally angles in sharply toward her.

And burns up as the atmosphere thickens. That's the problem, all the destruction
that is possible here. Today's little lunch was at her place while her husband
was out of town and her kids off in school.

Her husband, Robert thinks, and sighs. He's never met the guy, and is glad of
that. And her kids. He shakes his head. Great kids, he met them once, quite
accidentally, when he and Jimmy were at the mall one rainy Saturday afternoon. A
boy about ten, and his little sister, a six-year-old as pretty as her mommy.

Alice introduced him to them as her friend from work and his brother, and they
all chatted politely for a minute about the new Disney movie (the boy officially
found it boring, the girl thought it was wonderful) before the little girl's
tugs on Mommy's hand took the family off toward the ice cream shop. Robert
walked away slowly from that one, taking Jimmy by the hand then walking back out
into the educational cold rain and his Mustang and the drive back to the group
home.

Jimmy just looked at him as they drove, not saying much at first. Finally, "You
like her, my brother?" he asked.

"Yeah, Jimmy. I like her. She's nice," Robert said, hoping that would end it.

"She has nice kids," Jimmy said, and smiled, added "I like them."

"And a nice husband, too, Jimbo," Robert added. "The kids' daddy, you know?
Look, it's nothing, Jimmy, just don't worry about it, okay? Just let it go."

And Jimmy did, or seemed to, just nodding yes and then sitting back and getting
quiet again before falling asleep as they drove the last couple of miles to the
group home.

Alice is a big girl, dammit, Robert tells himself now as he's driving, and she
says the marriage is rocky anyway, that her husband Nick isn't home much anymore
and seems to have lost interest in her and all the rest. And, Robert thinks, if
she didn't want this, all she had to do was say no.

And, Jesus, the excitement, the potential, was so explosive that he could hardly
think about anything else. Earlier this morning, at the meeting, he had to force
himself to concentrate on the project, about how much money they could make once
the deal was done. Millions of dollars being talked about, millions risked, his
career on the line, and what he was thinking about was how her skin might feel
against his fingertips as he ran them along her back, her stomach, her breasts.

It's all suddenly moving way too fast for him, his imagination outrunning his
reality, like that time in college when he came in off the bench against Ohio
State and that Buckeye guard was so quick that Robert felt like his feet were
lead, that time had changed somehow so that the guy was zipping by him in some
frenzied, perfect, higher speed while Robert could only turn and watch. It was
the worst basketball game of his mediocre college career and a nightmare he's
never forgotten.

Now, driving along, thinking about what might be about to happen, he's excited
and fearful at the same time. He can hardly breathe.

He sucks in air slowly, deeply, trying to gain some control. He's glad to be
picking up Jimmy, who is as down to earth as it gets, who can ground him, pull
him down from all these light-headed imaginings. Jimmy, he thinks, will slow
things down for him. Jimmy knows what's real and what isn't.

To get to Jimmy's group home Robert has made the seven-mile drive up 66th
street. There are one or two lights every mile, and he has caught them all at
red, every single one of them, and this is tourist season to boot, so the drive
has taken nearly forty minutes, with Robert mumbling curses at the Ontario and
Ohio plates the whole way, watching from behind, frustrated, as those gray heads
bob in their huge, maroon Buicks, ambling toward wherever they are going on a
Friday afternoon in Florida in March.

But now he's finally here. He shakes his head, takes another deep breath, trying
to bring the world into focus as he pulls into the driveway of the Samuel
Crockett Independent Living Facility, Jimmy's group home.

Jimmy, dressed in gray slacks, a red button-down shirt and that awful pink tie
with the smiling cow on it that he likes so much, waits on the bench that sits
outside the group home's front door, staring off into the distance. He has his
favorite little athletic bag with him, the black one with the red Chicago Bulls
emblem on it. Jimmy is a real Bulls fan. Robert likes the Celtics. It is a
historic point of contention between the two.

Robert stops the Mustang by the bench, hits the power window switch and leans
over that way to give Jimmy a shout.

"Hey, Jimbo. Ready to go, pal?"

