Tietam Brown (23 page)
“What?”
“This,” he said, with a knowing grin, as he pulled it from the case and handed it to me with utmost care, like the treasure that it was.
“Terri's letter!” I yelled the words, and then yelled them once again. “Terri's letter!” I try not to use the F word except on rare occasions. The only useful advice my father ever gave me. But this was Terri's fucking letter! And it made my heart leap for joy as I lay there on that bed. And then the floodgates opened. I don't want to sound too wimpy, and I know this story is filled with tears. But my goodness, those tears began to fall, and they felt so fucking good. I actually rubbed the letter on my face, the smear lives to this day. And I smelled it, as I would do every day, and that smell brings back that wondrous face. I loved her, how I loved her, I would write her every day.
I was full of such emotion that I didn't see the doctor open up the door. He could have eased out and not been noticed for several hours, maybe days. But I heard his understanding voice when it said, “I guess I'll leave you two alone.”
I reached for words to express my appreciation for all this man had done. How he'd put his reputation on the line for me, how he had grabbed my dangling future and placed it in his hands. But the tears just kept on streaming down, and I couldn't think of what to say. So I just went for the obvious, the simplest way of giving thanks.
“Thank you, thank you, Doctor . . .”
“Masters, Dr. Masters,” the old man said, and he let the door slam shut behind him.
Epilogue / December 1991
Dr. Masters died in September. September the fourteenth, 1991, to be exact. He died right in front of Coach Hanrahan, or to be more precise, he died right in back of him, from a massive heart attack. Died right in back of him because he had died while attempting an uninvited act.
The custodian who found him had no formal background in forensics, but somehow seemed to grasp that something wasn't right. Maybe it was the nearly comatose patient, a former all-pro lineman, who lay slumped on the bed with his pants around his ankles. Or maybe it was the chief psychiatrist who lay dead on the floor with his penis severed from the wrath of his own zipper. Which had caused a puddle of blood that had started to run into tiny rivers, like veins from a heart.
My sole confidant was dead. The man who said I would be out by the time I turned eighteen. A man who had pumped me full of Thorazine and used my honesty as a weapon. Preventing my exit by convincing me he had my best interests at heart.
My confidant had been Dr. Lucas Masters, or Ass Masters to his friends. A respected physician and intellectual who liked to ride the Hershey highway. With doped-up patients like the coach, who could only fight him in their minds.
Quite often I have envisioned how Ass Master's life came to an end. I imagined the coach, who I had seen just a time or two while I was under Masters's care. He would offer up a feeble smile from a drooling mouth, for a ghost from his former life. His muscles were gone, along with his mullet, but his hair had grown out over time. I guess the long hair was what sparked my thought, the thought of mighty Samson. Summoning the courage for one last great feat of strength. Causing the walls to come tumbling down around him. That's how I saw the coach. Summoning one last remnant of his former glory and shutting down his ass. Just refusing to let it open. Causing the distinguished doctor to strain too much, and grab his heart.
Masters's last act on earth had been of self-preservation. Trying to defend his good name, his honor I guess. If I put myself in his shoes, I guess I might have done the same. Hmm, if I was a rapist of drugged men, what would I do? Would my last act on earth be to hide the real truth? Would I do like the good doctor and zip up my fly? And like the good doctor, would the teeth of that zipper bite into my penis and rip off the tip?
The circumstances of the doctor's death caused a rather massive inquiry into just how he'd lived his life. Masters's office yielded nothing, but his home gave up his skeletons. Just handed them over. In the form of meticulous journals he'd kept on a few special projects like Coach Hanrahan.
The coach's case caused quite a stir; he was a media sensation. A
People
cover, a plaque in Canton, and a network movie in the works. Which I'm pretty sure will leave out details like racial slurs and knocking students out, but hey, let bygones be forgotten.
Some weeks went by, and in mid-November another bone was found. Actually, “reexhumed” is more correct, as the bone had been discovered once before, and quickly disregarded. After all, it seemed so innocent, it was just a stack of letters. Twenty-seven of them, addressed to Terri Johnson, none of them delivered.
My trusty lawyer then jumped in, in pursuit of justice and the spotlight. He launched a massive lawsuit, which he claims will bring me millions. But somehow the heroic acts of a football star drew more attention than the kid whose love letters went unsent. So whereas the coach got
People
and a movie, I got a lawyer on a talk show, where he was part of a panel about “not giving up a fight.” He should have been an expert on “showing up twice a year and saying, âHey, you know things could be worse.' ”
But apparently at least one viewer had been moved by the tale my lawyer told. Moved enough to send my guy a package, post-marked in New Hampshire. It read “Attention: Andy Brown.” My only mail in five long years, but for two weeks he was too tied up to see me.
