Ironman (14 page)

We were in group when he said this, and every person who was willing to speak up knew of a fear of their own just like mine. Shuja refused to call it that—he called it “rattly nerves”—but it was the same.

So like I started to tell you, Lar, I hung back each time Redmond said he wanted to talk to me after class, and I just nodded and said I knew I could leave Anger Management anytime and refused to give a reason why I wouldn't. I watched the temperature rise behind his eyes and counted the heartbeats in his temple and kept on shinin' on. And you know what? Pain-in-the-butt Cousin Fear must have gotten bored, because when I looked up to walk out of the room, he was nowhere to be found, and I was feeling
big
.

I don't know exactly what Redmond's agenda with me is, Lar. I don't think I could have made a difference in the football team's win-loss record this year, and I can't imagine that he cares what I think of him. But he does have an agenda and I better not forget it, because I've gotten under his skin, and he feels good when I feel bad. Plus, I've heard my dad's words coming out of his mouth, and vice versa, far more times than coincidence would allow, so I best keep in mind that they're in cahoots. I've looked carefully at the damage he can do, and it's not
much, really; Mr. Nak was right. I have copies of all my assignments and test scores, so he can't flunk me in English. When I know, you'll know.

Tower of Power,
Bo

 

Bo finishes cleaning the offices at the newspaper early and jogs down Main Street, hoping to catch his father before the store closes. It has been weeks since Elvis delivered the information about the freebie special-order bike supposedly destined for Wyrack's relay team, and he has avoided bringing it up, partly because he doesn't want to believe it and partly because he does believe it and can't find words for the confrontation.

He stands outside Brewster's Sporting Goods, waiting for the last customer to leave. As Curt, the salesman, moves toward the door to lock it, he steps in.

“Hey, Bo, how you doin'?”

“Doin' good. My dad around?”

Curt points to the rear of the store. “In his office.”

“He alone?”

“I think so. Mr. Redmond, you guy's football coach, was back there with him earlier, but I think I saw him leave about fifteen minutes ago. Hey, how's the training
going? Heard you're getting serious about Yukon Jack's this year.”

Bo smiles. “Goin' good. Yeah, pretty serious.” It's difficult for Bo to discern what's been said about him around the store, whether Curt is playing dumb or whether his father is keeping his plans to himself. He decides to play it as it lays. “Hey, Curt, you know a guy named Lonnie Gerback? A swimmer from CFU? And a cyclist?”

“Yeah, I know him,” Curt says. “Tall guy, sandy hair. Got some thighs on 'im.”

“That's him,” Bo says. “He do business here?”

“Yeah, that's how I know him. In fact we ordered him a monster racer; one of those Merlin Ultra-Lites like you were trying to deal with your dad for. Kid must be a serious racer. Must have some bucks, too. That sweet thing runs about five grand.”

Thanks, Curt. That's what I wanted to know.

“Think Dad could get a better deal if he ordered two?” Bo asks jokingly.

Curt laughs, and Bo follows the aisle toward his father's office.

“Tell your dad I'm outta here,” Curt hollers after him, and Bo raises a hand to indicate he heard.

Bo pulls the office door shut behind him. “Hey, Dad.”

Lucas looks up from the paperwork on his desk,
removing his glasses. “Hey, son. How are you?”

“Fine,” Bo says. “Just got off and thought I'd stop and say hi.”

“Caught me trying to catch up,” Lucas says, pushing the papers to the side, “but I'm never caught up anyway. Want to grab some dinner?”

“You buyin'?”

“I'm buyin' mine,” Lucas says.

“Sad to say, that's the best offer I've had all day.” Bo stands, glimpsing the half-hidden order form for the Ultra-Lite he believes his father is bankrolling for Lonnie Gerback. (His ability to read upside down has served him well in the past when he needed to snag a test answer from a teacher's guide lying open on the teacher's desk.) He catches
NIE GERB
and some measurements. “Somebody buying a Merlin?” he asks, giving away nothing of his suspicions.

“Yeah,” his father says. “A young kid up at the university. A pretty good cyclist, I understand.”

“Must be a
hell
of a cyclist, or at least think he is. That's an expensive bike.”