Jimmy just looks over at him, slowly, his face in that serious expression he
gets sometimes, eyes narrowed, mouth tight. Something's going on.

Then Jimmy seems to notice it's Robert and the whole world brightens.

"Hey, Roberto. What's going on, my brother? You okay?"

"Yeah, Jim, I'm fine. Sorry I'm a little late, brother, but I had some business
and then the traffic was terrible. Man, these tourists!"

"Yeah," Jimmy says, opening the door and slowly easing himself in. "Yeah, these
tourists!"

Then he settles in, clicks the seatbelt into place, and looks at his younger
brother. "You are late, my brother. I love you and I like you, but Mom said
three-thirty o'clock and it is," he looks at his digital watch, "three-forty
o'clock, my brother. That is late. We hurry now, okay? I can't miss it,
confession."

Robert smiles. Time matters to Jimmy, seems to give him a sense of order, of
organization, something he can control, so it's not surprising that he's a
little upset that Robert is late.

Robert tries to explain it away. "Like I said, Jimmy, I'm sorry. It was bad
traffic, you know? Lots of cars going slow."

Jimmy just nods, and slips back into the staring thing, looking out the window
now as Robert pulls the Mustang back onto the main road, heading south on 66th
Street, back toward Holy Innocents and confession. Every Friday at four in the
afternoon Robert does this, takes Jimmy to confession. It's important enough
that he juggles his lunch hours all week to do it, building up enough time that
he can get out early on Friday, pick up Jimmy and get him over to Father Curran
in his little booth.

The first light is green as they approach it, then goes amber and then red as
they pull up to the broad white line marking the intersection.

"Damn," Robert says, downshifting.

"I not like it when you say that word, my brother," says Jimmy, coming out of
his reverie long enough to let Robert know that he's listening. Robert just
smiles, thinking Jimmy will probably add it to his list for confession -- "Heard
a bad word from my brother." Probably get him another Hail Mary.

Robert looks over and Jimmy's eyes have closed again. There's something about
driving along that almost instantly lulls Jimmy into a half-sleep, a kind of
meditative state. Over the years since Dad's death Robert has seen this hundreds
of times, the peaceful look on that wide face, the flattened nose, the folds
around the eyes. There's a slight drool from the mouth as Jimmy mumbles in his
sleep.

God, Robert loves this guy. He's never understood how brothers could not get
along, though he's heard it from his friends all his life, about the fights some
brothers have, about how they drift apart over the years, never talking, not
really knowing each other's successes and failures.

That's not the way things are with Robert and Jimmy, not even close. The kid
needs him, dammit, and Robert's gotten a lot in return, too. The love he gets
from Jimmy is amazing the hugs and devotion, the joy.

Jimmy takes his responsibilities as the older brother very seriously. Back in
high school when Robert was the shooting guard of the Crusaders, leading
Catholic High to its best season in years, Jimmy was there at almost every game,
home and away, cheering his brother on, telling everyone just who that was out
there hitting those three-pointers, finishing up with a slam on the fastbreaks.

One game, against Cleveland High, Jimmy was sick and had to stay home. Robert
was awful that night, hitting just one of eight from the field, giving up four
turnovers, playing miserably the whole time. It was the only league game they
lost all year, and Robert was the reason. He capped off the awful night by
missing a pair of free throws with four seconds left when he could have tied the
score. Jimmy blamed the loss on himself. Robert came home with the news and
found Jimmy, flu and all, waiting up for him.

"I stunk it up, Jimbo," Robert told him. "I mean I was really awful."

"I so, so sorry I not there for you, my brother," Jimmy said in return. "Never
again, okay? I promise, I always be there for you."

"Sure, Jimmy, you'll always be there," Robert said, worn out and depressed,
though never too tired to talk to Jimmy.

That was fifteen years ago now, and seems even longer, but Jimmy still protects
his baby brother.

They're within a block of Holy Innocents, so it's time to wake Jimmy up. Robert
reaches over and shakes him gently on the knee. "Hey, Jimmy, time to wake it up,
pal. We're almost there."

