Four
1986
“Stockton, at the top of the key. He hippity-hops left, finds Malone, Malone fakes and spins. It’s up, it’s good!” Mercedes did her best Hot Rod Hundley—color commentator for the Utah Jazz—impersonation as Noah buried the shot. Her impersonation sucked, but Noah didn’t seem to mind. He gave her a high five and passed her the ball so they could do it again. She dribbled this way and that, avoiding the cracks in the concrete, and instead of passing him the ball, she took the shot. He tried to block it, but Mercedes was used to that. The ball sailed over his outstretched hands and swished through the hoop.
“Stockton scores!” Mercedes shouted. “Nothin’ but net.”
“We’re on the same team, Mer,” Noah complained.
“So why did you try to block my shot, Karl?” she countered.
“Why do you two always get to be Karl Malone and John Stockton?” Cora grumbled. “And why don’t you ever pass me the ball?”
“Mark Eaton’s cool, Corey. And he has red hair, just like you,” Noah soothed.
“He’s a giant!” Cora whined. “And he has a beard!”
“I like beards,” Mercedes said.
“You do?’ Noah asked, wide-eyed.
Mercedes ignored him, turning to Cora who stood beneath the basketball hoop, her arms folded, her face glum. “Eaton is the center of the team, Cora. There are two guards, two forwards, but only one center. That means you’re very important,” she explained.
Cora wasn’t convinced, so Mercedes began her play-by-play once more. “Eaton’s right under the basket. He’s wide open. Malone sets a pick, Stockton glides by, finds the big man in the middle.” She tossed Cora the ball. “Eaton puts that baby to bed!”
Cora, her smile wide, caught the ball and banked it off the backboard, her touch light, her head back. The ball rattled around the rim and fell through the net.
They all cheered wildly, circling the concrete pad with their hands in the air like they’d just won the NBA championship. They practiced their free throws until it was too dark to see the net and planned to meet up after school to play again.
But Cora didn’t show the next day. She wasn’t at school and no one answered her door when Noah and Mercedes rang the doorbell and tried to peer through the front window. They went to the small court and began playing HORSE without her, certain she would join them when she could.
It wasn’t until Mercedes missed a shot, the ball sailing over the backboard and disappearing behind the rusted metal dumpster that they found her. Trash days were Mondays, and it was Tuesday, so the bin was relatively empty. Mercedes was grateful the ball hadn’t dropped inside, and she chased it down, coming to a horrified halt when she saw Cora lying in a heap between the back of the dumpster and the fence.
Mercedes must have called for Noah—she didn’t remember doing so—but he was suddenly beside her, standing over Cora. They didn’t scream for help, and they didn’t run away. The thought never occurred to either of them.
Noah said Cora’s name, and she opened her eyes. She wore jeans and a black turtleneck, and her face was so pale it appeared to float, separate from her body, like the moon in a dark sky. Her matted, red hair reminded Mercedes of the clown mask Noah had worn the Halloween before last, lank and garish, falling in her face. She lay with her arms wrapped around her midsection, and her hands were smeared with blood.
“Corey?” Noah said again, kneeling beside her.
Cora began to cry, a deep, keening wail that reverberated in Mercedes’s belly—like riding a roller coaster and leaving your stomach behind. But it didn’t feel good, and her stomach didn’t settle or flip in excitement. It stayed, floating somewhere at the base of her throat, and she gagged on her fear.
“Are you hurt, Cora?” Mercedes whispered, squatting down beside Noah. “Where have you been?” Mercedes touched Cora’s arm—her skin was so hot—and Cora jerked and sat up abruptly, shuddering and whimpering.
“Can you walk?” Noah asked.
“Tell me what hurts,” Mercedes said and patted Cora’s knee, muttering the way her abuela did when she was trying to give comfort, using soft words and random observations that took Mercedes’s mind away from her troubles. Abuela would bandage scraped knees or wipe away tears while she said things like, “I made tamales this morning. I think they are the best I’ve ever made. I wrapped them up so tight and safe. They are happy tamales. And when we eat them, they will make us happy too.” Or, “When I walked home from the store today, the clouds above were in the shape of Our Lady—she was looking down on me—and I felt loved.” Even Abuela’s ailments were turned into cause for gratitude. “I have a tickle in my throat today. I think it is because you made me laugh so hard last night. We are so lucky to laugh together, don’t you think?” They were words that meant nothing and everything. Words that made Mercedes feel safe and reminded her that life would go on beyond a temporary pain. Mercedes tried to give the same kind of words to Cora, hopeful that she would be soothed by the inanities and anchored by their normalcy.
