Page 6 of Delay of Game
"I do!" Mom enthused, pouring a glass of wine and handing it to Ms. Evans. "I told her it'd be impossible to throw that much clay as a beginner, but she proved me wrong."
"It's still on our front porch. I don't think I could move it if I tried."
"Thirty pounds and she didn’t trim more than a pound off of it. I thought it'd explode in my kiln," Mom laughed.
"Your kiln?" Ms. Evans tilted her head, lifting the glass to her lips but barely taking a sip.
I stole the bottle from Mom's grip and poured myself an overfull glass, knocking a glug back. "She used to be a potter. She's got a whole ass studio out back. Barely uses it."
"Mila and I were in the studio yesterday morning," Mom tutted.
"I made a snake!" Mila carefully folded the stack of napkins in front of her, slipping one to the side of Mom's plate.
"You used to be a potter? I didn't know that." Ms. Evans tilted her head, and her brow furrowed, as if that piece of information was vitally important and not passing dinner conversation.
Sensing a brewing full blown pottery-related monologue, I downed the rest of my wine and stalked to the kitchen to get dinner in order. The pasta sat in the colander, so I threw it into the bubbling sauce, coating the pieces of spaghetti and tossing half a bowl of parmesan on top.
The garlic bread in the oven was nearly scorched, but I salvaged a few pieces for Mila by scraping off the burnt bits. Ms. Evans and Mom could make do. When I carried the pasta and salad into the dining room, Mila had passed out at least half the napkins and Mom was evangelizing about the art of ceramics asMs. Evans ooh-ed over the set of dinnerware Mom had thrown last Christmas.
"Oh, Rob, you're a lifesaver." Mom patted my cheek as I dropped off the salad and went back for the bread. "And I'm prattling on."
"You're not prattling." Ms. Evans placed a hand on Mom's arm, eyes wide and sincere. "I'd love to see your studio, though."
"Would you?" Mom gushed. I closed my eyes and inhaled. At this rate, the woman would never leave my house. "I'd just love to show you. Maybe you want to throw a couple of things? I miss teaching so much, but with Mila and Rob's schedule, I just can't commit to anything."
"I'd love that." Her eyes flitted to mine and then back to Mom with a tight smile. "If it's not a bother."
I snorted. "You'd make her week if you took her up on that offer. I'll warn you though, she's going to trap you in there."
Mila’s teacher’s lips tipped up. "Thanks for the warning."
Her voice hummed low, sending a shiver down my spine that I hadn't expected and didn't want. I retreated back to the kitchen for the burnt toast and salad dressing before I needed to reply, pleased we’d had one conversation where I hadn’t made the woman cry.
Food on the table, I helped serve Mila while Mom and Ms. Evans piled food onto their plates.
"So, you were living with Mercy, right?" Mom asked off-handedly. "In that big old house off Ashbury?"
Ms. Evans face contorted into a grimace. "Um, yeah."
"It's family land? You're from here, right?" Mom watched Mila play with a piece of spaghetti, ineffectually stabbing at it with her fork and not noticing Ms. Evans’s rigid posture at the question.
"Our family are locals. My parents moved to New York when I was in high school, but I came back after college."
Her voice faltered, mossy eyes welling.
“We moved here from Minnesota,” I interrupted. “Out of towners. But I guess that is pretty common around here these days.”
She studied my face for a minute, picking up her wine glass. “Yeah. Norwalk always felt so small and insulated. And then there was the big downtown revitalization and the stadium and the NFL team. It’s not the same city I grew up in, that’s for sure.”
“Well, we’ve been very happy here,” Mom said before zipping into the kitchen.
“What made you choose Virginia?” she asked, sizing me up.
“Lack of options, really,” I said.
Despite my spot on the Norwalk Breakers’ roster, I had been a fifth-round draft pick sent to a struggling team. My first four years in the NFL had been a constant fight for my place on the first-string. By the time my first contract expired, my stats earned me offers across the country. Another four years, with a kid in tow and four reported knee injuries, I had a choice: quit football or take an offer with the only team willing to roll the dice on my dying career.
In hindsight, maybe I should have dusted off my degree, cashed in on some celebrity deals before my name faded, and made another life for Mila. But I wanted a Super Bowl ring before I hung up my cleats.
