The Long Wait for Tomorrow Read online

Jenna bent sideways a little to look past her breasts, down to her skirt. “Yes, I’m a cheerleader.”

  “Didn’t think it was my birthday.”

  “Don’t give me any shit, I can leave anytime I want.”

  The bartender threw his head back and let loose with two succinct syllables: “Ha! Ha!”

  It almost seemed sarcastic, but Patrick quickly realized that this was simply how he laughed.

  “All right.” The bartender pointed his pen at Patrick. “What do you want to drink?”

  Patrick searched the room once more.

  Spotted Kelly at a pool table, setting up a rack of balls.

  “He can’t help you,” the bartender said with a dismissive grin. He backpedaled to a tall industrial-sized fridge with a glass door. Skimming past the rows of beers with his finger, he reached the bottom shelf and began rattling off all age-appropriate options. “I got some Kiwi or Strawberry Snapple, Snapple Diet Green Tea, Stewart’s root beer, Stewart’s Orange ’n Cream, water, Coca-Cola—”

  “Iced tea,” Jenna interrupted.

  “Orange soda,” Patrick added.

  The bartender had their drinks before them in two shakes, and he pointed toward the back.

  “Tell your boy over there it’s four dollars per hour, per person.”

  “Thanks,” Patrick managed, and wandered toward Kelly. His footsteps sounded exceptionally crisp against the unfinished floor. Green-felt tables watching as he approached his destination.

  “How’s your game, Patrick?” Kelly asked.

  “Um …” Patrick placed his orange soda on the edge of the table. “I don’t really play that—”

  “Hey!” the bartender called out across the room. “Drinks off the table, son!”

  Patrick mumbled a hasty apology and moved his drink to a nearby stool.

  “Grab a stick,” Kelly said, sucking back on a root beer. He smacked his lips. “Go on, Patrick, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Kelly jumped up onto a wooden riser, home to five chairs bolted into place. All with seats flipped up like wooden under-bites. He flipped one down and settled in. Crossed his legs and motioned for Patrick to get going.

  Patrick approached the nearest rack, not sure what he was looking for in a cue stick.

  He picked one at random and returned to the table.

  Jenna had parked herself on the chair next to Kelly. Legs crossed, diet iced tea resting against her knee. She was smiling broadly, enjoying her little stint as the pool shark’s girl.

  Royalty, Patrick’s angels concluded with a quiet laugh. All hail to the queen.

  Kelly kissed Jenna on the cheek and hopped down. “Want to lag for the break?”

  “Do I want to who for the what?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Kelly pulled out a quarter. “We’ll flip for it.”

  Patrick stared down at the balls. The few times he and Kelly had played pool, it had always been eight-ball. Eight-ball on crappy coin-operated tables. Now he found himself looking down at a diamond-shaped rack, one through nine, enough green between pockets to cover a cemetery.

  “I don’t even know what we’re playing,” Patrick said.

  “ Nine-ball.”

  “What’s nine-ball?”

  Kelly smacked the palm of his hand against his forehead. “My bad.”

  “Huh?”

  “OK.” Kelly leaned against the pool table, picked up a cube of blue chalk. He began to expertly file the tip of his cue, talking the whole time. “Nine-ball’s about as simple as it gets. We got nine balls on the table, one through. Your object ball’s always going to be the lowest one on the table.”

  “Object ball?”

  “Meaning, you always have to hit the lowest ball on the table first. If the lowest ball is the one, you hit the one. If the lowest ball is the two, then go for the two. Generally, this means that the balls are pocketed in numbered order. You sink the three, then the four is the lowest ball, so you sink that. Sink the four, then you sink the five, all the way up to the nine ball.”

  Patrick glanced up at Jenna.

  Chin resting on her palm, pinky trapped in the corner of a fascinated grin.

  “Now, the nine ball is the only ball that wins the game,” Kelly continued. “I could sink one through eight, miss the nine. Then you come along, drop the nine, and you win. Same thing goes at any point in the game. If the one is the lowest ball on the table, and it happens to be right next to the nine, which happens to be right next to a pocket … Well, you can hit the one to combo with the nine and win. You got it?”