“We looked for you, Cora. You didn’t come to school and no one answered the door when we got home. We thought maybe you had a new book and wanted to read instead of shooting hoops. Noah said it must be a romance because you were nowhere to be found, and that’s your favorite kind. I read a new book last week, for English class. Did I tell you about it? I thought I wouldn’t like it, but I did. There was no romance, but I fell in love anyway. It was called The Outsiders. It reminded me of us. There were characters with names like Soda Pop and Pony Boy. Should we call Noah Pony Boy?”
This time, Cora didn’t jerk away, but her tears came faster.
“I can’t go home,” she moaned.
“Can you stand?” Noah asked.
She tried, but her legs trembled. Mercedes pulled Cora’s arm around her shoulders and wrapped her arm around Cora’s waist. Noah did the same, and they eased her to her feet. Cora was shaky but didn’t appear to be injured, despite the blood.
“What time is it?” Cora whispered. “What . . . day?”
Noah and Mercedes exchanged a worried look over Cora’s drooping head.
“It’s Tuesday,” Noah offered.
“It’s still Tuesday?” Cora said in wonder.
“Where were you, Cora?” Mercedes asked again.
“I was sick. Mom let me stay home from school. I don’t think Daddy knew I was there,” Cora stammered.
“Why is there blood on your hands?” Noah asked.
“Daddy left me, and I tried to bring him back,” she whispered.
* * *
“Open it,” Mercedes demanded, pushing the package into Noah’s hands. It was his birthday—October 14th—and she was making sure he celebrated being thirty years old. He had a tired look that he hadn’t worn on his twenty-ninth birthday, but that was to be expected after the last six months. She’d made him a cake, three chocolate layers, vanilla buttercream frosting, and candy bar shavings, got a babysitter, and was making him open his presents.
He was being a good sport about it, shaking each box and making ridiculous guesses—a hula hoop, a Subway sandwich, a new car—before opening each one, careful not to rip the paper. It was an old habit from being a kid with nothing. Everything got re-used.
The first gift was a picture of the three of them, skinny-limbed and tousled hair, their shoelaces untied, teetering on the edge of childhood. Mercedes had budding breasts and scabbed knees, Noah wore a backwards ball cap and sported little biceps, and Cora was a head taller than both of them, looking like the big sister, her arms folded in front of her, her smile shy. Noah clutched a basketball against his left side and had his other arm slung over Mercedes’s shoulders. Mercedes had an arm around Noah on her left, Cora on her right, a cheesy, squinty-eyed grin on her face.
“I remember the day this was taken,” Noah said, softly smiling.
“Me too. But was it . . . before?” Mercedes asked. “I couldn’t remember.”
“Yeah. It was.”
“It was a good day. We got to go to a pre-season Jazz game, remember? Papi got four free tickets on a job he did, and he took us.”
Noah nodded. “The Jazz against the Clippers. The Jazz killed ‘em.”
“I got sick—”
“And threw up in my collectible cup,” Noah finished.
“You didn’t even get mad at me. You carried it away like it was no big deal. What thirteen-year-old boy does that?”
“I was afraid if I didn’t get rid of it, Cora was going to puke too, and I didn’t have another cup.”
“Open the other present,” she said.
“You got me two?”
“I got you more than two. Open it!” Mercedes insisted.
He tore off the wrapping and pulled out a collectible, 32-ounce mug with a screw-on lid and Karl Malone and John Stockton on the side, the old Jazz logo rimming the top.
“Where did you find this?” he cried.
“I have my ways. It’s not exactly the same as the one you had . . . but close. And bonus, there’s no vomit inside. However, there is something else.” Noah screwed off the cap and tipped it over. Two Jazz tickets slid out into his hand.
“They’re for tonight, which is why I asked Heather to watch Gia. And—” Mercedes picked up the final box. “You can wear this.”
“There’s a definite theme going on here,” he mused, but pulled the ribbon from the remaining box. When he removed the folded, purple jersey, shaking it out so he could see it, his eyes widened and swung to hers.
