by Eli Easton
It was Mack’s turn to stare. He continued to stare at me as a girl delivered our plates and took our little number placard away.
“What?” I asked him, grabbing some napkins from the holder.
“You’re right. This is a little weird.”
“That I care about climate change too? Did you think I was just a pretty face?” I winked at him, but I was still feeling almost high at the discovery. “No, it is weird. Who would have thought we’d have something like that in common?” Me and a two hundred eight-five pound wrestler named the Mountain. Obviously, there was a lot more to Mack than his size.
He grunted and picked up his fork. “Did something happen to you? Something that made you interested in the subject?”
I thought about it, cutting apart the pieces of my personal pizza. “I’ve always had a travel bug. When I was little, my mom took me and my brother and sister to Mexico City every summer for a few weeks. I was fascinated at how different everything was there, and it made me want to see more. I had posters all over my wall of places I wanted to go, and I kept lists in a journal.” It was a little embarrassing admitting all this, but I plowed on. “Then one day, my dad had the news on and there was a story about floods in Bangladesh, and they showed this amazing ancient temple. It was one I had on my wall.” I took a bite of pizza, chewing thoughtfully. “It was destroyed. And that seemed so unfair. It had been there for centuries and then it was just… gone.”
Mack looked at me curiously, waiting for me to continue.
“So I started researching climate change. And what I learned seriously pissed me off. It sucks for our generation, you know? Like the world is a treasure box that’s melting right now, and it’s not our fault. It feels like we’re at the twilight of something great, like things will never be the same again. And there’s nothing I can do about that except talk about it. Shake people up. Make them understand.” God, it was so heavy. I tried to lighten it with a smirk. “Because I’m uplifting like that.”
Mack just nodded. He was already halfway through his salad, just from me yammering on. He poked at it. “For me, it’s personal.”
He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say more.
“What happened?” I pressed.
“Uh… Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Me and my dad were living in New Orleans when Katrina hit. I was eight.”
“What? Are you serious?”
He stared down at his salad, stirring it around. “We lived in kind of a crappy neighborhood. It got flooded when the levees broke. We were on a roof for two days. No food. No water. No one came. My dad walked us out. He’s big, like me, and still the water was up to his chest. He put me on his shoulders. I remember worrying that he’d step in a hole, or there’d be snakes or gators, something in the water, and he’d go down, and I’d get separated from him and…. Yeah.” Mack said this coolly, like it had happened to someone else. He took a big bite of salad and looked out the window, a slight frown on his brow.
I couldn’t imagine being in the situation as a kid. Stuck on a roof for two days? And they probably saw some pretty bad shit walking out of that mess. Corpses in the water. I remember seeing that on the news. There was some shooting and looting going on too.
I ate a slice of my pizza, and we sat in silence for a bit.
“It’s cool that you know exactly what you want to do. I guess you’re definitely not considering pro wrestling then. Or the Olympics,” I said.
Mack made a face. “Fuck no. Wrestling pays for college, and I’m grateful. It’s been a good deal. Keeps me in shape. But it’s not who I am. I have zero interest in playing that role forever. And the Olympics?” He snorted. “To do that, you need serious money. You have to hire a coach. Do tons of traveling. Do nothing but train for years. Me and my dad aren’t rich. I can’t afford that. Anyway, I don’t have anything to prove. I just want to get my degree and get a decent-paying job where I can be useful.”
There was a defensiveness in Mack’s tone, like he thought I’d argue with him.
“I can see that,” I said.
Mack looked doubtful.
“Honest. I don’t know you that well, but I can see that you’re…” I hesitated, not wanting to put my foot in my mouth. “You’re not just that guy on the mat, that wrestler. The Mountain. At your core, I mean. You’re more… thoughtful? And, Dios, I’m gonna shut up now because I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.”
