Chapter Nine: Round Ball
A small audience assembled in the gymnasium: Simon, Jim, doctors Chase, Cameron, and Foreman, and a brunette woman Simon said was Dr. Cuddy. Greg wasted no time removing his coat, tie, and shirt, leaving him in his trousers and his undershirt. He found a basketball and immediately began bouncing it go get the feel of it in his hands.
Blue Eyes located an unoccupied sports chair and practiced maneuvering it. He wasn't accustomed to making quick turns or stops in a chair, so he was at a definite disadvantage. Greg kept one eye on Blue Eyes as he balanced the ball on the fingers of his right hand.
"Hey, b.p.," Greg called, "grab a ball and take some practice shots. You need to warm up." The grin never slipped from his face.
Blue Eyes grabbed a ball and bounced it experimentally. He looked to Greg and asked, "How do you prefer to be addressed: as handicapped, or disabled, or differently abled?"
Greg lifted the ball over his head with his right hand and launched it through the net without looking away from Blue Eyes. "I take exception to the term 'handicapped' because its derivation is beggar, and I am certainly no beggar." He retrieved the ball and turned to face the basket again. His street chair wasn't as quick or as accurate as his training or competition chairs, but he could still make it spin on a dime. "To tell you the truth, I prefer cripple."
Blue Eyes lifted the ball with both hands, took aim, and hit the underside of the rim. The ball bounced wildly back to him, and I could see the look of frustration on his face. "So, Greg, how did you become a cripple?"
Still looking at Blue Eyes, Greg again sent the ball effortlessly through the hoop. "I was born this way, b.p."
Blue Eyes looked at me, then back at Greg. "So, Greg, what is your diagnosis, precisely?"
Greg bounced the basketball several times as he wheeled in a circle. "Well, b.p., I have no true diagnosis. For lack of a better term, my paperwork says spastic diplegia."
Blue Eyes lined the ball up and took another shot, this time hitting the lip of the rim so that the ball bounced against the inside of the rim before scooting back out. "Cerebral palsy? From a birth injury?"
"Actually, since you're so interested, the prevalent theory is that it's a genetic condition, although no one seems to be able to put a name to it." Greg rolled his ball to Jim. "Are you ready to play?"
Blue Eyes shrugged and nodded.
Greg said, "One push for each bounce of the ball. You can go first, b.p."
Blue Eyes alternated bouncing the ball and pushing the wheels of the chair as he continued, "Why don't you let me do some tests – see if I can come up with a diagnosis?"
Greg smoothly wheeled his chair next to B.E.'s, bumping him lightly, and said, "Thanks, b.p., I appreciate that, but I don't need a diagnosis." Greg then reached out and deftly removed the ball from B.E.'s hands.
Greg turned and flipped the ball through the net with scarcely a glance. Everyone applauded. Simon sidled up to Dr. Cuddy and whispered animatedly in her ear while Jim had moved next to me. "Your brother is awesome," he whispered.
"You have no idea," I moaned. "Jim, we need to get them to stop."
"Greg, your sister is pregnant with a baby that might also have the same genetic defect you have – don't you want to find out for her sake?" Blue Eyes asked as he tried, again, to move his chair into position to shoot.
"No offense, b.p., but Cissy knows what she's doing. After all, she raised me." Greg continued to block B.E.'s wheelchair every time he managed to make headway toward the goal.
B.E. was concentrating on getting past Greg; he tried to use force, but Greg wedged the front wheels of his chair against the rear wheels of B.E.'s chair, sending B.E. to a skidding stop. B. E. looked at him. "She raised you?"
Greg continued to smile calmly. "Our mother, while handy if you want a glass of sweet tea diluted with rum, lacks the maternal gene. Cissy took care of me. I'm sure she'll do a good job with her daughter."
Blue Eyes, in exasperation, heaved the heavy ball in an arcing flight to the basket, completely missing the entire goal. "And what if her daughter is a cripple?"
Greg raced to garner the rebound. "How bad could it be if she's like me?" he asked confidently before banking a lay up off the backboard.
I could see the sweat on Blue Eyes' brow; Greg, of course, was relaxed and cocksure. I hated this.
