“You have to wait at least forty-eight hours before you open that. Make sure you are in a good mood when you read the letter. Think about it, and then give me your answer. Remember, Pat, I can be a very valuable friend to you, but you do not want me as an enemy.”
I remember the story Ronnie told me about how Tiffany lost her job, and I begin to feel very afraid.
I Will Have to Require a First-Place Victory
“Question number one,” my father says. “How many touchdowns will McNabb throw against the Saints?”
I can hardly believe I am actually eating a sit-down meal with my father. Mom smiles at me as she winds spaghetti around her fork. She even shoots me a wink. Now don’t get me wrong, I am happy that Mom’s plan has worked out, and I am delighted to be eating a meal with my father, having a conversation even—and I am especially happy to see my parents playing with love again—but I also know my father, and I worry that a single Eagles loss will turn Dad back into a grump. I worry for Mom, but decide to ride out the moment.
“Ten touchdowns,” I tell my father.
Dad smiles, pops a small sausage into his mouth, chews enthusiastically, and then tells my mother, “Pat says ten touchdowns.”
“Maybe eleven,” I add, just to be optimistic.
“Question number two. How many touchdowns will undrafted rookie sensation Hank Baskett catch?”
Now, I fully realize that Baskett has only caught one TD in the first five games, but I also know my family is being overly optimistic tonight, so I say, “Seven.”
“Seven?” Dad says, but smiling.
“Seven.”
“He says seven, Jeanie. Seven!” To me Dad says, “Question number three. In what quarter will quarterback Drew Brees finally suffer a concussion because he has been sacked so many times by the Eagles’ superior defense?”
“Um. That’s a tough one. The third quarter?”
“That is incorrect,” my father says, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “First quarter is the correct answer. Question four. When are you going to bring home that broad you’re always running with? When are you going to introduce your girlfriend to your father?”
When Dad finishes asking question four, he slurps a load of spaghetti into his mouth and then begins chewing. When I fail to respond, he encourages me with his left hand, tracing invisible circles with his index finger.
“Did you see that Pat found his wedding pictures and put them back up in the living room?” Mom says, and her voice sort of quivers.
“Jake told me you were over Nikki,” Dad says. “He said you were into this Tiffany broad. No?”
“May I be excused?” I ask my mother, because my little scar is itching, and I feel as though I might explode if I don’t start banging my fist against my forehead.
When my mother nods, I see sympathy in her eyes, which I appreciate.
I lift for a few hours, until I no longer feel the need to punch myself.
In the new reflector vest my mother has recently bought for me, I run through the night.
I was going to open Tiffany’s letter this evening because I was so excited about having dinner with my father, but now I know I am most definitely not in a good mood, so opening the letter would be a violation of the rules Tiffany clearly laid out for me two nights ago. I almost opened the letter last night, when I was in an excellent mood, but it hadn’t been forty-eight hours.
As I run, I try to think about Nikki and the end of apart time, which always makes me feel better. I pretend that God has made a bet with me and if I run fast enough, He will bring Nikki back, so I begin sprinting the last two miles of my run. Soon I’m running so fast, it’s amazing—faster than any human being has ever run before. In my mind I hear God tell me I have to do the last mile in under four minutes, which I know is almost impossible, but for Nikki I try. I run even faster, and when I am a block away, I hear God counting down from ten in my mind. “Five—four—three—two—” And when my right foot lands on the first concrete square of my parents’ sidewalk, God says “One,” which means I ran fast enough—that I made it home before God said “Zero.” I am so happy. I am so impossibly happy!
My parents’ bedroom door is closed when I go upstairs, so I shower and then slip under my comforter. I pull Tiffany’s envelope from under the mattress of my bed. I take a deep breath. I open the letter. As I read the several typed pages, my mind explodes with conflicting emotions and awful needs.
Pat,
Read this letter start to finish! Do not make any decisions until you have read the entire letter! Do not read this letter unless you are alone! Do not show this letter to anyone! When you have finished reading this letter, burn it—immediately!