by Shelby Raebeck

(image c/o iloveny)

Lance

Each day after basketball practice I’d drop Higgins and my cousin Sonny in Freetown, then instead of going home go driving, usually in a long loop, through Springs along the bay and out to Napeague where sometimes I’d turn onto the highway and cruise out to Montauk Point. By the time I got back to Freetown my mother’d be in bed and my sister, Joany, who hadn’t spoken since my father died – he’d been gone for ten years before that – would be lying in her nightly trance before the television. 

At Montauk’s where I saw Ricky, playing by himself on this secluded black-top basketball court overlooking the ocean in Camp Hero, the deserted WW II army base. First, I watched from a distance, him running the court, up and back, up and back, the ball bouncing at his side like it was on a string. He had better game than any white boy on the East End, quite possibly better than any brother. But what did it matter to him, out there playing by his lonesome, taking a game meant to be played with other people, against other people, and turning it into something he couldn’t ever lose?

So one day I got out of my car and walked through that cold wind off the ocean over to the court. He just kept shooting, paying me no mind, so I had to ask could I play, and he checks his phone like he’s on a tight schedule living out there at the tip of the island all by himself. You could see the roof of his house from the court, a shingled cottage tucked into the trees before the cliffs, the only inhabited building in the camp. One game, I tell him, and though he agreed to play, he never did, not really, and I took the game without even breaking a sweat. 

A week later I came back and it was the same thing, him just rolling over, this time two games in a row. So I told him, “Fuck it then, play by yourself,” and walked out the gate, not stopping till I heard the chain-link fence rattle behind me. I turned back and he was hanging onto it, peering over at me, behind him ocean and sky.

“Then why come all the way out here?” he said. “If you’re looking to run ball, why come out here?”

“Just looking for a game,” I said, and got in my car and left. 

Ricky

All fall, I never saw a single soul out there other than two guys from the town who came out once every few weeks to tend the grounds, until one day Lance Williams, star of the high school basketball team, shows up. Must’ve been November, ’cause when I turned around he was standing there in the gate blowing in his hands. 

“Play a game?” he says. 

So what do I say, him already walking out on the court, and just like that he’s taking out the ball telling me game’s to eleven, win by two, and though I hit a couple of shots, the truth was it made absolutely no difference to me if I won or lost. I was only playing because he asked me to. 

So he hits a couple, taking the lead, only once he gets the edge he doesn’t let up but plays harder, hitting another, and another, running off seven, eight shots in a row, his surest shot of all the one to win it.

Same thing when he came back. The breeze off the ocean cold and steady, and when I get to the court, there’s Lance sitting beside it on the hood of his car. So he beats me again, then insists we play another, and this time kills me.

“You just roll over,” he said, grabbing his sweatshirt from the black-top and walking through the gate.

I followed as far as the fence. “Then what’re you coming out here for?” I said.

Lance slowly turned around. “Not for this,” he said.

Lance

Basketball basketball basketball. We sit in class all day thinking about it, then practice for two hours or maybe have a game, and drive home talking shit about who busted who, and I drop ’em both, Higgins and Sonny, in a fucking trailer park. And though my father’s life insurance got us a house—split level ranch in the center of Freetown—the place was too big for us to heat, half the rooms sealed closed with plastic. Every day same as the one before, until Coach comes up to me after practice and asks if everything’s okay and I say Sure, why wouldn’t it be? And he says, You’re not playing like yourself, keep it up and you won’t get a scholarship, and I shrug my shoulders, thinking, Fuck a scholarship, and take Higgins and Sonny home to the trailer park and go driving.

It’s another of those cold gray East End days when I pull up to the first beach, Maidstone, only half mile or so from home, and see this figure standing out at the end of the jetty that sticks into the harbor, wearing this purple hat and scarf. On days like that everything blurs into gray – water, land, sky—except now there’s these two soft spots of color. Then the figure holds its hands out to the side and turns slowly in a circle, and I realize it’s Joany. She spins again and I can barely make out her mouth is moving. I roll down my window but the wind is whipping in off the water too loud to hear anything, yet I see the headphones poking out beneath her hat and her mouth opening and closing like she’s singing. Hasn’t said a word to anybody in almost a year and she’s standing out there on the jetty singing.

