BETWEEN WORLDS - Chapter 17
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The rain tapped on the bus shelter's metal roof, each drop marking the passing time. Azeil Carter checked his phone, 7:43 AM, and the northbound #17 was still missing, now fifteen minutes late. Other students had either called for rides or vanished into the gray morning. His wet sneakers and the cooling temperature signaled the quiet arrival of autumn.
He was about to text Nia for a ride when a familiar Buick turned the corner, making noise before it appeared. It parked by the curb, and the passenger window rolled down with a creak.
"Bus not running?" Jackson Carter shouted over the engine.
"Not looking like it," Azeil replied, worried about being late. Coach Booker's rule was strict: if you were late, you sat out the game.
"Get in."
Azeil hesitated but then got into the passenger seat, his backpack and gym bag making a mess on the floor. The car smelled like motor oil and mint gum.
"Thanks," he said, buckling his seatbelt.
Jackson started driving without acknowledging him, focused on merging into traffic. The windshield wipers scraped unevenly, making him lean forward to see better. The car was quiet except for the wipers and a soft AM radio discussing the weather. Unlike his mother, who would ask him about his day, Jackson preferred the silence.
Azeil watched raindrops race down the window while occasionally glancing at his father's face. They had the same jawline, but Jackson's was softened by stubble and marked by lines that weren’t in old photos.
"Game today?" Jackson finally asked, nodding at the gym bag.
"Tomorrow, against Jefferson. Just practice today," Azeil clarified.
Jackson nodded and focused on driving through the puddles that filled the old neighborhood drains.
"This route's been a problem for everyone," Jackson said after a pause. "Stanley at work, his kid's been late three times this week because of it."
The comment carried no blame, just an acknowledgment of problems beyond their control.
"Could’ve mentioned it," Azeil responded practically, not angrily.
"Didn't think to.”
As they neared Langston Hughes High School, students hurried through the rain under a wavy line of umbrellas. Jackson parked in the drop-off lane and left the car running.
"Thanks for the ride," Azeil said, taking his bags from the floor.
"I could pick you up after practice if you want. It’s a half day,I'm done at two."
The suggestion lingered between them, not quite friendly, but a small step toward closing their distance.
"Practice ends at five," Azeil replied, neither accepting nor rejecting the offer.
"I'll be here."
Azeil nodded and stepped into the rain. Through the passenger window, he caught a glimpse of his father's reflection in the side mirror, it seemed like something settled in his father's jaw. The Buick left, and Azeil walked toward the school entrance, wondering what had changed in their careful distance.
The ancient Buick idled in Langston Hughes' parking lot, Jackson Carter half-visible behind the wheel, scrolling through his phone. Azeil emerged from the gym at 5:08, practice running late as they worked on defensive rotations for tomorrow's game.
"Coach work you late?" Jackson asked as Azeil slid into the passenger seat, hair damp from a quick shower.
"Defense needed work," Azeil replied, surprised his father had waited. Part of him had expected Jackson to forget or be delayed at work, the usual rhythm of their relationship marked by absence.
They drove in silence, the rain giving way to clearing skies painted in muted oranges and pinks. Instead of heading home, Jackson directed the Buick to an auto parts store.
"Need to pick up a filter. Won't take long."
Azeil watched as Jackson went inside, navigating the aisles with ease, greeting an employee before selecting a small package.
When he returned, Jackson didn't start the engine right away. Instead, he turned slightly, the auto part in his hands.
"Car's been running rough," he said, holding up the filter. "You should learn how to replace this. Basic maintenance. Everyone should know."
The suggestion felt straightforward, not a plea for connection or an authoritative gesture, just a practical offer of knowledge.
"Yeah, okay," Azeil replied, matching his father's casual tone despite the significance of this shared activity.
Jackson nodded and started the car. At home, he parked the Buick in the driveway for their quick lesson.
"Pop the hood."
For half an hour, Jackson showed Azeil how to replace the air filter, where to find it, how to remove the old one, and check for bits before putting in the new one. His instructions were clear and easy to follow, his hands moving efficiently.
"Your mother always said I was good with machines, not so good with people. She was probably right.”
The comment lingered between them, Jackson's first mention of Elise without being asked. It wasn’t an explanation or an apology, just a simple recognition of understanding.
"She used to say I was the same on the basketball court. Better with the ball than with my teammates."
Their eyes met briefly, recognition passing between them, a small shared trait amid the larger disconnects in their relationship.
"You hungry?" Jackson asked, wiping his hands on a rag. "I could make sandwiches."
"That sounds good."
