I hunched us forward, and he leaned in hard. With my fingers, I tried to break his grip, but it was tight and his hands were slick with sweat. I thought of hitting a switch, dropping quick to the right leading with an arm, letting my weight swing me around behind him. But then Dunkirk shifted his head, settling his face along my right rib cage, and that’s when one of my prophetic visions arrived. I saw what was about to happen with perfect clarity, the purest dream you can imagine.
Almost magically, my right arm rose up, and I angled it down and back, driving my elbow into Dunkirk’s mouth. I felt a crack on impact and he shot backward, releasing me and tumbling to the ground.
The ref whistled a stoppage. Dunkirk writhed on the mat, cupping both hands to his face. As his coach rushed out and bent at his side, grandpa ref raised a hand and awarded him another point for unsportsmanlike conduct, then gave me a harsh look. But I didn’t care about points. It was 16–5 now. Big deal. I was safe and in control.
When I scanned the crowd, most folks were booing or giving me the thumbs-down. Coach Gallaher was standing with his arms crossed, clearly not liking what he was seeing. Shrimp and the other guys on the team were clapping, but even they looked a little shocked. Behind them, my mom was looking my way, one eye fixed on me and the other cocked to the side, and I wasn’t really sure what I saw in her face. Weariness or disappointment. Maybe both. I turned away.
My eyes fell down to the mat, where they locked on to what I took at first for a tiny white stone. I bent to pick it up and saw a sharp edge and little flecks of blood. One of Dunkirk’s teeth. Didn’t suck to see that. I held it in my palm, the spoils of this war, and then with everybody watching, I strutted over to the huddle of people around his crumbled form — the kneeling ref, Dunkirk’s coach, some lady trainer with a first aid kit. They had Dunkirk sitting up now, elbows draped over his knees, and the trainer was holding a cloth to his mouth. When she took it down, Dunkirk’s bloody mouth looked raw and nasty, a glistening wound. His top lip was split and you could see the open space where that front tooth had been. I tossed it to him and said, “Consolation prize from states.”
For added dramatic flair, I turned away from him as I dropped that line, so I wasn’t facing grandpa ref when he sounded his whistle. This confused me though, because time had already been stopped. I looked back and saw him crossing his wrists over his head, walking calmly toward the scorer’s table. He leaned in and talked with some official in a tie. They nodded as one and then the ref moved to the center of the mat. He raised a hand signaling a third unsportsmanlike conduct penalty against me, then walked over to where Dunkirk still sat crouched and bleeding. Reaching down, he took Dunkirk’s wrist and raised it in victory. The auditorium exploded in applause.
Standing on the mat, I felt stunned and sort of numb. Coach Gallaher put his hands on my shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “We need to go sit down.”
I shrugged him off and advanced on the ref. “What the hell!?” I said. “What kind of crap is this?” He just shook his head and I demanded, “What did you just do?”
Now he looked at me. “I didn’t do anything. You got yourself disqualified, son.”
Maybe it was that word. I don’t know for sure. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the crowd booing or how the ref looked at me, like I was a failure. But right then, I lost control. I didn’t consciously think anything, and I sure didn’t have a vision of any kind. I didn’t even feel the fingers of my right hand tightening. I just saw the ref’s face widening in shock and my clenched fist swinging up, punching him flush just under his jaw. His head snapped back as he stumbled three steps, then collapsed.
The arena went silent. Even the other two matches stopped. For a few heartbeats, nobody moved. Grandpa ref was flat on his back, still. The lady trainer who’d been tending to Dunkirk scrambled over a few feet and leaned above the ref’s face. She cradled his head. I looked around at the crowd, and four thousand people stared back, all of them with accusing eyes. Nobody was applauding anymore, and nobody needed to boo. I knew full well what I’d done, and I knew the consequences. In an instant, all my dreams were snuffed out.