Jimmy stirs, those eyes open slowly. He smiles. "Holy Innocents?"

"That's it, Holy Innocents, Jimbo. Confession time."

Then Robert laughs as he makes the turn into the wide driveway of the church and
heads up toward the parking area. "Hey, brother," he adds, "what's the big sin?
You been messing around with the girls lately, or something?"

Jimmy just turns and looks at Robert for a moment, his face contorted, like he's
struggling to find the words to say something.

Then he gives it up, just smiles, says, "I not tell you, Robert. It is my
confession, and I need it, that is all."

Whew, Robert thinks, serious stuff here. But what could be serious for Jimmy?
The kid -- hell, he is in his mid-thirties now but Robert still thinks of him as
a kid -- is as innocent as new snow, there just aren't any sins possible for
Jimmy.

They pull into the space closest to the side door of the church. There arc no
other cars in the lot. "C'mon, brother," Robert says, "it can't be that serious,
can it? What happened? Tell your little brother and maybe I can help, eh?"

Jimmy just stares, though, then slowly shakes his head and looks out the car
window as Robert comes to a stop, turns the engine off and tugs on the parking
brake. Then, while Robert watches, puzzled -- can this quiet, worried guy be his
brother Jimmy? -- Jimmy gets out and walks into the church. Robert sits back to
wait.

It takes maybe ten minutes, no more, and then Jimmy comes walking out, smiling
now, obviously happier.

"Hey, my brother, I better now."

"Father Curran have some good advice for you, Jimbo?"

Jimmy looks at him, shakes his head. "This is confession, Robert, I not tell
you. It is private."

Robert smiles, shoves the Mustang into reverse, pulls out of the spot and then
heads for 66th street and the drive back north to the group home.

But when they get to the intersection to make that turn, Jimmy says, "Hey,
Robert. Let's play it some basketball, okay? Me and you, brother, one on one."

Robert smiles. The two of them have been shooting hoops like this since they
were kids. It's a kind of ongoing ritual, in Robert's mind, a frequent reminder
of their connection to each other. Occasionally, it's even more than that, like
the time Dad died in that stupid car wreck.

Coming home late from work, a summer thunderstorm with that torrent of
heat-driven rain so thick you can't see where you're going, a little mistake on
the interstate just where the bridge comes down from its elevated ramp over the
waters of the bay onto that long stretch of fill land.

A little mistake, some sliding, some banging and crunching with that other car
and that semi and that was that, off into the bay. There's only ten feet of
water at that spot, Robert went out into it one day to see for himself. Did some
skin-diving on that exact spot. But ten feet deep is all it takes when the car
is on its side and you're trapped in there and no one can see where the car is
and that, Robert remembers, was that. A dumb way to go.

A couple of months later, looking through his father's stuff from his office
desk, Robert found out that Dad was making it with some woman, someone who
signed her letters Licia.

He never told Jimmy, or Mom, about what he found. But Jimmy has a strange way of
figuring things out, of sensing them somehow, and it all came out later in one
of their brotherly basketball games, Jimmy winning like Robert always makes sure
he does, and then Jimmy standing there, sweating in the late summer sun, crying
hard, sobbing, saying stuff about Dad, about Morn, about Dad and women and what
was going on. Robert, to this day, has no idea how the kid could have come up
with it, but he did.

All this recollection and more, of the funeral, of the legal hassle, of the
polite well-wishers and the money troubles and all the rest, flashes by in an
instant when Jimmy mentions shooting the ball around, and then Robert says,
"Yeah, that's a great idea. I got my stuff in the trunk, what about you?"

"I brought it my stuff, Robert. I am a ready guy. Let's shoot it some hoops."

"Okay, okay, Jimbo, but I got to warn you, I'm going to thump you good this
time, pal. I'm due."

Jimmy laughs, "You watch it, my brother. Be a good sport, okay?"

And Robert laughs with him.

They are only a few minutes away from the Pass-a-grille courts, the ones in the
little park across the street from the main beach, just up from the Hurricane
Restaurant, the one where Dad first met that Licia woman, from what Robert read
in those letters.

