Santa Monica.

Haworth, Kevin

Michael Green handled the news of his son's death the way he handled all his news: three jumpers from the left of the key, three from the top of the circle, and three from the right. Each time he let the ball fall into his hands, skin settling against leather. Then, he torqued his wrists, sending the ball through the blank California sky and waiting to hear the twitch of the net that meant that everything was right with what he did.

He felt the warm breeze from the Pacific Ocean rub against his skin, and in the distance he could hear cracking waves and the aimless noise of tourists on the Santa Monica pier. He continued his routine. He moved to the left corner, one step inside the three-point line. He shot three jumpers, hitting all three. For twenty-seven years--all his adult life--he had practiced like this; he could shoot until he forgot his body, forgot what neighborhood he was in. Eventually, it all fell away.

His son had been killed. Two days ago while riding on a city bus to a university in Tel Aviv. Everyone on the front half of the bus had been killed. The suicide bomber--a twenty-year-old, the very same age as his son--could have done more damage, but he was anxious; he flipped his switch while he was still climbing up the bus's front steps. In the newspaper, someone described a whomp and a rush of air, then screaming.

Michael didn't know why his son was there, on the front seat of that bus, but he was sure it had something to do with his ex-wife, the boy's mother. And something to do with that annoying little Jew podiatrist she had married.

Not that he had anything against Jews. Michael Green was a few.

The thing that annoyed Michael about the podiatrist was his hands. The podiatrist was a small, red-faced man with delicate hands that he washed

often. He used those hands to examine people's feet, separate the toes, feel for imperfections. He referred to himself as "Dr. Hal." Michael's ex-wife had gone to Dr. Hal to get a bunion fixed. That was romance.

He took a jumper from the left corner, hitting it. Then another.

He paused his routine to tie his sneaker and to press his ball back into shape. Two years ago, during a pickup game in Santa Monica, the ball had slipped away and bounced onto Ocean Boulevard. A Ford Mustang full of college flat boys came along and thwacked it solidly with the right front tire. "You hear something?" one of the college kids said. Then, they drove away. Since then, the ball bulged out like the stomach of a little kid in one of those photographs from Africa. Michael pressed it with his hands now, molding it back.

He had been living on the west side of L. A. for over two years and in those two years, he had found a routine that worked. Walk down Fifth and across Ocean onto the pier. Watch the Hispanic men fish and listen to them talk. He couldn't understand what they were saying, but he liked the clatter of conversation and the easy way they drank beer while waiting for the fish to hit. Then, he would eat some breakfast on the pier, eggs and coffee usually and there were a couple of different restaurants where he could get that. Then to the courts. The walk warmed him up, and he started shooting right away, with a view of the pier, the ocean, the parking lot that served the beach. He would shoot until he got hungry again or until enough people showed up to assemble some kind of game.

His apartment complex was fifteen minutes away; it had a parking garage and a pool that nobody used and the washer and dryer were out of commission. At forty-seven, he still had to take his clothes to a laundromat. The apartment was only a ten-minute drive to Paramount, where he used to run a camera for a morning TV show. But that work had dried up; now he worked mostly fill-in, odd days with little advance warning. He could be called at any time. The job paid the bills decently, when he worked. When he didn't, which was often, he came to the pier. Once a week he sent out a new set of resumes

He changed to bank shots, dribbling once with his right hand, and then turning his shoulders to the basket in a slow shrug, each time pushing off gently with his feet as he released the ball. He shot seven like that. The sky was a cloudy gray, a lighter version of the concrete on the court. On the bench next to the court, a black teenager was joking around with two girls-one dark-skinned, one light--dressed in triangular bikini tops and the tiny satin shorts that were the style now. No one shot at the basket at the far end. That was fine.

That morning his ex-wife had called from Philadelphia with the news about their son. Her voice was small and measured and Michael could tell that she had practiced this news on other people before she called him. He asked how she was. "We're doing okay," she said. "As well as can be expected." She and the podiatrist.

He shifted to the other side of the court, continued to shoot bank shots. Nathan. His wife had chosen the name in honor of her grandfather, who had been named after someone in the Bible, but Michael always told people his son was named after Nathan's Hot Dogs in Coney Island, the Santa Monica of its day. His son, a victim. It was something he could barely comprehend, something for other people's sons. Not for his.

He would not break his routine. He shot twice from the top of the key. The rhythm of it felt right. He was sure that the funeral had already occurred. How many hours different was it over there? Ten? Fifteen? The funeral probably happened last night when Michael was doing the script supervisor from his most recent show. She was half-Chinese and lived in North Hollywood. They had gone out for drinks and wound up fucking in the cramped front seat of her Toyota Celica. There were cigarette holes in the upholstery and the dome light flicked on and off every time one of them bumped the passenger door. "There's no need for you to come inside," she said when they were finished. That was that.

