One Shot Away Page 10

  The words are a blind whack on the side of Diggy’s head.

  Randy swirls his drink with his finger. “A junior-varsity wrestler pins you like you’re nothing, like you’re a rag doll.”

  Diggy massages his knuckle. It’s pulsing like it has its own heart.

  “I took off a half day of work to witness that mess!” The cords in his neck strain. “Say something. Do you think sitting there like a dope is proving anything? I’m not one of your idiotic friends walking around with their caps on sideways and their pants falling off.”

  “It was one match.”

  “It was the match! You don’t do well in school. You don’t do anything around here.”

  “He really doesn’t have much time to help,” says Beverly.

  His father stares angrily at her. “Your mother and I, we don’t ask for much. All we ask is that you give one hundred percent. That’s what separates us from them. We give one hundred percent. I built my business from nothing, from nada. Your brother started a tradition. So how do you let that second-rate little … little …”—his face trembles—“pin you right in front of me, your coach, your team? How?”

  “Maybe he should move up a weight class,” suggests his mother.

  “Bev-er-ly, you would think after all these years you’d understand the team dynamics.”

  “I-I thought …” she stammers.

  “Mom,” says Diggy, “Jim O’Shea’s one-sixty.”

  “And my son can’t beat O’Shea,” says Randy.

  “No one can,” says Diggy.

  “Your brother would have made O’Shea look like a hundred and sixty pounds of candy-ass.”

  “I’m. Not. Nick.” He spits the words. “I wish I was, but I’m not.”

  “No, you don’t give anything your all. Your brother put his heart in it.”

  “And where did it get him?” asks Diggy. “Huh?”

  “Don’t insult your brother. Don’t you ever think for one minute that he wasted one drop of sweat.” Randy’s finger wags in Diggy’s face.

  Diggy knows what his brother did was exceptional. Everyone knows it.

  “Diggy, you get the seriousness of this?” yells Randy. “Or am I the only one around here who’s got a half a brain?”

  “I couldn’t tie up with him,” Diggy says. “He grabbed my fingers. I thought he was trying to break them.” Diggy shows him his swollen knuckle. It’s the size of a golf ball.

  “Why couldn’t you have pushed yourself out of bounds?” asks Randy. “I mean, come on, it was basic, Wrestling 101. Were you afraid of him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The worst part is you made that kid look like a wrestler.” Randy finishes his drink.

  “Crow’s built like a damn ox,” says Diggy. “They call him ‘the stack of bricks.’”

  “And why aren’t you a stack of bricks? What are you a stack of?” Randy reaches to cuff him on the head.

  Diggy ducks.

  “You’ve got your own wrestling room and weights in the basement. You live on a damn golf course. Did you run this summer like I told you? Do you ever do one extra ounce of training?” His father drops his hand. “Beverly, what did his personal trainer say? What were his exact words?” Diggy knows these words, and knows his mom remembers them. When Randy is in a mood, the personal trainer comes up like a dinner of bad shrimp.

  “You don’t have to go there,” says Beverly. “I think you’ve made your point.”

  “He said, ‘Your son has the potential, he just needs the drive.’ That’s what he said.” His father’s face is tomato-red.

  “What are you going to do, tape me to the bench press again?” asks Diggy.

  “What?”

  “You think I forgot that?”

  “Enough.” His mother waves her hands.

  “I did that for your own good. It was a lesson.” His father returns to the bar and finishes his drink. “And that was a long time ago.”

  “Three years ago,” shoots back Diggy.

  It happened during a father and son training session. Nick was out with a girl or his friends. Workouts always started with the bench press, something Diggy still isn’t good at. With him struggling under the weight bar, Randy grabbed a roll of duct tape and wrapped him to the bench, around and around, pinning him. “Now, give me a set,” he yelled. Diggy pushed one rep, then the bar sank to his chest, crushing him. He was screaming for Randy to get it off him. Then his mother came in and smacked his father’s face. She cut the tape, freeing him.

  “Let me show you something.” His father crosses to the Persian rug in the sunken living room. He bends his knees and holds his open hands in a wrestling stance. “Why didn’t you jerk the damn kid’s arms up and come under like you usually do?” His father lunges and tackles an imaginary opponent.