“Eaton?”
She shrugged, worried that maybe she’d messed up. “I was going to get you a Malone, #32 jersey, but then I saw that. And it felt right. I got one for myself too. It made me laugh. It’s like Cora’s going with us that way.”
His throat worked for a moment, his eyes clinging to the jersey. “I love it,” he whispered. “Cora would get a kick out of it.” His eyes rose to hers. “Thank you, Mer.”
“You’re welcome. Your final gift is hotdogs at the Delta Center, so go change. We’re gonna be late.”
They weren’t late, but the skies were dark and cold as they walked hand in hand from the crowded parking lot, hurrying against the sharp wind. The leaves scattered like flocks of starlings, rushing, lifting, and twirling away. Mercedes’s legs were so cold in her ripped jeans she couldn’t feel them, and her toes felt like foreign objects on the end of her four-inch heels.
“It’s basketball, Mer. Not fashion week. What happened to the days of sneakers and basketball shorts?”
“I still own some sneakers. But they have heels too.”
Noah laughed and pulled on her long ponytail. She’d threaded it through the opening of her cap, but it still swung halfway down her back. “High heels, ripped jeans, and a baseball cap,” he catalogued.
“And hoops,” she said, flicking the huge, gold hoops hanging from her ears. “Ya gotta wear hoops when you’re watchin’ hoop.” She sounded like Rosie Perez from White Men Can’t Jump.
“It works for you.”
“I know.” She winked. “Heels make me tall.”
“You’re still not tall, sweetheart,” Noah said.
“They make me feel tall on the inside.” She knew the endearment was an afterthought, but she liked the sound of it. When most men called her sweetheart, it was dismissive. When Noah called her sweetheart, she felt his affection.
“It won’t be the same without Karl,” Mercedes mourned, changing the subject. “Who are we going to cheer for now? The traitor.”
“I can’t believe he went to the Lakers,” Noah said, sounding like his younger self. He’d always despised the Lakers. When she’d asked him why, he told her it was because they were always winning. He liked rooting for the underdog.
“I never used to miss a game, now I don’t even know half the Jazz players,” he confessed.
“Maybe it’s time we restart our fandom,” she suggested.
“Maybe so.”
The arena was bright and raucous, and it smelled like salt and nacho cheese. A beat thumped across the ceiling, down the rows, and gathered on the floor where the players were warming up. It was like Disneyland, where no troubles existed, and nothing mattered but the next few hours. They found their seats, pulled their jackets off, and Noah left to get them some drinks and snacks before the opening tip. When he returned, his arms full, he handed Mercedes a cup and folded himself into the seat beside her.
“These tickets had to cost you an arm and a leg, Mer.”
“Don’t worry. I slept with a client. Got ‘em for free.”
“Oh yeah? Good. I was feeling guilty.”
She snickered and took a big swig from her Diet Coke.
They spent the first half getting acquainted with who was who, getting used to a new lineup, and talking about the old days.
“Ostertag’s still here!” Mercedes crowed, and she and Noah threw their heads back and called his name, “Ooooooosterrrtaaaag,” the way Hot Rod Hundley did whenever the big, bald center scored.
It wasn’t until the time out at the beginning of the fourth quarter that everything went bad. The huge jumbotron hanging in the center of the arena lit up with the Kissing Cam. It took a moment for the crowd to get in on the action, but it wasn’t long before the whole arena was laughing and pointing as the camera swung from couple to couple, everyone participating with good natured pecks and the occasional passionate lip-lock. It wasn’t until the people around them started to scream and point, that Mercedes recognized herself, larger than life, sitting beside Noah, and realized what was happening. The words KISS HER lit up the screen around their faces, pulsing bigger and bigger.
“Por qué?” Mercedes groaned.
Noah’s face was tight and his shoulders stiff, but he leaned toward her, sliding his hand around her neck and pulling her close. His kiss was light and soft, his eyes open and holding hers. His beard tickled her chin and the crowd clapped and hollered until another couple lit up the jumbotron, closing the curtain on their performance.
Like that, their laughter was gone, taking with it the carefree teasing and the window of peace and forgetfulness. For several minutes, they sat in awkward silence, aware of each other in a way they weren’t before, uncomfortable with each other in a way they’d never been. Mercedes reached over and laced her fingers through his.
