The Crazy Horse Electric Game (14 page)

A fire lights behind Lacey's eyes momentarily; is extinguished by welling tears. Willie sees a beaten look he hasn't seen ever before in Lacey. He doesn't understand. He says, “Look, I…gotta go…”

Lacey nods, but as Willie reaches the door, he says, “Don' move out yet, okay?”

“What?”

“I won' kick you ass. We talk. Jus' don' move out yet.”

“Yeah, okay. Sure. You…sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.” Lacey sounds irritated. He doesn't
like to ask for things.

This is turning out differently than Willie expected. He sees no threat, so he just nods and leaves.

 

School is out and Willie leans against the rest-room wall, pulling on his basketball shoes. He's finished with his janitorial duties and Lisa is supposed to come back to work with him. He's wishing he could contact Angel, tell her he thinks everything's all right. She wasn't at school today; he didn't expect her to be, but he hopes she hasn't disappeared or something. André gave him a phone number from the files, but no one answers. He walks out toward the lawn as Lisa pulls her car close against the fence. When she steps out, he sees she's carrying leg and ankle weights; a basketball under her arm.

“Need to get an idea what it feels like to be you,” she says, strapping on the weights.

“It feels…shitty to be me.”

“I mean I need to know what your body feels like.”

“You might need…more weights,” Willie laughs. “Feels…more like a hundred pounds…than five.”

“I have more if I need them.”

A group of neighborhood kids stops their half-court game as Willie and Lisa start down at the other end. Everyone knows Lisa, and Willie feels embarrassment
creeping up as it always does when he tries something in front of people. He fights it back and the kids resume their game.

Willie and Lisa shoot around awhile. At one point she stops and carefully watches him dribble and shoot layups, then runs back to her car and adds five pounds onto her leg. She works with his shot; gets him to picture how he used to do it, then adjust that to what he can do now. It's frustrating, but after a half-hour or so, Willie starts to feel something familiar, and he works harder. After another fifteen minutes, they play a slow version of one-on-one. Lisa stops occasionally to help him make an adjustment, and occasionally to visualize an adjustment of her own because of the weights, so the game is interrupted, but when they're finished, Willie's worked up a sweat and it's the first time since the accident he's done anything positive with his body.

“Think you could beat Telephone Man today?” she teases.

Willie smiles. “Nope. He…can sky.”

“In his
head
he can sky.” She shakes her head and smiles. “Telephone Man. Whew.”

Willie stops, philosophical for a moment. “I just wish I knew why.”

“Why
what?
”

“Why me.”

“You mean why you got hurt? Why you crippled yourself?”

Willie grimaces and nods. Lisa always words things like that;
why you crippled yourself
instead of
why you got crippled
, which he prefers.

She sits in the doorway of her car, pulling off her shoes. “What would be different if you knew why, Willie? You'd still be crippled.”

“I know, but…if there's a reason; a
purpose
.”

“I'm going to do you a favor. I'm going to tell you why.”

Willie waits expectantly.

“You crippled yourself because you stretched the rules till they broke. Simple as that.”

Willie knows her line of thinking; it's a little like Cyril's, only further out. “But if there's
God…
I mean, I…didn't do anything…so bad.”

“To have him cripple you?”

“Yeah.”

“God didn't cripple you, Willie.
You
did. You stretched the rules till they broke; had to go a little faster than you could, push out there at the edge because you thought nothing could hurt you. You said that yourself.”

“But…I didn't know.”

“The rules don't slack off for naïveté,” Lisa says. “Physics doesn't work on a sliding scale. You broke the rules, you got hurt.” She nods a big nod. “So, now that you know why, how does that help?”

Willie shakes his head. “It doesn't.”

“Might as well quit asking, then.”

 

In Lisa's car, headed for the hospital, Willie tells her about Lacey.

“Don't know why you stay with him, Willie. Man's a pimp and that means he's dangerous. I've tried everything I know to get Angel away from him, but I've had no luck. She says she's got to stay with it another year till she gets out of school and can get a place. But I've known my share of whores, and you don't just get out when you want to.”

“Think Lacey…won't let her out?”

“Would you turn Secretariat out to pasture three days before the Kentucky Derby because he said he didn't want to run?”

“Not…without a fight,” Willie says.

“That's what I mean.”