He bounced the ball once, twice, held it for a moment to press it into shape. How easily he had let her take Nathan. They were living in Brooklyn--it was seventeen years ago--and Michael was second camera for The Today Show. It was a good job: high ratings, New York, good contacts. He felt like he was getting somewhere.

One night he had taken the subway back from Manhattan and found his wife sitting at the kitchen table. Nathan was safe in his room. Michael heard the tinny sound of a TV laugh track. Through the wall, it sounded more like people coughing than real laughter. His wife had her legs pulled up against her stomach and she was smoking a cigarette. More laughter from the bedroom. Michael wondered why Nathan didn't come out to say hi to him. His wife said, "I think a new start would be best for all of us. Don't say you didn't see this coming."

She was taking Nathan to Philadelphia, she said, where a friend of hers had found her work in a doctor's office. She said she didn't care what he did. Another shock of laughter. He turned from her, walked out of the kitchen, and toward the front door. She called after him, "Aren't you going to talk to your son? Or are you leaving me to explain everything?" She said something else but Michael had already closed the front door behind him and he couldn't hear anything.

For a year after that, he kept his photograph of the family taped to his camera at work, two regular people, and their mop-headed boy. He didn't know what you said about a thing like that; there seemed no way to explain it. When he heard about a pilot in L.A. that was hiring, he gave his notice and bought a ticket. He sent Nathan a map of the United States with each state delineated in pastel colors; over it he drew a plane flying through time zone after time zone, ending in California with a star written in black pen and a note: Tell your mom to let you visit!

Michael moved to the line to shoot free throws. The three teenagers on the bench had been watching him, checking him out, and now the boy in a Lakers t-shirt slapped one of the girls on the hip and headed toward the court. He had a long, rolling walk and muscular shoulders. Michael put him at about sixteen.

Michael kept shooting. He sank six, seven, eight shots in a row before backrimming one that bounced into the young man's path.

"What's up," the kid said, letting loose a jumper. He sank a second jumper and Michael returned the ball to him.

"This ball's fucked up," the kid observed.

It was when Nathan was this age, Michael remembered, that it had started to be fun to play ball with him. Nathan was smaller than other kids his age and shy with strangers, but on the court his approach was to drive, drive, drive, straight toward the hoop and hope for something good to happen. Michael was bigger, and could shoot over him, but if he wasn't careful Nathan would score just enough to put the ending in doubt.

"You don't need to go full speed all the time," Michael told his son, but Nathan didn't seem to want his advice.

Then Nathan went to college, and the visits to California stopped. Michael heard from his ex-wife about the plan to spend junior year in Tel Aviv. Michael inquired why Nathan couldn't call to tell him about it directly. "He's busy. You should respect that," she said. "He really seems to have found himself," she added, "You probably didn't even notice he wasn't around."

That last one had hurt. True, his son was a mystery to him. A small, bony mystery.

It was getting hot on the concrete court. Michael and the teenager continued to shoot, giving each other only a ballplayer's courtesy, returning the ball after a made hoop, nodding to each other in response to a long jumper. Michael studied the teenager as he shot, studied the thickness of the boy's legs, the easiness of his hop. This kid was nothing like his son.

After two more jumpers, the teenager took the ball and held it. He looked at Michael. "Do this or what?" he said. The two girls were still sitting on the bench, chatting on cell phones.

Michael looked at him. He had three inches on the kid, and at least twenty pounds. "You know," Michael said, pressing softly on the hall's odd underside, "you shouldn't play a guy who brings his own ball."

"Whatever," the kid said, and rolled his neck around like a boxer entering the arena. On his right bicep, he had a tattoo that read EASY LOVER. The letters were clear and flowing and looked as if they had been written by someone with excellent penmanship.

"Old guys get the ball first," Easy Lover said, with only a small smile, a quick flash of teeth.

Michael took the ball at the top of the key, just like when he first walked on the court this morning. The outcome of this game was not in doubt. He could stay on the perimeter, dribbling with his strong hand, and sink jumper after jumper on this kid, the way he would with Nathan. Leave him watching.

He could win this way. He was sure of it. But he did not feel like that today. He looked at the young man in front of him, watched him set his arms in a defensive posture, one hand high in the air as if hailing a cab. Michael took the ball at the top of the key, his feet just outside the white semicircle above the foul line, and shot one, just to set up this kid right. He released the ball into its smooth arc and watched it drop with a snap through the hoop. "That's one," he said.