So it seemed kind of sick, but perfect too in a way, when I heard a single person clapping. He was right there in front of me, maybe a dozen rows above my mom. My father stood, the only one on his feet in the whole auditorium, and he smacked his big, rough hands and whooped with excitement. He was wearing the same outfit as last time I saw him seven years back — just that one time Mom convinced me to go — the one-piece orange jumpsuit of the Fort Indiantown Gap Correctional Facility. I knew this wasn’t some sort of vision, that this was only my twisted imagination. But I could see him all the same, real as can be, and I knew for sure that if my father had witnessed what I’d done on that mat, he’d be proud of me. He’d see all this the same way I sure as hell did, proof positive that his boy was just like him.
All weekend, I held my breath and waited for the axe to fall. Saturday night, when Giant Center filled with fans who were supposed to watch me raise my fists in victory, I stayed on the couch and wreaked havoc playing Call of Duty, not answering the phone and avoiding the internet like I had all day. I heated up a frozen pizza and finished Lord of the Flies for Mrs. DJ’s class, even though I doubted I’d be around for the exam. Just once before I went to bed, I gave in to temptation and hopped online. Turned out Dunkirk won in overtime, 2–0. The wimp was state champion.
When Mom wasn’t working that weekend, she respected my silence and gave me my space, but Sunday morning she dragged me to St. Sebastian’s for mass, same as always. In the days after my father got locked up, when we were staying at New Hope, my mom quit drinking and traded her bourbon for a Bible. At that particular 10 o’clock mass, I ignored the cold stares from the other parishioners and knelt when I was supposed to and stood when everybody else did, but I didn’t beg for forgiveness like I know Mom wanted me to. I decided at some point in my life that God’s pretty much going to do what He pleases.
Father Singh read about the time Jesus got mad at the merchants in the temple, overturned their tables in anger and chased them into the streets. This was a Christ I could get behind. But of course the sermon that followed was all about being gentle and the benefits of forgiveness. During the sign of peace, Mom sniffled back tears and hugged me tightly, whispering “Peace” as she squeezed, as if she could press it into me.
After the recessional, we wandered out with the crowd and the deacon asked if we needed a ride. My mom said no and clearly he was disappointed. No doubt he had some words of wisdom he was eager to share.
It’s about two miles from the church to our one-bedroom apartment and so, carless, we started hiking home in our Sunday best. Our path led us through some of the nicer neighborhoods in Camp Hill — lots of porches and manicured landscaping. At one intersection she took my hand in hers, like I was a toddler, and on the other side of the street she held it still. I left it there, for her comfort, mostly.
As we walked my mom was quiet, but when she saw an Open House sign staked in a front yard she said, “Come on, for old times’ sake?”
It had been years since we’d played this particular game, and much as I wasn’t in the mood, I could tell it mattered to her. So I nodded and we headed inside, up the stony steps.
A realtor in a blue dress greeted us in the bright living room with a beaming smile. There were two couches, an enormous TV, and a brick fireplace that rose into the ceiling. Me and Mom nodded our approval. The realtor handed us a colored page of information and reviewed some highlights: The home was a four/two with updated HVAC. The finished basement had undergone radon remediation. “Great,” my mom said, though I doubt she had any more idea than I did about what that meant.
The realtor, still beaming, walked us into the dining room (oak table with twelve chairs beneath a silver chandelier) and offered us a plate of chocolate chip cookies. My mom said no. I took two.
A family with young kids came in, distracting the realtor. She excused herse
lf and invited us to look around. We could see the kitchen, but the stairs drew us up into the bedrooms. The walls were freshly painted in yellows and blues, and everything was so clean. We could only find a few clues that real people even lived here — a handful of LEGOs on a bedroom floor, some worn paperback books on a shelf. I lost track of Mom while investigating the Jacuzzi in the master bath, then found her by the bedside holding a framed photo. Over her shoulder, I saw the husband and wife, smiling together. After about ten seconds, I took the picture from her and set it back on the nightstand. “Let’s check out the kitchen,” I said. “I’m guessing stainless steel appliances, granite countertops.”
She looked out the window into a backyard with green grass, shady trees, and one of those expensive play sets that belongs in a playground. The children from that other family arced on the swings while the mom and dad dropped together into a white hammock.