“That it is. I understand his parents are quite wealthy.”

Bo reaches across and picks up the Merlin ad from the top of the pile. “Man, you know how I'd like to get
my hands on one of these.”

“Salt a couple more thousand away, and it's yours,” Lucas says. “A piece of machinery like this has to be earned.”

Bo smiles. “Yeah, I guess so. No chance of somebody just plopping one of these babies in your lap.”

“No, I wouldn't think so,” Lucas says.

MARCH 3

Dear Larry,

Hey, Lar, it's getting close. Wyrack and the rest of the CFU team go to NAIA Nationals at the end of this week, and Yukon Jack's is exactly six weeks from the day they get back. I won't have the CFU team to push me anymore, so I'll have to learn to push myself. I can't back off now. They've been tapering in practice, but Mr. S has altered my workout so I get in extra laps during their rest periods. And I think the webbed hand weights are helping. When I take them off, I feel propeller-driven. Mr. S also said he'd take me out to Williams Lake as soon as the ice is off, to get in some good open-water distance. I'm grateful, but I gotta tell you, Williams Lake is
cold
this time of year. I have no idea whether I can take these guys, I really don't, but I'll tell you what: They're gonna by God know they've been in a race, because I'm pissed.

My dad is lying to me straight out. I had dinner with him the other night and gave him every opportunity to tell me about the bike he's fronting for Wyrack's biker, but he acted like he couldn't even remember the kid's name. I know he swore those guys to secrecy, and he'll probably even write up paperwork to make it look like a righteous sale. Then when I confront him, he'll say he did it so I wouldn't get too big for my britches. He'll say he did it for my own good, to let me know how tough the world is. And he's gonna hear from me then, Lar, because having your old man line up with a stranger behind your back is not for your own good, and he'd better hire Abraham Lincoln to deliver
that
address if he wants me to believe it.

See, I blasted awake out of a dream the same night I had dinner with him, and though I couldn't remember what I'd dreamed, I was sweating like a pig, and in a big-time rage, and it was a Lucas Brewster dream for sure. I knew I wouldn't get any more sleep, because there's only one way to blow one of those out of your system, and that's with
vigorous
exercise, so I pulled on two sets of sweats and my running shoes and hit the two
A.M.
streets. I've said before that the rhythm of my feet on the road frees my mind, but I couldn't get it loose. All I could see was my dad sitting across the table being relatively nice to me (he actually did pick up the tab for dinner) and even asking about my
training—at the same time he was trying to sabotage my big moment. And all I could do was hate him.

Approximately eight miles and an hour later, I found myself cruising by Mr. S's place, and though it was really late (or really early, depending on your perspective), a light shone in his living-room window, and I took a chance that it was Mr. S and not his roommate. Hey, if there's anyone in the world to ask about dads, Lar, it has to be Mr. S, who struggles daily to come to terms with a father who will never answer even one question.

“There's no answer to this,” Mr. S said, after I told him why I was logging training miles at a time of night when only vampires and werewolves should be on the streets. I'd been lucky; caught him pulling an all-nighter making lesson plans for his sub for the week he's at Nationals with the university team. “I think it doesn't help you to try to make sense of your dad's motives. I mean, you guys are locked in a power struggle, and nothing is going to make sense until one of you releases.”

I said, “I suppose it has to be me, right? God, Mr. S, how can I do that?”

“You probably can't,” he said. “You're probably going to play it out.”

“So what would you do if you were me?”

“If I were
you
,” he said, “I'd probably run marathons in
the middle of the night and push weights until my arms fell off and tie a bowling ball around my waist to swim the English Channel. If I were
me
in your position, I'd focus on my goal, train hard but sensibly, and tell myself twelve times a day that it's not helping me to let my behavior match my inner craziness, or to let my outer craziness match my father's.”

“So what would you do if you were you in my position, but also my age?”

“I'd do the same thing you're doing,” he said. “But it wouldn't help me.” He leaned forward. “Listen, Bo, you and your dad aren't going to iron out your differences in this triathlon. This triathlon is about you, not him. This is
your
challenge. If you let him take it away from you, you'll hate him—and yourself—even more. Now go home and go to bed.”