Lisa lets him out in front of the hospital and drives off; he'll take the bus from there. He finds Lacey sleeping and
the doctor says they'll release him in the morning; wonders if Willie, or someone, will be there to pick him up.

Willie says he will and heads for the bus stop. He had hoped Lacey would be awake so they could talk about the living situation, but it will just have to wait.

At home he tries the number André gave him for Angel again, but there's no answer, so he heats up a can of chili on the stove and cranks up Bruce Springsteen on the sound system, pulling the shades in case he gets the urge to dance again. He does get the urge, so he sets the bowl on the coffee table and moves into the dining room. He can feel it; the same thing he felt on the court. He throws away moves he can't make, replaces them with ones he can. Somewhere down in there, maybe deep in his center, Willie can feel himself starting to come back. Tears fill his eyes as he realizes it's the first time since he got here that he thinks he may see his family again. But not yet.

“You're starting to look like a player,” André says, popping one from twenty feet. Willie moves under the basket a little to the right for an unlikely rebound should André miss. He takes the ball out of the net and fires a hard one-handed bounce pass back; André, taking it on the move, pops another.

“Thanks,” Willie says. “Actually, thanks to…Lisa. Boy, she never…gives up.”

“Yeah,” André agrees, “she's a good one. But she says you deserve all the credit. Says you been working your butt off.”

“Only because…of what she'd do to me…if I didn't.”

André laughs. “And best you don't forget it. Hey, Willie, you have friends back in Montana?”

“Yeah, I had friends.”

“A lot, or a few?”

“A lot, I guess. Why?”

“I don't see you mix with kids much here. You work and you do your therapy with Lisa. But I don't see you with friends. Don't you ever get lonely?”

“Yeah, well, it's…a little lonely sometimes…”

“Having a hard time finding anyone you want to be close to?”

“Yeah,” Willie admits. “A little, I…guess.” Willie has been getting more and more comfortable with André over the past weeks, in the same way he felt close to Cyril. He doesn't feel that safety with other kids, though. Especially these kids. They're so tough. So grown-up.

André drives to the hoop, springs from the court as if in slow motion and slams the ball over the rim down into the net. It's effortless and Willie is envious. André sees his look. “Don't get to feeling sorry for yourself,” he says. “You couldn't do that even if you hadn't whacked your bean. Listen, are you giving these kids a chance?”

“Actually,” Willie says, popping in a jumper from about fifteen feet, “probably not. The only girl…I'm interested in works for the pimp…I'm living with, and the only guy I can beat in
any
athletic contest wants to be president…of the telephone company.”

“That might not be true anymore,” André says. “You should try to get into some pickup games out here. Lisa says you're coming along pretty fast. I'll bet you're better than you think.”

Willie shrugs. André might be right. Something about this visualization Lisa has been working with him on has made his moves feel almost natural. He's starting to be able to see what's coming while he's wrapping up what's happening; it's working its way into a flow. He doesn't feel like the old Willie, but he feels like a
different
Willie and, as Lisa says, that's not all bad.

“And start hanging out with some of these kids,” André says, taking his own shot out of the net and flipping it behind his back to Willie.

Willie catches it, parking it under his arm for a moment. “I don't…do any drugs,” he says.

“So don't do any drugs. You think that's the only way you can get in at this school?”

Willie shrugs again. “There…are probably other ways, but…I don't know what they are.”

“Then your job is to find out. But you can't find out if you don't put yourself out there.”

Willie nods a big nod and fires a jumper from about twelve feet out on the baseline. It bounces straight back to him off the rim and he catches it, turning to go.

“Stop!” André hollers, pointing to the hoop. “Never leave the court on a miss. Never leave the court on anything but a swisher. Always go on a success.”

Willie looks at him like André's crazy, but André only points again to the hoop. Willie fires two more from the same spot and the second one snaps the net.

André nods. “Better.”

 

Willie finishes the polishing job on Lacey's car and leans over the hood, careful not to touch. “Like a mirror,” he murmurs to himself, “only clearer.” He wonders if he could be considered an accomplice to Lacey's life for keeping the car looking so good, but decides ladies probably don't go to work for a pimp just because of how clean his car is. Besides, if Lacey didn't have to feed Willie, he could have it done professionally every week.

Lacey should be home soon. He had a morning-and-afternoon route today and told Willie before he left he wanted the car looking “like a fine piece of jewelry, jus'
sparklin
' down the street” for this evening. They haven't talked much since Lacey got out of the hospital four weeks ago; just enough to let Willie know that Lacey “done buried it, but jus' this once; no more.”

