Authors: T. Glen Coughlin
One Shot Away
A WRESTLING STORY
T. GLEN COUGHLIN
For my son, Tom, my wrestler and inspiration,
for my daughter, Jacqueline, who shared my passion,
and for those who give it their all
PART ONE
Trevor
T
REVOR
C
ROW RUNS UNDER LOW CLOUDS ON A RAIN-SLICKED
road past houses already strung and lit for Christmas. He cuts through the iron Civil War cannons next to the VFW Hall, past a slab of limestone that marks Molly Pitcher's grave, past the shoe repairman's window with its giant-sized boot, past the travel agency store window with posters of families at the beach. He stops at the police station, gasping for breath.
He clicks off the stopwatch at thirty-two minutes. He has completed four 8-minute miles around his neighborhood. His dad would be pleased. If only Trevor had listened to him last year, maybe he would have made the varsity squad.
He peers down the long driveway between the police station and the post office at a sign that says
IMPOUND LOT
. His father's truck is being stored there. Their landlord, Harry London, plans to sell it for partial payment for three months' back rent. Trevor told his mother he wanted it. But she said she couldn't look at it.
Trevor jogs up the driveway. A cyclone fence surrounds the impound area. He rattles the fence and waits for a guard dog to leap from the darkness. Nothing. The gates are secured with a bulky lock and a battered chain. He crosses to the corner of the fence and hoists himself over. He scurries onto the top of a van that looks like it has had a run-in with a tree, then hops to the ground.
His dad's truck is jammed against the back fence. He tugs the passenger door. The cold metal creaks open. He slips in on the stiff seats, trying not to look at the windshield, at the spot where his father was watching the road when the truck in front of him hit a pothole, launching a two-inch copper pipe, twelve feet long. He imagines the vibrating pipe, working free, then blasting off like a wayward missile, smashing through the windshield.
His dad's chest took the full impact, cracking ribs, crushing his heart, which couldn't pump, or do anything except leak all over his blue flannel work shirt that he liked to wear on Fridays because it put him in a good mood. A birthday gift from Trevor, a thirty-dollar shirt on sale at Macy's.
In the truck's dim interior, Trevor touches the tan bench seat that is dark with stains. It's dried, caked blood. His father's blood! Panic swells in his chest. Then terror overtakes him like a wave knocking him down at the beach. He covers his face. His cheeks are wet and he is coughing. He tries not to look at the windshield. His mother was right. They shouldn't sit behind this steering wheel where his father's blood spilled.
He hurries from the truck.
In the yard, he lifts a cement block and heaves it onto the windshield. It fractures the glass into tiny cubes and rests there like a giant, legless, gray spider in a web. He finds a fence post and beats the truck, beats it until there isn't a smooth side. The sound reverberates off the police station. London won't make a profit from this sale.
A dog barks in the distance. Lights snap on in the station. Two men walk to a rear-door landing. Trevor beats the truck again and again. No one cares about the wrecks in this lot, or the blood on the seats, or that his family's name was misspelled in the newspaper, “Joseph Craw Dies in a Freak Turnpike Mishap,” or the fact his father died for no reason except that some lazy jerkoff forgot to properly secure his plumbing supplies.
The men jog toward the lot. “Hey, you, just stay where you are,” one yells.
Trevor drops the post. He scales the fence on the other side of the yard. He scrambles over, head first, then swings his legs to the ground at the last second.
Trevor slips into his house, closes the door, and touches his father's bare coat hook. The feeling of emptiness rocks him. His world is permanently tilted. Nothing is the same without his father. He wipes his forehead on his sleeve. He's coated with sweat.
“Trevor, is that you?”
