“The money pattern.”
“What he told Mom.”
“What the later review found.”
“And because I knew him.”
Jordan smiled.
“The last one is not evidence.”
Nia nodded seriously.
“Okay.”
Then:
“Who actually stole it?”
“We don't know for sure.”
“That’s annoying.”
“Very.”
She looked at the jersey.
“What was he like?”
Jordan smiled.
Finally.
Better question.
“Loud.”
“Bossy.”
“Terrible singer.”
“Good at fixing bikes.”
“Could eat six pancakes.”
“Cheated at video games.”
Nia laughed.
“Was he good at football?”
“Apparently.”
They walked away.
Jordan realized the story had changed.
For decades, number 32 entered every conversation before Malik did.
Now his daughter had asked who he was after reading the plaque.
Then Jordan got to answer with a person.
Not a scandal.
Denise lived long enough to see that.
At seventy-one, she attended a Pine Valley game with Jordan and his children.
She rarely went anymore.
The stadium looked different.
Bigger.
Brighter.
The old south entrance gone.
During halftime, a recipient of the Malik Shepard Opportunity Fund was introduced.
A girl.
Soccer player.
Her family’s car had broken down during tournament season, and the fund covered bus passes and travel expenses so she could finish the year.
Denise frowned.
“They’re announcing recipients now?”
Jordan looked worried.
“You don't like it?”
The girl took the microphone.
“I asked them to.”
Denise relaxed.
Choice.
Good.
The girl thanked the fund.
Not Malik’s family.
The fund.
Then played soccer the next morning.
Life moved.
Denise died at seventy-eight.
Quietly.
At home.
Jordan sat beside her.
No dramatic final confession.
Mostly ordinary conversation.
At one point Denise said:
“Your brother would be old.”
Jordan laughed.
“He'd be sixty-five.”
“Terrible.”
“You’re seventy-eight.”
“Different.”
He smiled.
She looked toward the framed photograph beside her bed.
Malik at eighteen.
Jordan at six.
Two brothers separated by twelve years.
“Do you think we did right?”
Jordan frowned.
“About what?”
“The ceremony.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“That was fifty years ago.”
“I know.”
“Still thinking?”
“Parents get no retirement from doubt.”
Jordan held her hand.
“Yes.”
“I think we did right.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
Then:
“I still hate that they clapped.”
Jordan laughed.
“I know.”
Denise smiled.
“Too much.”