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Ivan stopped. "And what kinda look is that?"

"Well, first of all, that spiked haircut makes you kind of mean-looking."

"Mean?"

"Very."

"What else?"

"You walk like a wrestler. Shoulders flexed, hands out to the side. It's like you're always ready to grab someone and take them down really hard." She mimicked the walk, shifting her shoulders back and forth, adding a frown. "And, of course, you always look tired, thin, and a bit sickly pale."

"Thanks."

"That's the life you chose, I guess." She picked at a piece of bark and playfully tossed it at him. "So is there any guy out there who actually thinks he's gonna keep you from winning the states?"

Ivan had little desire to talk about Wrestling. Wrestling was all around him, day and night, without a break, without an escape. He stood up straight, easing the ache in his back. The pile was much larger than he had figured. He leaned against it for a moment. Shelley stood close. He could smell her perfume.

Ivan nodded toward her house. "So it's crazy over there?"

Shelley rolled her eyes. "My grandparents are here, and my cousin Jean from Philly with her three kids, brats that they are. Later, big—and I mean, big—Aunt Lucy is coming with her fourth husband, George."

"Fourth?"

Shelley smirked. "Yeah, that's what the family thinks. We're used to it now, I guess." She bent down to fish a twig out of Modine's mouth, but he squirmed from her arms and circled the woodpile. "This dog's crazy, too," she said. "I guess he kind of fits in. Anyway, you can take your chances and come over later if you want. I promise I won't make you eat anything."

"Thanks," Ivan said, picking at a splinter.

She reached for his hand, her fingers touching his chafed skin. "Why aren't you wearing gloves?"

Ivan shrugged.

"You should be."

"A little late now," he said.

Shelley held his hand a while longer. They talked about bits and pieces of nothing really, then Shelley got a solemn look on her face. She was quiet, as if waiting for the right moment, then, finally finding it, she said, "How was your visit?"

No one else would have had the nerve to ask Ivan. And if someone else had, he wouldn't have answered. But this was Shelley, the girl who finger-painted with him in nursery school, who was there freshman year when no one else was, who cried when he lost in the state semifinals last March and, weeks later, when his mother died. She was his closest friend for God knows how long. If anyone was allowed to breach the wall he put up, she was.

"Okay, I guess," Ivan said.

"Tell me about it."

"Yeah?"

"Please."

Ivan drew in a deep breath ... and exhaled. "It was cold ... very cold ... sad. Thought there'd be more people since it's a holiday. I guess they were smarter than us. Staying outta the cold, I mean."

"And your papa?"

"Who knows?"

At least his father wasn't drowning his sorrows in bourbon, Ivan thought. Like other men in town did. Still, his father was drowning, just drowning in a different way. Most nights he'd come home late from work. They'd exchange a few words, then disappear—Ivan into the basement to practice moves, his father into the television room. For hours on end.

"He's sad," Shelley said.

"I guess."

"Do you talk to him?"

"I ask him what's the matter," Ivan said, "but he just shakes his head."

"He's got so much to think about," Shelley said. "This house, your season. And he's probably sad about you leaving for college. You told him, right?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm not ready."

"Ivan, you gotta tell him."

"Yeah, I know," Ivan said. "The coach called the other day when Papa wasn't around. They don't make a decision for a while, but he pretty much promised me a scholarship."

"Do you have to go so far away?"

"Every night, I dream I'm there," Ivan said. "Warm, sunny, not cold and gray like Lennings." He motioned. "Look at this place." He stepped to the pile of logs.

"It's not so bad," Shelley said.

"School ends, I'm outta here. That week, maybe the week after."

Shelley touched his arm. "Why are you in such a rush to leave? Look how excited the town, the school—everyone—is for this season. You're gonna be the best in New Jersey."

Winning the state championship. Ivan had thought about it every waking moment since a victory in last year's state semifinals had been stolen from him. Yet, he felt chained to it all—the practice room, McClellan, Lennings, the expectations. He breathed in and looked up the road. "The Wallens must be making a fire."

"Smells good," Shelley said. "See, if you go out West you'll miss all that. No crisp, clean air. No beautiful fall afternoons. You can't get
that
in Arizona."