Mack smirked a little. He looked like he was going to say more, but he stopped himself and dug into his salad. I wanted to know what he’d been about to say. Hell, I wanted to know everything about him. For example, what had happened after Katrina? If Mack had a father, how had he ended up at St. Mark’s?
Then I realized I should come clean. That was a very personal thing to know about him. It wasn’t right to hide it.
“So…” I began slowly. “Just FYI, I went to St. Mark’s on Monday to interview the woman who runs the place, Sharon Mandel.”
Mack looked up at me sharply.
“I was in her office, and, uh, I saw you in some of the photos.”
The wall that had come down when Mack and I discussed our careers slammed back up again so visibly I swear I heard it clang. His face went hard and his posture tensed.
Joder. I wanted to take those words back, but it was too late. I sought for something that would make it no big deal.
“Sorry. I didn’t invade your privacy on purpose. I just happened to see it and figured it would be kind of like lying if I didn’t mention it?” I shrugged. “Whatever. It’s none of my business.”
“Are you going to write about it?” he asked stiffly.
I squinted at him in confusion. “What? Why would I do that?”
He regarded me intently, as if trying to decide if I was telling the truth. “Nobody should care about me, but because of wrestling, they do.”
I grimaced. He thought I was after him for a story? “Mack, no, I’m not going to write about you. Geez. I wouldn’t do that. The only news I’m writing at the moment is for the Wisconsin State Journal, and I’m not on their sports beat.” I huffed. “You really have a thing about journalists. Dude. You’re giving me an inferiority complex.”
Mack picked up his water glass and settled back in his chair. “Guess I’m a little paranoid. I’m a private person. I don’t mind them writing about ‘the Mountain,’ and my matches, because that guy’s not really me. But my real life? My… my past and all that bullshit? That’s nobody’s business.”
“You don’t say.” I widened my eyes and gave him a look that said you practically bit my head off. “Honestly, I’m not talking to you as a reporter. This is my private life.” I waved a hand between us. “Separate from, like, my work life.” I waved my hand at the distance. “Which is way over there. Okay?”
He grunted and took a drink of water. Then he regarded me as if making up his mind. “Okay. Yes. I was at St Mark’s from fifth grade to eleventh.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “So. Did something happen to your dad?”
I regretted the words immediately and palmed my forehead. “Sorry. Ignore that. Mi mama always says I’m way too curious for my own good.”
Mack rubbed his face with a hand, as if frustrated. “No, it’s…. My dad went to prison, and I had nowhere else to go.” He heaved out a deep breath. “We lost everything in Katrina. We moved up here, and the only decent-paying job my dad could find was collecting on loans for some asshole. Like I said, my dad’s big, like me. He’s not a bad person. He tried to just intimidate people. But sometimes things got rough. One day, this one guy picked up a two-by-four and the situation escalated. The guy ended up with a broken arm, and my dad went down for aggravated assault.” He scowled at the table.
“Oh shit. That sucks, Mack.”
He finally looked me in the eye, grimacing. “Yeah. It… wasn’t a good time. The courts put me in St. Mark’s. My mom passed when I was three, so it was just my dad and me. I had a grandmother in Louisiana, but
she wasn’t in any shape to take care of me so….” He shrugged.
Obviously this was something he rarely talked about. I felt honored that he was telling me. I tried to think of what to say that wouldn’t fuck it up. “That must have been rough on you.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Hell no! I had it easy. Three squares a day, I got to stay in my regular school, had a warm place to sleep, some genuinely nice adults looking out for me… You’ve been to St. Mark’s. It’s an okay place, right?”
“It is.”
“Yeah. I was lucky. It was my dad who had it rough in prison. Plus having to leave me behind. He felt so guilty. Felt like a fuck-up. He’s the one who suffered.”
It was clear Mack believed that, and maybe it was true. But I couldn’t imagine it had been easy on him as a kid, having his world ripped apart like that, no matter how good a place St. Mark’s was.
“See that face right there?” Mack pointed at me. “That’s why I don’t want people to know about it. I don’t want that reaction, that pitying thing. Fuck that.”