The off-shore breeze is blowing pretty good as they park, open the trunk and get
out the ball and Robert's shoes and shorts and walk over to the court.

Jimmy has a great little jump shot, he's been a big star at the Special O's with
that shot. But there won't be much outside shooting today, Robert thinks, as the
two of them sit down on the bench and start putting on their shorts and shoes.

Jimmy laces his shoes up tight, and has that look on his face, so Robert knows
this one is serious. Somehow, Robert figures, this connects up to going to
confession, and Father Curran, and Holy Innocents and god knows what else, but
Robert has no idea how or why.

Before Robert has finished lacing his first shoe, Jimmy is done and walking out
toward the basket, dribbling the ball five times with his right hand and then
five times with his left, the way his father taught him all those years ago. Dad
was a heck of a player, was a starter in college, a forward for the Golden
Gophers at Minnesota.

Robert has a framed picture of his dad from those playing days, that long right
arm reaching up and out toward the rim, his body rising for a layup on a
fastbreak, two Purdue Boilermakers hopelessly late behind him, both of them
reduced to watching. The picture shows his father's certainty, at least for that
moment.

Robert inherited some of those talents, enough of them to sit on the bench in
college at any rate and get a free education in the bargain. That's more than
most guys can say.

And Jimmy? Well, hell, Down Syndrome or not, he can play this game. Robert
remembers watching Jimmy play in one Special Olympics game a couple of years
back where the other team had some pretty good players and Jimmy's team really
had only Jimmy.

Jimmy scored twenty-eight points in that game in a losing cause, keeping his
team in the game with a series of steals that led to layups, and with a nifty
little turn-around jumper that he hit seven or eight times. It was only in the
last few minutes that the poor kid, worn out, just couldn't keep up the pace.

Robert was so proud of his brother that he ran onto the court after the game and
lifted him up off the floor in celebration. Jimmy was embarrassed by that since
his team, after all, had lost.

Jimmy's ready to play, so Robert finishes lacing them up and joins him on the
court. Robert takes a couple of jumpers to loosen up, stretches out a bit doing
a couple of toe touches and a few windmills with his arms, and then they go at
it.

Jimmy opens the game with a furious drive, dribbling right past Robert and then
laying it in for two.

Robert, still not really loose and ready to play, is surprised by his brother's
intensity. So that's the way it's going to be, eh? He responds with a soft
jumper from the free-throw line that goes cleanly through the net. Tie game.

It goes on like this for a while, the two of them playing even as they hit the
ten-point mark, the fourteen, the sixteen-point mark in a game to twenty.

Robert, of course, is really a much better player and so controls the game.
Jimmy, for all his excellence in the Special Olympics, is not nearly as quick or
as strong as Robert, and so would lose every game if they played straight up.

But Robert hasn't played Jimmy straight up in fifteen years, not since they were
just kids. Robert has always figured that Jimmy faces plenty of losses in life
every day and doesn't need any from his brother, so Robert always makes sure
that Jimmy wins these brotherly games. Then, afterward, they'll head over to
Tastee Freeze for some ice cream so they can celebrate Jimmy's big victory.

Robert keeps it close every time, making sure he misses at critical moments, or
that he has just the right lapse on defense to let Jimmy score a critical layup
or two. Then, usually, toward the end of the game Robert takes a lead, then lets
Jimmy make a dramatic comeback and win the game.

This is always cause for jubilation from Jimmy, arms outstretched in joy, that
round face grinning before he runs over to shake Robert's hand, give him a big
hug and tell him what a good player he is and too bad he couldn't win it.

Robert always just smiles. Good old Jimmy.

And this game goes that way, too, though Jimmy is working so hard, trying so
hard, that Robert almost feels bad about not playing it dead seriously. He can't
recall Jimmy putting this much into it in a long, long time.

At the end, Jimmy hits a long jumper, out from behind the three-point line, to
win it, but then there is nothing of that victory dance that Robert is used to
seeing, none of the joy.

Instead, Jimmy tosses the ball to Robert and says, "Okay, brother, let's play
again. You try harder now, okay?"

