Wrestling Sturbridge (12 page)

The moon is nearly full, and there’s the slightest dusting of snow on the ground. The air is cold, but there’s no wind, so the only sound is the frozen leaves crunching lightly under our feet.

My dad has a flashlight, but he hasn’t turned it on. The last thing he said was back at the house when he asked if I wanted to come along. I nodded and put on a hooded sweatshirt and gloves. Mom’s working tonight. I knew something was up, and I guess he knew that I knew.

We’re headed for the houses by the pond, through the woods about a half-mile above our house. There are maybe two dozen little houses there; most of them aren’t even winterized, and nobody lives in any of them except during the summer and the occasional weekend. My dad does maybe three jobs a year up there, ever since he was in high school. Once every year or two he takes me along, silently passing along a heritage that started with his own daddy.

The trees are tall back here, maples and white pine. We’re high enough that I can see the lights of Sturbridge far below us. And I can see my breath.

My dad has his black-and-red-checked hunting jacket on, and a dark blue watch cap pulled low. He’s carrying a small cloth sack with a drawstring. There’s a dog barking way down below, and my lips are dry. We’ll have a couple of beers together when we get back.

We come to a clearing above the pond and he stops. The pond is two football fields wide and three times as long. Tonight it’s as black as coal, except where the moonlight shines like a mirror. It’s frozen solid. Below us is a small beach, with two low docks jutting out into the water. On the far end of the pond is a Boy Scout camp, and lining either side are the cottages, owned by people from Brooklyn and Philadelphia and New Jersey. I’ve been inside a couple of them, on other nights like this.

“That red one,” he says, and I wonder if he’s been there before. I figure he must have hit all of these places at one time or another, but maybe he has his favorites. We start walking again, keeping our distance from the water and coming up behind the house.

There’s a dirt road that circles the pond, and we walk it for about fifty yards. All the houses are dark. This one has a low rock wall that runs from the road to the water, lining one end of the property. I know the house. It’s small and squarish, with a big picture window that looks out on the pond and a cinder-block chimney on the side. There’s maybe a half cord of wood stacked against the house, which is a muddy red clapboard. My father tries the door for the hell of it, then walks to the window near the chimney.

It doesn’t take much to get the window open, and he climbs in and motions me in after him. The house smells musty from being closed up since summer. He clicks on the flashlight and puts his hand over the light, running it slowly around the room.

We’re in the kitchen, so he opens some cabinets and finds
a few cans of soup and a jar of spaghetti sauce. Nothing we’d want. He carefully shuts the cabinets and looks around. The inside of the refrigerator smells sour and moldy, so I shut the door as soon as I open it.

He takes a small clock radio from a bedroom, and also a hammer and a couple of fishing lures from the room next to the kitchen. We leave the clothing and the blankets and the books, which include
Cannery Row
and
Roger’s Version
. Dad says he’s already read them.

I reach for the flashlight, and my father lets it go. I shine it on two portraits in the tiny living room, hung together in a cardboard mat with two openings. The one on the left is Elvis in his youth, with slick black hair and a cocky smile; the other is the standard painting of Jesus you see everywhere. In a faint hand, someone had scrawled “You give me strength” in blue pencil on the cardboard.

We go back to the kitchen, and my father pulls open a drawer next to the sink. He finds eighty cents and two bottle openers. He holds up the openers, determines that they’re exactly the same, and slips one into the sack. The other one goes back in the drawer.

“Been needing one of them,” he says, holding the sack open and studying the contents. He bites down on his lip and looks up at the ceiling. “Last time I was here … I was twenty-four years old. Got a jackknife and two cans of motor oil.” He rubs his chin, dark and scratchy with two days’ growth. “Did better this time, I’d say.”

We leave by the same window. He never does any damage, wouldn’t even leave a drawer ajar, so it’s likely that the owners
will never know we were there. They’ll look at each other one evening next June and wonder if they hadn’t left a clock radio in that back bedroom, and old Sam will be confounded by what could have become of his hammer.

My father is good at this. So good that it’s invisible to everyone but me. Like a ghost, spanning the decades, revisiting the past as he revisits old trespasses. It’s his secret, and he shares it with me alone.

We move real quickly getting back to the trail through the woods, and my father lets out a triumphant little laugh when we finally reach safe ground.

“You ever worry about getting caught, Dad?”