  Diggy can’t look at him anymore, can’t hear his complaints and his insults. He has to get away from Randy or he will do something crazy.

  Trevor

  HIS MOTHER KNOCKS SOFTLY, THEN PUSHES HIS DOOR OPEN. Trevor lies on his stomach in bed, watching the motel television with the lights off. Whizzer is curled next to him. A videotape of a snowstorm recorded at his old house plays in the VCR. Snow blows past the camera, obscuring Trevor, eight years old, wearing a snowsuit with a zipper up the front, boots, and a ski hat. His dad shovels the sidewalk. Wind whistles in the camera microphone. He sticks the shovel in a snow bank, shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, and smiles.

  “I remember that day,” she says. “Your father gave me that camera for Christmas. You had the day off from school. We all stayed home.”

  She strokes Whizzer’s neck. He rolls to his back and she scratches his belly.

  His father tosses a shovel full of snow into the storm. The camera zooms past his dark eyes and wavy hair. Trevor falls back into the snow and flaps his arms, trying to make a snow angel, but it’s snowing too hard. Then the tape cuts directly to their old kitchen. His father is at the stove melting a large chocolate bar in a saucepan. His mother is slowly pouring in milk.

  He shuts off the VCR. He doesn’t want to cry but feels it coming. He’s glad his mother can’t see his eyes. She massages his shoulder as if she feels the pain radiating off him.

  The day his father died, and for weeks after, his chest hurt from crying. But crying didn’t bring him back, or do any good. After the wake and the funeral, after the casseroles and cakes sent over by the neighbors were gone, after the visit from his aunt and uncle from Florida, after all this, the summer heat set in and the house was quiet. On the Fourth of July, Trevor stayed in his room looking at photo albums and videos. He broke down and sobbed, cried more tears than he thought possible. His mother came to the door, but rather than open it, he raged at her, “GET AWAY FROM ME! LEAVE ME ALONE!” She said they could still walk to the fireworks, like other years. “DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME? GET AWAY FROM ME!”

  Trevor stretches on the bed, sore from the wrestle-off. He pictures Diggy standing on the edge of the mat, clutching his hand with pain as bright as red paint on his face. Trevor doesn’t want to feel anything for him. Diggy doesn’t work hard in practice. Trevor’s father would have called him a slouch. He gets by, doing as little as possible. He knows Greco and some of the guys think the wrestle-off should have been avoided, but if Trevor accepted the 170-weight class, he would have a losing season. He would be humiliated again. If he’s ever going to prove anything, he needs to win.

  “I want to talk to you about something,” says his mother. “Harry asked me out, sort of a date.”

  “You mean like boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  “No, not exactly, more like two people with things in common. We might see a play in Red Bank.” Her eyes turn up at the edges and her mouth does something like a smile.

  “Why would you do that?”

  She removes her hand from his shoulder. “He’s a friend.”

  “I’m your friend.”

  “Trevor, I know you’re there for me, but I don’t want to l
ean on you. I need someone to confide in, someone my age.”

  London is using her. She changes beds, empties the trash baskets, works the desk, all for free rent? Why doesn’t he pay her enough for them to get an apartment?

  “I see something in Harry,” she says. “We might just end up friends. I don’t know. He’s a hard worker and he takes risks, big risks. He took one on me.”

  “No, he didn’t. You’re someone he knew he could depend on. You never let anyone down. You always work hard.”

  “You’re my son. You see things that way.”

  “No, that’s the truth. London needs you. This was his plan from the day Dad died.”

  “Well, I wanted you to know what I was doing.”

  “Mom, London’s not Dad, and he’s never going to be. You shouldn’t date him. Dad died in June.” Trevor feels sick just thinking about his mother with London. “I don’t see how you can look at London.” Trevor knows it’s not what she wanted to hear, but he’s not going to take back his words. He doesn’t want to make her suffer, but he doesn’t want her to feel anything for London, or any man, at least not yet.

  She begins to cry into her hands. “I know it’s too soon,” she says.

