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my mouth, Allison’s face has

shattered into pieces, and when she looks at her husband, they’re both so devastated all they can offer

each other is the shell of who they were just five minutes before.

Beach Road

Chapter 15
    Tom

ASK ME HOW long I spent at Feifer’s house, I’d have sworn it was close to an hour. According to my

kitchen clock, it was probably less than ten minutes.
    Still, it’s all I can do to pull a bottle of whiskey off the shelf and carry it out back, where my pal Wingo is

waiting. Wingo knows right away I’m messed up. Instead of begging me to take him for a walk, he lays his

jaw on my lap and I pet him like there’s no tomorrow. For three of my friends, there isn’t.
    I have a phone in my hand, but I can’t remember why. Oh, yeah,

Holly.
    She’s a woman I’ve been going out with for the past few weeks. No big thing.
    Unfortunately, I don’t want to call her. I just want to want to call her, in the same way that I want to

pretend she’s my girlfriend, even though we both know we’re only killing time.
    Wingo’s a dog, not a pal. My girlfriend isn’t really my girlfriend. But the whiskey is the real thing, so I pour

out half a glass and gulp it down. Thank God that son of a bitch Dr. Jameson still makes house calls.
    I’d feel better if I could cry, but I haven’t cried since I was ten, when my father died. So I take another

long gulp and then another, and then instead of thinking about every horrible thing that’s happened today,

I find myself thinking about Kate Costello. It’s been ten years since we broke up, and I still think about

Kate all the time, especially when something important happens, good or bad. Plus, I saw her tonight out

on Beach Road. As always, she looked beautiful, and even under the circumstances, seeing her was a jolt.
    Once I start regretting how I screwed things up with Kate, it’s only a matter of a couple more sips

before I revisit

The Moment.
    Boston Garden, February 11, 1995. Barely more than a minute to play and the T-wolves are down by

twenty-three. A part of the game so meaningless it’s called “garbage time.” I come down on a

teammate’s ankle, blow out my left knee, and my pro career is over before I hit the famed parquet

floor.
    That’s how it works with me and Dr. Jameson. First I think about losing Kate Costello. Then I think about

losing basketball.
    See, first I had nothing. That was okay because in the beginning everyone has nothing. Then I found

basketball, and through basketball I found Kate. Now, Kate would deny that. Women always do. But you

and I, Doc, we’re not children. We both know I never would have gotten within ten feet of Kate Costello

without basketball. I mean, look at her!

Then I lost Kate. And then I lost basketball. Bada-bing. Bada-boom.
    So here’s the question I’ve been asking myself for ten years: how the hell am I going to get her back

without it?
    Doc, you still there?

Beach Road

Chapter 16
    Kate

UNTIL THIS GOD-AWFUL, godforsaken morning in early September, the only funeral for a young person

I’d ever attended was, I think, Wendell Taylor’s. Wendell was a big, lovable bear who played bass for Save

the Whales, a local band that made it pretty good and had begun to tour around New England.
    Two Thanksgivings ago, Wendell was driving back from a benefit show in Providence. When he fell asleep

at the wheel, he was six miles from his bed, and the telephone pole he hit was the only unmovable object

for two hundred yards in either direction. It took the EMS ninety minutes to cut him out of his van.
    That Wendell was such a decent guy and was so thrilled to actually be making a living from his music

made the whole thing incredibly sad. Yet somehow his funeral, full of funny and teary testimonials from

friends from as far back as kindergarten, made people feel better.
    The funeral for Rochie, Feifer, and Walco, which takes place in a squat stone church just