“Not much. Got it down to a science.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and we slow our pace. He shrugs, and laughs again, feeling giddy and renewed, I suppose.

There’s an envelope sticking out of my locker when I get to school. It’s a valentine from Kim. I look at my watch. Yes, it’s February 14, and it’s 7:58. Rite Aid opens in two minutes, and homeroom begins in seven. I can make it.

I sprint out the door and down the hill, through the alley next to the bagel place and into the drugstore. I scan the cards and grab one with two rabbits on it—“Honey Bunny, Won’t You Be Mine?”—and race to the register. The store has only been open for a minute and a half, but there’s a lady at the checkout with two bottles of shampoo, a box of Motrin, four bars of Jergens facial soap, a tube of Crest, and an ironing board cover. Oh, and four coupons. Two of the coupons have expired, and a discussion begins. It’s 8:04. I throw two dollars on the counter (the card cost a dollar twenty-five) and sprint out the door.

Mrs. Corcoran shoots me a look as I get in a minute late, but she doesn’t say anything, since I’m usually prompt. Digit reaches over and takes the card and gives me a big shit-eating grin.

“I love you, too,” he says. “I’ll give you your present later.”

“Give me that,” I say. “That’s for Al.”

This is a huge day for me. Not because it’s Valentine’s Day, but because it’s Wednesday: wrestle-off day. I’m 6–0 this season for real, but 0–8 in wrestle-offs.

I think I’ve finally got him figured out, though. Last week he beat me 7–3, but I was actually ahead 3–2 midway through
the second period. And he hasn’t pinned me in a month.

Al and Hatcher are ranked first in the state in their weight classes, and Digit is rated third at 130. And none of those guys is significantly better than 1 am.

I’ve been watching and waiting for a long time, getting my little half-ass matches but gearing up for something monumental.

The bell rings for first period and I go looking for Kim. Then I remember I haven’t even opened her card.

I tear open the envelope and skip the verse. She wrote “Ben” on top and signed it “Love, Kim.” I’d just signed “Ben” on hers. I keep a tight rein on my emotions.

I shut my eyes and wipe the sweat from my face, getting a grip on my nerves. I am so psyched I feel little explosions going off in my arteries, but I have to keep thinking clearly.

I’m ahead, 5–3, and I took Al down twice in the first period. He escaped the first time and took me down, but I managed to get free. Then I shot in and took him down again. I think I’ve got him rattled.

Coach waves me to the center circle; I start the period down. Very few people can survive from this position against Al, but I am ready. Coach blows the whistle and I force my way up, loosening his grip and escaping.

We circle around each other, and he keeps reaching for me, but I stay clear. Then I shoot in and grab his ankle, and he’s down on his stomach and I have control. I am destroying him.

It’s 8–3. Who’s number one now? He escapes quickly and
takes me down, but I drag him out of bounds. I’ve still got the lead and the momentum.

I escape: 9–6. I take him down again—I have solved this man, I am ruining him. It is 11–6 and he’s in trouble. I am rolling him to his back, rolling just too far, losing control, and he reverses me. It’s 11–8, but the period’s almost over; 11–8 and I know I can hold on till the whistle blows.

I don’t succumb. I will start the third period up. I have taken him down four times in this match, and I doubt that anybody’s ever done that to him. Not even when he was a freshman.

The third period begins. Make that five takedowns. He is down, I will win this thing today. I will ride him the whole period, and I will never look back. He is slippery; his muscles are smooth and sweaty and strong.

Somehow he gets loose. Somehow he gets to his feet and shoots in and puts me on my back. Somehow I’m ahead only 13–11 and he’s got control.

Coach is hovering beside us, head against the mat, watching for a pin. But I will not be pinned. I will get out of this.

And I do, but not completely. I get off my back but can’t quite escape, and he gets three near-fall points and the lead.

And that’s as far as it goes. 14–13. The closest I’ve been in years.

I take off my headgear and shout “Shit!” so the whole school can hear it. I had it. I had him beat.

“Relax, Benny,” Coach says. “What’s your problem?”

I kick my headgear to the side of the mat. “I had him,
Coach,” I say. “I had him beat.”

Coach waves me over. Al’s at the water fountain, and the 145-pounders are waiting to wrestle. Coach puts his hand on my shoulder.

“You feeling all right?” he asks.