The ringing phone pulls Willie's thoughts from
Angel; she's back in school, but acts as if the night at Lacey's never happened. The voice on the other end is now familiar to Willie; Lacey's ex-wife. “Lemme talk to
Mr
. Casteel.” She says the name as if she's spitting out raw sewage.

“He's…not here right now. Can I take a message?”

“Yeah, you can take a message,” she says sarcastically. “You tell Lacey his baby boy still rotting away in the institution. Tell him what he done ain't never goin' go away.” A pause. “Who is this anyway?”

“My name's…Willie Weaver. I'm…staying here for a while.”

“Well, Willie Weaver, I don't know who you is, but if you got a brain in you
head
, you best get away from Mr. Lacey Casteel. He turn you life to heartache.”

This is the first time Lacey's ex-wife has actually said anything of substance to Willie and he doesn't know how to respond. She sounds rough. “Would…you like me to…have him call you?”

She laughs. “Tell you what, honey. You can have him call me all you want. Won't change nothin'. He won't call, an' even if he did, his baby still be rottin' away. An' for
that
, Mr. Lacey Casteel gonna rot in Hell.” A loud click signals the end of the conversation.

Willie scribbles a short note on the miniature
chalkboard he installed beside the phone for Lacey's messages: “Your ex called.”

 

Sometime after midnight Willie hears fumbling with the outside lock. It takes longer than usual and he knows Lacey's drunk. He pretends to be asleep for a few seconds, but when it seems he's
never
going to get the key in, Willie gets up. Lacey's surprised when the door opens; stands swaying, eyes blood red, wondering how it opened magically, then spies Willie. “You don' have to get up,” he slurs. “I woulda got it.”

“That's okay,” Willie says with a short laugh. “I had…to get up to…open the door anyway.”

It slides over Lacey's head. Willie stands waiting while Lacey stares from the doorway. “You coming in?” he asks finally.

Lacey snaps to; stumbles through the door. Willie hasn't seen him this drunk. “Gone get me a beer,” Lacey says, heading for the refrigerator.

Willie says, “That's…what you need,” mostly to himself.

From the kitchen comes an anguished cry followed by something crashing against the sink. Usually when Lacey gets crazy, Willie makes himself invisible, but this time he walks to the kitchen door to check. Lacey doesn't
seem mean tonight, just vulnerable. Willie sees the chalkboard lying on the floor, its message staring face up at them.

“Bitch!” Lacey screams. “Fat, nasty bitch! She tryin' kill me from inside!”

Willie slides back toward the living room to bed; let Lacey do whatever it takes to get this out of his system. He's told Willie enough times it's none of his “damn binnis” and Willie knows how fast Lacey turns mean.

“Wait,” Lacey says before Willie can move even a few steps. “Time you know what all this shit about. Lacey gonna purge his soul. You be puttin' on your clothes, Chief. You an' me goin' for a ride.” He grabs a half-f fifth of I. W. Harper whiskey from the cupboard and heads for the front door.

 

“I beat my boy,” Lacey says in the car headed up Park Bóulevard. “Beat 'im bad.” He's sweating and continually wiping his eyes.

Willie's quiet. He looks to Lacey, then back to the bright white lines gliding under the Chrysler.

“Near to kill him,” Lacey says. “Sometime I wish I had.”

“You mean…like a son? You…have a son?”

“He barely a son now.” Lacey's eyes cloud over and
he grips the wheel hard. “Start on beatin' him. Couldn't stop. Beat my boy numb.”

“You talking about your own kid?” For some reason, Willie's not comprehending. “You got a kid, Lacey?”

Lacey takes a long pull from the fifth. “Hell, yes, I'm talkin' 'bout a kid. What you
think
I'm talkin' about?”

Willie's quiet again, staring out at the street as they take the ramp to the freeway. Then, “Where're we going?”

“See my kid,” Lacey says. “Gonna show you my kid.”

“Where is he?”

“You jus' hold on. He still be there.” Lacey grips the wheel even tighter. “He always be there.”

By the time they reach Highland Hospital, Lacey is tight as a drum, sweat pouring off his forehead and down his temples, mixing with tears on his chin. Willie is afraid to speak, not so much for fear of making Lacey mad as because Lacey looks as if he might just blow apart. He doesn't think Lacey can talk—it's like he's spending his last ounce of energy just getting them there. Willie hasn't felt this uneasy since the night he tried to find his way to BART through the Oakland war zone.

