“You have plenty to say, I think. From a family perspective.”

“I’d rather not.”

Coach’s smile turned icy. “You—will—speak.” Each word said with equal emphasis. There was no choice. I glanced to the backseat. There sat my mother, who had found her own way to manage. I understood now. It wasn’t chemical or explainable by a lack of iron or an overexposure to lead. It wasn’t dementia or early Alzheimer’s. It was pure wisdom. The way to beat the oppressor is to forget his victories, to vanquish all glory moments to an early grave. Bobette Parker Welch had found the ultimate revenge. She’d left without leaving. She’d forgotten because—for some people—if you don’t remember, you win.

“Tim is going to speak,” Coach said loudly to Bobette.

“Oh,” she said. “Who?”

“Tim, your son, is going to speak about how proud he is of me.”

He turned the Cadillac out of short-term parking. We passed two middle-aged women, one of whom hit the hood hard and shouted at my dad: “Pervert!”

“What did she say?”

“Just another grateful fan,” Coach said.

I glanced out the back window, and this time I was able to read her lips as she shouted it again. Pervert!

“See, son? People love your old man.”

KATE

“ARE YOU THERE? PLEASE BE THERE. PLEASE BE THERE.”

It was Tim calling from Ohio. I had let the machine answer, and for a moment I didn’t want to pick up.

“Dammit, I wish you were there . . .”

Out of guilt I lifted the receiver. “I’m here.”

“Oh, God. Oh, thank you, God!”

“Sorry, didn’t hear the phone—”

“You can’t believe how bad it is here, Kate. It’s horrible. You know how I thought he was being fired for his record? Well, I was wrong.” Tim continued, spitting out half-formed sentences, hinting at something horrible but not explaining it clearly. And then he said something about how, in a few hours, he had to address a packed room. “He wants me to speak. And I don’t know what the fuck to say!”

I tried to listen and sympathize, but ultimately, it was his family, his father, his speech to give.

“And, Kate, I found out the real reason . . .”

In my defense, whenever Tim visited his dad, there was always a crisis. Still, I should’ve listened better.

“The Athletic Director pulled me aside—”

“Honey, I have company. Anna’s here.”

“Who?”

“Anna Brody.”

“She’s there? Oh, why didn’t you say?”

“Because you haven’t stopped talking.”

Tim was quiet. “You better go, then.”

“Look, we can talk a few more minutes. I’m only saying—”

“No, Kate, I’m fine. I’m actually doing great. Believe me, I am. And be sure to tell anyone who asks.”

Click.

Earlier that morning, right after Tim left for the airport, I called Bruno to explain why I wouldn’t be at work for the next few days. “A family emergency,” I said. Bruno, ever concerned, asked, “Is everything all right?” “Yes, here at home. But for Tim and his dad, not good.” Bruno wanted details, but I told him I’d have to explain later because Sam had wandered into the kitchen, having just crawled out of bed.