COLEMAN BIGELOW
SHOTS
“What are you worried about? That kid Messi took the stuff,” Meg’s dad said, thwacking the pamphlet with the back of his thick fingers. “And now he’s the star of Barcelona.”
“But she’s only eight,” her mother replied, glancing nervously at Meg.
“And she’s already fallen off the growth curve, Ruth. She needs this.”
Meg was used to being at the center of their arguments, even when she knew they weren’t really fighting about her.
“What if she gets hurt?”
“She’ll take the shots after practice,” her father said, rubbing Meg’s arm. “That way, she won’t be sore.”
Meg didn’t think of herself as small and she hated needles, but she loved her dad.
###
Meg was listening to her Walkman so didn’t hear him enter. She turned to discover her father, standing behind her, his brow furrowed.
“Get out!” she shrieked throwing down the Victoria’s Secret catalogue and yanking off her pink headphones. Her father stepped back slowly. He’d seen her studying Heidi Klum in the floral lace teddy; she was sure of it by the look on his face.
“What!?” she asked indignant, as her father’s gaze bore into her. “You can’t just sneak up on me like that.”
Her father hovered in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, a slender shadow of a man in his uniform of khakis and a button down.
“You should be studying, Meg. If you don’t get your scores up, you won’t have any chance at Stanford… or even UNC. The recruiters can’t do everything.”
Meg couldn’t face him. Stared instead at the Team USA poster of Mia Hamm, with her perfect smile. She’d wanted Brandi Chastain ripping off her jersey, but her mother said that was unladylike.
“I know you think I push you too hard, but this is your shot, honey. This is your shot at something better.”
Something better than what, Meg wanted to ask, but her father had already stepped out of the room. Her dad hadn’t been particularly athletic yet somehow, he expected more from her.
###
Tiny flecks of gold swam inside twenty-one celebratory shot glasses and she drank them down one by one. A country song came on and everyone in the bar started to sing along. Cinnamon tingled and burned inside Meg’s mouth. “Only fourteen more to go,” her teammate, Jane, whispered in Meg’s ear. Jane’s hot breath was a mix of menthol and beer. As Meg swallowed another tiny glass of trouble, something lurched inside her. She dropped off the barstool and winced as her full weight came down on her left knee. It was too soon after the ACL surgery to be out. But how often did you turn twenty-one? She steadied herself against the bar.
“You alright there, sweetie?” the bartender asked. She nodded and waited for him to leave. His condescending care reminded Meg of her father. “You could lose your scholarship, if you’re not careful. Then you’ll never go pro.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Meg said, wiping a bit of drool from her mouth and smudging ruby-red lipstick across the back of her hand.
Jane hugged her from behind. “Cheers to that.”
###
Her father's heart attack was both crushing and liberating at the same time and it made Meg dizzy to think she now only had one parent left to disappoint. Locked inside her parents’ bathroom, Meg dabbed at a stain on her black dress. She looked as if she’d been shot. She felt as if she’d been shot. In search of some aspirin, Meg discovered, instead, a bottle of Prozac with her mother’s name: Ruth Ruffino.
With the house finally empty of mourners, Meg found her mother rearranging something in the refrigerator. Her mother jumped when Meg touched her shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m happy they’re all gone.”
Meg wondered what else she didn’t know about her mother.
“Your father would have been pleased. It was a good turnout.”
“Mom. I’m asking about you.”
Ruth stared at Meg, her eyes vacant and endless, like two dying stars. “It was nice to meet your friend Emma.” She continued to transfer lasagna into Tupperware. “Can she introduce you to anyone?”
Meg wanted to hug her mother, and to slap her, but instead she took out the garbage.
###
Ruth sat, shoulders stooped, at the kitchen table of Meg’s rented Baltimore row house.
“I thought I heard gunfire last night.”
“You probably did,” Meg said pouring herself more coffee.
“Oh, Meg,” Ruth smoothed her skirt and took a sip of the wheatgrass juice she always brought. “It’s not safe.”
“It’s close to Hopkins.”
“Your father wouldn’t have liked to see you living like this.”
“I think Dad would have been proud.” The longer he’d been gone, the more Meg believed it. It wasn’t just about being better, it had always been about being her best.
Ruth’s eyes widened, but then she nodded. “When you get engaged, you’ll get some money…”
“Who says I want to get engaged?”
Ruth wiped crumbs from the table into her cupped hand and moved to drop them in the sink. “I didn’t say ‘engaged to a man’.”
Meg’s legs buckled. She braced herself against her mother’s vacated chair, then sat. She stared at the back of her mother’s tidy gray bob. Watched as Ruth washed the crumbs down the drain.
“What do you mean, Mom?”
Ruth turned, her wrinkled mouth opening into a warm smile. “I mean, I want you to be happy.”