I gotta tell you, Lar, if there's a heaven, and I lead a decent enough life from here on in to get a shot at entry, my challenge will be explaining how I ever turned my back on that guy.

Ever forward,
The Midnight Racer

“I think I got us a project,” Shuja says to start the anger management session.

“An' what kinda project would that be, Mr. Shu?” Nak says.

“This a filthy project.”

Nak shakes his head. “Seems like we got enough hard times around here without takin' on somethin' filthy.”

Shuja laughs, remembering to whom he is speaking. “Filthy mean
good
to you, Mr. Nak. It's a
good
project.”

“In that case, I'm chompin' at the bit.”

Shu glances at the faces in the circle. “I think we gotta get behind the Ironman.”

Faces stare blankly.

“See,” Shuja continues, “way I see it, Rock 'n' Roll right about Ironman. He different from us, but not for the reason Rock 'n' Roll think. Ironman different 'cause he can
do
somethin' about what ails him.”

Nak says, “Interestin' thought. Keep talkin'.”

“Well,” Shuja says, nodding toward Hudgie, present for the first time since his hospitalization, “take Hudge here. Cain't do
nothin
' 'bout what's goin' on in his life but get some miles between him an' it. Rock 'n' Roll stuck takin' care of his family: Daddy's split, little brother and sister hammerin' at him all the time, got a full-time job keepin' his head above water. Wonder Woman done los' her childhood, if you wanna know. Got it robbed right from her. All kinda different foster parents an' shit; John Wayne Redmond cheatin' her outta her rightful high-school glory, an' who knows what all else. Resta these guys, who knows what boogeymen after them, they never speak up. Me, I got all of history to take on; no way I can fix that 'fore the end-of-the-year picnic.”

Shuja nods toward Bo, who listens intently. “But Ironman, he know the enemy. He got Tweedledumb an' Tweedledumber for a daddy an' a coach, an' a buncha smartass college boys with a bad attitude an' a rocket
bicycle his own daddy give 'em to help 'em kick his boy's ass. I think it might help this group manage a whole buncha anger to see at least
one
enemy get—” and he pushes his thumb hard against his knee, as if squashing a bug.

“Whaddaya want us to do?” Elvis says. “Start runnin' an' ridin' our bikes an' headin' for the old swimmin' hole with our buddy Bo?”

“Don' worry, Rock 'n' Roll, this won't require much BTU output by you. I'm talkin' support team here.”

“Support team?” Elvis says. “Whaddaya mean, support team? Hey, man, I ain't gonna be nobody's ni—”

“Nigger?” Shuja says with a smile. “Hey, say it, man. I can respect a man who shows hisself. Besides, the day
you
somebody's nigger'll be the best day of your life. Now, here's what I think….”

MARCH 23

Dear Larry,

Sorry I haven't kept up, Lar, but it's a little more than a month until Yukon Jack's, and there's been almost no time for anything but training, sleep, and schoolwork, where I'm hanging in at a low C in most of my classes, with the exception of English, where I have about ten points more than I need for an A plus. I figure I'll need that to pull a D
out of Redmond. Yukon Jack's is taking on greater and greater significance as zero hour draws nearer, which is both scary and exciting. Some kids in the Home Ec. class made me a jersey with my name and
CLARK FORK BLACKHAWKS
on the back, and a picture of a stiff eagle stuck beakfirst into the ground on the front. The CFU mascot is an eagle. Rumor has it Redmond attempted to get any school recognition of my performance officially blocked, because it could provide fertile ground for my kind of moral attitude to grow. Rumor also has it that Dr. Stevens told him to grow up and get with the program. If that conversation actually took place, I would offer up a small, round vital organ lodged very close to my left leg to have been witness to it.

Wyrack's team is training full bore these days, but I think I may have been right when I said he'd have a hard time getting back into it after Nationals. He didn't get back into the water for at least a week and a half after they returned, and he had already cut his workout distances in half tapering for that meet. I haven't worked out at the CFU pool when he's around. Good as I'm feeling, he still intimidates me, and if he's getting back into peak condition, I don't want to know it. I see Gerback hammering out miles on the road now and then, and I don't like what I see. Man, I don't know why my dad thinks he needs the Ultra-Lite. The bike he's got now is turbocharged, and the guy's got
thighs like oil drums. And Gerback's got the passion; he's a serious racer.

