Chapter Thirty-Eight Kiersten
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kiersten
Pink and orange light streaked the early-morning sky as Kiersten laced up her sneakers, then slipped through the side door and into the garage, where she grabbed a basketball.
The crisp October air nipped her nose and fingers as she paced off the distance from the hoop mounted on a steel pole on the side of the driveway. She faced the basket, lined up her shot, then sent the ball flying through the air.
The net swished as the ball dropped through. She sprang forward to retrieve it before it bounced across the driveway.
She didn’t want to wake her neighbors at 6:00 a.m. with the thunk, thunk, thunk of a basketball hitting the asphalt. But she needed to think, and she did that best while shooting free throws.
Growing up, she’d done this in the partially heated Quonset where her dad fixed machinery while she and her four siblings spent the long Minnesota winters playing H-O-R-S-E and pickup basketball.
She’d found peace in the repetitive process of shooting free throws, standing at the line her dad painted on the concrete floor, aiming for the hoop he’d attached to the corrugated metal wall.
It provided an outlet for the slings and arrows of teenage life, a bad grade, a breakup, an argument with a friend.
And this morning she needed the balm of basketball again.
The diary entries last night disturbed her. The desire to help Dottie, and the futility of doing so, created a knot in her stomach.
It was like reading a history book and wanting to shout at Abe Lincoln to skip that performance at Ford’s Theatre. She wanted to do the same with Dottie, to reach into the past and warn her, to tell her to leave immediately, but space and time made such advice impossible.
She didn’t know even who Dottie was, where she lived now, or whether or not she still lived at all. Maybe she’d died peacefully in her sleep after a long and happy life. Or maybe she was alive and well, an active senior taking her grandkids for ice cream.
But Kiersten couldn’t shake the feeling that Dottie may have had a different fate.
She gripped the basketball and tried to rid her mind of these disturbing thoughts, took aim, and sent the ball through the hoop again.
“That’s a beautiful shot you’ve got there.”
She whirled around. An older man who looked like Morgan Freeman smiled at her from the end of her driveway. Sweat stained the front of his sweatshirt as he ran a hand over short-cropped hair streaked with gray.
“Thanks,” she said, walking to the end of the driveway where he stood.
“Reggie Spade. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Hope I didn’t wake you up,” she said, shaking the hand he extended.
“Oh, I’ve been up for hours.” He dismissed this concern with a wave of his hand. “You probably have too. I’ve seen all those boys climbing out of your car. You’ve got a whole platoon. You’re busy.”
She gave him a weak smile. “Too busy to exercise, unfortunately. I used to be a decent ball player, back in the day. Now I’m just a mom who shoots free throws in the driveway when she needs to think.” She gestured at his sweat-streaked shirt. “It looks like you’ve already gone for a run.”
His eyes narrowed as he gave her an appraising look. “You could run, too, you know. We’re just a short hop from the bike trail. Nothing better than a jog along the Potomac to start your day.”
“That’s a good idea,” she mumbled, looking down at her shoes.
Wake up an hour early to run? Was he mad? Running was something she’d only ever done as a form of punishment, like when her coach had ordered one lap for every free throw she missed. Her aversion to running had created the perfect shot her neighbor admired so much.
“Run with me,” he said.
She shifted the basketball to her hip and tried to look her neighbor up and down surreptitiously. He appeared to be some kind of geriatric iron man, lean and wiry, but still muscular.
“I couldn’t keep up with you,” she said, attempting to hide the truth behind a lighthearted smile. “And I have to get the boys ready for school. We’re going to start homeschooling today, and . . . well, there’s just a lot going on. This is a bad time.”
He raised an eyebrow. “On a scale of one to ten, I’d give that excuse a three.”
She felt a prickle of irritation. “Look, here, Mr. . . .”
“Call me Reggie.”
“Okay, Reggie. It’s not an excuse, all right? You said it yourself. I have this whole platoon of boys, and I have to get them ready for school and—”
“Didn’t you just say you were homeschooling?”
“Well. Yes. I did.”
“So school is right here, isn’t it? At home. You don’t have to drive anybody anywhere. You just got the gift of extra time. Time you can use to exercise. If you really want to, that is.”
Her mouth dropped open. “But—”
He held up his hand, stemming the tide of words about to flow from her mouth. “I am a retired Marine Corps drill instructor, and I have heard every excuse ever devised by the human mind to avoid physical exercise. I know an excuse when I hear one.”
“But—”
He raised an imperious hand again. “And I see before me someone who used to be a damn good athlete. Someone who used to enjoy pushing her body to accomplish great things. And if you want to be that person again, I’ll help you.
But if you want to make lame-ass excuses, well, that’s your business.
But don’t expect me to call those excuses anything but what they are. Lame. Ass. Excuses.”
Her eyes flared with surprise, followed by a surge of anger. People did not talk to their neighbors this way in rural Minnesota.
“Is that the official military term?” she asked caustically. “Lame-Ass Excuses?”
“Damn straight,” he said with a sharp nod. “You are suffering from a terrible case of LAE.”
She glared at this man. “And you’re . . .”
“A neighbor man sent from God to call you on your bullshit?” he asked with a good-natured grin.
His smile melted her irritation, and she couldn’t help but smile back. “I don’t think we have those where I come from.”
He grinned. “Welcome to the DMV, honey. I’ll be here tomorrow morning at 5:00 a.m. to take you on a run. First we stretch. Then we run. Then we eat protein for breakfast.”
“So you really want me to go running with you every morning at 5:00 a.m.?”
“I really do.” He nodded. “And you can have Sundays off.”
“How very kind of you,” she said, inclining her head in a mock bow. “How far do we run?”
“As far as I tell you.”
“Look,” she eyed him warily, “I don’t want to be Marine Corp fit. I just want to be . . . fit-into-my-old-pants fit.”
“Leave that to me,” he said.
And then a brilliant idea popped into her mind.
“How would you feel about taking on another role?” she asked. “In addition to being my new personal drill sergeant.”
“What kind of role?” he asked, curiosity lighting his face.
She raised an eyebrow and smiled. “PE teacher.”