Ivan didn't say anything.

"It'll be hard for us to stay close, you know."

"Nah."

"Yes," Shelley said. "You'll be busy, and I'll be busy wherever I go. And I know how much you hate to write letters ... But if I did write you, you think you'd write back?"

"I'm not leaving yet."

"But would you? Even when you're absolutely exhausted from Wrestling practice and you don't have an ounce of energy to pick up a pen?"

"Yeah, sure."

Shelley touched her finger to his jacket. "Cross your heart?"

He nodded.

"I don't believe you," she said, with a crooked smile. "And I can't believe you wanna go out West. Don't. Stay here. I'll help you with your applications, I promise I will—"

"Shelley!" Mrs. Peterson called out from their front door. "I need your help." She waved. "Happy Thanksgiving, Ivan."

Ivan waved back.

Shelley sighed. "Well, I gotta go. Turkey probably needs more basting." She started down the driveway, with Modine following behind. "Have a nice one with your papa. And forget this Arizona thing. Go somewhere near Philly so we can visit each other."

Against the front porch lights of the Peterson house, Ivan watched Modine scamper inside. Shelley turned. "Gonna come over later?"

Ivan shook his head. "I can't."

"I understand," Shelley said. "Anyway, see you tomorrow, Champ."

Ivan continued his drive toward the bottom of the pile, lifting the logs and stacking, lifting and stacking....

It was late. The pile was finished. Ivan faced his house. Though his father was somewhere inside, the house reeked of emptiness. He would've enjoyed dinner with Shelley and her family. He'd even put up with Cousin Jean's bratty kids and big Lucy. The food would be wonderful—even if he didn't have any—and the banter around the dinner table would be dizzying, and funny, and everyone would be so alive.

Shelley could complain all she wanted, he thought. But her house lived and breathed. "Come stay in this place," he whispered.

Ivan opened the front door and, for a moment, was surprised, even slightly confused. On the dining-room table, two places were set meticulously with the family's finest china, silverware, and cloth napkins—things he hadn't seen since his mother passed away. He turned the light dimmer on bright.

"The table looks good," he called out.

"The turkey will be ready soon," his father said, walking in from the kitchen. "You should take a shower now." He placed the dish of baked yams and a bowl of pierogies on the table.

"All the wood's in a pile," Ivan said.

"Good."

Ivan started toward the stairs.

"Wait," his father said. "Your hands. What is the matter with your hands?"

"Nothing."

"Let me see."

Ivan stopped, turned his palms up. They were red and swollen.

"You did not wear gloves?"

"Couldn't find any."

"Gloves are in the shed. Do you have a brain in your head?" his father said, poking his temple with his finger. "You could have hurt your hands so they are no good for wrestling. Then what would we do?"

Ivan turned. His father might have said something else, but Ivan closed his ears and mind and continued away.

In the upstairs bathroom, he hunched over the porcelain sink, easing his lower back. Warm water poured over the cuts and scrapes on his stiff hands. He knew Thanksgiving night was not the best time to tell his father he was going to Western Arizona University for college. Then again, he thought, when would be?

Ivan showered and put on a sweatshirt and jeans, using the few minutes that passed to strengthen his resolve. Until it was simply
time.
He marched down the stairs, through the dining room, into the kitchen.

"Papa, I need to talk to you." Without waiting for a response, Ivan continued. "I wanna go away to college. Not Jersey or Pennsylvania."

His thoughts had never been so clear, nor had his own words brought such relief. There was conviction in his voice. Satisfaction filled him. If his father was ever going to accept him as a man, Ivan knew he had to explain himself, then hold firm to what he
had
to do.

His father continued spooning cranberries into a glass bowl, not looking up, and for a time Ivan wondered if he had heard him. He placed the bowl aside, laid the spoon in the sink, then ran the faucet. His father walked over. Standing face-to-face with his father was the only time Ivan ever felt fear. He did now. Finally, his father spoke. "No." The brevity of his response was startling.

"But if I get a scholarsh—," Ivan started.

"You want to be away from here?" his father snapped. "From your home?"

Ivan didn't answer.

"You have pushed my patience."