His serious expression and intense black eyes reflect in the hall mirror. His cheeks are hollow. His hair is thick and past his shoulders. His complexion is marked with acne. He looks like his father, like an Indian. He doesn't look like other kids in Molly Pitcher. He's been called a half-breed, Tonto, Chief Sitting Bullshit, Indian Boy, Injun Joe, Geroni-ho-mo. His father told him to be proud. “You are a member of an elite breed. You can trace your blood directly back to the tribe,” he said. But Trevor doesn't feel proud. At school, he walks, hood up, eyes to the ground, hiding himself, hiding the color of his skin and, most of all, his nose, wide and flared, like an outgrowth of his skull, more than a nose. Last season, Diggy Masters, a guy who rides Trevor endlessly, joked that if Trevor ran into a wall with a boner, he'd break his nose first. Trevor just stared at him. No comeback, nothing.
“Trevor, don't be rude, we have company.”
He hangs up his hoodie.
Harry London is in Trevor's dad's chair at the kitchen table. No one has sat there since the accident. Why is London here? Could the police have already called his mother? Could London and his mother know about the truck?
“How you doing, Trevor?” Harry London shifts his weight forward. His chair creeks. He's big and bulky as a bear. His black mustache hides most of his smile. Trevor's sure London has his eye on his mother. She's Italian, strong and square-shouldered, with large, dark eyes. She doesn't have to put on fancy clothes or use expensive creams. Tonight, she's wearing sneakers and a blue housedress with the hem falling down in the back. The collar is visibly frayed, but it doesn't matter.
Trevor ignores London and looks at his mother for some explanation.
“You didn't get hurt, did you?” She always asks this.
“I was jogging.” He keeps his hands in his sweatpants pockets and watches their faces.
“You look upset about something,” says his mother. “You did get hurt, didn't you?”
“No, I'm fine, just tired.” They don't know anything. He releases a breath.
“Trevor's been working extra hard. He's trying to make the varsity wrestling team,” she says. “He has to beat the top wrestler.”
“He's not the top wrestler, we're just in the same weight class,” explains Trevor.
“As long as you don't get hurt,” she says.
She's not the greatest listener. His father was the listener. Camille's the doer, always hustling. She's sold Mary Kay Cosmetics, Tupperware, opened a kiosk at the mall pushing men's ties and costume jewelry, and distributed food samples at an outlet store.
Camille nudges Trevor over and opens the oven door. She pokes muffins with a toothpick. “Wrestling is so brutal. It was my husband's idea. Joe wrestled in high school. I can't watch it.”
“It wasn't all his idea,” says Trevor. “And he didn't wrestle for his high school. He wrestled for the reservation. They had their own team.”
“I said he wrestled
in
high school, not
for
the high school. But my point was, your father did it and loved it and now he has you doing it.” She closes the oven and drops the toothpick into the garbage. “I think it's dangerous, all that physical contact.”
“No, Mom, it's not dangerous. Skydiving and bungee jumping are dangerous. Wrestling is a sport.”
London is listening and nodding as if he understands everything; it's pissing Trevor off.
“I've made your mother a proposition.” London keeps his eyes on her. “I'm buying a motel. I want her to work for me. You both could live there.”
“Live there?” asks Trevor.
“It's a business venture, a risk, and I need someone dependable.”
“Where are you going to live?”
“Oh, I'll keep my house. I'd just work there.”
Trevor turns to his mother.
“We were only talking about it.” She brushes stray hairs from her face like she always does when she's put on the spot. “It's totally up in the air,” she says.
“I'm not moving,” says Trevor.
“Harry, let me talk to him,” says Camille in a hushed voice.
“I'm right here,” says Trevor. “I'm not ten years old.”
“Hey.” London smiles. “I'm excited about maybe making a little money, that's all.”
Trevor holds an impatient stare at his mother. His father is buried in the cold ground and here's Harry London sitting comfortably in his chair. It doesn't seem possible.
I
F ANYTHING HAPPENS, IF ANYONE PULLS UP ON US, TAKE OFF
running. You run and you run until you can't run no more. You got that?” Jimmy's father swings his blond hair off his forehead. His mouth is tight over his squared-off jaw.
“What about you?” asks Jimmy.
His laugh breaks into a pack-a-day hack. “I'll have the load in the back, I wouldn't get far. I'll talk my way out, somehow.”