I continued on around the bay, stopping at Louse Point and Barnes Hole, not seeing a single other person out of doors until I got to Montauk Point and turned into Camp Hero, driving across that open field above the ocean where I found Ricky shooting hoops.

He hems and haws like usual, talking bout how cold it is, but once I challenge him he can’t ever say no, and good as he was, even half-assing it I knew he was due to be giving me some trouble, despite himself, and the first two games were tight till the end, then the third was tied at point game, and we went back and forth, neither of us able to score, till finally I said fuck it, sent my forearm into his chest, and dropped in the winner. 

Ricky didn’t call a foul, just slumped down against the fence, his sweat-soaked t-shirt steaming in the cold air.

“Damn right you’re tired,” I said. “You actually started playing.” 

“But not you,” he said, “cause you’re one hundred percent pure killer, right? I don’t know how to win and you don’t know how to lose.” 

I just stood there looking down at him. “I know plenty about losing,” I said. 

Thanksgiving day my mother cooked a turkey like always for me and Joany, Sonny and his mother, and my father’s brother, Uncle Ken. Why the hell she stayed in touch with him, let alone cooked him Thanksgiving dinner, my dad not one or even two steps removed but three, the first step, Joany and me not even old enough for school, he goes to prison for manslaughter (punched some white dude in an adult hoop league, the guy had an epileptic seizure and died), the second, not answering anybody’s letters, and the third, getting out and dying in California with us never knowing till three months later. 

Still, in they all came, Uncle Ken hugging and kissing everyone, dropping a bottle of eight-dollar wine on the table, and turning on the football, my mother setting out drinks and food. Joany sitting there in headphones reading a magazine while my mother tells ’em all how Joany’s gonna go to art school, and about the letter I got from Coastal, calling it an offer what wasn’t nothing but a form letter sent to prospects, and my Uncle Ken nodding real earnest, saying “I understand Coastal has outstanding academics,” like he knows anything at all about the place other than it’s near a coast.

So I ate quick and left, driving the loop along the bay and on to Montauk, and sure enough, there’s Ricky running the court under that gray sky, gliding lke some kind of seabird, up one way and back the other.

“You eat yet?” I said, coming through the gate.

“Eat?” he said.

“Turkey,” I said. “You know, the Pilgrims, Plymouth, stealing all that land from the Indians?”

“Nah,” he said, “I’ll get something later.”

“Who all’s in there anyway?” I asked, looking toward his house.

“My old man’s got a restaurant in the city,” he said. “Comes out on Tuesdays. Most of ‘em anyway.”

“Well,” I said, “we got a place-setting for you at my house. But you have to be quick cause I got some hungry kinfolk.”

“Nah,” Ricky said, “let’s you and me run some ball.” 

“Well, look at you,” I said, and a minute later he’s tossing in these bombs, one after another, the game over before I even scored.

“What the fuck you eat for breakfast?” I said. 

“Nothing,” he said, and we played again, him picking up where he left off, shooting these rainbows from out where there wasn’t even no sense guarding him. Then it starts snowing these big wet flakes that melted away as they hit the black-top, but even with the wet ball Ricky kept firing away, spinning around shooting fadeaways, jumpers from the corner falling out of bounds, ball not even hitting the rim, just snapping that rusted metal chain.

After losing three in a row I held up both hands in surrender. “My ass is one hundred percent kicked,” I told him and headed for the car. When I looked back, I saw Ricky standing there holding the ball on his hip, watching me, snow flakes collecting on his head and shoulders.

“Come on over and get some food,” I said. 

“Nah,” Ricky said, “snow’ll let up soon.”

“Get in the car,” I told him. “I want you to meet somebody.”

Ricky

By the time we got to Freetown Thanksgiving day, the snow had stopped and it was getting dark. We found the house with no lights on, just a dull grey glow in the living room, and Lance took me in to meet his sister, Joany, who was lying on the rug, pillows wedged under her chin. Lance asked her if the others had left and she nodded, and he asked where their mother was and she tipped her head toward the stairs.

Lance got a couple of beers and we sat in the two wooden chairs to Joany’s side, only chairs in the room.

“This boy gave me a serious schooling today,” Lance said, but Joany’s attention didn’t leave the set.

