AT 29 (15 page)

“When I arrived for the game with Prep things were different. He must have held a team meeting before I showed. I don't know what he said, but I was shunned. After warm-ups I took my spot on the bench.”

“At the far end as always. You kept to yourself. Now, I know why.”

“I didn't expect to play because of what happened at practice, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of thinking I was anxious about it. Prep clobbered us in the first half.”

“Sure did,” George replied, chuckling. “We started a chant for you mid-way into the second quarter.”

“We were down by fifteen at halftime. In the locker room Bucinski went nuts. He chewed everyone out at the top of his lungs, throwing things, banging the lockers. When it was time to go back to the court we all filed out, him standing by the doorway, giving everyone a dirty look. I was last in line. When I got to where he was standing he stuck out his arm and blocked my way. The rest of the team was gone down the hallway.”

“So that's why you didn't come out for the second half. Bucinski wouldn't let you. Always wondered about that.”

“He told me I was the reason the team was losing. Then he put his arm down to let me by. I stood there for a second and then I told him I was through.”

“Not smart.”

“He pushed me back into the locker room, closed the door and punched me in the face. Then he left me there and went upstairs to the game.”

“Jeez.”

“That's what happened. I took a shower, got dressed and waited. When the team came back everyone was quiet. I knew they'd lost. As soon as Bucinski came into the locker room I stood up and demanded to know why he hit me. He waved his hand and told me to come and see him the next day. I was too hot for that. I asked him what gave him the right to assault a player. He rushed at me and threw a punch. I ducked, but he pinned me to the lockers. He may have hit me a few times. It was a blur then and now. When he finished I was on the floor.”

“What'd the other players do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nobody stepped in?”

“No. When I came to my senses I got up, grabbed my gym bag and walked out.”

“That explains the mystery. You never told nobody?”

“Only Brother Patrick and that was two years later after Bucinski hit me again in English class junior year. What he did to me in that locker room had simmered for too long. I had a meltdown in the hallway, kicking the lockers. Brother Patrick was trolling for skippers. He brought me to his office and I told him everything.”

“He kept it secret?”

“Bucinski never spoke to me in class again.”

“You think Brother Patrick gave him the word to leave you alone?”

“I'm sure of it.”

“The kids must've found out.”

“Not from me.”

“Why do you suppose nobody on the team did nothin'?”

“The seniors graduated a couple of months later. The rest of the guy's planned to play again.”

“Maybe.”

Jimmy shot George an irritated look. “You have a better explanation?”

“Easy son. I ain't sayin' what Bucinski did was right. It just don't sound like the whole story.”

Jimmy fought the urge to get up and leave. “I told you exactly what happened.”

“So you had a reason to quit. What about football a year later? You had promise, but you quit on Coach Antonelli, too.”

“I told you I got interested in music.”

“Now, you're workin' in a soup kitchen cause you quit on that.”

“What are you trying to say? I didn't quit. The singing fell apart because I drank too much. I'm here to get it under control.”

“Then you'll go back to singin'?”

“I don't know.”

“What's up in Vermont?”

“George, can we move on? You have your skeletons, too. Why didn't you try to find your wife?”

The high tensile steel Centurion bike Jimmy ordered from its small California manufacturer arrived three weeks before he planned to leave for Vermont. Its sleek design, optimized for wind resistance, was light and flexible, making his old ten-speed feel like it was from the turn of the century. When he took a test run he lost track of time, not returning for hours until the sun was setting.

By now, his legs were strong. The hours on the exercise bike strengthened his thighs and calves and he was confident that he could maintain his momentum up the steepest hills. He had studied maps of the fifty-six mile roundtrip route from Malletts Bay to North Hero although he already knew the area well. He looked forward to seeing the magnificent vistas of the Champlain islands again, but he expected most of his concentration would be focused on keeping up with the other triathletes. He was determined to make it all the way through.

“Tell me again, why you're doin' this?” George asked, when they met again at the shelter. “Goin' up to Vermont to kill yourself?”

“Something to focus on instead of scotch.”

“And after? What then?”

“I told you I don't know.”

The two men fell silent for a few minutes, drifting off to private thoughts. Then George spoke again.

“You remember the Wykoff kid?”

“Sure. Little guy who wanted to make the football team.”

“I saw you with him once on the field.”

“I don't remember.”

“It was before you quit playin'. You was wearin' your tie, but you laid your jacket on the grass, took the football and held it with your finger so's he could practice kickin'.”

“He was never going to make the football team.”

“No. That's for sure. Too small.”

“He had other problems.”

“Homosexual?”

“That's what everybody thought. Some guys gave him a rough time.”

“Why'd you do that for him?”

“I probably felt sorry for him. Like I said, I don't remember.”

“Joe Rogers told me he thought you'd be all-state.”

Jimmy looked off at the windows toward the sidewalk outside the shelter. “He told me the same thing once during practice after he'd leveled me.”

“Nice kid. He made all-conference as a sophomore. Blew out his knee, but came back as a senior.”

“That's when I played with him. I didn't know him when he was at his best.”

“Him comin' back was good for the team. Made captain, played hurt, encouraged everybody else.”

“Yep.”

“You shoulda stuck it out. Problems with Antonelli, too?”

“You mean like Bucinski? No, he was okay. I just lost interest.”

“A recurrin' theme don't you think?”

Jimmy lifted angry eyes. “Are we going to do this again?”

“I'm just sayin'.”

“What exactly?”

“Basketball, football, Kendall, maybe your singin' too, it's all like a bunch of unfinished business. It just seems like you're leavin' all this stuff out there. Ya know, kinda incomplete.”

***

The Wykoff kid, Jimmy thought about him while driving home to Chillingham, a portly little innocent who dreamed of playing football.