"What," B.E. asked, "if her daughter is in pain with her disability?"
"Like you, b.p.?" Greg asked as he tossed the ball to B.E.
"Yeah, like me." Blue Eyes started to propel himself forward, but again Greg jammed his wheels against B.E.'s chair to stop it. Then Greg twisted his wheels quickly, sending the other wheelchair careening off in the opposite direction. B.E. had to hustle to get control of the chair before it slammed into the wall.
"We all have pain, b.p. You have pain when you walk. I saw it in your face," Greg continued as he moved his chair to pin B.E. against the wall. "I had pain, for example, when I had a portion of my wrist bone removed. Hurt like bloody hell, b.p." Greg leaned forward to intimidate B.E. "And Cissy – can you imagine the pain she felt when she was innocently jogging and felt herself tackled and thrown down by some unknown man, and then had to endure his use of her?" Greg rammed his chair into B.E.'s. "As if rape wasn't enough, she had to suffer the taunts and queries of the twenty-year-old bubba who found her, along with the inept police and medical personnel." Greg again rammed his chair into B.E.'s.
"Jim," I pleaded, "make this stop."
"And, as if that wasn't enough, she then had to listen as you announced her violation to all of her peers. Betrayal by someone you trust is especially painful, don't you think, b.p.?" Greg rammed B.E.'s chair a third time, then jerked his wheels away and flipped B.E.'s chair on its back.
I had turned my face away, but I heard the crack of the chair and the thud of Blue Eyes' head as they hit the gymnasium floor. I felt Jim beside me.
"House," Jim called.
Everyone ran to Blue Eyes. Except me. Greg rolled over and handed me the basketball.
My balance was off due to Zelda's presence, but I took careful aim and threw a perfect stike: nothing but net.
"Beaten by my own sister," Greg said.
Blue Eyes was being helped back into the wheelchair.
"I should beat you for real," I threatened.
"Hold that thought, Cissy," he said before rolling back toward Blue Eyes. "Now, listen, b.p. Put my sister's business on the street again and I'll do more than tip over your chair – you got me?"
Blue Eyes, while rubbing the back of his head, nodded. Greg nodded back at him; then, to everyone's surprise but mine, Greg extended his hand and Blue Eyes took it.
I couldn't watch any longer. I hauled Zelda and myself out of the gym and out into the frigid air of a New Jersey winter. Snow flakes drifted through the air. I forgot about the truck, and I forgot about my apartment. I just walked.
I was sitting in the snack room of the university library when my phone started vibrating. Greg.
"Where the devil are you?" he demanded as soon as I answered.
"I'm finishing an article for Contemporary Literary Criticism. That translates as, 'I'm working.' Where are you?" I could hear laughter and restaurant noises in the background.
"I'm in a bar called 'The Brick' with b.p. and a bunch of other doctors. And there's this really hot, skinny girl who keeps flirting with me. I think she likes my accent," Greg continued excitedly.
"That would be Dr. Cameron, and she does, indeed, like accents," I replied.
"There's some Australian doctor who keeps acting like he's her boyfriend, but I'm pretty sure he's gay. Anyway, why don't you stop what you're doing and come here?"
"Greg, you just knocked Blue Eyes on his head, and now you're out partying with him? Explanation."
"He's an asshole. Knocking him on his head was a form of introduction – the way dogs sniff each other's butts."
"So, now you've sniffed each other . . ."
"Cissy, get down here," Greg begged.
"I'm without a vehicle and I don't know where you are, slick."
"Hold on," Greg said before, apparently, laying the phone down and engaging in a spirited conversation.
Finally, a familiar voice answered. "Audra? This is Jim."
I sighed in relief. "How is Blue Eyes?"
"He's learning to negotiate with your brother. Interesting dynamics. Shall I come get you?" Jim offered.
I, naturally, allowed him to pick me up and ferry me back to the bar. Indeed, the group occupied a table of eight: Blue Eyes, Jim, the three fellows, Dr. Cuddy, Simon, and Greg. When I waddled in, Greg rolled back to make room for another chair beside him, which also placed me next to Blue Eyes.
