Ironman (5 page)

I didn't notice how far under my skin that whole episode got when it happened, Lar, but it's been with me all day, even through a thirty-five-mile bike ride and a monster workout at the university weight room. Mr. Nak's take on anger touches me someplace deep, and what was going on with Hudgie was the real thing. Shuja knew it; hell, his shoes are probably still in the anger management room. And as crazy as ol' Hudge looked, something about him connected with me.

Hey, I'm calling it a night, Lar. Gotta get up bright and
early—actually,
dark
and early—to face Wyrack, who I think is going to want a piece of me. I've been beating him pretty regular. Be cool on the air today. Let the loons have their say.

Ever your loyal fan,
The Mighty B

As he snaps his bicycle lock onto the bike rack in the parking lot adjacent to the Clark Fork University swimming pool in the early morning darkness, Bo glances up to see Ian Wyrack step out of his 1992 Geo Storm. Instinct tells him to run for it, but at least forty yards separate him from the pool entrance, and if Wyrack has to chase him down, he might be harder to deal with.

Bo notices two more swimmer's cars pull into the lot, and he pretends not to hear Wyrack's quickening footsteps closing the distance between them. Ten yards from the door he breaks into an easy jog, hoping to show no fear, but a vise clamps onto his shoulder. “You cost me some extra mileage these last few days,” Wyrack says.

Bo turns, smiling. “Yeah, we're putting in some
pretty fast repeats.”

Wyrack's steel grip guides Bo to the solid brick next to the pool entrance, shoving his back flat against it. “Yeah, well, maybe a little too fast,” he says. “Coach can't get it out of his head that I'm dogging anytime I don't kick your ass.”

Hey, you're the one who said it first, asshole, Bo thinks. “Yeah, I guess he does.”

Three more swimmers approach and Bo anticipates serious carnage. “I'll warn you once,” Wyrack says. “You better not give him any reason to think I'm dogging today, got it?”

Bo doesn't answer, glancing past Ian to determine the state of mind of the approaching swimmers, obscured in the predawn darkness. The first to reach them, a butterflier named Ron Koch, punches Wyrack's arm. “Hey, Wyrack, what's going on?”

“Nothing's going on, Koch. Go on in and get suited up. Tell Coach I'll be there in a minute. Soon as I get some speed tips from the Ironman.”

“C'mon, Wyrack. He's just a high schooler. Leave him alone.”

“Hey, up yours, Koch. I'm just talking to him.”

Koch persists. “Wyrack, I know you. Just leave him alone, man.”

Wyrack releases Bo to face Koch square on. Ian is a full head taller and every bit as stocky. “Hey, Koch, unless you want a piece of me, get out of here.”

“One of these days I might take you up on that. You're a real asshole, you know that, Wyrack?”

“Yeah. Keep your flattering remarks to yourself. Get out of here.”

The other two keep their distance, following Koch as he reluctantly turns away, and in that moment of Wyrack's inattention, Bo breaks free to catch them. But Wyrack's hand grips the back of his neck like giant pliers, spins him, and slaps the side of his face so hard his ears ring. Wyrack pulls him close. “See this hand?”

Bo stares through him, anger crowding out his fear, boiling like lava.

“See this hand?” Wyrack says again.

Bo stares.

Wyrack slaps him again. “See this hand?”

Nothing.

Wyrack pulls him closer. “If your hand touches the wall before this hand touches the wall,
on one repeat
, you're gonna be seein' this hand up close again.” He releases Bo's coat and walks slowly toward the locker-room door.

Ian Wyrack finishes ahead of Bo Brewster on a sum
total of zero repeats for the morning workout.

“Good effort, Brewster!” Lion yells as Bo pulls his rag of a body onto the deck. “Hey, what'd you do to the side of your face? Get out of here or you'll be late for class. The rest of you, up on the deck. Let's knock off some sprints.”

Bo refuses to look back at Wyrack's killer glare as he disappears into the locker room.

 

Lion emits a low whistle as he spots Bo entering his fifth-period Journalism class. “What happened to your face?”

Bo touches it tenderly and smiles. “Nothing.”

Lion moves toward him. “Let me see that.”

Bo pulls away. “It's okay. Really, Mr. S, believe me, it was worth it.”

Lion moves Bo's hand gently away, examining the puffiness more closely. “Hey, I saw this at the morning workout, but it wasn't this ugly.”

“Maybe it was the chlorine.”

