Bridge to a Distant Star (14 page)

Charlie imitated his dad subconsciously, mirroring his posture, leaning against the car next to him. “That’s why Coach is sending me home. Wants me to ice my leg.”

Charles reached down to touch Charlie’s shin pad. “Did you get kicked?”

“Yeah, their fullback got me good once.” He shrugged it off as insignificant. “It’s a little sore. Coach is just being extra careful.” Scanning the crowd of parents still hovering around the field, Charlie asked, “Where’s Mom?”

“She’s been talking with Mrs. Benson. Looks like she’s coming this way now.” Skeptically, he eyed Charlie’s right shin again. “Charlie, you let that Raptor take the ball away from you like you weren’t even trying. Gotta keep your head in the game, sport. Especially in the last few minutes.”

The disappointment in his father’s voice hit Charlie like a blow. He absentmindedly nudged a discarded gum wrapper at his feet.

“I know you got kicked, but with only a minor injury like that?” Charles shook his head. “You could’ve cost us the game.”

Barely above a whisper, Charlie said, “Yeah. Guess my mind wandered for a minute or somethin’.”

“It’s like you were in slow motion.” Charles rubbed his chin, deliberating. “You know, the weather’s nice enough now that we could start jogging together. Time I got off the treadmill. Treadmills are for sissies anyway, eh?” He scoffed, reached out and gave Charlie a quick punch in the arm. “When this tournament’s over tomorrow—and you boys take home the trophy—how ’bout we hit the road together?”

“Sure thing, Dad.”

“We’ll do some celebrating first, of course. No doubt about it: You’ll be on your game tomorrow, right? The Flames
are
going to win.”

Charlie’s mom arrived, giving him a quick hug. “How’s my favorite player?” Francine was fully cognizant that any obvious display of affection by a mom in front of peers wasn’t considered cool, so a brief hug would have to do. Charlie usually didn’t appear to be bothered by his mom’s hugs—he had even been known to hug her in front of his friends—but she wasn’t about to abuse that privilege. “That last-minute goal was fantastic, Charlie. Boy, what an exciting game.”

“Jason set me up, Mom. His pass was awesome.”

“I’m sure it was. Your goal was awesome too.”

Charlie opened the back door of the car, feeling a sharp pain in his knee when he bent it to climb in, but he controlled his reaction. Bit his lip to keep from the yelp that threatened. After his mom had settled in and buckled her seatbelt, she turned to him.

“Hungry?” she asked, and then looked at her husband’s profile. “What about you, Charles? Shall we stop at the drive-in? It opened for the season a couple days ago.”

In answer, Charles peeled out of the parking place, squealing the tires. Turned to Fran and grinned. She couldn’t help but smile back, noticing the look on his face was that of a mischievous youngster.

Fran hadn’t met Charles until they were in college, but she could imagine what he had looked like at age twelve. All she had to do was look at their son; Charlie was the spitting image of his dad. The promise of the equally broad shoulders, long legs, coloring, the same unruly curls, square jaw, and broad forehead. Only their eyes were different, for Charlie had inherited his mom’s hazel tones with unusual dark flecks. In relation to temperaments, however, father and son greatly diverged; Charlie wasn’t driven like Charles, causing the father to question his son’s desire and fire.

It became an endless source of contention between the two parents. Charles accusing Fran of coddling their only child. Fran’s response that Charles pushed Charlie too hard, pressuring him, no matter what sport or activity or even pastime he undertook. It was the point-counterpoint rhythm of their lives.

Fran knew Charles was the constant instigator, the one most likely to throw out the challenge, “
Bet you can’t
…” Which turned everything father and son did into a contest. Riding bikes became a question of who could beat the other up the hill. And who was the fastest down it. Snow and water skiing became daredevil games. Even a family hike could turn into a race in a heartbeat. She also recognized that, as the parent, it was Charles’s job to stop working out his ego issues through their son. The tension felt endless to Fran. And sometimes, hopeless.

“The drive-in sounds great to me. How about you, sport?” Charles glanced at Charlie in the rearview mirror, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

“A cheeseburger and fries. And a milkshake.”