I felt uneasy sitting next to him. My heart rate skyrocketed and my face flushed. Greg ordered me a large glass of ice water and watched me with familial concern. As I sipped on the water, Blue Eyes leaned over and whispered, "Your brother plays dirty, Ms. Fitzgerald."
"I know."
"Why did you tell me there were no genetic problems in your family?" he asked.
"Because there aren't."
Greg was trying his best to woo Dr. Cameron while Dr. Chase tried to determine whether Greg was a serious threat or just a harmless redneck.
"I want to run some tests on Greg," Blue Eyes persisted.
I turned to look into his face. "He already told you he has no interest in medical tests or diagnoses or prognoses, Blue Eyes." As soon as I whispered the last two words, I saw, briefly, a softening in his eyes. I reached under the table and placed my hand over his. "Are you all right?"
"I was better before the Deliverance escapee knocked me on my ass. Boys play rough down south."
I smiled at him. "Greg let you off easy, you know." I glanced at my brother and observed him doing shots of tequila with Drs. Chase and Foreman while Dr. Cuddy, Simon, and Jim were huddled together chatting amiably. "They must not have jello shooters here," I remarked. He chuckled, and I felt his hand turn over and grasp mine.
"You look tired, Fitzgerald," he whispered.
Our shoulders were touching. Our legs were touching. Our hands were entwined. He reached over with his free hand and rested it against Zelda.
"I think she's sleeping," I mused.
"Probably composing," he quipped. "Listen, Fitzgerald, I know your brother is here visiting, and I'm sure you want to spend time with him, but do you think there's any chance you might want to visit my apartment tonight?"
"Are you propositioning me, Blue Eyes?"
He almost smiled. "Has your belly button popped out yet?"
I smiled. I nodded.
"Don't you think I should check it?" he continued.
"I wasn't aware it required medical attention."
"I would have to see it in order to evaluate it," he leered.
"You're flirting with me," I accused. "I'm over six months pregnant, and you're flirting with me."
"I apologize – I thought, after our last encounter, we were on flirting terms."
"Stacy?" I asked.
"Not who I wanted after all." He withdrew his hand from my belly. "Can we just tell your alpha male brother we're going to my apartment for sex, or do we have to concoct a lie?"
Dr. Cameron was now perched in Greg's lap, and Dr. Chase's eyes appeared ready to cross.
"I'm not sure it's safe to leave Greg alone with Dr. Cameron. She's in Greg's lap, but she keeps looking at you – something I should know about?"
"When was Greg diagnosed with cerebral palsy?" Blue Eyes asked, conveniently changing the subject.
"He walked before he was a year old, but he had a crossing gait. I used to say he walked like an arthritic cowboy. When he went for his two year check-up, we made the doctor watch him walk. That was it."
"And?" he prompted.
"They told us he'd walk, just not as gracefully as most. At age three he quit walking altogether. After years of expensive physical therapy and massive surgeries the summer between first and second grade, he could walk with the aid of crutches for limited distances. Hence, the wheelchair."
"He said you raised him?"
Greg was popping wheelies with Dr. Cameron in his lap, and Drs. Chase and Foreman had begun talking to a group of college coeds at the next table.
"Our mother is a practicing alcoholic: she practices every night."
"Why?"
"I have no answer that would justify her alcoholism, but the phrase 'narcissistic personality disorder' might give you a hint. Plus, she's dysthymic and foolishly treats her depression by regularly ingesting a depressant," I answered.
"And your father?" he pursued.
I sighed. "He's a frustrated farmer turned chemical engineer. He's what you could describe as detached. Brilliant man, wonderful wit, just not interested in flaws."
"So . . ."
"So, Blue Eyes, I was the one taking Greg to the doctors, to physical therapy, to the hospital for tests and treatments. And I took him to programs where he learned to swim and play wheelchair sports."
"You did all that while going to school and working?" he asked.
The waiter brought him another scotch and a glass of water for me.
"We're close," I answered.
"You're the caretaker."
I smiled at him, our hands still together. "Obviously."
"I still want to run some tests on him," he continued.
"Won't happen, Blue Eyes."