  Patrick did.

  Thing of it was, Kelly’s sudden knowledge of nine-ball seemed more irrational than any of the ignorance he’d displayed over the entire day. Patrick had understood every word. It was as clear as Kelly had been, and yet he found himself shaking his head.

  “You want me to play a game on my own?” Kelly suggested. “Let you have a look?”

  “I’ll play you” came the bartender’s voice.

  The three of them turned their attention, saw the bartender leaning against the thirty-foot shuffleboard table dividing the space. Couple of empty beer bottles in his hand, paused en route to further duties. His perpetual grin wasn’t challenging, wasn’t demeaning. Just curious, looking for a way to kill time, and Kelly nodded. “Race to five?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Call it.”

  “Heads.”

  Kelly sent the quarter spinning.

  Two minutes later, the thunderclap of Kelly’s break sent a spectrum of colors across the green felt. Kelly stepped back and watched, waiting for the second law of physics to catch up. When the dust settled, the two and four balls had found their demise in two separate pockets. The rest were spread out nicely, enough to warrant an impressed nod from the bartender.

  “ Gosh-damn. Not bad, son.”

  “ ’Preciate it,” Kelly said with a respectful squint, and began to circumvent the table.

  Patrick had taken his place up in the cheap seats, alongside Jenna. He sat, drink in one hand, cue stick resting against his shoulder, watching Kelly imagine the possibilities. The detached calm was a welcome relief for Patrick. It was one of Kelly’s principal traits. Something to hang on to as the clock over the bar crawled past the one o’clock hour.

  Then Kelly bent low over the table and sent the cue ball smacking against the one.

  A shining streak of yellow, right into the corner pocket.

  In four consecutive shots, Kelly rounded the table, putting the three, five, six, and seven to bed. He missed the eight by a hair, leaving the bartender to clean up the eight and nine. The pair of them paid their passing respects, reracked, and moved straight on to game two with Swiss-watch precision. Game two went by with the same speed and efficiency, Kelly moving in to secure the win with two consecutive bank shots on the eight and nine.

  Three racks later and the count was 2-3, Kelly up by one game.

  “My name’s Casper,” the bartender told Kelly, centering the balls for their next game. “Casper Noel.”

  “Kelly McDermott,” Kelly said, extending his hand.

  “Oh shit, son …” Casper eagerly enveloped Kelly’s hand and shook it senseless. “Heard a lot about you, young man. Twenty-nine touchdowns, fifty-two hundred yards, sixty-eight completions. Gosh-damn, heard everyone was looking to get a piece of you. Where’d you settle on?”

  “Ohio State, apparently.”

  “Congratulations. Let me tell you, they could use you.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Casper leaned in and whispered something in Kelly’s ear.

  Kelly’s eyes brightened, head nodded.

  Casper headed over to the bar, checking in on the regulars.

  Kelly made his way over to the seats, smiling. “Feels good to be playing again.”

  “You’re playing good, Kelly.” Jenna hopped down and gave him an embrace, kiss on the cheek. She gave his blond hair a tousle. “Got some skills there.”


  “Going to check out the jukebox. Anything you want to hear?”

  Jenna shook her head and sent Kelly on his way.

  “That’s interesting,” Patrick said sullenly. “Got some skills. That’s your contribution?”

  “Contribution to what?” Jenna asked, sipping her diet tea. “You saw him shooting.”

  “Shooting like he’s been spending nights and weekends in here.”

  “How do you know he hasn’t?”

  “Because I’m with him every second of every day,” Patrick whispered harshly. He glanced over to the jukebox, saw Kelly with his back to the room. “This isn’t just Kelly acting strange. This isn’t bizarre disorientation. All that was just Kelly not knowing his ear from his ass. But to suddenly walk up to a pool table and give this bar guy—”

  “Casper.”

  “Casper, sure, for Kelly to beat him …” Patrick struggled with the words. “This is the first time today Kelly seems to know what he’s doing. This is Kelly McDermott knowing what he’s doing.”

  “Kelly’s always known what he’s doing.”

  “So have we.”

