Playing Without the Ball by Rich Wallace Page A

again,” she says. “He abandoned you, Jay. He’s scum.”
    I let out my breath, which I guess I’ve been holding. “He didn’t abandon me. He just got on with his life. It’s not like I’m nine years old again.”
    Everything ices up with that comment. I try an abrupt change of subject, which at least will end the conversation in a hurry. “So,” I say. “Did he get you some nice presents?”
    “Did who get me nice presents?”
    Huh? “Norm.”
    “Yes. Thank you.”
    “Oh,” I say. “Like what?”
    “Gifts.”
    “I see.” We don’t say anything for a few seconds, which seems like an hour. “Well,” I say. “You probably have a lot to do.”
    “I do.”
    “Okay, then. Merry Christmas.”
    “Thank you.”
    “And to Norm.”
    “Mmm-hmm.”
    “Okay, then.”
    “Bye.”
    I stare at the phone. And to all a good night.
    When Spit shows up, I’m in my underwear, eating sardines out of a can.
    “My mother said I should come check on you,” she says, leaning against the door frame.
    “Really?”
    “Yeah.” She’s got her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a look I’ve never seen on her. “She said to drag you out of this hole and haul you over to our house.”
    “What made her say that?” I set the sardines on the radiator and look around for my pants. I’m uneasy about this. A big part of me would rather be by myself than have anyone feeling sorry for me.
    “We were just sitting around and I said, ‘Shit. Jay must be all alone.’ So she sent me over here.”
    “That’s nice of her. She doesn’t even know me.”
    “She’s a great mom. She asks about you.” She gives me a sweet smile. “Ever since you rescued me.”
    “I should bring her something.”
    “Forget it. We did the big gift thing last night. Today we mostly eat.”
    “Okay.” I don’t have anything to bring anyway. Pop-Tarts, maybe. Or potato chips.
    It’s late afternoon and the streets are empty. We walk up Main Street and turn toward the hospital. They rent the first floor of a house back here.
    Her mother greets me at the door in a green dress and bare feet. They have a tree; it’s small but real, decorated with a string of tiny blue lights and wooden figurines.
    “Jay,” her mom says. “We were ready to eat, and Sarita mentioned that you were likely to be alone.”
    “It’s all right,” I say. “I called my mother …. Thanks for inviting me.”
    “Thank you for coming.”
    There’s braided bread on the table, which is set for four. “Can I help with anything?” I ask.
    “Would you like to pour some cider for us?” she asks.
    “Sure. Three of us?”
    “Yeah,” Spit says. “That fourth one is for the ancestors. They all crowd in there together.”
    “I see.”
    Her mom gives her a playful slap on the wrist. “It’s a tradition to set a place for our ancestors at Christmas dinner, Jay.”
    “Sounds nice.”
    So I go into the kitchen, which is painted in warm colors and has big ladles and tongs and things hanging from the wall, and garlic and other spices. Great kitchen. Not like Shorty’s.
    We eat a salad with mangoes and spinach, and then stewed fruit. Spit goes out to the kitchen and brings back a platter of fish. “It’s haddock,” she says. “Have to spill some blood on a holiday, you know.”
    “Sarita.”
    “Sorry, Mommy,” Spit says, and she takes a little piece anyway.
    A small black-and-white cat comes into the room and stops at Spit’s chair, mewing up at her. “Hi, Katie,” Spit says. “You can have some.” She reaches down and gives the cat a fragment of the fish. The cat eats it and then plops down under the table.
    “Your mother,” Spit’s mother asks me after a while, “is she … well?”
    “Yeah …. No. Physically, I guess. She’s hard to explain. I guess I don’t even know her.” I look down at my plate, blink a couple of times. I don’t know her, so I don’t miss her. But sometimes,like here, I catch a glimpse of what I might be missing.
    “Maybe when