"Since Greg has Cameron in his lap, do you think he'd let you leave with me? Quid pro quo."
I laughed. "Ask him."
Blue Eyes looked past me to where Greg was parked, very close to Dr. Cameron. "Greg," he called.
My brother looked up, saw us, smiled, and waved; then, he turned back to his conversation with Dr. Cameron. I nudged Blue Eyes with my shoulder. "He just dismissed you."
Blue Eyes shook his head. We were interrupted when Jim took a chair beside Blue Eyes.
"I guess you saw that, right?" Jim asked us. He was quite agitated.
"What?" we both asked.
"Simon, your lawyer," he gestured to me, "just left with Lisa. Or, I should say, Lisa just left with him. Can you believe it?"
I controlled my urge to smile, but Blue Eyes was not so sympathetic. "Lost your administrator?"
"I should have known you wouldn't care," Jim moaned.
"If it'll help any," I began, "Simon is a player, Jim. He's not interested in long-term."
"Oh, that will make him feel better," Blue Eyes snapped sarcastically.
I ducked my head in embarrassment. "I only meant he wasn't a threat to a real romance." I shrugged.
Blue Eyes was staring at me. "There's no romance. Is there a romance, Wilson? There's no romance."
Jim signaled the waiter for another round of drinks. He looked crestfallen.
Greg had moved even farther from us so that his conversation with Dr. Cameron was unintelligible, but she was giggling and acting girlish. Drs. Chase and Foreman had finally joined the group of young women and were talking enthusiastically as the women lavished them with attention.
"Do you like her, Jim?" I asked.
Jim was flustered. "Of course, as a friend."
Blue Eyes nodded. "See. A friend."
"I'm not biting," I said. "If she were just a friend, then you wouldn't have minded her leaving with someone else. You're jealous."
"I am not jealous," Jim said, a tad too forcefully. "It's just bad manners, leaving like that."
Blue Eyes nodded. "Yes, Wilson, here, always bows to forms of etiquette. Mr. Manners, I call him."
"House, shut up," Jim finally scolded Blue Eyes. "You're happy – you have Audra."
"What?" Blue Eyes and I both asked.
"Oh, stop posing, House," Jim admonished. "You don't go around meddling in someone's life as much as you do hers unless you're attracted to her."
"I never said she wasn't attractive," he muttered.
A paper airplane made from a napkin hit my arm. I felt around and found it. On it was written: "Leaving. Will call you in the am. Don't worry. Greg."
When I tried to see the crazy sh!thead, I couldn't find him. B.E. pointed to a far corner, and I realized he was wheeling through an exit with Dr. Cameron draped across his lap. I looked at B.E. and Jim.
"Another couple hooking up?"
B.E. said, "She really wants me."
"Not after tonight," I retorted.
Jim put his head in his hands. "I guess it's time for me to surrender and go home."
We watched Jim leave in silence.
"Well," Blue Eyes started, "shall we go to my apartment now?"
"Are you going to stop announcing every little detail you learn about me to the public at large?"
"I don't know," he waffled.
"Fine," I said, and I moved to stand.
"Okay, okay, I promise not to tattle. Now?" he pleaded.
We didn't have sex that night.
We drove to Blue Eyes' apartment in a companionable peace. Once inside, however, he couldn't resist questioning me about Greg again.
"Why did the basketball bully say the current theory was genetic?" he asked as he arranged himself on his sofa. He beckoned for me to lie down with my head resting on a pillow in his lap.
"A doctor he saw when he was in college believed his condition was the result of an autoimmune problem. He tried IV infusions of gamma globulin to try to increase his muscle mass, and it worked. Unfortunately, the three days of infusions every three months made him sick and interfered with his classes. Greg finally decided the benefits weren't worth the side effects." I closed my eyes; I didn't like to talk about Greg's choice to forego treatment. "Because he did respond to the IVIG and because he didn't fit into any other pattern, Dr. Michaels decided it had to be genetic."
"And you're not worried about Zelda inheriting the same disorder?"
"Worried? Not one bit."
He shook his head in confusion. "Don't you want your daughter to be perfect?"
