Chapter 7
THE HOME TEAM
After three days of grueling work, Hannah insisted I take a day off. This should have been welcome news to me—a chance to sleep in, to get myself better situated at Dad’s house, to restock my toiletries—but when I woke up that morning, I felt strangely bereft.
“I need your help with an errand,” Dad announced, poking his head into my room. “We’ll leave in ten minutes. Wear something comfortable.”
“What? Now?”
“Do you have something else going on?”
“What if I have to work today?”
“You don’t,” Dad said shortly.
“How do you know that?”
He walked away without answering. Dad and I had barely crossed paths since I’d started working at the Cricket, but I got the feeling he’d been checking in with Hatch to see how I was doing. I wasn’t sure whether that comforted or irritated me.
Reluctantly, I rolled out of bed and went to brush my teeth in the hallway bathroom. When I met Dad in the kitchen a few minutes later, dressed in my recently washed RAGE CONSUMES ME shirt, he handed me a travel mug.
“Wasn’t sure how you take it,” he said, chuckling awkwardly. “But there’s nothing like a nice cup of coffee for a morning drive.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “Black is fine. Thank you. Where are we going?”
Dad turned to leave, throwing the answer over his shoulder. “George’s house.”
We took Route 29, the hometown highway, past the tractor supply outlet and the original Methodist church. We trundled down Main Street, past the barbecue joint and the local tourist shop, Rust. And then, right on the outskirts of Rustin University, we came upon a giant billboard:
WADE ELECTRIC
POWERING THE HOME TEAM SINCE 1983
It featured a larger-than-life picture of Coach Calhoun standing with his hands at his waist like Superman. Next to him was a chiseled Black guy in a Rustin uniform, holding a football outward like it might burst through the billboard.
“Forgot to warn you about that,” Dad muttered. “Grandpa spent big bucks on this new campaign. He sees Coach Calhoun’s tenure as a chance to gain more business.”
“He already has, like, everybody’s business,” I replied.
For years, Grandpa had lobbied Uncle George to appear on billboards and in commercials for Wade Electric, and it worked: Pretty much half the town ran on Wade Electric.
“I mean, he even has the Frisky Cricket’s business.
” My stomach squirmed uncomfortably, remembering the assignment Hatch had given me on Monday—an assignment I still had not completed.
“He only has that because of George,” Dad said. “Hatch would have switched providers years ago if he could have. I think he’d have done it first thing after the funeral, if it wasn’t for the sale.”
I looked at him. “Did you know he’s selling so the university can build a new football practice facility?”
Dad startled and looked over at me. “You’re kidding.”
I studied his face. “Uncle George didn’t tell you?”
“No. I didn’t even know about the sale until he died.
” He shook his head. “A new practice facility, Jesus. Like they haven’t spent millions already.
” Dad jerked a thumb at the billboard we had just passed.
“I’ll tell you what, that’s gotta be Rhett Calhoun’s doing.
Everywhere he looks, that man sees an opportunity to further his influence.
He’s more like a politician than a coach. ”
I remembered what Aubrey had said the other night about her dad’s “vision” for an expanded football program aligning with the university’s.
The land grab for the Cricket was starting to feel more and more like a threat, and Hatch’s reticence to mention the details was starting to feel more calculated.
“You know…,” I said, deciding to share my theory, “I think Hatch was the one pushing for the sale, and Uncle George was just going along with it, but then he got sick and realized his legacy was more important than money. I think that’s why he left the Cricket to me: so I could stop Hatch from selling out. ”
Dad clucked his tongue. “Louisa…”
“No, Dad, you don’t get it. The Cricket, it’s like …
it’s a soft place to land for anyone who’s ever felt different in this town, anyone who hasn’t fit into that football-player-and-cheerleader cookie-cutter norm.
And I think Uncle George understood that.
I think his realest, truest self came alive when he was there.
He wouldn’t just give it up for some stupid football field. ”
“Honey, you heard Otis Penny: George wanted you to follow through on the sale.”
“He said he ‘hoped’ I would, but maybe he meant a different sale. Maybe he wanted me to buy out Hatch, or to find another buyer who would take over the Cricket and keep it running, or—”
“Louisa, listen to yourself. You’re talking nonsense. What, you’re gonna buy out Hatch and run the bar from Connecticut? That dog won’t hunt, jellybean.”
