would be to say that word while winded. He set his shoulder against his brother’s chest, then pushed off, launching a wild shot that didn’t come close to the rim.
Graham rebounded and took it to the perimeter. “Do you think we’re stupid?” he asked. He shot a look at his brother as CJ moved to cover him. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No, Graham, I don’t think you’re stupid,” CJ answered with a smile. “Not very good at basketball, maybe. But definitely not stupid.”
Graham shook his head, and CJ could see the beginnings of real anger on his face. Which was fine by him; Graham couldn’t sink a shot when he was angry. CJ moved out farther but left his brother room to shoot, daring him to. Instead, Graham made a move to pass on CJ’s right, along the base line. CJ cut him off, so Graham was forced to pick up his dribble and, with his brother’s hands in his face, take a poor shot that left him no chance at the rebound. CJ recovered it easily and moved away.
He gave Graham time to get set. It wouldn’t do to clinch his first win against his brother and leave room for him to complain about how he hadn’t been ready. Graham walked slowly to the crack in the driveway that served as the foul line. The older man had his hands on his hips, his breath coming in labored draughts, but his jaw was set.
With a nod, CJ started.
There was nothing uncertain about his movements now— none of the feeling each other out that had occurred at the start of the game, or the more tentative play that came from weariness. CJ took it straight at Graham, leading with the ball. At the last second, before his brother could swipe it away, CJ spun to his left and ducked past him. He’d caught Graham going right, and now CJ had a straight shot to the basket. He took three steps and left the ground, extending the ball for the winning lay-up.
Then he ran into a brick wall. Graham’s forearm caught him in the neck in mid-jump, and CJ felt himself being thrown to the pavement. As if in slow motion he watched the ball work its way up the backboard, swirl once around the rim, and roll off. He hit the ground hard, feeling something give in his knee, but he barely registered that through the pain in his throat.
Graham was standing over him. His brother held the ball in his hands, and he looked down on CJ with as hard an expression as CJ could ever remember having seen before.
“Don’t dig yourself into a hole you can’t get out of, Charles,” Graham said.
He dropped the ball and went back inside the house, leaving CJ there to think about it.
Chapter 6
If the house on Lyndale carried the weight of Baxter history, the more modest dwelling on Beverly Drive provided the framework for CJ’s personal narrative. And it was interesting to see that the framework had not changed a bit in seventeen years.
“Do you want something to drink?” his mother asked him. She started for the kitchen but then hesitated, looking back at her son with a frown. “I’ve got some scotch. Do you drink scotch?”
“No thanks, Mom. I’m fine.”
She chuckled, touching a hand to her neck. It was a nervous gesture that she’d never been able to break, even under his dad’s verbal assaults.
“It’s just—it’s just strange. You were a kid when you left. Now all of a sudden you’re a man.” She gave him a long look up and down before turning and disappearing into the kitchen. He heard her rummaging around in the cupboard, heard the clink of a glass.
She’d left everything as it was when he lived here, down to the old chairs, the brown carpet, and the upright piano he doubted anyone had played since his last lesson in tenth grade. The only things his observant eye could see that kept it from being a carbon copy of the room from 1993 were the cane that his mom said she used on her tired days, which was leaning against the arm of the couch, and the absence of pictures that included his father.
He lifted a framed photo off the piano. It was one of him and Graham posing with a large brook trout they’d pulled from the Ottawa River. In the original version, their father stood behind them, a hand on each of their shoulders. Now