What Hearts Read Free

easy to dislike someone who was bald, so he also found himself making a fabulous effort in the other direction, toward fondness. As they walked through the small airport and across a hot parking lot to Dave’s old car, Asa gabbed straight to him with startling chipperness—about the flight, about Washington, about the taxi drive, and, in the greatest detail, about a school play that had ended the first grade in triumph that very afternoon, a play in which he had brilliantly played the lead part of The Prince—a play that in fact had not, as he was perfectly aware, taken place at all.
    Dave seemed a little perplexed at the boy’s zippy attack of goodwill; he pulled himself askance a bit, nodding or grunting without comment, unencouraging but mildly congenial.But Asa’s mother watched her son with glowing beatitude, as if she had always known the two would get along just fine .
    A couple of times, in the car, Dave had to interrupt Asa’s chatter to say something about their destination. Whenever this happened, Asa, who was standing on the hump in the floor just behind the middle of the front seat, jounced up and down and resumed his narrative at the earliest verbal opening. In a way, he wasn’t involved with this frantic speech; his intelligence seemed to be standing back, watching the show and wondering when it would stop. His mother, whose bliss had begun to lose its glow fast, held her hands to her temples, then brought them down sharply and turned on him. She remembered to smile, barely. Asa was in the middle of a description of his last season as the center fielder for a D. C. Little League team called the Jaguars, telling Dave with keen detail how he had caught a would-be last-inning grand-slam home run by toppling over the fence, then trotted dejectedly as if with an empty glove into the infield as if the game wereover—and then touched second and first with the ball revealed in his mitt, for the world’s only unassisted triple play by an outfielder. Considering he did not even own a baseball glove, it was an excellent bit of storytelling.
    â€œHoney,” his mother said. Asa went into his jiggling pause. “Honey, Dave is tired.” She looked at Dave as if for confirmation.
    But Dave grinned straight ahead and said, “Oh, I don’t know. I’m feeling pretty fresh, actually. Love to hear if maybe the kid ever hit a big home run, or maybe starred in a movie. I bet he has. I bet he could remember if he thinks back. Love to hear that one.” He grinned even harder, and flicked a glance at Asa’s mother. Asa caught an edge of the glance. He was surprised to see that it was completely, unmistakably, mean. In that instant all of Asa’s energy swooped away from him, and he was left silent, calm and relieved. He was free to hate Dave now. He sat back.
    Dave made a couple of comments to goad him into stretching out again, but Asa looked out the window. They were passing a beach. He stared at the ocean, and when a motelinterposed itself between him and the ocean he tried to keep his eyes focused on the distance, so that when the ocean came back into view it would be clear. It was a strange game, and he could do it, but he couldn’t figure out how he did it.
    Dave scolded his mother for messing up a great friendship just when it was starting to get going. His mother said nothing. Dave laughed. He certainly laughed a lot. He did not seem to notice that he was bald.
    By now it was early evening. There was no question about going to the beach; without ceremony or pretense, the three of them had dropped the idea that they had come here so that Asa could splash away his newfound sadness beneath the coppery sunshine, surrounded by sand castles and chortling kids eating bright Popsicles and the whole bit. It had been an idea, and Asa appreciated it as such. His mother was always kind in her ideas. When her plans never really made it off the paper into 3-D, Asa had