Sam walked through the gate of the chain-link fence, past the empty dog igloo, and waved at Jackson Crane, smiling a little at Jackson’s pencil-thin slacks, rolled up over his bare ankles and leather loafers.
Jackson was probably in his early thirties. He was always wearing something that made it seem as if he’d just stepped out of an ad for private jets and fast cars, and it never failed to put a smile on Sam’s face. In that getup, Jackson looked ridiculous playing washers with Luke’s uncle, Greg Compton, who was wearing a sagging pair of Dockers and a T-shirt that had the Coors logo sprawled across the chest. “Hey chief,” Greg called out to him, lifting a beefy hand in greeting.
On the deck, Greg’s wife, Patti, was arranging chips and hot sauce on the little table. She was the de facto woman of the house from what Sam understood, the one who oversaw all family gatherings. Leo said she cooked for them once or twice a week so, as Leo put it, they wouldn’t all succumb to salmonella poisoning.
“Sam! It’s great that you could come,” she said cheerfully. She was a round woman, and looked just like the late Mrs. Kendrick, her sister. She had big, heavy breasts, and Sam could imagine that more than one kid had been smothered in them in the course of a motherly hug. “Dani says you don’t get down off that mountain much, so I’m really glad you did for us. Come in, come in!”
Sam resisted a groan. He asked, “Is that Norah Jones I’m hearing?” referring to the music that was piping out of the open windows.
“It sure is,” she said, her smile beaming. “Are you a fan?”
“I am.”
“Sam Winters, I always knew you were a man of discerning taste,” she said. “You’d think I put on church music the way the Kendrick boys reacted. Go in and get yourself a beer. We’ve got every kind you can think of because God forbid anyone should watch a football game without it. We’re going to eat a little early so everyone can settle in for the game. Luke’s rigged up a TV outside.” That she said with a voice full of awe, as if it were a feat of modern engineering.
Bob Kendrick, Luke and Leo’s father, was standing at the door when Sam stepped through. He reached out to shake Sam’s hand. “Good to see you, Sam. You know Marisol Fuentes, right? And her husband, Javier?”
Sam smiled at the fiery Marisol. She was rubbing her hand over her distended belly. “How are you, Marisol?”
“Ready for this baby to come out,” she said. “It kicks me, night and day. You want beer, there’s beer in the fridge and coolers on the patio,” she said, and began a laborious shift down onto one of two twin recliners in the room. Both recliners faced a blank wall where normally an impressive flat screen TV hung. Sam guessed it was outside.
In between the recliners was a large space where Leo usually wheeled in to watch his shows and play his video games. Hounds of Hell was his current favorite. Sam knew this, because when he’d stopped by last week, he’d had to listen to a detailed explanation of how Leo had made it to level fourteen.
“Sam, come with me,” Bob said. “I’ll show you where the drinks are.”
As they walked into the tiny kitchen, Sam heard Leo shout, “Hey, is that Sam? Sam, get out here!” Sam bent down and squinted out the little square window of the backdoor. Leo was on the deck, holding court like a fraternity brother. There was a picture in the house that Sam had once seen. It was of Leo, before his disease had manifested itself. He’d been a football player, a big tackle with a scholarship to the Colorado School of Mines. The picture of him had been taken on a river’s edge, and Leo stood a head taller than his companion, his arm looped around the guy’s shoulders, holding up a string of trout and grinning irrepressibly. It was the same grin Leo usually sported, but now it was made crooked by the betrayal of his muscles.
Bob opened an old white fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. “Leo’s in fine form tonight,” he said. “When he gets like this, he’s usually cooking something up. Be prepared.” He smiled as he handed the bottle to Sam.
“Thanks,” he said, and with the bottle of water in hand, he walked out onto the back deck. He noticed that a brace had been added to the headrest of Leo’s chair to keep his head from flopping to one side. It kept his head upright, but Sam realized Leo was even less mobile—now he couldn’t seem to turn his head at all.
“Sam!” Leo said, looking genuinely pleased to see him as he maneuvered his chair around to get a better look at him. “Hey, have you met Dr. Levitt? He’s my in-town doctor. Not to be confused with my Montrose doctors. So get this,” Leo continued as Sam extended his hand to Dr. Levitt. “Mark here doesn’t know who was the first quarterback to catch a pass in a Super Bowl. Can you believe that?”
Dr. Levitt smiled apologetically at Sam as he extended his hand. “Leo is very disappointed in me.”