  He puts his arm around her. “I’ll take you to a play. We can borrow London’s truck.”

  “Stop calling him London,” she says hotly. “For once, try calling him Harry!”

  “Stop being used by him!” he yells.

  Trevor swings his legs off the bed and turns on the light. He doesn’t want to hear anymore and he doesn’t want to argue. “I’m taking Whizzer for a walk.” He snaps the leash on Whizzer’s collar.

  “What happened to your face?” she asks.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Your eye. You’re all cut and bloodshot.”

  “I wrestled-off Diggy Masters.”

  “Can you see all right?” She stands. “Oh my, you’re a mess.”

  “I won,” says Trevor.

  “I don’t care if you won. All I ever asked is for you not to get hurt. We don’t have health insurance. You know that. You could have lost your eyesight.”

  “Mom, now I can wrestle at my real weight. It’s a big deal.” He smiles.

  She opens his eye with her fingers and examines it. “I hope you didn’t damage your cornea.”

  “Mom, you don’t get it. If I didn’t win today, I don’t think I’d have anything going for me. Nothing. I’d be that same loser I’ve always been. I’m going to do something that I should have done when Dad was alive. So get used to it.”

  Diggy

  BONES TROTS DOWN HIS STOOP, CARRYING A BROWN PAPER BAG and his bass guitar. He shoves his bass into the backseat of Diggy’s Mustang, then climbs in beside it. He pulls a half-empty bottle of vodka and an orange Gatorade from the bag. “Check it out, fellas.”

  “Your old man isn’t going to miss that?” asks Gino.

  “He’ll scapegoat my mother’s ass,” says Bones.

  “Barnstorm?” Diggy says, reading the label.

  “Hey, yo, it’s alcohol,” says Bones.

  Diggy puts the car in gear and peels out, screeching the tires.

  Bones leans forward. “What did Randy say about the wrestle-off?”

  “Compared it to a death in the family.” Little Gino and Bones laugh and shake their heads. “Then he tries to show me a wrestling move. Me? You believe that?”

  Bones lowers the rear window and pours half the Gatorade out. He refills the bottle with vodka. “Cocktails are served,” he says with an English accent. He takes a gulp and smacks his lips together. “Scrumptious!” He passes the bottle to Little Gino.

  They drive to the man-made beach at the lake. Diggy stops diagonally across the white parking lanes. They leave the car doors open with the music pumping. Standing in the lot, they pass around the vodka-Gatorade. “You know how Greco’s always saying he’s going to run us to Lake Lakookie?” asks Bones.

  “Yeah, what’s with that?” asks Gino.

  “The place doesn’t exist,” says Bones. “I Googled it ten different ways.”

  “I thought it was in Brazil or somewhere.” The alcohol burns into Diggy’s stitched lip. He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket.

  “Yo, I’m going to ask him someday,” says Bones. “Where the hell is Lake Lakookie? Put up or shut up.”

  “Then you’ll be running to Lake Lakookie!” Diggy slaps five with Gino.

  “Greco thinks he’s so funny with his cauliflower ears,” says Bones. “He ought to get some seat covers for them.” They laugh.

  Diggy takes another swig. “He should have had some loyalty to me. Without my brother, no one in this state would have even heard of Molly Pitcher.” Diggy burps loudly. The booze has gone right to his head. The town’s lights, a half-mile across the lake, blur and start to revolve.

  “Some people say you’re making booty calls to Jane’s,” says Gino.

  “Who?”

  “My sister swore me to secrecy. Need I say more? She says you’re over there like every night.”

  “Word is, Jane gives primo head,” says Bones.

  Diggy wings his hand at Bones and catches him on the forehead. “You must be getting her confused with your sister.”

  “No, my sister doesn’t have the continent of Africa stamped on her face.” Bones laughs and raises his hands in a boxer’s stance. “And she didn’t blow the wrestling team and have to get her stomach pumped.”

  Diggy throws the empty bottle at him, just missing his head. He gets in his car and starts the engine. He doesn’t need them. He doesn’t need anyone. He turns the car around and starts driving at them. They both run. He jams on the brakes. “Get in,” he says. “And make sure I don’t crash my ride.”