“Maybe it had just happened.”

Bo smiles. “Maybe.”

“Wyrack do this?”

Bo shakes his head. “Nope,” he says. “It wasn't Wyrack. Nobody on the team. Really.”

“You wouldn't lie…”

“Yeah, but I'm not. Really, Mr. S, let it go. No death, no foul, okay? I can take care of it.”

“You beat Wyrack on every repeat today….”

“I did, didn't I? It wasn't Wyrack. Don't be getting me in trouble with that caveman, okay?”

“This wasn't your dad.”

Bo smiles again. “No. My dad leaves bruises on the inside.”

Lion pulls back a step. “Look, Bo, I can't help you if you won't tell me what's going on.”

“I don't need any help. If I do, I'll holler. Okay?”

“You're sure?”

“What're you, my mother? Jeez, Mr. S, it's a bruise. Barely even damaged the brain.”

Lion nods, raising his massive hands palms out in surrender. “Okay, okay.” He starts toward his desk at the front of the room and turns. “Your mother?”

“Only kidding.”

 

“What happened to your face?” Bo's father glances up from the six o'clock news at Bo standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Bad genes,” Bo says. “My dad's ugly.”

“Keep it up, buddy. I'll even out your face for you.”

“Judging from the way my day's gone, you'll have to stand in line,” Bo says. “Where's the waste-oid?”

“In his room,” Luke says, pointing over the back of his easy chair.

“Your idea or his?”

“He had it as I was about to get it.” Luke nods toward the television set. “He got bored with world events. Everything okay at school? Are you back in class?”

Bo wrinkles his nose; the answers to those questions can't be covered with one word. “Yeah, I'm back in class.”

“So I take it you're attending that anger management group.”

“Yeah, Dad, I'm attending the anger management group.”

“You know, you're lucky I'm not living at home with you anymore. You know what I've always said.”

“I know what you've always said, Dad. ‘Get in trouble at school and you're in twice as much trouble at home.' How come you never want to know what happened?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Yeah, but the answer sucks. You know the trouble with the ‘get in trouble at school' lecture, Dad? It doesn't take
people
into account. If you'd take a look at just one of my school squabbles and say I might have had a point, it would be different, but that never happens and it isn't going to, because you never want to know my side. To accept your view of things, I'd have to believe in the divine rights of teachers.”

Luke reaches for the remote as the credits roll over Dan Rather removing his earphone from behind the “CBS Evening News” desk, and mutes the sound. “Tell you what, buddy, it wouldn't hurt you a bit to start believing in that. This isn't about right and wrong, Bo, it's about obedience where obedience is due. You need to learn respect. What do you think it's like out in the real world? Do you think you're going to like every boss you have?”

“No, but all my bad bosses will have to give me money. Dad, I've been working two jobs for three years now; I've had three bosses at the newspaper who were alcoholic numbnuts, and I haven't even been reprimanded once. I don't think this is about respect. And I don't think it's about my future as a productive member of the work force.”

Lucas palms the back of his neck. “Look,” he says, “You've known the rules in Mr. Redmond's class from the start. I've talked with him personally about this, and we agree this all really started when you quit the football team. If you lived with me, it would have been taken care of back then. Mr. Redmond holds a position of respect and I would demand that you respect it, and that's that.”

“Which is why I don't live with you, Dad.” Bo feels the frustration of lost justice rising in his chest, a feeling that has, in the past, led to sorrowful actions. He has stayed in this conversation too long simply to walk away. The two of them came to some nasty verbiage over his quitting the football team back when it happened, but he's been practicing a different approach, thanks to some comments from Lionel Serbousek. “You know what? I do respect Mr. Redmond. I respected him when he taught me how to catch a football and take immediate evasive action, and to throw a solid block on a guy twice my size without losing my head, but that respect went down the toilet when he had to scream at me and question my manhood in front of the rest of the guys or the crowd at the football game when I didn't do it exactly right. I respect him for some of the things he
teaches in English, but the second you don't do everything his way, he has to embarrass you. You know why I quit football? Hell, I was a starter—”

“You quit because you lack character, son. You were—are—a quitter.”

Bo makes a loud buzzer sound. “Wrong, Dad. Hit the showers. I quit because I can't stand to be humiliated, and when Redmond gets pissed that's the only thing he knows how to do. I'm not the only one who believes that.”

“That's one of the things you have to learn to live—”

Bo holds up his hand. “Wait. Lemme finish about respect. You know why I respect you, Dad?”