  “We’ve always known what we were doing?”

  “We’ve always known who Kelly was.”

  “Hey, Patrick!” Kelly called out from the jukebox. “Got this guy here on the box. Herbie Hancock. The album is … Head Hunters. You want me to play a few from here, jazzman?”

  “Uh … sure.”

  “What tracks?”

  “First one’s seven minutes long, it’ll do.”

  Before Patrick could get back to his previous conversation, Casper approached the table toting a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon. “What instrument do you play?”

  Patrick didn’t immediately realize the question was his to field. “What?”

  “Jazzman. What instrument do you play?”

  “Sax.”

  “Alto?”

  “Tenor.”

  “Damn.” Casper jerked his head back with impressed surprise. “Small dude like you filling a tenor. I’m surprised I can’t see your lungs through your shirt.” Casper laughed heartily at his own joke as the jukebox kicked in. “You write your own music?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Got any good songs done?”

  “ ’Round five hundred.”

  Casper waved a hand out, batting away at Patrick’s claim. “You lie.”

  Patrick frowned. “No, it’s true.”

  Casper pointed to Jenna. “That true?”

  Jenna looked embarrassed. “I … don’t really know, Patrick never really—”

  “Kelly!” Casper called over his shoulder. “Your boy here solid?”

  “Pure titanium!” Kelly called out from the jukebox.

  “Five hundred songs,” Casper mused. “You got a problem with standards?”

  Patrick shook his head. “I love them. But as far as playing goes, a musician should only do standards if he’s performing for a crowd who’s expecting them….”

  “So where have you played around here?”

  Patrick felt as though it was a trick question. “I play in the school band, at basketball games—”

  “No, I mean where have you played.”

  “Uh … my room, really, is the only place—”

  “Balls to that, son!” Casper actually looked upset at the thought of Patrick playing for an audience of zero. “Look, tomorrow night, after the game … you three should come over here after closing. I’m gonna have a little lock-in. Drink some bourbon, shoot some pool, just a select few. You guys come along, and Patrick … you and me are gonna jam.”

  Casper was displaying more faith in Patrick than he was used to hearing.

  Before Patrick could accept, Kelly half sauntered, half danced his way up to Casper. One hand on his belt, the other raised alongside his head, palm out. He saw Casper extend the beer toward him, did a little half spin, and accepted.

  “Keep it on the down low,” Casper told him. “What do you drive?”

  “Some kind of sports car.” Kelly shrugged. “Convertible.”

  “Which one of your friends is going to be driving it later?”

  Kelly reached into his pocket.

  Patrick had turned his attention to Jenna, and he missed the silver glint of keys flying toward his head. Directly into his head, complete with a yellow flash of pain as the keys bounced from his temple and onto the floor. Everyone burst out in a bout of laughter overshadowed by concerned questions. Followed by amused swearing and further inquiries.

  “I’m all right,” Patrick said, shaking his head. “Ouch. I’m OK.”

  “That’s right, hang tough.” Kelly scooped up his keys and slapped them into Patrick’s hand, turned to address the nearly empty room. “Here sits a brave individual. Somebody get this man a dragon to slay.”

  Kelly raised his beer and winked.

  Patrick remained half crouched with his hand against his temple. The shock of blunt-force trauma forgotten as he witnessed Kelly with his head tilted back, eagerly taking down half his beer in three large swallows. On his periphery, Patrick saw Jenna wearing a less pained version of his own expression.

  Kelly’s selection of electronic funk/jazz kept on and on.

  He removed the Pabst from his mouth with a satisfied smack. Kelly shook his head, wet lips smiling, elated eyes getting misty. “Oh yeah … It’s been too long.”

  “When was the last time you had a drink, son?” Casper asked.

  “Kelly doesn’t drink,” Patrick said, more as a footnote to his own thoughts.

  “Oh really?” Casper gave a little fake laugh. Then, as though actually taking the time to consider Patrick’s statement, he burst out with a loud, authentic cackle. “OK, then. Guess I’d better not go back to the bar and get Mr. McDermott another not beer, before he doesn’t not finish this one…. Kelly?”