I finally found out who their runner is, and that's the good news. His name is Kenny Joseph. Pretty good individual medley man—placed in the consolation finals at Nationals—but swimmers are notoriously slow on land, so I doubt he's some web-footed Herb Elliot. Shelly saw him working out at the university track a few days ago, and she said there was no smoke coming out of the cinders behind him. So Yukon Jack McCoy's biases are turning out in my favor. Cyclists go first, so all the damage will be done in the beginning. However much distance Gerback gets on me will be what I have to make up in the run and the swim.

I start swimming in Williams Lake tomorrow. Mr. S is going to pace me in a rowboat. Hey, Lar, remember that vital organ I said I'd be willing to donate to witness Dr. Stevens telling Redmond what for? Well, it won't be worth much after I hit the water tomorrow, because I'll be lucky if it doesn't freeze harder than a marble and drop to the bottom of Williams Lake. That water's
cold
.

My Stotans are in place, Lar, and I didn't have to recruit them. I showed up at the weight room the other day, and who was there but Shuja, decked out in baggy shorts and a tank top, with more muscles than I have places, ready to push me through the workout. It's not like it took
all that much for him—hell, he could lift me while I'm lifting weights—but he ran me through all the machines, then pushed me through some free weights, joking about whether I was going to write home on those pencils I have for arms. I probably put in half again my usual workout.

Then I'm biking over the back roads toward Spangle, and Elvis pulls up beside me in his old man's pickup, paces me for almost twenty miles. Hudgie's in the back, holding up a handmade sign that says
KICK BUTT FOR ANGRY MANAGEMENT
. Mr. Nak said anyone who participates in this madness need come to group only once a week, so I've got guys I barely know driving up beside me in the middle of eastern Washington scabland, handing me Gatorade and peeling me bananas. It's hard to say how good it feels to have these lunatics behind me, and harder to say how scared I am to let them down.

I finally told Mom about Dad buying the Ultra-Lite for Gerback, and I truly believed she would storm down to the store, pop out his eyeballs, and eat 'em like grapes, she was so mad, but I convinced her to let it ride. When I face him down on this one, I want to take him by surprise.

That bike is going to cost me some valuable time. The titanium frame weighs about the same as a kite, and the entire machine has less than zero wind resistance. Tell you what, if it were up to me, we'd all ride on 1955 balloon-tire
Schwinns. That would separate the men from the goddamn astronauts.

From this point on, Lar, all I can do is train and race. Since that doesn't make real good copy, my next contact with you will be from the victory stand.

Your man of steel in the Northwest,
Clark Kent

 

“The name's Na—”

“I know who you are, Mr. Nakatani. What can I do for you?” Lucas Brewster stands behind the checkout counter just inside the entrance to Brewster's Sporting Goods, absently running a dust rag over the till.

“Thought we might have a word about your boy.”

“Is he bombing out of Anger Management, too?” Luke asks.

Nak straddles a weight bench placed in front of a free-weight display next to the door. “Nope, he sure ain't. He's doin' real fine in Anger Management, as a matter of fact.”

“So what's the problem?”

“I didn't say there was a problem,” Nak says. “I just thought we might have a word about him. About him and you, actually.”

“Of course,” Lucas says. “I can take time where my
boys are concerned.”

“That's good to know. Can't say the same for the parents of all the kids I work with.”

“I imagine not,” Lucas says. “So tell me why you've come.”

“I've come because I believe a lot of the boy's problems could be resolved by working on his relationship with you.”

“You're saying Bo's problems are my fault?”

Nak smiles and shakes his head. “Not at all. I'm sayin' I believe a lot of his problems could be resolved by workin' on his relationship with you. The way a boy is with his father means a lot.”

Lucas stares at his desk. “Well, Mr. Nakatani, my boy doesn't seem to see it that way.”

“That's because he's a boy, Mr. Brewster. It seems to me that the two of you are locked in a power struggle that's tearin' the both of you up.”

“That's not a power struggle of my making. Bo knows what he has to do to meet my standards.”