“I’m not doing a pitying thing,” I protested.
“You were too. Knock it off. Because I’m not an orphan. I have a dad, and he’s doing just fine. In fact, I live with him now. And anyway, most of the kids at St. Mark’s could, and would, kick your ass.”
I thought of Sasha. I believed it. “That wouldn’t be hard. My fighting skills are in the kitten boxing range.”
Mack looked at me blankly for a second then laughed. It was a deep, honest laugh that broke the tension like a gunshot.
I grinned back. “What?”
He wiped his eyes. “Oh my God. I just saw a video of two kittens boxing. One was all black with a white spot on his nose. He looked just like you! Now I have to find that clip again.”
I pretended to be annoyed. “So now I look like a kitten? Nice.”
“He was pretty cute.”
I raised my eyebrows pointedly.
Mack rolled his eyes. “What? You know you’re hella good-looking.”
Inside, I preened, but I denied it. “I’m just an average guy. Compared to you, anyway.”
“Come on. You’re perfect. I’m a freak of nature.”
“You’re a force of nature. There’s a difference.” I let my gaze roam over him to show my appreciation.
“I guess you did say you were interested in forces of nature.” He smirked and went back to eating his salad.
“I am. I definitely am.”
Mack honest-to-God blushed again. He changed the subject. “So what about you? How did you grow up?”
“Me? Well, I’m sort of a mixed bag. My mom is from Mexico. She was on a student visa at Rice University when she met my dad. She’s a botanist, and she works for Indiana now, dealing with repopulating native plants? She’s cool. My dad’s an agriculture guy. Like big Ag. His side of my family’s been in ranching in Texas forever. Not sure why they ever thought it’d work out between them, but, yeah, it didn’t last.”
I told Mack about their divorce, how I’d shuttled back and forth for years, about my mother’s crazy family, the Vasquez clan, that I loved but rarely saw because I always had to be with my dad on school breaks. I told him about my step-family in Texas, whom I resented more than I should, and my older brother and sister, John and Loretta.
Mack listened, and he asked questions. So I asked him more questions too. A heavy energy built between us. It felt kind of momentous. It was like we were communicating, really. It felt like I was learning things about a person I already knew, like he was the someone I’d been waiting to meet. And there I sat thinking “Oh, so this is you. This is who you are. Wow.”
Batshit crazy? Indubitably. I always did have an active imagination. But that’s how it felt to me at that moment. I never would have guessed I’d feel this way about that huge guy that I shamelessly ogled a week ago. But the more I learned about Mack, the things he cared about, the things that motivated him, the way he took things so seriously, the more I liked him as a person. And the way he looked at me—his brown eyes intent and curious with a hint of awkward nervousness that never quite went away—I thought he felt it too. Sitting there in the very ordinary Lakeside Lounge, I had the idea that this was possibly one of the most important moments of my life.
I never believed those stories of people who just know someone will be a significant person in their lives. And maybe this thing with Mack would fall apart before it became anything serious. But for the first time in my life, I knew what that kind of strong immediate connection to someone felt like.
We were quiet as we walked back to the Educational Sciences building.
“I have my car,” Mack said when we got close. He motioned with his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll probably go hit the gym. I usually do around now.”
“Oh, okay. I live in the Towers. So….”
We stood there. Mack’s hands were buried in the pockets of his coat. I wanted to kiss his cheek, just a little sign to show how much I loved our conversation. But he was so fricking tall. I could maybe kiss his zipper without his cooperation. Or find a ladder. But that would ruin the moment just a wee bit.
“Thanks again for the cookies,” Mack said. He rolled his eyes at himself and took a few steps backward.
“Hey, I was thinking about going to your match on Friday. Would you mind?”
He smiled. “Nah. I’d like that. See you there.”
“Goodnight, Mack.”
“Night, Gabe.”
My blood sang all the way home.