Sammy Wykoff was shunned at Kendall. He had a whiney personality and never knew when to shut-up. He endured his share of verbal abuse from both students and faculty. Some called him a mama's boy because he often cited his mother when he talked about what he was going to do. “Mama thinks I have the aptitude to be a doctor. She says I have fine hands like a surgeon.” Others labeled him a homo and laughed uproariously when he naively acknowledged that he didn't know what the term meant. He came to school everyday with a football tucked in his book bag. He tried out for the freshman team, but was too small and uncoordinated to play. After being cut, he spent the next day crying in the boy's room.

During tryouts sophomore year, Jimmy watched him get run over day after day until he realized that Sammy would never give up. In a way, he admired his resolve. So, after seeing the diminutive boy endure a particularly vicious hit, he trotted over and helped him up, removing a thick tuft of sod from where it had lodged in the crease of his faceguard. Sammy was surprised by the gesture. No one ever came to his aid before.

The next week Antonelli cancelled practice for a day. Most of the players were thrilled, but not Sammy who took his ball and wandered onto the field alone. Jimmy spotted him as he came out at the end of classes. He wondered what the lonely boy could gain from just lightly tossing the ball to himself. From the sidelines he shouted.

“No practice today, little guy. Take it easy.”

Sammy looked up and smiled. “Here catch!” It was an awkward pass that fell ten feet short. They both walked toward the caroming ball. When they met, Sammy stooped to pick it up, resting on one knee at Jimmy's feet.

“Do you think I'll make the team?”

Jimmy knew Sammy wanted a word of encouragement. “I don't know.”

“Maybe I should try kicking. I might have a better chance.”

Jimmy had seen Sammy kick. It wasn't likely. “Maybe you should talk to coach.”

“I think I will. Hey, you got some time?”

“Just going home.”

“Would you stay and hold for me so I can practice?”

Jimmy hesitated. An afternoon away from Kendall was a gift, but he felt sorry for Sammy. Jimmy had few friends at the school. Sammy had no friends at all.

The hopeful football player put only two kicks through the uprights. The rest, more than forty attempts, fell short. He didn't make the team and failed once more as a junior. After that his personality changed. He volunteered little in class and traversed the hallways alone and silent. The naïve smile was gone. He began to spend time with Brother Justice who taught religion. Brother Justice had his own reputation among the students.

Two years later, the whaler returned after another successful hunt. The townspeople, once again, stood at the dock to watch the barque settle into its mooring and greet the sailors as they disembarked. When Nathan stepped from the launch he searched the crowd for only one face. He was quickly rewarded when Melba emerged from behind the throng with a giddy shriek and ran into his arms. Some onlookers raised their eyes in surprise, but not the captain who had been the first to step onto the dock, nor his beautiful wife who greeted him with longing warmth. Each had known from the very start that Nathan and Melba must be together forever. They did not object.

It was late fall and the weather turned darkly cold. The captain and his family settled in for the winter with Nathan fully accepted as one of their own. This time, however, the captain signaled that the stay on Nantucket would be a year. The ship needed a complete overhaul. He kept his other reason private, sharing it only with his wife. To her, he admitted he was weary of the long absences. He needed but one more successful voyage, and then he intended to leave the sea behind.

In the months that followed, the young lovers merged as if the two intervening years had changed nothing. Nathan returned with a store of more than one hundred new songs composed in his head. He and Melba set about compiling them on paper, he at the piano and she at a nearby desk, recording the symbols that would preserve each one. He also returned with an assortment of musical instruments, some emitting sounds that Melba found delightfully unusual. A few of Nathan's new tunes were composed on these instruments. When played for her on the piano, she found them to be unappealing, but when he replayed them on his new instruments they came alive to her ears. She realized that the big man she loved was gifted beyond any other.

Their relationship turned truly romantic immediately. Melba, now fifteen, rivaled her mother's beauty. She had grown into womanhood with all the attributes of figure that a woman's maturing body presented. Never shy and fond of affection, she clutched at Nathan's hand whenever others could not see.

Nathan had also grown into manhood. At just short of twenty he reached his full height of six foot eight inches. Like his father, he towered above other men, evincing a noble quality that engendered deference. He was honest and fair, never seeking nor finding difficulty with others. On the long hunt through the seas he had become an expert navigator and whaler. He was the captain's right hand man and the best first mate he had ever employed. He was also the captain's friend, though more often seeking in him a father figure to emulate. Their mutual trust made leadership of the ship efficient and productive. All aboard were contented, knowing they could withstand any storm and find whales where other ships failed.

In their collaboration, Nathan and Melba found unique joy. Over time she discerned patterns that enabled her to catalogue his songs by similarity. She prevailed upon him to consider titles for all of them, even as he continued to produce new ones on her piano and his fiddle. She suggested, more than once, that he buy a new violin at the shop on Main Street, but he would not consider it. He was too devoted to the original instrument that had opened his life to its true calling.

When the ship set sail once again, the young couple promised themselves to each other. It was their secret although everyone knew it was inevitable and, upon the ship's
return, as it neared the shoals on the outskirts of Nantucket harbor with Nathan at the helm and the captain watching carefully at his side, the young man, now twenty-two, gathered his courage and solemnly asked his mentor for Melba's hand.

The wedding was one of the most joyous occasions the tiny island had witnessed in years. Melba was the image of her mother, wearing the same white dress the beautiful woman had worn at her marriage to the captain. Well-known and respected, the family refused to limit the number of islanders invited to the ceremony in the white Presbyterian Church at the top of Main Street. The celebration that followed saw more than five hundred people gathered inside the majestic house, outside in the garden and on the cobblestones of the adjacent street. Fittingly, the late fall day was sunlit and unusually warm. Few could remember such a lovely day so close to the start of winter.