"You're the best dad in the whole world."
Could a twelve-year-old boy understand what those words meant to a man? No. He could not. Only another man could. Another father.
"And you're the best son in the whole world," Frank Tucker said.
That's the way it is for a father. Your son is part of you, but you thank God that he got only the good part of you and not the bad part of you. Not the nose or the ears or the acne. Because you don't look at your son and think, I want him to be me. You look at him and think, I want him to be better than me. That's a father's dream for his son.
Frank tossed the football back to his son. William was in sixth grade, but he was big for his age. He was tall and strong with broad shoulders and big bones. If he grew into his hands and feet—which already seemed man-sized—he'd be six-three, maybe six-four. He could already throw a football from the other side of the playscape to this side of the big oak tree. Thirty-five yards. Frank had paced off the distance. Rusty, their golden retriever, barked at William; he wanted in the game. William took an imaginary snap from center then bounced to his right to evade Rusty as if the dog were a blitzing linebacker, set his feet, and fired the ball back. A perfect spiral. With velocity. The leather stung Frank's hands.
"I'm going to be the Dallas Cowboys' quarterback," William said. "I'm going to be a star."
That was a boy's dream for himself. Every twelve-year-old boy dreams those kinds of dreams. Frank had dreamt of being a pro golfer, another Jack Nicklaus, but he couldn't make a putt to save his life—or win a match. So he had gone to law school. Plan B, as they say. He wondered if William Tucker would need a Plan B.
He threw the ball back to his son.
William caught the ball, rolled to his left, quickly set his feet, and rifled the ball to his dad as if he were running an out route. He had the coolest dad in his school. The other dads, they were rich businessmen and doctors and even lawyers like his dad, but they weren't famous criminal defense lawyers like his dad. Of course, he didn't help bad guys who hurt nice people. He only helped good guys the police thought were bad, but they weren't really bad. He proved they were really innocent. He said his clients were mostly white-collar defendants, although William never understood what the color of their shirt collars had to do with whether they're guilty or innocent.
"I want to be famous like you," William said.
Dad threw the ball back.
"I'm not famous."
"You're always in the paper."
"Because my clients are famous."
William rolled right then threw a fade left.
"Like the senator?"
"Yes. Like her."
His dad was in some big trial up in Austin. He had come home for the weekend.
"Why do famous people call you?"
"Because they're in trouble."
"Why?"
"Because they made mistakes. Or because the prosecutor thinks they made mistakes."
"But they're not bad people?"
"No. My clients are innocent."
"What if they're guilty?"
"Then they're not my clients."
"What if they're rich and can pay you a lot of money?"
"They're still not my clients."
"Are we rich?"
"We're comfortable."
He sometimes said things like that instead of yes or no. That's how lawyers answer questions.
"We live in a big house in River Oaks," William said.
"It's not big for River Oaks."
Dad wore white collars, too, but he wasn't a criminal. He was wearing a white shirt and a colorful tie and his suit pants and smooth leather shoes and trying not to step in Rusty's poop that William was supposed to have already picked up. Dad had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up. He had just driven in from Austin and pulled the Expedition into the garage and saw William out back, so he had just started tossing the ball, not even changing into play clothes first. He was like that. Suits and stuff didn't matter to him, even when he sweated like now. He was pretty old, forty-five, but he didn't look that old, like the other boys' dads did, pale guys with pudgy bodies and bald heads. He looked manly, like an athlete. He worked out at his law firm's gym. He said he stayed in shape to keep up with his son. They ran the streets of River Oaks on weekends and played golf together at the club. And Dad still had his hair. Other moms looked at him when he came up to the school to have lunch with William or to attend William's games. William felt proud that Frank Tucker was his dad.
"Dinner's ready!"
Becky called from the back door. William jogged over to his dad and held up an open hand; Dad slapped his hand. A high-five. Dad said William had high-fived since was a baby. Now it was their personal bonding thing, like Dad always kissed Becky on her forehead. William was way too old for his dad to kiss him. They walked around the pool and into the house. Rusty followed them in. They lived in a big two-story house in a nice part of Houston called River Oaks. Most people would probably call it a mansion, but most of his classmates had bigger homes. Mom wanted a bigger house. Dad made a lot of money; he said Mom spent a lot of money. Sometimes William saw in his face that he wanted to say more to Mom, but he didn't.
"Just keeping the peace, William," he always said.
Frank walked through the back door and into the kitchen to his wife and daughter and the aroma of Lupe's enchiladas. He had been away for five days, but his wife did not rush to him from the other side of the kitchen. She did not embrace him. She did not kiss him. She seldom looked at him anymore. She had always preferred that people look at her. Elizabeth was still the blonde beauty queen at the University of Texas.
