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Incredible.

      “Hey, Steve?” Henry calls over to the quarterback on his way off the field, his father’s words from the night before still ringing in his ears. “Any chance you could throw a couple before heading in?”

      Steve Wilson drains the last of his Gatorade and nods, turning back to the dusk-lit fifty-yard line after tossing the empty plastic bottle aside.

      “God, thanks,” Henry says. He tosses the ball to the quarterback and sprints downfield.

      The ball comes fast over to the left … then to the right … sometimes down the center … always spiraling. Henry and Steve speak in numbers hollered in near darkness. The evening fills with the music of whooshing and panting and feet pounding across the field. The others have long since showered and gone home.

      “Last call,” Steve says. Henry catches the final throw … a perfect thirty-yard pass … and tucks it under his arm to run it to the opposite end of the field, past the quarterback. The crowd roars as he scores a touchdown in his mind.

      “See ya,” Steve calls out.

      “Hey, thanks, man.”

      And so it is that Henry Powell and Steve Wilson forge a relationship silently sealed with grass stains and sweat and a shared love of the game. After most practices, they hang back, tossing the ball back and forth to each other until their teammates are far away in the locker room or in cars heading home to pot roasts and mashed potatoes. Then the drills begin. Tosses turn to throws. Henry’s long legs take him up and down the field. Until Henry begins to anticipate what Steve will do next. Until it is so pitch-black that the ball is invisible. Henry straggles into the showers so tired he does not see the coach’s car still in the dirt parking lot.

       Chapter four

       1984

      Mr. Beardsley passes, his voice directed at Ramon the stock boy but intended to alert Henry that he’s on deck, question wise.

      “We’ll see you on Sunday, right, Ramon?” Ramon is sweating under a huge box of outerwear and therefore cannot answer properly.

      “Yeah,” he says.

      “Good.” Mr. Beardsley looks back down at the checklist that’s never far from reach. “Good.” A check next to an item that by Henry’s reckoning is most likely “make sure Ramon is coming on Sunday.”

      “Roughly what time will you be getting there, Henry, do you know? Just roughly.” He tries to sound casual but Henry knows that whatever time he quotes him will be etched in a Moses tablet in Mr. Beardsley’s head so he answers carefully.

      “About three or so.”

      “Good.” Another check on the list. “Good. I’ll be in the back room if anyone needs me.”

      Sunday is the annual company picnic, an excruciating event dreaded by both Henry and Ramon, the sole invitees not counting the UPS man, whose name is mumbled by all because no one is sure if it’s Robby or Bobby. But the UPS man never shows. This year Mr. Beardsley ventured a cheerful “You’re working too hard … obby,” varying the volume on the name. (R/Bobby managed an equally cheery combination head nod and shake accompanied by “Don’t I know it, don’t I know it” on his way out the door, hands never leaving his dolly).

      Once Mr. Beardsley has wandered off, Henry dials his own phone number to recheck his answering machine. But the new toll-saver feature alerts him to the fact that he has no messages. Three rings. No calls.

      He had really thought his brother would return his phone call this time. Brad knew very well he was at work and Henry had assumed he’d have taken the occasion of his not being home to leave a message, avoiding a conversation altogether. It had been three days since he had left the message on Brad’s answering machine in Portland, Oregon.

      “Brad? Hey, it’s Henry. Um, I just thought you should know, ah, Mom’s not doing very well right now. She’s been asking about you a lot lately and I was wondering if you were thinking maybe of coming back for a visit. Just wondering. No big deal if you can’t. But Dad asked me to call you so I figured what the hell. Okay. Well. You have my number. Or you could just call the house. Hey, Brad? Come home, okay?”

      “Hi, Henry.” Kevin Douglas appears smaller, thinner, than he did at Fox Run. He had been the yearbook editor two years in a row but was ousted senior year for picking the most unflattering faculty pictures he could find. He lived in the city but had inherited his family home in town. The last time Henry saw him they had been at the pharmacy and had both been preoccupied with getting their prescriptions filled, and Henry was concerned about keeping Kevin from seeing the ointment meant to curb the alarmingly dry flaky skin he’d developed on various parts of his body.

      “Hey, Kevin.” Henry smiles as he replaces the receiver behind the desk. He comes out from behind the counter and shakes the delicate hand that is offered. “How are you?”

      Henry claps Kevin on the back but the friendly gesture is mistaken for a malicious one as little Kevin Douglas is pushed forward and has to right himself on a rack of jackets.

      “Oh, jeez, sorry,” Henry says. He guides him into the middle of the store where all the new arrivals have just been unpacked. Away from Mr. Beardsley and his picnic planning.

      “So how’s it going?” Henry asks.

      “Fine, fine,” Kevin says. Henry knows Kevin is waiting a moment for the business at hand to take precedence over small talk, which he has never mastered. “I’m looking for a suit,” he says. “Maybe something double-breasted? I don’t know. What do you think?”

      “Double-breasted’s one way to go,” Henry says. “I like single, but that’s me. Double-breasted can be a little boxy if you don’t get the right one. Let’s look over here.”

      Henry is hoping to dissuade Kevin, who will be further dwarfed by the extra fabric of a double-breasted suit. But he does not want to alienate him, especially after the unintended shove and because Kevin Douglas has always appeared nervous around him. Henry takes care to be gentler, quieter around him.

      “Let’s see.” Henry bypasses the Pierre Cardin, trendy in the late sixties, holding on in the seventies, and now in the mid eighties, Henry thinks, sadly on its way out. “Are you looking for pinstripes? Solid? Okay. Good. Yeah, I like navy, too. Perfect. Here it is. How about this?” Kevin, after careful examination, carries Henry’s choice off to the dressing room.

      “We do free alterations,” Henry calls after him. “Just so you know.” The back-clapping has poisoned the entire exchange: Henry would remind any customer of their alteration policy but now worries Kevin will think this a subtle reference to his size.

      “I’ll take it,” Kevin says. He has not come out of the dressing room. Henry’s eyes shift from one side of the store to the other, thinking of what to do to rectify this misunderstanding.

      “What’s that?” he asks, pretending not to have heard. Buying time.

      “I said I’ll take it,” the tiny voice answers. “I’ll be right out.”

      When Kevin Douglas emerges, Henry decides he will act as if the suit is a perfect fit.

      “Good?” He looks at Kevin hopefully.

      Kevin avoids his eye and hands the clothing over to be carried up to the cash register.

      “Henry, my boy,” Ned Beardsley greets him, “what’s your poison?” His arm sweeps over the foam cooler, the generous host. Henry curses himself—he didn’t note when Ramon would be arriving and now he’s paying the price by being the first there.

      “Beer’s fine,” he says.

      “Beer it is,” Mr. Beardsley says. He pulls the pop top off before handing it over. “Aah,” he says, swallowing a sip of his own beer, “this is great. Isn’t this great?” He’s looking out from his apartment’s rooftop across

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