  “Listen, yo,” says Bones. “You start heading for a tree, I’ll exit with a chain saw.”

  Diggy speeds through downtown Molly Pitcher, past the closed stores. His head buzzes from the vodka. At least his finger doesn’t hurt as much. He veers down a side road lined with swamp maples and little houses into Puny Town.

  “Where we going?” asks Gino.

  “Nowhere,” he says.

  Diggy slows the car in front of a cottage with a single picture window and a brick stoop. Lights are on inside the house. The mailbox is the same, still bent forward into the street. The bushes in front of the house grew above the windowsills. His father always kept them trimmed. Living in Puny Town was better than living in the Hills. Randy thinks owning a big house and earning a fat paycheck makes him better than everyone. But he’s still Randy from Puny Town and Diggy doesn’t forget this. “I used to live there,” says Diggy.

  “Imagine that,” says Bones. “Diggy Masters living in the ghetto.”

  “Why don’t you blow me.” Diggy passes Jane’s old house. The fence is overgrown with vines and the windows are boarded up.

  “Did you have a wrestling mat in your basement back then?” asks Gino.

  “We didn’t have a basement.”

  They wind around the block. “That’s Jimmy’s house,” says Diggy. “We used to hang like every day of the week.”

  “Can you believe he’s getting a piece of Roxanne Sweetapple? I bet she craps cherries and whipped cream,” says Bones.

  “I could be dating her if I wanted,” snaps Diggy. “Last year she was blowing up my phone with texts.”

  “But this year she lost your number!” Bones laughs.

  Diggy slams the gas. His eyes are heavy. Keep moving. Keep driving. He speeds south on Tennant Road, wishing it was Jimmy in the front seat, not Bones. He trusted Jimmy. He could tell him stuff. Not like Bones. Everything is a joke to him. Once Jimmy and Diggy tried to cross the ice-covered lake. Twenty yards from the shore, they fell through. They both panicked, until they felt the soft bottom and then laughed with relief. They told that story for about a year and it was always funny.

  He turns at the police station and passes the weekend flea market, hangs a right, and enters Jane’s complex. He st
ops next to the Saturn with no engine and dials her number.

  “What are you doing, a booty call?” laughs Bones.

  Diggy tries to ignore him. “Hey,” he says into his cell. “I’m outside with Bones and Little Gino.” He shuts his phone. “You guys act like asswipes, I swear to God you’ll never get another ride from me. I don’t care if it’s ten degrees.”

  Jane emerges wearing skinny jeans, a black T, and a short denim jacket. Her hair is parted in the middle.

  “Hey, Diggy.” She leans into the window.

  “Hey.”

  She looks at Gino and Bones. Both of them are grinning. “You guys smell like a freaking brewery,” she says.

  “Gatorade screwdrivers, yo,” says Bones and burps. They laugh.

  “Where’d you cop ’em?”

  “That’s for us to know,” says Bones.

  Jane squeezes into the middle of the bucket seats, half on Bone’s lap, and half on the console. She smells like cigarette smoke and vanilla icing.

  Diggy drives into the back of the deserted flea market. Sometimes high school kids park near the fence, but tonight it’s empty. He passes the wire trash cans and the plywood remnants of the weekend stands. Facing the lines of empty tables, all in straight rows, he shuts off the engine and turns the key to ignition. With Z-100 on the radio, they pile out with the bass pumping. A jet streams overhead. “Got any more of those screwdrivers?” asks Jane.

  “Gone,” says Bones.

  “Well, what’d we come here for?”

  “I’m not driving anymore with half a buzz on,” says Diggy.

  Bones takes Jane’s hand. “Let’s go see if anyone left anything on the tables.”

  “Get off me.” She yanks her hand away. “You must be drunk.”

  “What, all of a sudden you’re too good for me?” asks Bones.

  “Not all of a sudden,” says Jane. “Since the beginning of time.”

  “Come on, little man,” says Bones. “Let’s leave the lovebirds alone.” Gino follows Bones toward the yellow building, cutting through the tables. “We’ll be back, don’t make a baby,” shouts Bones.

  “Assholes,” mutters Diggy.