“No,” my mom said, not facing me. “This wasn’t … I think we’ll just head home, okay?
“Sure,” I told her. She handed me the colored page and turned away.
Somehow we wandered down a second set of stairs that dropped us in the kitchen. I was wrong about the stainless steel, but right about the countertops. As my mom hustled into the dining room, I lingered at the fridge, covered in magnets I imagined they’d collected from a dozen airports: Hawaii. Puerto Rico. The Canadian Rockies. I peeled one off — a green shamrock that proclaimed, “Ireland!” — and slipped it into my back pocket. A little sin I could confess next Sunday.
At the front door, the realtor’s smile was gone. Clearly my mom had passed. I gave her back the colored information sheet and its six-figure asking price and when she raised her eyebrows in curiosity, I said, “Not quite what we’re looking for. This place is a dump.”
Monday at school, I moved through the crowded hallways like Moses crossing the Red Sea, the mob of students parting ahead of me. Shrimp tried cheering me up at lunch, but I was on edge. It felt like when a guy’s about to hit some move but you’re not exactly sure what it is. During fifth period, Coach Gallaher found me sitting in study hall, staring blankly at the periodic table for an exam I doubted I would ever take. He came up behind me and clamped a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry Ed,” he told me. “I did all I could.”
I rose and told Coach he had nothing to apologize for. The rest, the somber march to Principal Suskind’s office and the notification of my expulsion, news of how I’d have to finish the remainder of my senior year somewhere else, all that was a formality. While he explained that I could either complete my studies online or look into a transfer, we both knew nobody else would take me now.
After Suskind ended my high school days with a blank expression and a signed letter, I was no longer welcome on school grounds. So I couldn’t go down to the weight room and burn off some steam, which was about the only thing I was looking forward to all weekend. Instead, when I should have been taking a test on the abbreviations and atomic numbers for the elements, I had to empty my locker into a cardboard box and hike home. I flipped up my black hoodie and hunched against the chill March winds blowing across Fiala Field.
We live in the cruddiest apartment complex in Camp Hill — Creekview Court. (Who the heck thinks a view of the creek is a selling point?) Our place is a drafty one bedroom with a hot water heater that should’ve been replaced years ago. The same rent money could totally get us a nicer apartment in Harrisburg, but after Bishop McDevitt, I was stuck with public school, and Mom said that meant back to Camp Hill, even if we were cramped. Too dangerous across the river. With her on the overnight shift at New Hope Sanctuary, we take turns in the only bed. Mostly Mom’s a day sleeper. Her other job is waitressing at Perkins, typically the dinner till midnight shift. On weekends we fight over who gets the couch, which she insists is too small for me. I don’t care if my feet hang over the end.
For years, my master plan has been to pay her back, to make all her sacrifices worth it. But taking care of my mom means a real job, and that means college. I’ve always been decent at English, likely because of Mom’s insistence on a steady diet of library books when I was a kid — lots of Harry Potter, Chronicles of Narnia, Redwall. But when it comes to precalculus, chemistry, the formulas swim in my head. An academic scholarship simply isn’t in the cards. Wrestling was my passport to a university and the life beyond, far from Creekview Court, but I tore that up on the mat in Hershey.
As I neared home, I saw two unfamiliar cars outside the redbrick complex. One was a simple white sedan but the other, across the street, drew my attention. It was a gleaming gray SUV with a broken front grille, like a crooked smile. The driver was talking on the phone, leaning out the open window. With a start, I recognized him from the Giant Center, the nerdy troll with the thick glasses. When he saw me looking his way, he hung up the phone and swung out his big door.
But at that same moment, my mom yelled, “Eddie!” and I turned to her waving from the front entrance to our apartment. At her side was a slim black woman I hadn’t seen in years but who I instantly knew. A door slammed and I just caught that SUV rumbling off. I didn’t care anymore — I was too focused on the notion that I was about to be arrested.
Something in my leg muscles tensed, and I realized I was thinking about making a break for it. But my mom’s face beside the cop’s made me worried — the puffy cheeks and shiny eyes convinced me she’d been crying — and I didn’t want to abandon her in trouble. I approached our front door and set down the box on our ratty welcome mat. The woman extended a hand, and when her slender forearm slipped past the sleeve, I saw the wondrous swirls of ink I’d forgotten.