"I missed you, Daddy."
His daughter gave him a big hug. He squeezed her then kissed her forehead. She smelled fresh and fourteen; unlike William, who had taken to showering every other day or so, Becky bathed daily. She wore her cheerleader uniform. The varsity football team played that night.
"How was your week, honey?"
"We lost both games."
Becky was an eighth-grader at the same private school William attended. She played on the volleyball team and cheered for the other teams. She was blonde and blue-eyed like her mother but taller, almost as tall as Frank. She was a pretty girl, but not a beauty queen like her mother; she had gotten too much of Frank for that. But she was athletic. And smart. Mature for her age. She seemed to be raising herself; all he had to do was pay her tuition and feed her. He always said that she had been born thirty years old.
"Sorry I missed them."
He seldom did.
"Don't be. We're terrible. Daddy, can we go to the beach tomorrow?"
They had a beach house in Galveston just forty-five miles south of Houston. It was just a bungalow that sat right on the beach on the West End where there was no seawall. The next hurricane would wipe the small structure off its stilts, but Frank had gotten it at a good price: a client had paid him in kind, with a deed instead of cash. He and the kids and Rusty loved the beach; not so much Liz. The sea air made for too many bad hair days. Frank Tucker belonged on a beach. One day he would live on a beach, maybe when the kids were grown.
"We can't this weekend. William's got a game tomorrow, and I've got closing arguments on Monday. I'll have to drive back to Austin Sunday afternoon."
"Will you make my games next week?"
"The case will go to the jury Monday morning. We won't get a verdict until Thursday or Friday at the earliest. But you never know with juries, so I'll have to stay in Austin. Sorry."
"You know, Father"—when she addressed him as "Father" instead of "Daddy" he knew she had been thinking seriously about something—"if I went to public school, I could play on a good team, maybe get noticed by colleges. With Title Nine, I could get a scholarship."
"To play volleyball?"
"Unh-huh. Colleges have to give girls the same number of scholarships as boys. Boys get eighty-five football scholarships, thirteen for basketball, and eleven-point-seven for baseball."
"Eleven-point-seven?"
"Football and basketball are head count sports, but not baseball. So they can divvy up the total scholarships, give half scholarships to the players. Anyway, that's a hundred nine-point-seven scholarships they have to give to girls, and we don't have a big sport like football. So girls get scholarships for basketball, softball, soccer, swimming, diving, track, tennis, golf, gymnastics, rowing, field hockey, rugby, equestrian, indoor and sand volleyball, and bowling."
"Bowling?"
She nodded. "They've got to match scholarships, and they won't cut football."
"Good," William said. " 'Cause I want one of those football scholarships."
The U.S. Congress decided in 1972 that college sports required intervention by the federal government; members of Congress were apparently not busy enough bungling national defense and screwing up the economy. Feminist groups complained that girls didn't have enough athletic opportunities in college. So Congress enacted a federal law that divvied up athletic scholarships between boys and girls. In order to comply with Title Nine, colleges must provide an equal number of athletic scholarships for boys and girls, even if the boys' sports made money and the girls' sports lost money. Hence, bowling for girls.
"So what about it, Father?" his daughter said.
"You've already got a scholarship."
"I do?"
He nodded. "It's called Daddy. Full tuition and room and board at the college of your choice."
"Wellesley. It'll cost sixty thousand a year by the time I go to college."
Frank blinked hard. "You really think you could get a volleyball scholarship?"
Lupe, their maid, cook, and nanny, walked over and handed Frank a cold Heineken. She knew him well after ten years.
"Gracias," he said.
Frank took a long swallow of the beer. He was not a drinker; he had never acquired a taste for wine or hard liquor. Back at UT, he had consumed his share of Lone Star beer; now his alcohol consumption consisted of one cold Heineken with Lupe's Mexican food, a Friday night tradition in the Tucker household. After a long week in court and a three-hour drive, the beer went down easily.
"Frank," his wife said, "tell Rebecca she needs to go shopping."
He turned to his daughter. "Go shopping."
"No."
He turned back to his wife. "She doesn't want to go shopping."
"She needs a new party dress for the fall social," his wife said.
Liz took her place at the head of the table. They were going to the football game after dinner, but Liz was dressed as if she would be competing in the evening gown competition. She sat with perfect posture waiting to be served by Lupe.
"No, I don't, Mother. Because I'm not going to the fall social."
"Yes, young lady, you are going."
"Mother, it's October. Football season. I'm a cheerleader. I play volleyball. I don't have time for socials."
"Make time."
Becky gave Frank a pleading look. He turned his palms up at her mother.
