“Shit,” he said.

She said nothing as he dribbled and faked, rushed, elbows flying, turning, faking again, fast breaking, leaping and slam-dunking, hitting the rim again.

“Fuck,” he said.

“Excuse me,” Ehrhart announced herself.

Feeley slowly dribbled the ball, looking at her.

“Are you Bobby Feeley?”

She stepped onto the gym floor in high-heeled shoes with brass butterflies.

“That’s not a good idea,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your shoes.”

“Who’s not right with them?”

“They aren’t tennis shoes.”

“Yours aren’t wearing tennis shoes,” she said.

He dribbled some more, frowning.

“What do you call these?” he asked.

“Basketballs shoes,” she said.

“Ah. A purist. Okay,” said Feeley, an honors English student. “But you still can’t walk on the floor in those shoes. So you can take them off or go somewhere else, I guess.”

Ehrhart slipped out of her shoes and drew closer to him in knee-high hose.

“So, what can I do for you?” Feeley asked as he pulled the ball away, elbows out and dangerous, eluding an imaginary adversary.

“You’re number twelve,” Ehrhart said.

“Not that again,” Feeley exclaimed as he dribbled. “What is this anyway? You people think I have nothing better to do? That I would do something as sophomoric as painting graffiti in a cemetery?”

He dribbled between his legs and missed a jump shot.

“This is not just graffiti as you watch on subway trains. It’s not ‘The Screech’ and schmucks you watch on buildings.”

Feeley stopped dribbling and wiped sweat off his brow, trying to interpret.

“I think you mean scream,” he tried to help her out. “As in Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream.’ And maybe you mean schmoe? Schmuck’s not a nice word, although those unfamiliar with Yiddish usually don’t get it.”

“Spray-painting Mountain Rushmore, how about then?” she indignantly said.

“Who did?” Feeley asked.

“So you can go paint your basketball uniform, number twelve included, on my ancestor!”

“You’re related to Jeff Davis?”

Feeley ran and dunked. The ball bounced off the backboard.

“I’m related to Vinny,” Ehrhart stated.

“As in Pooh?”

“Varina.”

“I thought that was a place or maybe something else we shouldn’t allude to.”

“You are vulgarly rude, Mr. Feeler.”

“Feeley.”

“It disdains me that people from your generation respect not a thing that’s gone before in the past. And the point is, it isn’t gone even if it started before you in. I’m standing here, as evident.”

Feeley frowned. “How ’bout ringing me up again. I think we have a bad connection.”

“I wouldn’t,” she flatly said.

He cradled the ball under his arm. “What did I do?”

“We know both what you did.”

He dribbled into a hook shot that swished below the net.

“Sorry,” Feeley said, “but I didn’t do a job on Mr. Davis’s statue, although I must say that it was about time somebody put him in his place.”

“How dare can you!”

Feeley flashed his big smile. He dribbled back and forth from one hand to the other and hit his foot.

“Indicted for treason but never tried. First and last president of the Confederacy. Ha!” He missed another foul shot. “Got to feel sorry for him, when you think about it. Inferior railroad, no navy, no powder mills or shipyard and forget arms and equipment.” A jump shot sailed over the backboard. “Congress fighting like cats and dogs.” Feeley walked and hit his toe again. “Lee surrenders without asking Davis if it’s all right.” He trotted after the ball. “Jeff Davis finds himself in leg irons and ends up an insurance salesman in Memphis.”