“Nothing from Big Al, Billy—believe me, I would tell you,” he said.
Grandpa Harry was making the rounds at his party as a woman now; it was at least an improvement that he was acknowledging to everyone that his daughters were dead—not just late for the party, as he’d earlier said. I could see Nils Borkman following his old partner, as if the two of them were on skis and armed, gliding through the snowy woods. Bob dropped another empty beer bottle, and I kicked it under Grandpa Harry’s living-room couch. No one noticed the beer bottles, not since Grandpa Harry had reappeared—that is, not as Grandpa Harry.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Harry—yours and mine,” Uncle Bob said to my grandfather, who was wearing a faded-purple dress I remembered as one of Nana Victoria’s favorites. The blue-gray wig was at least “age-appropriate,” Richard Abbott would later say—when Richard was able to speak again, which wouldn’t be soon. Nils Borkman told me that the falsies must have come from the costume shop at the First Sister Players, or maybe Grandpa Harry had stolen them from the Drama Club at Favorite River Academy.
The withered and arthritic hand that held out a new beer to my uncle Bob did not belong to the caterer with the dyed-red hair. It was Herm Hoyt—he was only a year older than Grandpa Harry, but Coach Hoyt looked a lot more beaten up.
Herm had been sixty-eight when he was coaching Kittredge in ’61; he’d looked ready to retire then. Now, at eighty-five, Coach Hoyt had been retired for fifteen years.
“Thanks, Herm,” the Racquet Man quietly said, raising the beer to his lips. “Billy here has been asking about our old friend Al.”
“How’s that duck-under comin’ along, Billy?” Coach Hoyt asked.
“I guess you haven’t heard from her, Herm,” I replied.
“I hope you’ve been practicin’, Billy,” the old coach said.
I then told Herm Hoyt a long and involved story about a fellow runner I’d met in Central Park. The guy was about my age, I told the coach, and by his cauliflower ears—and a certain stiffness in his shoulders and neck, as he ran—I deduced that he was a wrestler, and when I mentioned wrestling, he thought that I was a wrestler, too.
“Oh, no—I just have a halfway-decent duck-under,” I told him. “I’m no wrestler.”
But Arthur—the wrestler’s name was Arthur—misunderstood me. He thought I meant that I used to wrestle, and I was just being modest or self-deprecating.
Arthur had gone on and on (the way wrestlers will) about how I should still be wrestling. “You should be picking up some other moves to go with that duck-under—it’s not too late!” he’d told me. Arthur wrestled at a club on Central Park South, where he said there were a lot of guys “our age” who were still wrestling. Arthur was confident that I could find an appropriate workout partner in my weight-class.
Arthur was unstoppably enthusiastic about my not “quitting” wrestling, simply because I was in my thirties and no longer competing on a school or college team.
“But I was never on a team!” I tried to tell him.
“Look—I know a lot of guys our age who were never starters,” Arthur had told me. “And they’re still wrestling!”
Finally, as I told Herm Hoyt, I just became so exasperated with Arthur’s insistence that I come to wrestling practice at his frigging club, I told him the truth.
“Exactly what did you tell the fella, Billy?” Coach Hoyt asked me.
That I was gay—or, more accurately, bisexual.
“Jeez . . .” Herm started to say.
That a former wrestler, who’d briefly been my lover, had tried to teach me a little wrestling—strictly for my own self-defense. That the former wrestling coach of this same ex-wrestler had also given me some tips.
“You mean that duck-under you mentioned—that’s it?” Arthur had asked.
“That’s it. Just the duck-under,” I’d admitted.
“Jeez, Billy . . .” old Coach Hoyt was saying, shaking his head.
“Well, that’s the story,” I said to Herm. “I haven’t been practicing the duck-under.”
“There’s only one wrestlin’ club I know on Central Park South, Billy,” Herm Hoyt told me. “It’s a pretty good one.”
“When Arthur understood what my history with the duck-under was, he didn’t seem interested in pursuing the matter of my coming to wrestling practice,” I explained to Coach Hoyt.
“It might not be the best idea,” Herm said. “I don’t know the fellas at that club—not anymore.”
“They probably don’t get many gay guys wrestling there—you know, for self-defense—is that your guess, Herm?” I asked the old coach.
“Has this Arthur fella read your writin’, Billy?” Herm Hoyt asked me.
“Have you?” I asked Herm, surprised.
“Jeez—sure, I have. Just don’t ask me what it’s about, Billy!” the old wrestling coach said.
“How about Miss Frost?” I suddenly asked him. “Has she read my writing?”
“Persistent, isn’t he?” Uncle Bob asked Herm.
“She knows you’re a writer, Billy—everybody who knows you knows that,” the wrestling coach said.
“Don’t ask me what you write about, either, Billy,” Uncle Bob said. He dropped the empty bottle and I kicked it under Grandpa Harry’s couch. The woman with the dyed-red hair brought another beer for the Racquet Man. I realized why she’d seemed familiar; all the caterers were from the Favorite River Academy dining service—they were kitchen workers, from the academy dining halls. That woman who kept bringing Bob another beer had been in her forties when I’d last seen her; she came from the past, which would always be with me.
“The wrestlin’ club is the New York Athletic Club—they have other sports there, for sure, but they weren’t bad at wrestlin’, Billy. You could probably do some practicin’ of your duck-under there,” Herm was saying. “Maybe ask that Arthur fella about it, Billy—after all these years, I’ll bet you could use some practicin’.”
“Herm, what if the wrestlers beat the shit out of me?” I asked him. “Wouldn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of Miss Frost and you showing me a duck-under in the first place?”
“Bob’s asleep, and he’s pissed all over himself,” the old coach abruptly observed.
“Uncle Bob . . .” I started to say, but Herm Hoyt grabbed the Racquet Man by both shoulders and shook him.
“Bob—stop pissin’!” the wrestling coach shouted.
When Bob’s eyes blinked open, he was as caught off-guard as anyone working in the office of Alumni Affairs at Favorite River Academy ever would be.
“España,” the Racquet Man said, when he saw me.
“Jeez, Bob—be careful what you say,” Herm Hoyt said.
“España,” I repeated.
“That’s where he is—he says he’s never coming back, Billy,” Uncle Bob told me.
“That’s where who is?” I asked my drunken uncle.
Our only conversation, if you could call it that, had been about Kittredge; it was hard to imagine Kittredge speaking Spanish. I knew the Racquet Man didn’t mean Big Al—Uncle Bob wasn’t telling me that Miss Frost was in Spain, and she was never coming back.
“Bob . . .” I started to say, but the Racquet Man had nodded off again. Herm Hoyt and I could see that Bob was still pissing.
“Herm . . .” I started to say.
“Franny Dean, my former wrestlin’-team manager, Billy—he’s in Spain. Your father is in Spain, Billy, and he’s happy there—that’s all I know.”