And so Robert does try harder, putting a little more into the acting, making
sure that he looks like he's really trying, making the victory worthwhile for
Jimmy. This one is close, too, a one or two-basket margin the whole way until
they approach the game's end at the twenty mark. Robert really gets caught up in
it, lost in the game, putting a move on Jimmy here and there, hustling by his
brother for a rebound, hitting that outside jumper consistently.

Then, toward the end, Robert backs in on Jimmy, protecting the ball as he moves
in toward the goal, getting ready to take a little turn-around fadeaway jumper
that should end it.

He finds his spot, gives a little head fake to the left and then spins around
off the right leg and jumps. Perfect.

But Jimmy has backed off him, not gone for the fake and is up in the air, trying
for a block.

He's reaching, straining upward, soaring higher and higher as the ball leaves
Robert's fingertips. Jimmy gets there, slaps the ball away and then both
brothers come down, sneakers squeaking against the hot pavement.

How did Jimmy do that? The kid cannot jump, he's never gotten up that high in
his life. But there it was.

Jimmy retrieves the ball and Robert turns to face him. All right, then, this
one's for real.

Jimmy gives a little fake to his left, then pulls up for the jumper. Robert
comes at him and jumps to block it, but Jimmy doesn't leave his feet and,
instead, stays down, puts the ball on the court to dribble and blows by Robert,
heading toward the basket.

Robert watches, hung up there, useless, as Jimmy goes by, and then, as Robert
comes back down he turns to see Jimmy, this thirty-three-year-old Down's kid,
take a final dribble and grab the ball with both hands and plant both feet and
then jump, up and toward the rim, soaring from underneath, straining, getting
his fingertips over the rim, then his whole hand, then up past the wrist and
slamming the ball home, a thunderous dunk, to win it.

Jesus Christ.

Robert doesn't know what else to say. A dunk? By Jimmy?

Robert just stands there as Jimmy comes down, feet flat against the court and
then grabs the ball, turns to face his brother.

"I win," he says, simply.

Robert wonders if he just imagined all that. It has, after all, been that kind
of day, one filled with vivid imaginings. Maybe it never happened, maybe it was
just a layup, just another nice shot.

"I win, but you tried hard, my brother. Good game." And Jimmy holds out his
right hand for a game-ending handshake.

"Yeah, Jimbo. I tried hard, I always try hard." Robert shakes his head, then
reaches out to take Jimmy's hand. "Did you just...?"

"I win it, my brother. I beat you."

"Yeah, Jimmy, you sure did." Robert is still replaying it, convincing himself
now that it was just his imagination. God knows he's having trouble enough with
that lately anyway.

"Father Curran says I have a good 'magination, Robert."

"Father Curran?"

"At confession. He tells me I have a good 'magination."

"What are you talking about?"

Jimmy stands there, dead serious, ball in his right hand, squinting in the hard,
bright sun. "At confession, I tell Father Curran my sins and he tells me I have
a good 'magination and say two Hail Marys."

"What did you confess, Jimbo?"

Jimmy just shrugs. "Father Curran says I should talk to my brother Robert about
this. Father Curran says 'magination is fine, but not to get it confused with
real stuff."

"Yeah, well, that's good advice, Jimmy. Don't get it confused."

Robert nods. "I thought so," he says.

And then, and as Robert stands there, puzzling through all this, Jimmy walks
over and pats him on the back.

"You a smart guy, my brother. You got it?"

"Yeah, Jimmy, sure. I got it," says Robert, not sure if he does or not.

"Good man," Jimmy says, and then walks over to where they've left their towels.

Robert, though, doesn't walk that way. Instead, he stands there, looking at the
rim, until Jimmy yells at him.

"C'mon, my brother. It is over now, right? Time for ice cream."

"Yeah, Jimmy, right," says Robert, replaying it all one more time, seeing Jimmy
soaring in for that slam.

"Yeah," he says finally, turning away from the basket, turning to face his
brother. "You're right. You're absolutely right. It's over."

And the two brothers head for some ice cream.
--for Jim Smith 1947-1996