Basketball Gods: A Short Story Page 2

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  The night Danny and I played one-on-one for the first time in a decade began not entirely unlike others we’d shared over the years since my he’d moved back to town. We saw each other, but not often enough for either of us to escape a twinge of exacting guilt when we parted. It was hard not to recognize that we were now separate people living in different homes, when we used to be part of a family. I had been long asleep when my brother tapped on my bedroom window, but I knew before my eyes were open what was happening: Danny had a problem and had come to me, as was his custom when he needed someone to talk to. Didn’t call, didn’t think about what I might be doing or what he might be interrupting (even if it was, in this case, only sleep). He just showed up at my doorstep, in his faded Yucca High P.E. shirt and the Dodgers cap he wore whenever we shot pool or went to Mom’s house together, to move furniture or pull the weeds from her front yard.

  “This time was different,” he said as we watched the smoke feather dance away from his lips toward the street in front of my cement doorsteps. Normally when Danny came by unannounced, we’d go out for some beers or rent a movie, but that night he didn’t want to do anything but sit outside and drink beer. We spoke only as often as cars drove by or cans emptied. He sat on the bottom step, reclined on his elbows and looking at the dark sky. I sat two steps above him, staring at his old Mazda pickup across the street with nothing to offer as condolence for the fact that his girlfriend wanted him to move out other than the remaining half of the six-pack at our feet and the fact that I was awake and dressed at three in the morning. He shook his head, and flicked the butt of his cigarette at the curb. “This time she means it.”

  Danny didn’t say anything for a while, leaving me to wonder if his silence indicated surprise or resignation at this remark. He stood up, removing his hat long enough to run his fingers through his short, wavy hair and rub his hand over the top of his head. I watched as he applied pressure to his eyes with the heels of his hands and exhaled a deep breath. He looked tired, but not sleep-deprived, as he slapped his hat back on with a how-do-you-do-ma’am tip of his bill and a weak smile.

  “I don’t even smoke, Rob,” he said, lighting another one.

  His smile froze then, into something that wasn’t a smile anymore, and it made me feel like shit all of a sudden. Danny had smoked for years, but quit when he began classes to become a certified emergency medical technician. That was six years ago, and the only times I’d seen him with cigarettes since was his first two months riding shotgun in the ambulance, the week that he lived on my couch summer before last – between the time he and his girlfriend split up and reconciled – and that night on my porch, as we watched the sliver of a moon in the sky and wondered how we’d gotten to just that spot.

  Sitting on my porch steps, looking up at him, I realized that my older brother wasn’t bigger than me anymore; we were nearly the same height and build. I’d chased after him my entire life, graduated high school with him and college before him. After all the summer classes and equivalency exams, after even my body had joined the cause and continued to grow in the years after puberty, I realized that I had caught up to Danny in every way that was possible, and I wished I could be the little brother again. I didn’t want to be the one to offer advice, or condolences, or reassurances in the middle of the night. I didn’t want to play the smart one or the sensible one or the one with a head on his shoulders anymore, when I was just as unsure of everything as he was. I couldn’t turn to Danny when I had a problem; our relationship didn’t allow for it. I had to maintain an appearance of stability for my brother, solidity, so he knew he could count on me when he was in need. These were roles we’d chosen long ago, and there was nothing to be done about them anymore.

  Danny took a drink of his beer, so I took a drink of mine.

  “What am I going to do, man?” he asked me, not for the first time that night.

  I was tired of saying that I didn’t know in my most sympathetic tones, tired of the way it made me feel, tired of the how it must have sounded to him, so I said nothing.

  “We gotta do something,” he said. “I can’t just sit here.” He got up, brushing his hands on the back pockets of his jeans. He got up, so I got up.

  “It’s late,” I said, as if I found the time surprising and not at all bothersome. Danny fished his keys out, twirled them twice around his index finger and wrapped his fist around them.

  “Let’s just drive, man,” he said, not asking, not leaving room for an objection.