“To my mind,” Naks says, “don't much matter who's makin' the struggle, only that it's there. One side or t'other has to ease up.”

“I've tried everything I could think of with that boy, Mr. Nakatani, and nothing works.”

“I'm assumin' you're aware of this Yukon Jack's thing he's out there killin' himself for.”

“Oh, yes,” Lucas says, “I'm aware of it.”

“It's real important to him, sir. I'm thinkin' it might be a place to start mendin' some fences. It'd change his whole picture of things if he had your support.”

Lucas leans back against the counter, folding his arms. “I'm afraid I can't do that. If I have anything to say about it, Bo's going to learn an important lesson on that day.”

“An' what lesson would that be?”

“He's going to learn the cost of having things his own way. And he's going to learn about quitters.”

Nak smiles again. “Oh, Mr. Brewster, I don't think he'll quit.”

“He already did,” Lucas says, his eyes narrowing. “Let's stop playing games, Mr. Nakatani. You know Bo quit the football team this year. In fact, I'll bet you know a lot about Bo, and you most likely know a lot about me, or at least Bo's perception of me.”

“I know some of his perceptions.”

“So you must think I'm a pretty unreasonable man.”

“I ain't had a lot of reason to judge. I've perty much been focused on your boy.”

“Well, let me tell you something,” Lucas says, as if he hadn't heard Nak's last sentence. “I'm not unreasonable at all. I'm sure I made some mistakes with Bo—no parent is perfect—but I don't need some self-righteous Zen-thinking outsider to give me advice about my relationship with my son. I've put some feelers out, Mr. Nakatani, and I have a pretty good idea what goes on in that so-called anger management group of yours. In fact, I've been thinking of bringing it up with school authorities, because I don't think you're helping those kids, entertaining their juvenile ideas—”

Nak holds up his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Rein 'er in there a minute. I didn't realize I was in hostile territory. I thought we were talking about your son.”

“Mr. Nakatani, do you have children?”

Nak's eyes soften, and he leans back on the bench. “Is that important?”

“It is to me, because I think you may be meddling in something you don't understand. Do you have children, Mr. Nakatani.”

“No sir, not anymore.”

“Not anymore. Then I take it you're divorced?”

“My children are dead, Mr. Brewster.”

Nak's frankness stuns Lucas, and he sits back. “Oh, I'm sorry….”

“Two daughters an' a son. Killed in a car wreck, back in Texas.”

“I really am sorry to hear that. I just—”

“They died 'cause I was drivin' drunk.”

Lucas stares.

“Right around Christmastime,” Nak says. “Three kids, all under the age of six. Went to a party at a parent's house; got to drinkin' this here special homemade eggnog, had a powerful bunch of rum in it. I dropped my wife home around midnight—my ex-wife now—an' drove over to the baby-sitter's to round up the kids. Crazy thing, the night started off almost seventy degrees. Time I picked up the kids, we were in the middle of one of them hard-blowin' west Texas ice storms. I'm three sheets to the wind bringin' 'em home anyway, an' the damn wipers just keep blurrin' the ice across the windshield. Happened real simple-like; quick, too. See these headlights comin' around the canyon bend an' I tap the brakes, tryin' to pull to the shoulder an' stop because I can't see. Next thing I know, I'm slidin' broadside an' them headlights are growin' like the devil's eyes.”

Nak stands, looking shaken. “Not a scratch on me, Mr. Brewster. Not a scratch. Car's flat on the shotgun side where my boy is, an' the entire backseat is gone.
Driver's side is untouched.” Nak takes a deep breath. “Universe made a bubble for me, Mr. Brewster. I was untouched, an' my children are dead.” Nak pulls on his jacket. “Well, I tell you what sir. I sobered up right quick. I can't tell you all I wished.”

Lucas is silent, his eyes averted from Nak's steely gaze.

“So no, Mr. Brewster, I don't have children. But I know about 'em. I figure I know just about how precious they are; I think I know that, sir. An' I think I know about missed opportunities.”

Lucas regains his composure. “I'm sorry about your family, Mr. Nakatani. I truly am. But wouldn't you say it's possible you have an agenda now, when you work with these kids?”