“I don’t need you to poke holes in my logic, Dad, I just need you to get what I’m saying. The Cricket is special, but Hatch walks around like he can’t see any of it, like he’s just gearing up to sell a lumpy old dump—”
“Honey, you don’t know Hatch.”
“I know he’s bitter. I know he’s given up. I know Uncle George broke up with him for a reason.”
Dad shook his head and let his silence speak for him.
He swung the truck into Golden Hills, the wealthiest residential community in town, and the gate attendant waved us in without stopping to check Dad’s ID.
We rolled past imposing mansions with perfectly manicured lawns, and I found myself wondering how Uncle George felt coming back here each night after a rousing time at the Cricket.
There was a stark contrast between the dingy, sweaty, louder-than-life bar and this pristine, isolated oasis …
but only one of them felt like home to me, and I suspected Uncle George had probably felt the same.
“Look right there,” Dad said, pointing up ahead. “Coach Calhoun’s fancy mansion.”
He slowed down so I could take in the magnificent farmhouse-style estate with its grand windows, gabled roof, and wraparound porch. The front lawn was so perfectly green you could have played golf on it. A water feature bubbled serenely near the front walk.
“Damn,” I said, forgetting to be annoyed with Dad.
“He bought it from a retired oil magnate. Had some Silicon Valley tech company install security cameras everywhere.”
“Kind of paranoid, don’t you think?”
Dad snorted. “Not for a politician in the making.”
We turned onto Uncle George’s street and the old Victorian came into view.
I’d only been there a handful of times, usually when my dad was scooping up Uncle George for a family gathering.
Uncle George had rarely invited anyone inside.
Was that because he was private, or because he didn’t want anyone to know his real self?
Did he have pictures of Hatch lining the walls?
Oscar Wilde books lying on the coffee table?
Shania Twain CDs gathering dust in the corner?
Was his house the one place, other than the Cricket, where he could feel safe in his skin?
Dad parked in the driveway next to a familiar tan Lincoln. I turned to him and scowled, fully annoyed with him again. “You didn’t tell me Grandma and Grandpa would be here, too. They’re gonna fuss at me for storming out the other night.”
“They probably will,” Dad agreed, “but you can handle it. You own a bar now.” From the wry way he said it, I could tell he was annoyed with me, too.
He cut the engine and turned to give me his full attention.
“Speaking of, let’s not bring up your arrangement with Hatch. The less they’re involved, the better.”
“Wait, don’t they like Hatch, either?” I asked, stunned to find something in common with my grandparents.
“They like him about as much as he likes them,” Dad said, already climbing out of the truck.
It was hot and stuffy inside the house. Grandma and Grandpa were already upending the kitchen and the living room like a couple of bandits searching for jewelry.
I waited for their inevitable berating about the other night, but they pulled a different strategy from the playbook: passive-aggressively punishing me with a never-ending list of stupid demands.
“Clean that grout ’round the kitchen tile,” Grandpa said, handing me an old toothbrush, “and make sure to get under the fridge, too.”
“Sort the china plates into expensive versus cheap,” Grandma said, expecting me to intuit the difference, “and sell the expensive ones on the Facebook Marketplace.”
“Find out how much this painting is worth.”
“Wipe the baseboards.”
“Unclog that drain.”
I piled books into boxes, threw out expired items from the pantry, and was dispatched to pick up lunch before my grandparents even stopped to ask why I was still in town (“For the vibes,” I said with a deranged smile; “So we can spend more time together,” my dad cut over me).
We worked our way from room to room, sorting and cleaning and quibbling over what was worth saving, and all the while I looked for evidence of Uncle George’s real life—and found nothing except proof that he was a messy pack rat who favored David Baldacci mysteries.
There wasn’t a single photo, greeting card, or weathered gardening hat to suggest that Hatch had been part of Uncle George’s orbit at all.
“Should we tackle the bedroom next?” Dad asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
Grandpa twisted up his face. “I’m not going in there,” he sneered.
My dad blinked, clearly confused, but I suspected what was coming.
“He might have weird stuff in there,” Grandpa went on. “I don’t want to see that.”
“I agree, Grandpa,” I said in a would-be-innocent voice. “I mean, I wouldn’t want you to find Uncle George’s leather collection.”
My cheek earned me the added task of scrubbing the bathtub.