“Think he’s earned a milkshake, Mom?” Charles teased.

“After how hard he played on that field today? You bet he has.”

“As a matter of fact, I thought Charlie played a little too laid-back. We’re going to hit the road jogging after this tournament’s over.”

Fran stared straight ahead, opening her mouth to speak. Closed it. Repeated the movement once more before calmly venturing, “Charles, I think Charlie’s going to need to rest after the tournament. It’s clear to me his body’s trying to tell him that—”

“Nonsense. Already asked him about the leg. Both him and Coach Henry think it’s just a deep bruise. Isn’t that right, son?” Once again he met Charlie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, but this time there was no question in his piercing stare.

“Right, Dad,” Charlie answered eagerly, ever seeking his father’s approval.

Fran turned around, her face registering concern. Purposefully didn’t say anything—wanting to avoid the inevitable argument with Charles. But she promised herself she’d corner Charlie later to learn the truth about how he felt.

In the backseat, Charlie was restless, constantly switching positions in an attempt to find relief from his throbbing leg. But nothing eased the now-unremitting pain. He wanted to ask for pain relievers, but his dad would frown on it and his mom would only worry more. Dynamics that could ignite yet another argument between the two. So Charlie decided he would bear the pain. In silence.

Later, when they turned into their neighborhood, Charles was still in his element; he enjoyed waving at friends and took great pleasure in the elegance of the neighborhood that seemed to greet him personally. Huge oaks, elms, and cottonwoods bordered the street; though the trees were not yet waving leaves from their graceful limbs, the buds were there. Stately homes lined the winding sidewalks, well-built brick and stone edifices that provided security, status. Charles unconsciously nodded his head, reassured. He breathed a sigh of relief as he scanned the neighborhood one more time and then allowed his gaze to rest on his own home.

An opulent mansion greeted them. Artistically designed landscaping framed the stone house, while stained glass—sparkling, catching the light of the sun—arched above the imposing front door. The graceful lines of the turrets and gables tempted the eye to study its roofline, the rod-iron balconies, rich fabrics of draperies peeking through windows. Inside, a spacious two-story foyer held a winding staircase, pink marble floor, artwork on the walls along with the most recent family portrait. The stunning oil had been painted by a nationally known artist, and he had captured not merely their physical likenesses, but a sense of the three individual personalities.

Charles had leaned toward the painter, chin on hand, elbow on knee, appearing to take on any onlookers. Driving home his point—whatever that might be—on any given subject. By contrast, Fran lightly draped one slender hand on her husband’s knee, while the other rested on Charlie’s shoulder. Appearing as fragile as exquisite bone china, she was clearly a bridge between father and son, negotiating a connection between their starkly differing personalities by the sheer force of her intense love for each of them. And then Charlie, the young physical replica of his father. But the resemblance ended with his visage, for Charlie’s face was an open invitation, reaching out for life—naïveté, eagerness, and vulnerability stamped on his features.

Climbing the steps from the garage, Charlie had to concentrate on not limping. He was simply hoping to get to his room, lie on his bed, and read—resting under the pretense of finishing a book assigned over spring break. But when their rambunctious yellow lab Bradley came racing around the corner and jumped on him, Charlie nearly lost his balance. Had to jerk backward, shifting all his weight to his right leg. This time, he couldn’t hide his immediate reaction. “
Ouch.
Bradley, cut it out.”

Instantly, Fran was next to him, her face a picture of worry.

Noting that his dad was still out in the garage, Charlie decided the timing—if he were going to admit anything—was as good as it was going to get. “I’m a little sore, Mom. That’s all. Coach Henry said to ice it.”

“A little sore? Get your shoes and shin guards off. Socks, too.” All business now, Fran opened the freezer to hunt for the gel pack they’d used countless times before to cool swollen ankles, bruised thighs, a tired throwing arm. “How about if you stretch out on the couch in the family room? Grab the remote first.” She momentarily turned her back to him, searching through the vast reaches of the freezer. “I’ll just get you something to drink and then I’ll be right there.”