As they moved toward the house, his father to the kitchen, Azeil to wash his hands, something subtle shifted. Not reconciliation, but a degree of ease previously absent. They found, even briefly, a form of communication that required no emotional vocabulary, just hands working together, knowledge shared without judgment.
Azeil sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes from the closet. One labeled "PHOTOS" in his mother's precise handwriting had remained unopened since he moved in with his father two months ago, its contents too painful to examine. But tonight, he lifted the lid, perhaps prompted by the day's quiet connection over car maintenance or simply because time had dulled grief's sharper edges. Inside were albums and loose photographs, organized with his mother's characteristic attention to detail.
The first album chronicled his early school years, kindergarten through fourth grade, each image labeled with date and occasion. His younger self stared back, growing through the pages beside his mother's composed presence.
Below it lay an older album, worn at the corners. When he opened it, his breath caught. His mother, much younger, her hair styled differently, her expression open, stood beside Jackson outside a community center. Jackson's arm was casually around her, his broad smile lacking the weariness now etched on his face.
"What are you looking at?"
Jackson stood in the doorway with a sandwich plate. His expression changed as he noticed the photographs.
"Found these," Azeil said, gesturing to the box. "There are a lot of you and Mom I've never seen."
Jackson hesitated, placing the plate on Azeil's desk and sitting on the bed's edge. "Your mother was organized about everything, even memories."
"When was this taken?" Azeil asked, holding up the photo outside the community center.
"That was... '06. Community college showcase. Your mom was finishing her associate's degree before transferring to Howard. I went to every presentation she gave. She was the most prepared one there."
Azeil flipped to another photo, Elise and Jackson at a small apartment party, plastic cups in hand, mid-laugh.
"That was our first place," Jackson said without prompting. "On Maple, near the old factory. Nothing special, but it was ours. We were happy then. For a while."
"What happened?"
Jackson rubbed his face, buying time.
"We wanted different things. Your mother had a plan, Howard, then law school, then a career. I was still figuring it out. She needed certainty. I couldn't give that."
"But you had me.”
"We did," Jackson acknowledged, meeting his son's gaze. "For a while, we tried to make it work. But wanting something and being able to do it, those are different things. Your mother knew herself; I was still... drifting."
"So you left.”
"Not at first," Jackson replied. "We tried, but I wasn't ready for what she needed. Some men aren't built for family; I thought I was one of them."
"And now?"
Jackson's vulnerability broke through his reserve. "Now I'm figuring out if I was wrong."
The honesty hung between them, imperfect but genuine, a man facing his limitations.
Azeil nodded, then traced his finger over a photo of his mother laughing.
"She loved you," Jackson said. "She never said anything bad about me, did she?"
"No. Just that you weren't ready for us."
"She was right."
They sat in silence, the photographs mapping their shared history.
"Keep them, they're yours now."
As he stood to leave, Azeil asked, "Were you at the hospital when I was born?"
Jackson paused, his expression softening. "Yeah. I held you first. You had the strongest grip, wouldn't let go for the longest time." He left quietly, leaving Azeil with fragments of a past he was beginning to assemble into a complete picture of his complex parents.
The ball hit the backboard and dropped through the net with a satisfying swish, briefly silencing the neighborhood sounds. Azeil collected it and returned to the cracked concrete court behind his father's house, where he'd been shooting for an hour. Tomorrow's Jefferson game demanded perfection of his hesitation dribble into a step-back jumper, a move that had broken their defense before.
He was so focused that Jackson's voice startled him.
"Your weight's on the wrong foot."
Azeil spun around to find his father in the doorway, arms folded, watching his form with a neutral look.
"What do you mean?"
"When you step back, you're pushing off your left foot instead of your right, messing up your balance."
Azeil stared, confused by basketball advice from a man who seemed uninterested in sports. "How do you know that?"
Jackson shrugged, stepping onto the concrete. "Played pickup at the community center, watched plenty of games." He nodded toward the ball. "Try it. Push off your right foot."
Doubtful but curious, Azeil dribbled twice and fixed his footwork. The change was small but immediate, his balance felt solid, his shot controlled.
The ball swished through cleanly.
"Huh."
Jackson nodded with quiet satisfaction. "Your mother was the real player. Best crossover I ever saw." He paused. "She always said footwork was everything."
The comment about his mother didn’t sting, just another piece of the puzzle connecting memories he had of her focused on the fundamentals instead of being flashy.
"Show me again," Jackson said.
For twenty minutes, they worked the move together, Jackson offering small corrections while Azeil refined his technique. No big praise or harsh criticism, just precise observations, a way of talking more direct than any they'd shared since Azeil moved in.