"This is what I want."

"That's enough," his father said.

"Papa," Ivan said, "it's been eight months. Mama's gone. We need to move on. When are you gonna let me live my—"

The back of his father's hand, in a crisp, sudden arc, sent Ivan sprawling into a chair. In an instant, Ivan bounced back up to his feet like he had done a thousand times on the mat. His reaction seemed to surprise his father, if only for a moment. Ivan didn't touch his cheek or acknowledge the gash on the inside of his lip. He simply smiled, a livid smile.

Every bit of him wanted to raise his fists to return the favor. He was old enough, certainly strong enough, and now pissed off enough to take his father. But he didn't. Instead, he turned, looking over his shoulder, the whole time still smirking, and left the kitchen.

Ivan stared out his bedroom window at the Petersons' house. It seemed every light in every room was on. He imagined Shelley and her family having a wonderful time.

"Happy friggin' Thanksgiving," he whispered.

From the living room downstairs, late-night television programs droned on. Ivan knew his father was sitting in his chair, motionless, not smiling, or laughing, or crying, but staring blankly, a vacant look of loss that worried Ivan with its relentlessness.

And the television screen raining its pity.

The house was dark, empty and silent, and unexpectedly peaceful.

Bobby lay in bed, drifting out of a shallow nap, his body exhausted, his head filled with thoughts of Carmelina....

On Sunday morning, Bobby borrowed his father's car, promising that he was going to the library to work on his college essays. Instead, he drove down to Newark to see Carmelina. It was his first time at her house.

At the front door of a brown row house, Bobby pressed the doorbell. He stepped back from under a rusted awning and looked across the street at Branch Brook Park. An elderly woman pushed a stroller along the buckled sidewalk, while trash swirled in the wind, ducking in and out of the passing cars. Police sirens sounded in the distance.

Bobby's stomach cramped, a reminder that he hadn't eaten anything all day and wouldn't until dinner. He checked the house number again, then rang the bell a second time.

There were footsteps and the front door opened. "
Oi,
Bobby," Carmelina said.

Bobby moved toward the door, but Carmelina waved a finger. "No boys allowed in the house. Mama's rules." She put her hand on his chest. "I'll get my coat. You wait here."

Bobby stepped a foot inside. The living room was dark. Still, he could see the sofa cover torn and pockmarked from cigarette burns, and the carpet worn to its padding. Paintings of Jesus and crucifixes hung on the walls. Carmelina went into a nearby bedroom, where Bobby could see a pink vanity cluttered with bottles of hair spray and makeup, and fashion magazines scattered about the floor. She returned quickly.

"I just got back from Mass. Mama's still there," she said, nudging him out. "Nothing to see in here,
meu amor.
"

Carmelina closed the door and took a few moments to smooth her turtleneck and skirt, and straighten her wool coat. She started down the front steps, looking over her shoulder. "You came a long way to see me, Bobby."

Bobby followed her. "It's not that far."

"And you keep calling."

"You call me, too."

"So tell me, then," Carmelina said, "why'd ya come down to lovely Newark?"

Bobby shrugged. "Didn't have much to do today," he said with feigned nonchalance. "Thought I'd come see you."

"You mean
stare
at me? Like ya do waiting for me at work. Pretending you're shopping. You don't fool me."

"Well, I guess I won't come and visit anymore," Bobby said.

"It's all right, I'm used to it," Carmelina said. "Just like that first time you stared at me at the mall. You and your little gang of white boys walked by." She smiled. "I knew you'd come back."

"Really?" Bobby said. "I only came back because I needed a birthday present for my mom."

"Oh, Bobby, you're so silly," Carmelina said, shaking her head. "You woulda come back. Maybe later that day, maybe the next Saturday, maybe the Saturday after that. But you woulda come back. I could see it in your eyes. You were looking at this gorgeous, dark girl—like nothin' in
your
school—and couldn't think of anything else."

Carmelina reached her hand out to hold his. Bobby didn't say anything; he knew she was right. She
had
him. Whether it was her auburn curls rolling over her shoulders when she moved, or the way her lips came alive when she spoke, or that everything about her was soft and inviting—she had him.