  “Set ’em up, we’ll be knocking ’em down.” Kelly went in for another swallow, then paused. “Got a smoke for me, Casper?”

  “Don’t smoke. Wait, though …” Casper dug into his shorts and pulled out a pack of Camels. Tossed them onto the table. “Hank left those last night, help yourself. Got matches in there and everything.” Casper turned and strode back to the bar, calling out: “Go ’head and break, Kelly!”

  “Well, thank you, Hank,” Kelly murmured, not a second’s meditation over who Hank might actually be. He picked up the pack of Camels, procured a smoke. With nothing more than the fingers on his right hand, he bent back the matchbook cover, guided a single match toward his thumb, and snapped a spark. The match flared up, and Kelly introduced it to his cigarette with two rapid puffs. He shook out the flame, took a deep drag, and released a plume of weightless smoke into the air.

  “Yeah …” Kelly had another tug of his beer and set it down at Jenna’s feet. He took a moment to stare at her legs. Reached out with a single finger and slowly traced from her knee down to her ankle. He looked up and smiled.

  Jenna smiled back, genuinely touched, somehow.

  Patrick waited until Kelly was at the far end of the table before leaning his head closer to Jenna.

  “So here’s Kelly,” Patrick murmured. “Having a cigarette, pounding beers in a pool hall, on a school day during school hours, and listening to jazz.”

  “Actually asking you what it was you wanted to hear,” Jenna mused, turning to him with a raised eyebrow.

  “Well, whatever.” Patrick shrugged it off. “Is none of this even … you really don’t have anything to say about all of this?”

  “I’m not denying how strange it is.”

  “More than strange.”

  “I know it.” Jenna glanced across the room, thinking. “I know this isn’t … I know there’s something happening here, but … here’s the thing.”

  “What?”

  “Seeing him here, now, like this … It just occurred to me. Have you ever actually seen Kelly McDermott happy before?”

  Patrick blinked. He opened his mouth to a few seconds of static before forcin
g it out. “Sure.”

  “Like this. Actually happy?”

  “Something’s wrong with him. What difference does happy make?”

  Jenna straightened her skirt, hesitated. “It’s just nice that now at least one of us is.”

  “Hey, Patrick!”

  Patrick turned, saw Kelly pointing the cue stick toward the waiting rack.

  “Nine ball, on the break.” Kelly grinned with fire in his eyes, smoke curling up from the cigarette lodged between his teeth. “Just you watch.”

  “He certainly seems happy,” Patrick commented dully.

  “And happy can’t hurt, can it?” Jenna asked.

  Kelly bent over and lined his sights up with the cue ball.

  The clock on the wall read five past two as Kelly graced the table with another sledgehammer break.

  Come five past four, all three of them were sitting in the principal’s office.

  here had been a time when Wellspring Academy had gone by the name Pleasant Evergreen. Originally founded in the early fifties, it was one of the few southern schools that had desegregated in the days before Brown v. Board of Education. Built on the notion of individual students, individual needs, Pleasant Evergreen had always been considered the runt of the private-school litter. No grades, no real separation between academic and moral education, students were given evaluations, in contrast to the commonplace As, Bs, and Cs that were meant as an easy way to sum up educational abilities. Always short of funds, never short of contempt, the school had a track record of drawing jeers from both private and public educators.

  They’d certainly never had a sports program worth talking about. Their soccer, baseball, and track fields occupied an all-purpose, poorly cultivated sprawl of sparse grass and arid, rocky soil. Their basketball court was built in an abandoned airplane hangar. No football to speak of. The game was considered too violent, equipment too expensive, student body too small to produce enough players who weren’t too small.

  Then, shortly before the new millennium, an anonymous donor dropped a million dollars on the school. Before word could get out, the administrators had hired a slew of contractors to build a state-of-the-art gym, complete with a weight room, swimming pool, and fully functioning locker rooms. A large portion of the surrounding forest was leveled, future site of their new soccer stadium. Two thousand seating capacity, complete with its own irrigation system for the summer months. It was then revealed that the donor’s one caveat for the million was that every penny be spent on a better sports program for Pleasant Evergreen.