When Jackson glanced at his watch and mentioned dinner, Azeil realized he'd actually enjoyed their session. Though less deep than moments with his mother, it was simpler understanding, two people connecting through shared purpose.
"We should do this again," Azeil said as they walked inside, ball tucked under his arm, "before the next game."
"Yeah," Jackson agreed, satisfaction showing on his face.
Later, showering before dinner, Azeil thought about their exchange, not life-changing, but real. Basketball might be their bridge, creating common ground where understanding could grow.
Dinner at Elena Robinson's house featured food like roast chicken and mashed potatoes. The atmosphere was lively with laughter and jokes while Jackson sat with his son, trying to fit in.
"The chicken is great, Elena," Jackson said. "I can't remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal."
"That’s probably because you think microwaved burritos count as cooking," Azeil joked, making everyone laugh.
Jackson raised an eyebrow but smiled. "Hey, a guy can live on frozen food longer than you might think!"
"Barely survive," Elena smiled. "I get the challenge of cooking after work; that's why I make Sundays special."
The invitation had come from Nia, casual but intentional. Azeil had hesitated before suggesting it to Jackson, unsure if his father would join such a family gathering. To his surprise, Jackson agreed and even wore a button-down shirt Azeil had never seen.
"Mom's a nurse," Jason said, catching his mother's warning look before continuing. "She says good nutrition is healthcare you can control."
"Smart thinking," Jackson nodded. "My mother thought the same, food is medicine."
"You never mention your mother," Azeil noted, surprised.
Jackson's face changed. "She passed when you were two. Heart attack. Made chicken like this on Sundays too, but with cornbread instead of rolls."
"That generation often didn't trust doctors," Elena said with understanding. "My mother wouldn't see a doctor until it was too late."
"Sounds familiar," Azeil said, thinking of his mother's diagnosis, immediately regretting the comparison as Jackson's face darkened.
Sensing the mood shift, Nia asked, "Mr. Carter, Azeil said you helped with his footwork for the Jefferson game. Did you play?"
Jackson was comfortable on neutral ground. "Just pickup games, but I watch closely."
"He noticed something about my jumper even Coach Booker missed," Azeil added.
"Must run in the family, the eye for detail," Elena said. "Jason's football coach says the same thing, he sees patterns others miss."
"It's called being observant," Jason protested, but he smiled at the comparison.
The conversation flowed naturally between topics as Azeil watched his father relax, answering questions about work and sharing thoughts. It wasn't the formal atmosphere of Highland Prep dinners or the careful meals at his father's house, just people sharing food and conversation without hidden agendas.
When Elena mentioned a car transmission problem, Jackson leaned forward, confident in his area. "Might just be the fluid," he said. "If you hear that whining but the car shifts, could be just a fluid change."
"The mechanic quoted six hundred dollars," Elena said with doubt.
"Robbery," Jackson replied. "The fluid's forty, labor should be an hour." He paused. "I could take a look, save you some money."
"That would be wonderful," Elena said gratefully.
As they talked about cars, Azeil caught Nia's eye, seeing her warmth, recognition of the connection forming between their parents through practical matters.
After dinner, Azeil washed dishes with Jackson, finding meaning in the ordinary task, cooperation without needing to discuss it.
"She's nice," Jackson said, nodding toward Elena. "Practical. Reminds me a bit of your mom, same strength."
The comparison surprised Azeil.
"Yeah," he agreed, seeing the similarity now that it was pointed out.
Their conversation paused as Jason came over, curious about the Buick's specs. As they talked horsepower, Azeil helped Nia and Elena clear the table, aware of the easy connection forming between his father and Nia's brother.
Later, Elena handed Jackson leftovers. "For tomorrow. Thank you for looking at my car, it's a weight off my mind."
"Least I can do," Jackson replied, taking the container. "Thanks for having us."
Azeil noticed the plural, us, not me, acknowledging their connection and shift toward being a family unit.
Driving home through quiet streets, leftovers between them, Azeil thought about the comfortable Robinson home, his father's unexpected ease, and Jackson's ability to connect through helpful actions rather than forced conversation.
"They're good people," Jackson said as they got close to home. "Nia's smart like her mother. Got her head on straight."
"Yeah," Azeil agreed, sensing his father's approval.
"Your mother would like her," Jackson said casually, but it carried weight. "She liked people who knew their minds."
The statement hit Azeil, his girlfriend earning potential approval from his mother, connecting past and present, presence and absence.
"I think so too," he said quietly.
They drove the rest of the way in comfortable silence, the evening's success settling like a foundation for something more.
Azeil came out of his room at 11:47 PM., drawn by noises from the kitchen. He saw his father at the small table with a hot drink and some papers spread out. Jackson looked up, surprised.