“You remember Detective Harrow?” My mom sniffled and looked between us.
We shook, my big hand swallowing hers, and Harrow nodded seriously. “Edward,” she said. “You’ve gotten a lot bigger.”
I ignored this. She was wearing pants and a nice jacket — dress clothes. “How come you’re not in a uniform?” I asked, then glanced out at the curb, lined with regular cars and that white sedan. “And where’s your cruiser?”
An array of images — Harrow’s holstered gun, the shiny badge, her gleaming squad car — had kept me company many nights since the Civil War.
“I got promoted a couple years back,” she told me. She let go of my hand to lift one side of her jacket, revealing a detective’s shield.
“What’s in the box?” Mom asked.
“What’s left of my high school career,” I answered. “Suskind pulled the trigger.”
Mom caught her breath. Over the weekend, I’d told her this would happen, but she was praying that Jesus might intercede. Framed by our front door, Mom began to cry and Harrow suggested, “Maybe we should step inside, Janice.”
Three minutes later at the kitchen table, we all stared at each other over glasses of water no one was touching. I looked away, at the paint-by-numbers my mom had put in Goodwill frames — waterfalls and sailboats. “Art therapy” was another thing she picked up during her reconstruction phase. I glanced back at Harrow and wondered what her deal was.
I remembered Harrow ushering me out of the yellow house, buckling me into the front seat of her squad car. Later, at the station, when I wouldn’t stop crying, she rolled up both sleeves and showed me those amazing tattoos that covered her arms, every inch some intricate curling pattern. Together we got a can of warm orange soda from the vending machine, and I drank it sitting in her chair, which creaked if you spun in it. Harrow’s the one that hooked us up at New Hope too, where we stayed till Mom got back on her feet. I wasn’t sure I’d ever thanked her, let alone told her she’d helped inspire a possible career, but today seemed like a weird time to offer gratitude for good deeds eight years old.
“Why are you here?” I finally asked.
My mom inhaled sharply at my bluntness and Harrow said, “Mr. Benedict and his lawyer visited the station today and completed the paperwork to have charges filed. It would be better for everybody if you came down first thing in the morni
ng to be interviewed.”
“Mr. Benedict?” my mom asked.
“The referee,” Harrow said, “the one Edward —”
“Am I gonna be arrested?” I asked.
Harrow considered her response. “That depends on your answers. But it’s a strong possibility. Even probable at this point.”
“Arrested?” my mom said. “What charges?”
“That’s up to the DA, but disorderly conduct for sure, maybe aggravated assault.”
My mom reached across the table and grabbed my wrist. Harrow added, “Which is a felony.”
“That sounds so serious,” my mom said as she swiveled her head. Her grip on my wrist tightened. “All this for one punch?” She was looking at the detective, but her lazy eye stayed fixed on me.
Harrow turned to face her. “Janice, Edward broke Mr. Benedict’s jaw. The doctors had to wire it back together. So yes, this is serious.” She turned my way. “That’s why we’ve got to play this right. I didn’t want to spring this on you, so I stopped by. But in the morning, I could pick you up and bring you down. It looks a lot better. I know one of the public defenders, a man named Quinlan, who’d take your case. He could help explain your story to a judge.”
This line made me pause. I wondered just what the story of Eddie MacIntyre was. One thing for sure, I didn’t like where it was headed.
Harrow sat back in her chair. “The referee’s association has decided to make an example of you, and they can do it. They’ve got cell phone videos and an arena full of witnesses. If this goes to trial, you’ll be looking at jail. Honestly, I’m not sure that can be avoided.”
I banged my glass on the table, water sloshing over the top, then stood. I looked away from Harrow, and my eyes fell on the empty refrigerator. Just a week ago, it was plastered with a half dozen letters from top college recruiters. Now the magnets held a couple expired coupons. The “Ireland!” on the newest one yelled a suggested getaway.
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