Charlie limped toward the family room, Bradley glued to his side. Once Charlie had plopped down and turned on the television, he reached toward the lab, feeling remorseful, rubbing behind the dog’s ear. “Sorry I yelled at you, Brad, ole boy. Forgive me?”

Bradley sniffed his hand, then licked the entire right side of his face before Charlie could jerk away. “Guess that means I’m forgiven. Don’t hold grudges, do you, buddy?”

“Bradley taking good care of you?” his mom asked, gently placing the frozen gel pack on Charlie’s leg, moving it to the spot he gestured to. She handed him a glass of sports water and two pain relievers.

“I guess you could say he’s taking care of me. If that means covering my face with slobber.”

Fran laughed and sat on the coffee table. She moved the gel pack less than an inch, up toward Charlie’s knee. Contemplated it for a moment and moved it an inch again, the opposite way. When she finally looked up at Charlie, he lay grinning at her.

“I’m going to be okay, Mom. Really.”

“But you were hurting last week. And the week before. I’ve seen you limping, Charlie. Don’t you think it’s about time we had Dr. Seldon take a look at it?”

“He’ll just tell me to use ice. Rest and stay off it. Mom, I’m not doin’ that till the tournament is over.”

“So you’ll go see Dr. Seldon on Monday?”

“I’ve got school on Monday. It’s not like it’s an emergency or anything.”

“Well, let’s see what the doctor’s office says. Could be they’ll want to see you right away.”

“What’s this?” Charles walked into the family room, reaching down to pat Bradley’s head before shooting a puzzled look toward Fran. “You’re calling the doctor about a bruised leg?”

Charlie started to open his mouth to answer when his mom cut in, “Charles, he’s been sore for weeks now.”

“That’s what happens when you play tough, eh, Charlie?” Charles noted the mindless conversation on a television show in the background and nonchalantly reached for the remote. “Any good games on today? Sox’re playing, aren’t they?” His eyes remained glued to the TV as he flipped through channels and—in a tone of forced casualness—asked, “Francine, could I speak to you for a moment? In our bedroom?” Not giving Fran a glance until he found the desired game. “Sox versus Indians. That’s a guaranteed win. Find out the score, okay?”

Charles gave his wife a pointed look and tossed Charlie the remote.

Fran leaned over and kissed Charlie on the forehead. “We’ll just be a few minutes. I’ll be right back, promise.”

Silently she followed Charles out of the room, into the foyer, and up the winding stairs. She mentally counted the steps, just as she did every time. All twenty-four. Her efforts toward finding some order in her world, comfort that the planes and angles of her home remained the same. Day after day … months leading to years. At least these things would not change, shaking the fragility of her tenuous hold on what she loved.

Charles led Fran into the spacious master bedroom, closing the French doors behind them. He walked to the curved bench at the foot of their bed, sat down and began removing sneakers. “I thought we had an agreement, Francine. No coddling.”

“
I
thought we had agreed, Charles. No more pressuring him.”

He pitched a sneaker in the direction of the closet. Began unlacing the other.

Fran sat on the chaise lounge and put up her feet. It was as near to plopping down as her naturally elegant movements would allow. “Charles, even Paul told him to rest the leg and ice it, for crying out loud. It’s a wise precaution to have it checked by the doctor. Why are you being this way?”

“If he’s going to start center forward for Northwestern, he needs to stop babying himself. Time he toughened up, Francine.”

“I can’t believe this. Charles, he’s not even thirteen years old yet.”

“That means there’s five years left. Five years to prove he’s recruitment material. He’s not going to get the interest of a coach if—”

“Stop.” Fran leaned toward Charles in her frustration, pulling her hands into fists. “Stop right this instant. We don’t even know where he wants to go to college yet. Maybe he’ll be interested in Harvard. Or Wheaton. Charles, we’re going to—
you
are going to allow Charlie to decide this. So help me, I will stand my ground on this one. You will not pressure him already about college and a soccer career. He’s a boy! And we will allow him to remain a boy until the time comes when he needs to make grown-up decisions.”