"Can't sleep?" he asked, picking up the papers.
"Heard something," Azeil said, pointing toward the kitchen. "What are you doing awake?"
Jackson hesitated, weighing how much to reveal. "Bills," he said, nodding toward the papers. "End of the month. Always takes some juggling."
The admission carried no self-pity, just flat reality of financial constraints Azeil had never fully considered. At Highland, his mother handled practical matters invisibly, financial discussions conducted out of earshot.
"Want some tea?" Jackson offered, raising his mug. "Your mother's remedy for sleepless nights. Always worked for her."
"Sure," Azeil said, surprised by the offer while remembering his mother's habits.
As Jackson heated water, Azeil sat at the table, his gaze falling on partially visible bills, utilities, credit cards, insurance, the mundane machinery of adult responsibility laid bare.
When he returned, setting the mug before Azeil, Jackson seemed to make an internal decision. "Found something yesterday," he said, reaching into his pocket. "Cleaning out old boxes in the garage."
He placed a worn photograph between them. Unlike posed images Azeil had discovered earlier, this captured his mother in motion, mid-dribble on a basketball court, expression focused, body positioned to drive past a defender. The Langston Hughes jersey was unmistakable, as was the intensity in her eyes that Azeil recognized from his own mirror.
"Intramural championship game," Jackson explained. "Summer after graduation, before Howard. She scored twenty-three points. Game-winner in the final seconds."
Azeil stared at the image, absorbing this version of his mother he'd never known, not the composed attorney or meticulous parent, but a competitor in her element, intelligence expressed through physical dominance rather than legal argument.
"Coach Booker mentioned something about her playing," Azeil said quietly. "But I never saw her like this."
"She put it away when she went to Howard," Jackson explained. "Said basketball was her past, law was her future." He paused. "But she never missed watching you play. Even when we... when things weren't good between us, she'd send me videos sometimes. Proud doesn't begin to cover it."
The revelation landed with profound weight, his mother's connection to the game extending beyond what he'd understood, her support encompassing more than he'd recognized. Even his father, distant as he'd been, had been aware of Azeil's development through Elise's deliberate inclusion.
"Why didn't she tell me?"
Jackson considered before answering, expression thoughtful. "Your mother was always... precise about things. Compartmentalized." He searched for words. "I think she wanted you to find your own relationship with basketball, not feel like you were following hers. She did that with a lot of things, created clean slates where she could."
The observation aligned with what Azeil had learned about his mother in recent months, her careful separation of past and present, strategic approach to sharing information, protection of him from complexities she deemed unnecessary.
"She wasn't perfect," Jackson added unexpectedly. "Neither am I, that's probably obvious by now. But she did her best with what she had. We both did, in our ways." The statement wasn't defensive, just simple acknowledgment of human limitation.
Azeil looked again at the photograph, at his mother captured in her element, then at his father sitting across from him, two imperfect people who had created him, their strengths and flaws woven into his DNA. Their failed relationship had shaped his life, but so had their individual contributions, his mother's discipline and strategic thinking, his father's mechanical precision and practical knowledge.
"Thanks. For showing me this."
Jackson pushed the image toward him. "Keep it. Belongs with you more than me now." Then, with unexpected insight: "She's still with you, you know. Every time you step on that court. I see it in how you move, how you think through the game. Some things go deeper than what we're taught directly."
The observation, coming from this man absent through most of Azeil's development, carried surprising wisdom. Recognition of continuity despite loss, connection despite separation, legacy expressed through natural action rather than conscious imitation.
They sat in silence for several minutes, sipping lukewarm tea, the photograph between them like a bridge connecting father and son, past and present, what had been lost and what might still be found.
"Jefferson didn’t know what hit them in that game," Jackson said finally, his clumsy attempt at encouragement nonetheless genuine.
"No," Azeil agreed, a small smile forming. "They didn’t. Your bit of coaching helped." Jackson flashed a smile.
When he eventually returned to bed, leaving his father to finish reviewing bills, Azeil took the photograph with him. He placed it beside his mother's other picture on his nightstand, the formal portrait of her in legal attire that had traveled from their apartment to this house. The two images created a more complete picture: composed professional and fierce competitor, different expressions of the same remarkable woman.
His understanding of her expanded, as did his understanding of his father both imperfect people navigating life as best they could, their story more complex than the simple narrative he'd carried for years.
One day at a time. One revelation at a time. One connection at a time.
Progress, not perfection.
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Between Worlds is a fiction novel by Craig Griffin. New chapters post every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Subscribe to get them delivered to your inbox.