“I’m sorry, Noah.”
He didn’t ask her for what. He didn’t brush away the apology. He just squeezed her hand once and let it go, keeping his eyes trained on the court. He watched the game, though from his bleak expression and faraway eyes, Mer knew he wasn’t following the action. The game wasn’t fun anymore. Being with him wasn’t fun. It hurt. All of it. And it was way too soon.
“Let’s go home,” she said, and pulled on her coat.
His eyes found hers. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “If we leave now, we won’t have to fight the crowds.”
He stood immediately, snagging his own coat, and followed her up the stairs toward the exit. Noah didn’t take her hand like he had on the way in. He walked with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. When they made it out the main entrance doors and started down the sidewalk to the huge parking lot, he picked up speed, and Mercedes struggled to keep up with his long stride. He was at least two lengths in front of her when he suddenly realized she wasn’t beside him. He turned and cursed quietly, stopped, and waited for her to catch up. But he didn’t resume walking when she reached him.
“I haven’t kissed anyone but Cora in ten years,” he blurted.
“I’m not anyone. Kissing me is like kissing Gia. Right? Like kissing your mom.”
He scoffed. “I never kissed my mom. Your mom kissed me more than my mom did.”
The odd twisting in her chest came again, causing her to press a hand between her breasts to ease the pain.
“Mami kissed you because it was easier than telling you she loved you,” she explained, knowing the reason wasn’t important, but needing something to say.
“Yeah. I know.” Noah was silent for a moment, standing hunched against the cold, one hand in his pocket, one hand clamped around the back of his neck.
“The thing is . . . kissing you isn’t like kissing Gia, Mer. Kissing you . . . feels like I’m betraying Cora. And even though she’s gone, I’m not ready to go there yet. Not even with my best friend. Not even for the Kissing Cam.”
Mercedes didn’t trust herself to speak or even meet his gaze. She just nodded and began walking again, desperate to escape the sense that her six-month sabbatical from crying was about to end in very noisy, painful tears. She hadn’t cried for Cora. She hadn’t cried for Noah or Gia. She hadn’t cried for herself.
“I’m sorry, Noah. This was a terrible mistake,” she gasped, walking so fast she was almost running, her arms folded across her chest. “I thought it would be good. I thought it would be okay. I thought we would laugh, and we could forget for a while. That’s all.”
He was easily keeping stride with her, but she could hear his frustration when he reached out and grabbed her arm, forcing her to slow down. “I don’t want to forget, Mer. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. If I forget her . . . then she will truly be gone.”
It was like a dam burst in her chest, a rush of water and grief so torrential, she couldn’t see her shoes. And she couldn’t take another step. She sank to her haunches in the middle of the sidewalk and covered her face with her hands.
“Mer?” Noah whispered, sinking down beside her. He tried to lift her chin, to pull her hands from her face, but she yanked her head away, the momentum sending her falling back so she sat down hard on the concrete.
“I’ve hurt your feelings. That’s not what I wanted. I just needed to explain,” Noah said, aghast.
“Let’s just g-go home, ok-kay?” she sobbed. “I’m all right. I’m j-just t-tired. N-no b-big d-deal.”
He helped her to her feet, looping his arm around her waist, and she walked the final stretch to the parking lot, staggering like she’d had too much to drink. She wished she had. The lot was packed with cars of every make and color, but there wasn’t a soul in sight, and they slipped in between the sleeping vehicles until they found her Corolla.
“I’m driving,” Noah said when she began digging in her purse for her keys. She surrendered her purse without a fight and let him tuck her into the passenger seat and pull the belt across her lap and click it home. But he didn’t move away. He wiped the tears from her cheeks, peering under the brim of her baseball cap, his own eyes wet in the weak light.
“I forget sometimes that you loved Cora for as long as I did. I forget that you lost her too. I didn’t mean to be an asshole. It was just a silly kiss, and I freaked out.”
“N-no. Y-you weren’t . . . an asshole.” Mercedes couldn’t catch her breath, and she couldn’t stop crying. She gritted her teeth, willing control, commanding her teeth to stop chattering and her tears to stop falling.
“I miss her too, and I loved her too, but it’s not the same kind of loss. Let’s not pretend it is,” she said slowly, breathing with each word so she wouldn’t stammer. Noah unclicked the seatbelt and gathered her into his arms, holding her so tight she could feel his heartbeat against her ear.