“Well,” Lance said, chugging the last of his beer and lifting himself to his feet, “there ought to be a ton of leftovers in there. You okay helping yourself?”

I nodded and he carried himself over to the stairs where he looked back at me, lifted his hands over his forehead and flicked his wrist, shooting a ball. 

“Gonna get you next time.” Lance smiled, shook his head, and went up the stairs.

The last time I’d been alone with a girl was in fifth grade when Cindy Karlo came over after school and played board games. My mother had moved out a few weeks before and I got this idea that suddenly I was old enough to start dating, like some kind of reflex. But forcing it didn’t work, just pushed the girls farther away, so I backed off.

In ninth grade my father moved me from the city out to Camp Hero where my mother, who’d been denied custody, couldn’t keep showing up unexpected (I was supposed to spend every other weekend with her in the city), and where the school, East Hampton High, twenty miles away, was supposedly better. Never occurred to my father I’d have to walk almost a mile just to get the bus.

Now here I am sitting in this half-dark room with Lance’s sister lying there on her stomach, the only light the dim glow from the television.

“What’re you watching?” I asked, but she didn’t answer.

Joany went upstairs, then came halfway back down and tossed me a blanket. In the morning, Lance roused me and drove us to school.

Late that afternoon, Lance showed up at Camp Hero as it was getting dark and we didn’t even play ball, just drove back to his house. Only this time I stopped him going up the stairs and asked what he was doing. He looked at me a minute with tired red eyes and shook his head.

“You’re a breath of fresh air in this house,” he said, and as he walked up the stairs I turned back to Joany sitting on the sofa. I walked toward her, slowly, like I was moving into a force field, like she was both pulling me in and pushing me away at the same time, and we sat in silence watching television, till about twelve when Lance appeared, said he couldn’t sleep, and drove me home.

Next afternoon after school, not bothering to wait for Lance, I biked into the village of Montauk and took the town bus to East Hampton, walking the rest of the way to Freetown. I turned into the driveway and found Lance sitting on the porch, looking up at me like I was a total stranger. Like if I take you in to be with my sister fine, cause I took you, but on your own you better not even walk up my driveway. 

Then Joany stepped out the door and walked right past us, headphones on, head tilted back toward the sky, wrapped in a violet scarf the color of her lips. I said her name, “Joany,” but she just strolled on down the street.

“Well,” I said, Lance looking down, separating blades of grass on his palm, “guess I’ll see where she’s going.” 

“Do what you have to,” he said.

“You’re the one that brought me here,” I said. 

“I’m saying go ahead,” Lance said, still looking down.

I saw Joany at the end of the road turn onto the sand and when I reached the bay, saw her out there standing on the Maidstone jetty. Facing the water, she didn’t see me come up behind her, but when I touched her shoulder, she turned around, a serene half smile on her lips, her eyes squinting in the breeze, and I took her hand and we walked back and sat on the sand. 

“Why don’t you speak?” I said. 

She smiled at me as if she were sorry. 

“What is it?” I said, again getting no answer. 

“It’s okay,” I told her, releasing her hand, despite how warm it felt. “It’s okay.”

Joany took my hand back, held it in hers, and mouthed the words, “I know,” then released my hand and turned back to the bay.

Back at the house, I found Lance still sitting on the porch.

“She been talking to you?” Lance said, and that was when I realized Joany didn’t talk to him, or to anyone else.

“What’s she going to say to me?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re supposed to be outside all this.”

“Outside all what?”

“This,” Lance said. “Family, Freetown.” 

“Maybe she needs to talk to someone on the inside,” I said. 

Lance huffed and shook his head. 

“Whatever she needs,” I said, “it’s definitely not me,” and I turned and headed back to town to get the bus. 

Joany

Each afternoon I go for a long walk, away from the village and toward the bay, out onto Maidstone Beach. Lance says I spend too much time alone, but that’s because he doesn’t understand. Spends so much time worrying about me and about basketball, driving around and around, that when he finally comes home and sees me not talking, it only frustrates him more.

Then he brings home Ricky, like all that time out driving he’d been hunting for something, and he’d finally tracked it down and dragged it back to the house. And Ricky looked so, I don’t know, not white so much as translucent, like he was there but not there.