When I saw the package, I knew it right away. Still in that same wrapping paper of Christmas 1985. Holly's gift, the one she'd made, and finally it was mine. I waited for my talk show king to leave so that I could open it alone. And when I did, my heart filled up, along with both my eyes. A portrait, a real work of art, of me and Terri smiling. She had made me a bit too handsome, but it was perfect otherwise. Terri every bit as beautiful as my memories of her were.
She had also sent a letter and inside were two things that were welcome, and one that wasn't needed. A phone number, a train ticket to North Conway, and a long apology.
I spent my last few weeks in Ithaca writing down these words. Hoping I can make some sense of what has happened, and trying to exorcise my demons.
I asked my legal ace to help me with two things before I left: to locate my old girlfriend, and to see what became of Tietam Brown. I told him to take his fee out of the millions I have coming.
The Johnsons, it turned out, fell victim to an audit. They could have fought, but they ran instead, and took their daughter with them. I guess a family of their means could be anywhere by now.
My father sold his house in '88 and moved out of town. He never paid his son a single visit, though he lived just twenty miles away. I try not to think of him too often, and usually I fail.
So now I'm heading through Vermont en route to the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Just a little way from that children's park where it's Christmas every day. So what if I am 23, I still want to ride the coaster.
I am getting reacquainted with an old friend, Nat King Cole. Singing about the Savior's birth. A song that no longer triggers thoughts of empty cans and unwanted acts, but thoughts of happiness instead. Thoughts of Terri. Thoughts about what might have been, and thoughts of what may still be. One day soon I will look for her, and hope that destiny will lend a hand in turning over stones. But for now, I'm happy thinking. Thinking about that autumn night when she'd wanted me to kiss her.
Acknowledgments
Writing this book has been one of the great joys of my life. Rewriting itâagain and againâwell . . . that's another story. I was fortunate to have had a great group of people help me out along the way.
Thank you to MacKay Boyer for sharing her knowledge of adoption, foster homes, and juvenile correction facilities in the state of Virginia.
To Dr. Scott Biasetti and his wife, Anne, for their insight into the health and social services system in the state of New York.
To Dr. Mark Lermann for explaining the complexities of the New York State psychiatric system.
To Dr. Russell Hamilton for confirming my theory for the tear-age possibilities of a certain part of the male anatomy.
I had the benefit of calling in three of my mentors and friends in the wrestling world: Terry Funk, Harley Race, and Robert Fuller, for their memories of wrestling in the segregated South. An acknowledgment to Sputnick Monroe for his role in changing the way the business was run. Thanks also to William Regal for filling me in on the history of hooking in Wigan.
To my wife, Collette, who was always enthusiastic about what I'd written.
Barry Bloom, Lisa Bloom, Jennifer Chatien, Barry Blaustein, and Dana Alborella all shared their valuable (and sometimes painful) opinions of my original manuscript, which I could have sworn was perfect when I handed it to them.
Claire Dippell and Lydia Grunstra were both very helpful during my dozens of phone calls with each of them.
A special thank-you to my agent, Luke Janklow, for believing in this book, for finding a perfect home for it, for quite possibly being the only person in his profession to use a Mutt Lange/Julie Miller analogy to make me understand the book business, and for having the guts/nerve/intuition to send this novel to Victoria Wilson.
Having come from a world where huge holes in a story line, implausible plot contrivances, and completely unrealistic characters were not necessarily considered bad things, I found Vicky Wilson's standards awfully tough to live up to. When she let me know I had, I felt kind of like the kid who snatches the pebble from the old man's hand on the old
Kung Fu
show: elated, but a little sad that the journey was over.
Mick Foley
TIETAM BROWN
Mick Foley grew up in East Setauket, New York. He is the author of
Foley Is Good: And the Real World Is
Faker Than Wrestling
and
Have a Nice Day!: A Tale of
Blood and Sweatsocks
, as well as two children's books. He wrestled professionally for fifteen years and was the three-time WWE champion. Foley lives with his wife and four children on Long Island.
ALSO BY MICK FOLEY
Foley Is Good: And the Real World Is Faker Than Wrestling
Have a Nice Day!: A Tale of Blood and Sweatsocks
FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, SEPTEMBER 2004
Copyright
©
2003 by Mick Foley
Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks and
Vintage Contemporaries is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Grubman Indursky & Schindler, P.C.
for permission to reprint excerpts from the song lyric “Backstreets”
by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 1975 by Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP).
All rights reserved.
Indursky & Schindler, P.C. on behalf of Bruce Springsteen.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:
Foley, Mick.
Tietam Brown / Mick Foley.â1st ed. p. cm.
1. New York (State)âFiction. 2. Young menâFiction. I. Title.
PS3556.O39173 T54 2003
813'.54âdc21 2002029856
eISBN: 978-0-307-42974-2
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