After an extended farewell, Meg watched her as mother’s rusting Volvo pulled away. A newfound fondness swept over her. She cleared her mother’s glass and the smell of mown grass wafted up. It was a smell that made Meg want to pull on her cleats and go practice her shot. Not for her father, or for anyone else, but only to discover what she had left for herself.
Noise Cancelling
“When your headphones are in it’s easier,” you tell me, as I cross to the other side of the street to avoid our nosy neighbor, Mrs. Masterson and her sympathetic stare. “Try pointing at your AirPods or mouthing I’m on the phone,” you counsel. I know you empathize with my desire to be left alone. You’ve always been good about keeping distance.
“So, guess who I’m dog sitting for this weekend?” I ask you in a teasing voice as I near the Brooks’ McMansion on Thorbes Street. You laugh when you hear. We’ve wondered about this house since the family’s matching black Range Rovers arrived in the freshly paved driveway.
A chocolate labradoodle greets me at the door wearing a bone-shaped name tag. “His name is Bear,” I tell you, and you sigh. You ask me to describe the place room by room and I explain how you could fit two of our houses in here. There’s a giant island in the kitchen, and I repeat mom’s favorite realtor joke: “No man is an island, but every kitchen needs one.” You scoff and then go mute until I mention the photographs in the Brooks’ living room.
“They’ve got a picture on the beach!” I exclaim, knowing how much the predictability will satisfy you. The family has two children, a boy and a girl, just like us. The boy has his arm slung round the girl and I want to say how much I wish you were here to hug right now. But I know you don’t like sentimentality. Instead, I offer, “Their smiles look pretty genuine… and they’re not all wearing white, so that’s a plus.”
“Never trust appearances.”
“You could have told me that sooner,” I say and wait for an explanation that never comes. I check my AirPods, hoping you haven’t hung up.
I describe the pink graffiti-style sticker spelling out “Caitlin” on a door upstairs, but you’re ignoring me now. I should know better than to challenge you. I should know what happens when you’re cornered. I tell you the girl’s room smells like yours. Like one of your blueberry-scented markers left open.
Then I spot a pile of college brochures on the girl’s desk, and I think of how I left college after your first attempt. How when I showed up you told me that proximity was not the same thing as connection. It was always frightening how fast you could switch from kind to cruel. I slump to the floor. The trundle drawer of the girl’s bed presses against my spine. Exhaustion consumes me.
I pull out the spare mattress and lay flat. Stare at the plastic stars stuck to the ceiling, but don’t bother describing them. Bear’s nails click-clack down the polished wood floor outside and he pushes open the door with his snout. He scampers over and sniffs my face. Licks my salty wet cheek and lays down beside me.
I wake to voices in the hall and the sound of Bear’s tail hitting the wall.
“What is it, Bear? Is there someone here?” a woman’s voice calls.
Mrs. Brooks walks in as I sit up, rubbing my face.
“I thought you were in Mexico,” I say, and realize I still have one of my AirPods in.
Mrs. Brooks grips the bedroom door handle. “What? Were you sleeping?” She looks concerned.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I haven’t even walked Bear yet,” I think, remembering the dog probably has to pee.
“Oh goodness. Don’t worry,” she says as my cheeks begin to burn. “Caitlin’s passport is expired. Wouldn’t you know it? I’m an idiot.”
“That sucks,” I say, picking up my loose AirPod and wondering why you didn’t warn me someone was coming. “I mean, that’s a real bummer,” I correct myself before pushing the trundle back under the bed.
“It’s fine,” Mrs. Brooks says as her daughter arrives, wearing Chatham Hall sweatpants and an oversized sweater.
“Mom, why is he in my room?” Caitlin whispers.
“I’m leaving.” I flatten my back against the wall as I pass the girl, who is scowling.
“Mom, what the hell?”
The mom is whispering to the daughter. “It’s alright, honey…”
I’m down the stairs.
“But why was he in my room?”
“Who knows? He just lost his...”
The door closes behind me and I step into the still bright spring sunshine. I want to tell you about the daffodils and the boxwood lining the path. How the mulch smells like the forest after rain. I consider putting my headphones back in, but I know you’re no longer listening.
__________
COLEMAN BIGELOW IS THE FATHER OF THREE SUBURBAN SPORTS STARS - HE TRIES NOT TO SHOUT TOO LOUDLY FROM THE SIDELINES. WHEN NOT CHEERING ON HIS KIDS, COLEMAN WRITES FICTION. HIS WORK HAS BEEN PUBLISHED IN VARIOUS LITERARY JOURNALS, INCLUDING BENDING GENRES, EMERGE JOURNAL AND THE DRIBBLE DRABBLE REVIEW. HE'S CURRENTLY AT WORK ON A FLASH FICTION COLLECTION AND A NEW NOVEL. FIND MORE AT: COLEMANBIGELOW.COM