“You don't.”

“C'mon, let me finish. I respect you because you teach me things. I've always loved how you never told me the answer, or took the tools away and did it yourself when I screwed up. You have patience when it comes to letting me learn things. You always stayed with me till I got that ‘
I
did it' feeling.” He hesitates, then quietly, “It's the personal stuff that I don't respect.”

Luke is silent, watching tears well in Bo's eyes.

“Remember the door, Dad?”

“What door?”

“The door that needed to be opened and closed twenty times before I could have my life back.”

Luke bristles. “I remember the door. And if I'd had a brain in my head I would never have let you—”

Bo talks through his father's protest. “You don't teach a kid not to slam doors by humiliating him. I knew never to do that again the second I saw you standing there. Done. Lesson learned. But I lost respect when you were willing to let me live with that awful feeling inside me for seven months. How could I respect a guy that would steal a kid's Christmas over a stupid door?”

“If you're ever going to grow up, you're going to have to learn to deal with that awful feeling in a different way. Why don't you just get your brother and go? I don't need this aggravation today. Someday you'll see what I'm talking about and you'll thank me. Right now you're young, and you clearly have no sense of responsibility.”

“Right, Dad,” Bo says, feeling the heat rise again, crowding out the pain as the two of them drift toward that unresolvable point that reigns in each of their classic power struggles. “No responsibility. I work two jobs, go to school, transport the darling of the Brewster universe to and from day care each day and back and
forth between his mom's and dad's places twice a week, and work out three hours a day.”

“Other than school and transporting your brother, most of those things are choices,” Luke says. “You do them because you want to. Responsibility is about doing things you don't want to do.”

Bo takes a deep breath. “Well, I don't want to have this conversation anymore, so I'll take responsibility for ending it.” He turns toward the back bedroom. “I'll get the turdburger and pedal him on home. Thanks for the lecture, Dad.”

Luke picks up the remote control and waves his son away. “Get out of here,” he says. “You always have to learn things the hard way.”

OCTOBER 25

Dear Larry,

Remember that twelve-year-old kid who made national news suing his mother for divorce? I'll bet you do; every third caller had an opinion about it while it was going on. There was no sexual discrimination involved in that decision, right, Lar? I mean, there's no reason a guy couldn't do that with his dad? I think my father and I would get along much better if he didn't think he holds the pink slip on me. In her kinder moments, Mom says he means
well, but I tell her it doesn't matter what he means if there's no way to please him and I have to feel like his rectal suppository every time we're together. He never once asked
why
Redmond and I got into it, what was going on inside me when I unloaded on him. It's probably a good thing, because if I'd been honest I'd have said I was feeling the same way toward Redmond as I feel toward
him
when he won't back off.

When I was eleven, just before my parents split up, my dad paid me a hundred dollars to help his employees unload two truckloads of equipment overnight at his sporting-goods store, then set up displays for this big Halloween sale. My mother raised Siberian huskies back then—she still does—and I earned my allowance running the sire and the dam several miles a day. I should tell you, Lar, running Siberians is not an easy task for an eleven-year-old kid so skinny he carries rolls of quarters in his pockets in high winds to keep from being whipped off to Oz. The second you slip a harness on a Siberian, he assumes you're a sled and bolts for Nome. Commands like “Heel!” and “Wait a minute, goddamn it!” go unheeded by Siberians. To save time and mileage, I hooked the leash to a chain running between their harnesses and ran them together. I couldn't run on city streets because if they caught me off balance, they'd drag me right out into traffic, which there must not be
much of in the Yukon because they have no sense of it whatever. Anyway, I usually ran the dogs on the service road beside the railroad tracks outside of town.

Dad arrived at the store about six-thirty that Saturday morning, just as we finished setting up the displays, and handed me a hundred-dollar bill from the cash register as I was leaving. The sun was just coming up over the wheat fields, and I thought I'd take Cooper and Deuce—Mom's dogs—for a short spin before passing out for the rest of the morning. Dad said to go straight home and put the money someplace safe, which is exactly what I intended, except I stuck it in the pocket of my windbreaker and forgot. At home I changed into my sweats, strapped on my weighted belt and wrist and ankle weights—which I always wore in an attempt to even the odds with those damn dogs—pulled the windbreaker over my sweatshirt and harnessed them up. Then I headed for the tracks, screaming at them to slow the hell down, which they translated into “Mush!”