Lacey pulls the Chrysler close to the curb about a block from the huge, dark institution and shuts down the lights. “Can't go in the front,” he says. “Ain't
allowed.” He slams the car door. “Ain't allowed to see my boy; see what I done. Bitch had it made that way so she torture me res' of my life.”

They turn up the side street next to the hospital, walk several yards along the ten-foot-high chain-link fence. In the blind spot between streetlights, Lacey stops and bends down, hands cupped, fingers interlaced.

“We…going over the fence?” Willie asks. “Won't we…get in trouble?”

“Could be,” Lacey says, moving back and forth in his alcoholic sway. “Don' much matter.”

Willie's been around Lacey long enough to know you don't argue when his mind's made up, which it always is, especially when he's drunk; so Willie drops his cane and steps into Lacey's makeshift sling, attempting to place his weight away from the arm with the wrist brace; the only visible remnant of that awful night with Lacey and Angel. Lacey pushes him high enough that Willie can grab the top frame of the fence and, with a little more shoving from below, pull himself over, dropping to the dark lawn on the other side. His cane lands beside him; then Lacey, stumbling as he hits the grass, pitching forward.

Lacey stands and brushes himself off, seemingly reaching down inside somewhere for dignity that may
not be there, then marches straight toward the square brick building, Willie in tow.

They stop beneath a window too high to see into and Lacey grabs the steel drainpipe beside it like a gym rope, pulling himself up hand over hand until he's even with the window. Whatever pain he feels from the wrist is not evident. Willie hears a high moan, looks up to see Lacey's face go soft, his mouth and eyes fallen. Lacey stares a few more seconds through what looks to Willie to be bottomless despair, then drops back to the ground. “Go look,” Lacey says in a voice so empty it wants to collapse. “He standin' direct across the room, lookin' right at the window. Don' worry, he don' see you.”

“I can't get up that,” Willie says, pointing to the pipe. “Only got…one good arm.”

Lacey leans forward, placing his hands firmly just above his knees. “Stan' on my back.”

Willie looks at Lacey's wrist brace, hesitates.

“Stan' on my goddam back!” Lacey hisses. He's wavering, but Willie walks around behind him, slips out of his shoes, placing his hands on Lacey's buttocks, and hops up on his back as if he were a circus rider mounting a horse. Carefully he moves his hands to Lacey's shoulderblades, attempting to stand. After a couple of slips, he's up, holding onto the window ledge for support.
The room is dimly lit, and directly across from the window, exactly where Lacey said he'd be, stands a tall, extremely thin black boy; he could be anywhere from fifteen to forty. His long arms hang out of his plain white state-issue shirt like useless ebony twigs, their outstanding features the gnarled, twisted elbows and knuckles. Inside his head, Willie hears a voice: “Find your center” and realizes this boy doesn't have a center. He's staring at the window, but Willie can tell he doesn't see him. A narrow thread of spittle hangs from one side of his mouth, and as it lengthens, finally dropping to the floor, the boy makes no attempt to stop it. He's vacant; gone.

Willie is absolutely fixed on Lacey's son. He knows only the skeleton of the story behind all this, but, from his core, knows instantly this is
family
gone crazy. It comes in a flash: the boy before him is wrecked; the man beneath his feet, desperately holding on with everything he's got to stay just above the quicksand. This is what happens when we astonish ourselves with our capacity to be vicious; when we realize so late how our expectations have betrayed us. Suddenly he sees his father's face, and the hurt in his chest nearly drowns him.

The door next to the boy opens and Willie ducks, then peeks back over the ledge. The boy's body turns slowly, in a series of starts, to look at the nurse standing
in the doorway, then back at the window. Below him, Willie feels through the soles of his feet the slow vibration of Lacey's sobs. Lacey wavers, steadies himself, then falls forward; Willie tumbling onto him. He lands with a hard thud, barely missing Lacey's head, and Lacey lies there, crying, pounding the grass weakly with one fist. Willie pulls himself up, reaches down to help Lacey, but Lacey tenses, holds tightly to the ground, face buried in the lawn. Willie stands staring down at him for nearly a full minute before saying, “Come on…Lacey. Let's go. I…saw him. I get it now.”