HAL

IN THE MORNING, he told Darlene he had a stomachache, though he exaggerated. He showered, dressed, and left for his 9:00 a.m. appointment at Avery’s old property on 2351. He hadn’t even been inside yet, but he’d looked at the pictures online, and he knew how to bluff his way in with one of these old homes—the details, the vintage, the homey, the kind of parents who’d lived there. The “looky here” and “looky there.”

He pulled up in the driveway, and realized how loud the traffic was, even though the house was set far back from the road. But the wood was painted that old green you never saw anymore, and the flat spread of its ranch-style girth felt welcoming—the house seemed honest and good-natured, like a lot of the people he used to know. A few minutes later, a blue Range Rover pulled in, and the client stepped out. He was a young guy, looked to be just a few years out of college, but he wore a suit—probably on his way to work at his new job. Not what Hal had expected.

As they shook hands and made introductions, Hal was aware of the leanness of this Bill’s body and the confidence in his chin. Hal read him right away—he was all set to say no, as soon as he saw the outside of the place, but was too polite to say so before Hal showed him anything. Still, with some skill, Hal might at least get him interested in going to a few other listings, the town house over on Groveland Street, maybe.

When they walked inside, Hal was unprepared for the cozy smell of old wood and dust. There it was again, the cheap, paneled wall in the living room, the dark green shag carpet that had probably been there since the late seventies. He remembered being there with Avery and a few others when they were teenagers. They’d come that day after school was out for the summer, and Avery’s mother had given them all lemonade and chili with saltine crackers, and Avery’s dad had worn glasses broken at the side and held together with tape.

“It’s a fixer-upper, maybe,” said Hal, sensing that this Bill was almost hopeless. “But there’s a good structure, nice detail in the fixtures, the cabinets. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

Bill walked over to the curtainless window and looked out at the tangled weeds in the yard. Hal led him down the hallway to the bathroom, cheap white tiles flecked with gold, an old, dingy tub. Even in here, you could hear the semi trucks drone on the highway. Then he led him back through the bedrooms, wood floored, small, the walls still scuffed and discolored from where the furniture had been. “The owner would give it a paint for you, of course,” said Hal, ashamed of himself, feeling like Avery’s goddamn slave.

“I like it,” said Bill, nodding, and Hal tried to interpret his eyes, but he couldn’t. “Do you think he’ll come down on the price?”

It was a trick, and Hal wouldn’t be fooled. A sale could never be this easy. He either didn’t have the money, or he didn’t have the credit score.

“Uh, not sure about that. I can ask.”

Hal led the client back through the living room, and he remembered that day again, how Avery’s dad had, for some reason, just lost his job, but he’d anyway seemed so proud to have his son and his friends in his house. Acted like the only thing keeping it from being a grand mansion was its size. He’d told them all stories about Beaumont football, praised Hal for his speed on the field, gave each of them half a glass of beer. Hal led Bill into the kitchen, where the cabinets and tile looked newer than what was in the rest of the house. “New stove. New fridge.” On the windows, thin red cotton curtains faded by the sun, and the linoleum floor, a blue brick pattern, was cracked just under the sink, as if something had fallen there. There was a smallness here, an evenhandedness that made Hal think of his own family. What did a single man want with it? Hal kept seeing Avery’s dad’s face, smiling, his blue shirt neatly pressed, still tucked into his trousers, his tooled leather belt. He’d had a reassuring laugh, and such confidence in all of them, the way he said they were all going on to great adventures, the way he’d turn to his wife and say, “Did you hear that?” She’d been tall and thin like him, with big white teeth and a genuine shy sweetness in her aproned gestures. Avery’s dad was dead now from a heart attack a couple of years back, and Hal didn’t know what had happened to Avery’s mom—if she was alive or in a home somewhere.

This Bill was smiling, opening each kitchen cabinet and sticking his head inside. “It’s real close to my work, and I like a small house, not an apartment,” he said. For a moment, Hal wondered if he was a homosexual, and then dismissed the thought because he was afraid Bill would see it in his face.

Hal led him around to the back, and they looked at the yard. They went inside the musty garage. Coming out of its dimness, Hal handed Bill his card, and walked him out to the driveway. “I have some other properties too, if you’d like to have a look.”

Bill shook his head, held up the card and said, “I’ll be in touch.” He couldn’t have meant it, but it was nice to deal with someone who had manners at least.

AFTER CULLY’S FIRST GAME BACK, a catastrophic loss to Sugarland, Hal drove Cully home, so he wouldn’t have to sulk on the bus. Hal could almost understand why it happened the way it did because Sugarland was deft and large with defense, and Friendswood leaned all of itself on Cully and Sid Tomes, the quarterback, so if those two fumbled, the team lost. “You’ve got to get your defense to bulk up, not be so afraid to hit,” he told Cully as they drove down the dark highway, the lights from passing cars sweeping over Cully’s red, shiny face. It was less understandable the next Friday night on the home field, when Cully fell apart like a snowman when the guy bumped him, and in the next quarter, Cully dropped an easy pass. Sitting next to him and Darlene, Wes Starkweather said, “They’ll come back,” but he wouldn’t look in Hal’s direction. By the end of the game, Hal could have sworn he saw him spit into the bleachers.

The following week, Hal was fixing up a different contract when the client Bill who’d looked at Avery’s property actually did call and said, “I want to make an offer—I liked that place.” Hal could hardly believe it. It was ten thousand less than Avery wanted, but when Hal called and regretfully told him the amount, Avery said, “I don’t mind. I just want to get it off my hands.”

“Can I ask you something?” Hal said, after he and Avery had mostly finished with the initial business of the sale.

“Yeah.”

“Your mom still alive?”

“Yeah, she lives with her sister in Garland now. Why?”

“When I was over there at the house it all came back to me, how your folks used to have us over. I remember your dad and how much he liked to talk. Didn’t he have a joke about a man in a croker sack suit—kind of a shaggy-dog story thing?”

“Hell, I don’t know. That’s all so long ago,” said Avery, yawning. “That house is so old.”

“Yeah. But I remember this real nice day. Me, you, Ulsher, and Robbins. It might have been the first time I tasted beer. Your mom made chili and we watched a game.”

Avery didn’t answer, and Hal thought he heard clicking—he was probably typing on the computer keyboard. There were only some men you could talk to that way, and here he was, chatting into this rich, platinum shell. Words bouncing back to hit him.