Madison is a town with a long history, much of it forgotten. It’s loaded with nooks and crannies tucked behind major roads. There are people and institutions who work on making the world a better place in small ways, on quiet lanes, where few pass by to notice.
St. Mark’s Children’s Home is one of those places. The old stone mansion on Atwood Avenue was founded in 1918 as an orphanage and has been operating without much fanfare ever since, in good economies and bad, from the age of steam to the age of Twitter, without ever drawing scandal or rumor, and, more importantly, without ever giving up.
Sharon Mandel has been the headmistress at St. Mark’s since 1992. She is an unassuming woman, pleasant and cheerful, who somehow manages to raise more kids than the Duggars. In a sense, St. Mark’s is like a school, but while most schools send their charges home in the afternoon with a sigh of relief, St. Mark’s cares for its children every hour of the day and every day of the year. Like it says on the brass sign out front, St. Mark’s is a home.
The word “orphanage” brings up Victorian images of Oliver Twist and regimented cots in an attic room, but St. Mark’s is nothing like that. Its dining hall is large but cozy, and most of its bedrooms contain two sets of bunk beds with colorful comforters, drawings and posters on the wall. Nor are all the kids who live here orphans awaiting adoption. Some are wards of the state with parents who are incarcerated, in the hospital, or otherwise temporarily unable to provide a home. Some of the children have been in foster care and have asked to stay at St. Mark’s until the law deems them adults.
Over the years, St. Mark’s has raised over three hundred children from birth to age eighteen. Many more have spent some part of their childhood as residents of the home. The kids come in every age and ethnicity, but they are brothers and sisters. They are a family.
“We try to make memories for the kids, to keep their lives as much like any other kids’ as possible,” Sharon Mandel says. “It’s important to have structure and traditions, things they can count on, things they look forward to. For example, every Wednesday night is movie night, with popcorn and pizza. Fridays are game night, and we have an outing on the weekend. It helps keep things positive and stimulating for the kids and helps them form relationships beyond their roommates.”
One of the most beloved traditions at St. Mark’s is the annual Christmas dinner held for them at the Elks Lodge on Lake Monona. The dinner is a fund-raising event open to the general public and includes a meal, entertai
nment, and an after-dessert visit from the kids of St Mark’s and Santa Claus. Every bit of the ticket sales goes to the children’s home, money that buys Christmas presents, a Christmas meal, and helps keep the home running. The dinner for St. Mark’s this year is Saturday, Dec 16th.
The Elks have been holding the Christmas dinner for St. Mark’s for thirty years, but they’re not alone. Small acts of kindness seem to accumulate around St. Mark’s, perhaps because of the example set by its founders. Since 1918, without fail, a small box of chocolates has been found under the pillow of every child on his or her birthday. Potted impatiens are delivered on the first day of spring from an anonymous donor with a card that simply reads “children should have flowers.” Day-old baked goods are donated in large quantities by Jo’s on Second Street. And then there’s Santa Claus.
Not even the man who organizes the dinner for the Elks every year, Walter Stickle, knows who Santa is. He’s a holiday enigma. He arrives at the Elks Lodge on the night of the Christmas dinner in costume, greets the diners, listens to the wishes of every child, passes out gifts, and vanishes again. For a few hours, he is the symbol of Christmas for the children of St. Mark’s. He gives them more than toys and trinkets. He gives them memories.
In the second part of our story, we’ll cover the Elks dinner this year and maybe get an interview with the Jolly Old Elf himself.
I’d been so jacked after my dinner with Mack, I’d written the first part of the St. Mark’s story and emailed it to Randall. The next morning, my cell phone buzzed at 7:00 a.m., waking me up. I was going to turn it off and go back to sleep, but when I saw Randall’s name on my screen, I sat up, curiosity sparking me to life.
“Hey,” I answered with a croak.
“That wasn’t what I asked you to write,” Randall said, without bothering with a hello or good morning.