"Okay," I said with a sigh, "here's the problem: In life there is no perfection. Once you accept imperfection, life just presents a variety of imperfections to each person. While one person might have to deal with wrestling through life with a wheelchair, another might have to dance with a completely different devil. The other guy's imperfections might be more debilitating than the ones you started with."
"Let's see if I have this straight: Life's a crap shoot. You have to play the cards you're dealt. Don't worry; be happy. Any other useless clichés you want to throw in?"
"I don't know if this qualifies as a cliché, but obnoxious men don't get laid."
Blue Eyes chuckled. "Our past would indicate you're mistaken."
"Even a blind pig can find an acorn once," I replied.
He absently stroked my hair. "Fitzgerald, a few tests might tell us a lot about Greg's disability."
"Blue Eyes, I know this is difficult for you to understand, but in his eyes he is a normal guy living a normal life. Period. He doesn't agonize over what he can't do. He moves forward. I don't always agree with his choice of progress, but I've had to adapt to his adulthood and his right to choose the path of his progress. He is not unhappy."
Blue Eyes didn't seem capable of understanding. "How can he be happy, always having to rely on a dammed wheelchair just to move around?" His anger, I felt, was unconnected to Greg.
I strained to see him, but he was staring across the room. I reached my hand up to touch his cheek. "Blue Eyes," I whispered. "This is no longer about my brother, is it?"
He continued staring at an unknown place behind my head. "I was an athlete as a kid. I ran hurdles in high school. I loved the pace, the need to time the stride, and then flying over the obstacle. When life would become too stressful, I'd just go out and run for miles. Any time of day or night."
I listened raptly; I sensed he was confiding personal, cherished memories.
"Seven years and six months ago, while playing golf, a blood clot settled in my thigh. However, the diagnosis came too late to save the muscle. You've seen."
I nodded gently.
"I won't run again. He!!, I won't even walk without pain again."
"You're bitter."
"Damm straight I'm bitter," he spat back at me. "Wouldn't you be?"
"Blue Eyes, I won't lie to you; if I were Greg, I'd whine every minute of every day of my life. Fortunately for me, Greg handles it differently. How you handle your leg is up to you. Can you tell me who your bitterness is directed at?"
"Cuddy was my doctor. She missed the call. And Stacy, she signed for them to remove my damaged thigh muscle while I was in an induced coma." His voice was quiet and hoarse as he continued to fixate on the opposite wall.
"So, you're angry with Dr. Cuddy and Stacy?"
He rubbed his hand over his face. "No. I'm angry with God, or fate, or karma, or the magic of the eight ball."
I smiled slightly. "But you admit you're angry?"
He finally looked down at me. "I thought we came here to have sex?"
"Oh, I'm sorry – did I deviate from the game plan?"
"Yes," he said, but the distant glint in his eyes told me his mind was, for once, not on having sex.
"Tell me what you want, Blue Eyes."
He felt around on the end table until he found a medicine bottle with his magic pills; he took a couple. Then, he reluctantly looked at me. "I think, if you wouldn't be offended, I'd just like to go to sleep."
"I'm not offended," I responded. "What's your idea?"
He sighed with fatigue. "Would you sleep with me? I would just like to have you near."
I smiled up at him. "Dear Blue Eyes, with a belly the size of mine, just sleeping is what I do best."
I rose from the sofa and he followed me into his bedroom. In the dark, we both stripped to just our skin and slipped beneath the covers of his bed. We immediately fell into the "spoon" position with my back to his chest. He wrapped his arm around me, around Zelda's bulge, and insinuated his legs between mine. With his head nestled in my hair, he exhaled a long-kept breath and began to relax.
"Are you worried about being the only parent for Zelda?" he whispered.
"Sugar, I don't spend time worrying. I try to just live, day-to-day, with as few fears as possible."
"I don't want to criticize, as peaceful as this is, but you should probably spend some time worrying about your neighborhood. I mean, you're really not safe there."
I could feel sleep taking over his body as the arm around me felt leaden and his voice was broken with the soft hum of his nocturnal breathing. "You can help me find a new apartment after Zelda's born," I offered, but he was already asleep.