"Liz—"
"She's going, Frank. And all the girls will be wearing new dresses. Do you want your daughter to feel embarrassed?"
"Let me think about that."
"Daddy, I can't stand the boys at our school," Becky said. "They're all rich snobs. Why do I have to socialize with them?"
"Good question." Frank turned back to his wife. "Why does she have to socialize with rich snobs she doesn't like?"
"The same reason I have to socialize with rich snobs I don't like."
"So she'll be written up in the society section?"
Becky laughed, but Liz did not appreciate his humor. Frank walked over to the sink and washed up. Lupe stood at the stove and filled plates with enchiladas, tacos, refried beans, and guacamole. She wore a colorful Mexican peasant dress.
"How's your boy, Lupe?"
She was thirty-five, a single mother with a four-year-old boy. He had been born with a heart defect; fortunately for little Juan, Houston was home to many renowned heart surgeons and his mother's employer had put her and her dependents on his health insurance plan.
"He's fine, Mr. Tucker."
William grabbed a plate and sat at the table; he attacked the food. He ate like a horse these days and smelled like one. Puberty will do that to a boy. Frank took two plates and served his daughter and wife then went back for his plate. He returned to the table and sat across from the kids. The house had a formal dining room off the kitchen, but they always ate in the kitchen. It was comfortable. Informal.
"Did you wash your hands, William?" he asked.
Through a mouthful of food: "Why?"
"Hygiene."
"I'm a football player."
Frank folded his hands and said, "Prayer."
His son froze with a taco halfway in his mouth while Frank said the Tucker family dinner prayer. Then his son resumed his assault on the defenseless taco. Frank turned to his wife.
"Nancy's son deployed to Iraq," he said.
Nancy was his longtime secretary.
"Oh, that's neat," Liz said.
"I doubt it."
"I looked at a house in the nice part of River Oaks today," she said.
"The nice part?"
River Oaks was the richest part of Houston. Old money. New money. Oil money. Inherited money. But most of all, money.
"I'm not moving," William said.
"Me neither," Becky said.
With his head still bent over his plate and without breaking stride shoveling food into his mouth, William stuck a fist out to her. She bumped her fist against his. A fist-bump, a bonding ritual of athletes. Only two years apart, they seemed more like twins. The same hair, the same eyes, the same features. They watched out for each other. They had lived their entire lives in this old house. It was fifty years old with a big yard, the pool, and tall oak trees on a large lot, room for Rusty to roam and the kids to play. They each had their own bedroom and bathroom, which kept the peace upstairs. Hers were always tidy; his looked like a locker room. The house was just under four thousand square feet, small by River Oaks standards, and Frank could easily afford a bigger place, but it was four times as big as the house he had grown up in in a working-class suburb of Houston. And the kids were happy there. But Liz wanted a bigger house. She always wanted more.
"It's on Inwood just off the boulevard"—the River Oaks Boulevard—"a block from the club," she said. "Eight thousand square feet, six bedrooms, seven baths. And only five million."
She said it with a straight face.
"Liz, what would we do with seven toilets and eight thousand square feet?"
"Entertain."
"We do." He turned to the kids. "You guys entertained?"
They laughed. Rusty barked. Lupe muffled a giggle. Liz gave him that stern look that used to mean, "No sex tonight." But sex had ended long before. He had not sought sex from other sources; perhaps he was too afraid or too lazy or too Catholic. He didn't think she was cheating on him; that would be too scandalous in Houston high society. Instead of climbing the social ladder she would become the subject of social gossip. So they now slept in separate bedrooms; he told the kids his back made him toss and turn and wake their mother up. William had bought it; but he was only twelve. Frank suspected that Becky had not; but she went along with it. At fourteen, she was his deputy, working hard to keep the peace in River Oaks.
Which was not easy with her mother.
They had married eighteen years ago. He was twenty-seven and already practicing with a Houston firm; she was twenty-two and just graduated from UT, a pretty girl who wanted to be a star. She had planned on parlaying her looks into local television stardom and then jumping to the networks; it didn't pan out. At forty, she wanted to be a Houston society dame. Her Plan B. They had grown apart, as they say. In fact, they had married too young to know themselves and too soon to know each other. By the time they knew who they were and who they were not, they already had the kids. Frank had contemplated divorce, often, but Liz would get custody of the kids. Unless she was an alcoholic or drug addict, the mother could be dating an NFL team and she'd still get custody. He would be the every-other-weekend dad. He couldn't bear the thought of that life. So he stayed for the kids. For himself. He needed to be close to them. To live with them. To see them every day. To be a part of their lives.
Frank Tucker was a family man.