So Lance leaves us downstairs alone, Ricky sitting in that chair watching movies with me through the night, and though I didn’t know how long he’d stay, from the moment Ricky came into our house I knew Lance would be leaving. 

Then I passed Ricky and Lance on the porch, on my way to the harbor. And I knew he would follow. Lance would sit, sliding further away, or maybe go driving in circles, summoning the guts to leave, and Ricky would come looking.

I wound my way along the narrow road to Maidstone and onto the jetty jutting into the cold wind off the bay, just to stand there feeling myself enclosed by the wind . . Oh, hello Ricky . . . not thinking of anything at all, just me and water and sky . . . Where’s Lance, sitting on the porch or out driving his car in circles?. . . releasing myself into the emptiness. 

“Joany,” Ricky said, his voice sounding as though it were coming from a thousand miles away, “I’m glad I found you.” 

You had no choice but to find me.

“Last night,” he said, afraid to say the only thing he could say, “I wanted to stay with you.” 

My god, me, you wanted to stay with me, someone who wasn’t even there.

He took my hand and we sat down and I just closed my eyes and waited for us not to do what we had never been going to do. But then he lets go my hand, like he knew it too, or didn’t know it either, and I started feeling something, peace maybe, equilibrium, alone and not alone, and when I opened my eyes Ricky was gone.

Lance

So Ricky comes back from the beach by himself, like that’s it, nobody was measuring up.

“Where’s Joany?” I asked him.

“How should I know?” Ricky said.

“You just left here there?”

“Nothing’s happening with us, Lance.”

“Don’t say you didn’t want it to,” I said to him.

“It’s what you wanted,” he said. “You wanted me to whip you on the basketball court, now you want me to come in and help with your family, make it something it’s not. Let’s just say I was never here.” And he walked on down the driveway, never looking back.

Then Joany came walking up from the other side, stopping in front of me with a palm out toward my chest, her lips pursed, like they were glued shut. Her eyes caught hold of mine and her lips pulled apart.

“What are you doing,” Joany said, “sending him down there after me?”

“I thought you might speak to him,” I said.  

“What would I say?” Joany said. She took a step toward me, her lips again pursing, as if locking closed before once again opening. “W-what would I say, Lance?”

“I don’t know,” I said. 

“We are not your wind-up toys.” She stood there glaring at me and began slowly shaking her head. “You need to get yourself going.” 

“What am I supposed to do?” I said. “Going away to college won’t change anything. And what about you and Mommy?” 

Joany’s mouth tightened. “You think you’re helping us, driving around in circles?”

“I’ll get a job. With you talking, maybe we could—”

“Lance,” Joany said, “you’re going. You hear me? I’m talking now because someone needs to tell you: You’re going.”

I didn’t go back out to Montauk until spring, everything just starting to bloom. Must have been a weekend because the traffic on the highway was beginning to thicken with visitors. But when I reached the dirt drive and drove into the clearing before his house, I didn’t see him on the court. I walked over to knock on the door, but then I heard the rattle of the chain net and saw he’d appeared behind me—must have been there the whole time.

“The ghost of Camp Hero,” I said. “Still at it, huh?”

“Yup,” Ricky said, shooting a lay-up. “How’s Joany?”

“She’s okay. Started talking right after you left.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said, but his tone was flat and I couldn’t tell if he meant it. “How about you?” he asked. “Going to college?”

“I got a couple offers from D-2 schools. Decided on Clark up in Massachusetts.”

Ricky switched to shoot with his left hand, flipping it off the board, catching it, flipping it off the board.

“What about you?” I said.

“Might start working for my old man in the city. Might stay out here.”

“Listen,” I said, “all that stuff with my sister. I appreciate how you handled it.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Ricky said, shooting the ball, catching it, shooting it.

“Maybe you just gave us a little time.” I held out my hand. Ricky held the ball on his hip and we shook.

After a couple of steps toward my car, I turned back and gazed around at the open space, spreading out over the ocean, at the scattered trees beginning to bud, and took a last look at Ricky, catching the ball from the chain net, tossing it up the court and running off after it.

Shelby Raebeck has published three works of fiction, all receiving high praise from critics, with his collection, Louse Point: Stories From the East End, earning a starred review from Kirkus Reviews.