One of the girls took off her shorts, the better to sun herself on the bench. It was an extended sequence of pulling and tugging while the other girl laughed. Easy Lover paused to appreciate what he was seeing. Michael imagined the two teenagers' awkward groping, probably on a couch with parents in the next room. Last night, Michael had fucked the script supervisor like he was trying to fuck the thoughts right out of his head. "We're playing here," he said to the kid.

Michael took the ball again, but this time he did not take the obvious jumper. Instead, he turned and backed slowly to the hoop. He could see the Pacific Ocean across the street. He caught glimpses of the water between the passing cars. He heard the crash of waves, a violent sound. The ball thumped against the concrete.

Easy Lover stepped up to defend him, placing his body between Michael and the rim. Michael felt the long fingers press into the slots between his ribs, just below the shoulder blades. He leaned back, stepping slowly backward toward the hoop. The teenager resisted. Michael tossed in a short hook with his right hand.

The teenager paused to retie his sneakers. He pulled the fat tongue out of his shoe, straightening it against his shin.

Michael took the ball again and leaned in with his shoulders, pushed with his hips, like a car in first gear. He scored on a short turnaround. He did it again a fourth time. And a fifth time.

Michael had begun to sweat; it was work now. Damp commas had formed under the arms and around the neck of his gray t-shirt. There were things this kid needed to learn. A humid breeze blew in off the ocean, the taste of salt. The wooden boardwalk stretched into the waves like a dragon, tourists climbing on and off and the Mexican men standing on its back and fishing as if there wasn't a thing wrong with the world. There were things this kid needed to learn before he left this court and went into the world with no one to keep him safe. Michael turned his back and began dribbling to the hoop in short, vicious hops. When his body met the teenager's, he pushed. He hurt him with a shoulder to the throat, an elbow under the armpit. The boy grunted and pushed back, leaning into him, pulling on Michael's shorts to hold him in place. Michael slapped the hand away. Then he dropped a short hook over the lip of the rim. "Six," he said.

Then he started again. He drove in, his shoulder leaning into the teenager's chest, riding him off the ball, and laid one off the backboard and into the rim. Seven. Again, he backed in, grinding the teenager down with his hips, pushing out with his elbows to create space. There were no more girls, no more boardwalk, just the concrete and thump-thump of the ball. Eight.

On the next possession, he drove in again, but when he felt for contact the kid pulled the chair out. The resistance was gone. Michael fell, hard, onto the concrete, landing on his elbow.

That's it, Michael thought. Now you're learning.

"You want it?" the kid asked, standing over him.

"No," Michael said, brushing himself off. "Your ball."

They set up at the top of the key, this time with the ball in the kid's hand. He dribbled quickly, too quickly for Michael. The ball seemed very small in the boy's long fingers. He slapped the ball against the backboard and into the rim. "Yeah," the boy said, for the girls' benefit. "That's what I'm talking about."

Michael knew this sight, the way Nathan would drive by him, no thought of what might come next.

Easy Lover took the ball to the hoop, a half-step ahead. He needed to know what was coming. Michael fouled him hard, slapping his wrist and forearm and sending the ball skittering across the court. "Damn!" the kid said, looking at the spot where Michael had hit him.

"Call it," Michael demanded. "You want the ball, call it."

"Damn," the kid said again, rubbing his arm. He picked up the ball. The girls had ceased in their conversation and were watching from the bench. A car drove by and honked at them.

The kid drove in again and again Michael fouled him, raking him across the arm. He picked up the ball a third time. As soon as he started his move, Michael threw his shoulder into him. The ball came loose from the kid's hands and rolled to a stop just outside the circle.

"Fuck's your problem.7" the teenager whined. His voice was high and tinny, for all his muscles. He was holding his chest where Michael had crumpled him.

"No problem here," Michael said. He picked up the ball, his feet just outside the arc. He raised it up and sent it toward the rim, toward the backboard, toward the ocean. It was all warm and familiar. The ball dropped through the net and rolled smartly back toward the two players.

"Good game," Michael offered.

The boy shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, okay," he said finally. The two girls had packed up and were walking down the street. The teenager ran after them, throwing his arms over their bare shoulders and sassing them until they laughed.

Michael watched the three of them walk down Ocean Boulevard in the direction of the pier. In the parking lot a group of young men in bathing suits climbed out of an SUV and headed for the beach. There were no clouds and the day was full of promise for them.

Michael felt hungry. It had been a long time since he had eaten. He could shoot more. Or he could walk the other way down Ocean, away from the pier, looking for a cheeseburger and coffee and whatever else might come along.

He shot another jumper. When the ball fell through the hoop, he stopped himself from retrieving it. It wobbled away and came to a rest where the concrete met the grass.

In a couple of days, he would call Philadelphia. Get his ex-wife on the phone. He would see how it went, maybe talk to the podiatrist for a minute if Hal answered the phone. He would take what was coming to him.