“Want to hear something cool?” he whispered.
“Always.”
“A common, American field ant can carry up to 5000 times its own body weight.”
“Nerd alert. You’ve told me that one before,” she whispered back, sniffling.
“Yeah . . . and do you remember what you said?”
“I asked you how much a Mexican ant could carry, because I was sure it was more.”
“Such a smart ass,” he said softly, a smile in his voice.
“Smart ant,” she hiccuped. “I think those were lazy American field ants in your kitchen, thinking they owned the place.”
Noah released her and pulled her seatbelt on again. Then he walked around the car and slid behind the wheel. He started the Corolla and maneuvered his way out of the crowded lot and onto the busy streets surrounding the Delta Center.
“Any reason you’re thinking about ants while I’m losing my shit?” Mercedes said, wondering if she dared look at her reflection in the visor mirror. Her eyes felt scratchy and hot.
“You are a tiny, worker ant. You never stop. Never take a break. You work harder than anyone I know. And you carry everyone else’s weight. You always have. But you can’t be strong all the time. I forget that too.”
“The numb just finally wore off,” she murmured.
“Yeah. It happens. Mine still comes and goes.”
“I should have just flipped the jumbotron the bird,” Mercedes said, suddenly angry. “I mean, we’re not circus clowns, there to entertain the crowd. Kissing Cam! That Kissing Cam can kiss my ass.” Her indignation felt good, and she wiped at her eyes, confident she’d found her control.
“I ruined tonight. I’m sorry,” Noah said. Mercedes felt her lips tremble, and her eyes filled again. Damn.
“You didn’t ruin it. It was too soon,” she said firmly, looking out the window so he wouldn’t see the tears streaming down her cheeks all over again.
“It’ll be easier next time,” he soothed.
“Next time?”
“Next game. We have a fandom to rebuild, remember? I’ll bring the beer . . . actually, I won’t. I’ll bring the baby, so no beer. And you can’t hold your liquor, from what I remember.”
Mercedes swiped at her cheeks, but there was no end in sight. “Can I be Deron Williams? He’s a pretty good point guard. Not John Stockton, but nobody’s John Stockton,” she muttered, keeping her voice steady.
“Only if I can be Carlos Boozer. He kinda reminds me of Malone.” Noah reached into her purse and pulled out a package of tissues and set it on her knee.
“Boozer and Williams. It has a ring. I think I’m going to start calling you Boozer. Gia can be Ostertag,” Mercedes said, crying softly as she ripped a tissue from the package.
“Gia can be Coach Sloan. God knows she calls the shots.”
Mercedes scrubbed at her face, and Noah let the conversation slip into silence. They were almost to his townhome when he spoke again, his voice gentle.
“Believe it or not, you’ll feel better tomorrow.”
Mercedes nodded, still crying. Maybe she would. Maybe the vise would be gone, or maybe it would just be easier to endure.
“Will you feel better tomorrow?” she whispered.
He stared at the road for so long, Mercedes thought he wasn’t going to answer.
“Honestly, you make me feel better, Mer. You make me laugh. You make me talk. And . . . I struggle with that, like feeling better is wrong too.”
“You feel bad when you laugh?” she asked, her heart aching for him.
“I feel bad that it’s you who makes me laugh. I know what I’m feeling is pretty typical. I counsel patients struggling with this kind of guilt all the time. They almost beg me for permission to feel good again. The truth is, I sympathized before. Now I understand. When is it okay to move on?” He shrugged. “I don’t know the answer to that. I just know . . . not . . . yet.”
They turned into his driveway, and he turned off the key.
“Come inside for a minute. We can check the score.”
Mercedes nodded. Her head was throbbing, and she needed a glass of water. “Don’t forget there’s cake in the fridge.” She blew her nose, not caring if it was gross.
Noah pumped the air with his fist. “That’s right!” he hissed. “Chocolate layers. Buttercream frosting. And it’s all mine.”
“Well . . . mostly yours. I had a piece while you were changing Gia’s diaper before she and Heather left. I had to test it for you.”
“You cut my birthday cake?” he said in mock outrage.
“An ant’s gotta eat,” she muttered. “And I could use another piece.”