The Mourning Hours Read Online Free PDF Page B

around words like “scholarship” and “state title.” Coach Zajac was Johnny’s height but twice as wide, his shoulders straining the seams of the warm-up jacket he wore year-round, no matter the weather. His ears were puffy, bulbous even, like an early version of human ears, before God ironed out all the kinks. Cauliflower ears, Dad had explained to me once. “It’s just fluid that gets trapped in there.” But every time I saw him, I was reminded of the jar at Wallen’s Pharmacy, where people dropped their spare change to help end birth defects.
    When Stacy arrived, I happened to be in the kitchen, helping myself to a glass of lemonade. I didn’t recognize the white sedan that dropped her off, but there was Stacy, striding across our lawn as if she’d done this a million times before.
    “Oh!” Mom said, opening the door but standing in front of the doorway, as if she wasn’t going to let Stacy inside. “You know, this might not be the best time, honey. Johnny’s in the middle of some wrestling with the guys.”
    “I know,” Stacy said, smiling sweetly. “I came over to watch.”
    Mom didn’t respond; she just stepped out of the way. Stacy gave me a little wave, passing right through the kitchen into the living room, as if she belonged there. I saw Mom raise an eyebrow; she didn’t approve. It wasn’t personal, but as far as she was concerned, Johnny was too young to have a serious girlfriend.
    I followed Stacy into the living room, noticing the way her jeans hugged her thighs, the way her hair floated over her shoulders. She didn’t fit in here, I realized. Everything we owned was shabby, from Mom’s hand-me-down furniture and the worn carpet that had been here since Dad was a boy and the peeling wallpaper we always meant to take down. Everything about Stacy was new and fresh, as if it had just been invented that day.
    The men in the doorway stepped back to let Stacy into the room, and Grandpa looked up from the recliner. Dad looked from Stacy to Johnny and back, as if he was trying to figure out the joke. Only Johnny and Peter Bahn, wrestling in the middle of the floor, didn’t notice her right away. I said loudly, “Stacy’s here,” and Johnny froze, his glance drifting over his shoulder. Peter took advantage of the moment and flipped Johnny over, pinning him. Grandpa clapped. Johnny swore.
    “Got you,” Peter said, laughing.
    Johnny rolled out from under Peter’s grasp, his chest heaving. “Caught me off guard,” he panted. “That’s no fair.”
    Peter shrugged. “Fair’s fair,” he said, pushing himself up to a standing position.
    Johnny stood, too, scowling. He hated to lose.
    “I didn’t mean to break anything up,” Stacy said, smiling uncertainly.
    “What are you doing here?” Johnny demanded.
    Stacy’s smile faded. “I just wanted to say hi.”
    Johnny shook his head. “You could have just called.”
    Dad cleared his throat. “Johnny, why don’t you introduce Stacy around.”
    Johnny hesitated a long beat, breathing through his nose. Only after catching Dad’s eye did he relax. “This is Erik, Peter, Grandpa Hammarstrom, Coach Zajac,” he said, gesturing. Erik and Peter smiled, Grandpa gave a slight, confused nod of acknowledgment, and Coach raised one hand in a meaty salute. “And this is Jerry, who lives next door.”
    Jerry reached out his hand a little bashfully, and Stacy shook it.
    She turned to Johnny playfully. “And you are?”
    “We were in the middle of something,” Johnny said, still not letting it go.
    Dad cleared his throat again, trying to diffuse the awkwardness. “How about a breather?” he asked, motioning toward the kitchen. The men followed his cue and trudged off obediently, even Grandpa, who seemed to greatly resent having to move. I stayed in the doorway, nervous for Stacy.
    “Really, I didn’t mean to break up anything,” Stacy said. She reached for Johnny’s hand, threading her fingers through his. Johnny was as unyielding as a