The Song of David

Henry sat down at the end of my bed abruptly, and when he looked at me again, his eyes were glassy, and his lips trembled.

“Brian Piccolo was a running back for the Chicago Bears.”

I stared at him, puzzled. I had to think about that one for a minute. Then I understood.

“Yeah. He was.” He was. And Brian Piccolo died of cancer at age twenty-six. Same age as me. I had made Moses watch Brian’s Song with me, cried during the whole damn thing, even though I’d seen it a dozen times before, and then called him Billy Dee for a month afterwards. It was more fun than calling him Gale, after Gale Sayers, Piccolo’s best friend. Moses didn’t appreciate the nickname, but the dynamic between James Caan and Billy Dee Williams in the movie was pretty spot-on to Moses and me. I guess it was my own, Henry-esque way of communicating to Moses that I loved him without telling him. Apparently, I reminded Henry of Brian Piccolo too. I was honored. And I was terrified.

“Did you shave your head for me, Henry?”

Henry nodded and rubbed his head nervously once more. “Moses took me to a barber.”

“Did he really?” My heart ached at the thought of my friend. “Feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

Henry nodded again. “Shaquille O’Neal, Michael Jordan, Brian Urlacher, Matt Hasselbeck, Mark Messier, Andre Agassi . . .”

“We’re twins,” I commented, interrupting his nervous recitation of bald athletes.

“I know,” Henry answered. “I want to look like you.”

The ache in my heart spread. Henry was irresistible sometimes.

“Can I rub your head?” I just wanted to get him to come closer. I needed to hold onto him for a minute.

Henry stood and moved until he was standing beside me. I tugged his hand and he sat next to me, his head bowed, eyes on the floor.

I placed my left hand on his head and rubbed in gentle circles, wanting to comfort him, hating that I was helpless to do so.

With a sudden sob, he fell against my chest, and I wrapped my arms around him, stroking his shorn head. He cried for a minute, soaking my hospital gown, clinging to me like he was afraid to lose his grip. Then he started to speak.

“David ‘Tag’ Taggert, light heavyweight contender with a professional record of twenty wins, two losses, twelve knock outs.” Henry sounded like a fight announcer who had been on the sauce, all hiccups and slurred words, his voice muffled against me, and I noticed he had added my recent wins to the bio.

“Not a bad record, huh?”

“You’re a fighter,” he cried.

“Yeah. I am,” I said.

“You love to fight,” he insisted.

“I do.”

“You’re a fighter!” Henry’s voice rose, and I realized what he was saying.

“This is a different kind of fight, Henry.” I kept stroking his head.

“Same.”

“Nah. Not the same at all.”

“You’re a fighter!”

“Henry—”

“Millie fights!” Henry insisted, interrupting me.

“She sure as hell does. Every damn day.”

“Mikey fights,” he lifted his head from my chest.

I could only nod.

“Moses fights,” he said.

My throat closed.

“Henry fights?” This time it was more a question than a statement.

“You do,” I whispered.

“My dad didn’t fight.” His eyes met mine, the pleading in them so heartfelt, so determined, so beloved, that I couldn’t answer. Son of a bitch. He was killing me.

“Tag Taggert is the best fighter in the universe,” he implored. “The best fighter in the universe.”

I don’t know how I ever thought Henry wasn’t a good communicator.





“I NEED YOU to pull over, Mo,” I insisted, my hand on the door handle. I was sitting in the back with Millie, and Henry was in the passenger seat beside Moses. We were on our way home from Las Vegas, and the trip couldn’t have been more miserable if they’d tied me to the roof like Aunt Edna in National Lampoon’s Vacation. I was trapped. I couldn’t disappear again. I was on anti-seizure medication, and I was informed that it was illegal to “operate a motor vehicle for three months in the state of Utah after suffering a seizure.” Some states, like Colorado, never allowed you to drive again. Legalize pot but don’t let someone like me ever drive again. Made no sense to me.

Mo’s eyes found mine in the rearview mirror. He had only spoken to me in grunts and single syllables since our heated conversation at the hospital, and I could feel his anger and frustration battling my own.

“Pull over,” I barked. He could pull over or he could clean up my puke in his back seat.

He ground to a halt, gravel and debris kicking up as his tires dug into the asphalt on the side of the road.