Ironman

  I start swimming in Williams Lake tomorrow. Mr. S is going to pace me in a rowboat. Hey, Lar, remember that vital organ I said I’d be willing to donate to witness Dr. Stevens telling Redmond what for? Well, it won’t be worth much after I hit the water tomorrow, because I’ll be lucky if it doesn’t freeze harder than a marble and drop to the bottom of Williams Lake. That water’s cold.

  My Stotans are in place, Lar, and I didn’t have to recruit them. I showed up at the weight room the other day, and who was there but Shuja, decked out in baggy shorts and a tank top, with more muscles than I have places, ready to push me through the workout. It’s not like it took all that much for him—hell, he could lift me while I’m lifting weights—but he ran me through all the machines, then pushed me through some free weights, joking about whether I was going to write home on those pencils I have for arms. I probably put in half again my usual workout.

  Then I’m biking over the back roads toward Spangle, and Elvis pulls up beside me in his old man’s pickup, paces me for almost twenty miles. Hudgie’s in the back, holding up a handmade sign that says KICK BUTT FOR ANGRY MANAGEMENT. Mr. Nak said anyone who participates in this madness need come to group only once a week, so I’ve got guys I barely know driving up beside me in the middle of eastern Washington scabland, handing me Gatorade and peeling me bananas. It’s hard to say how good it feels to have these lunatics behind me, and harder to say how scared I am to let them down.

  I finally told Mom about Dad buying the Ultra-Lite for Gerback, and I truly believed she would storm down to the store, pop out his eyeballs, and eat ’em like grapes, she was so mad, but I convinced her to let it ride. When I face him down on this one, I want to take him by surprise.

  That bike is going to cost me some valuable time. The titanium frame weighs about the same as a kite, and the entire machine has less than zero wind resistance. Tell you what, if it were up to me, we’d all ride on 1955 balloon-tire Schwinns. That would separate the men from the goddamn astronauts.

  From this point on, Lar, all I can do is train and race. Since that doesn’t make real good copy, my next contact with you will be from the victory stand.

  Your man of steel in the Northwest,

  Clark Kent

  “The name’s Na—”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Nakatani. What can I do for you?” Lucas Brewster stands behind the checkout counter just inside the entrance to Brewster’s Sporting Goods, absently running a dust rag over the till.

  “Thought we might have a word about your boy.”

  “Is he bombing out of Anger Management, too?” Luke asks.

  Nak straddles a weight bench placed in front of a free-weight display next to the door. “Nope, he sure ain’t. He’s doin’ real fine in Anger Management, as a matter of fact.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I didn’t say there was a problem,” Nak says. “I just thought we might have a word about him. About him and you, actually.”

  “Of course,” Lucas says. “I can take time where my boys are concerned.”

  “That’s good to know. Can’t say the same for the parents of all the kids I work with.”

  “I imagine not,” Lucas says. “So tell me why you’ve come.”

  “I’ve come because I believe a lot of the boy’s problems could be resolved by working on his relationship with you.”

  “You’re saying Bo’s problems are my fault?”

  Nak smiles and shakes his head. “Not at all. I’m sayin’ I believe a lot of his problems could be resolved by workin’ on his relationship with you. The way a boy is with his father means a lot.”

  Lucas stares at his desk. “Well, Mr. Nakatani, my boy doesn’t seem to see it that way.”

  “That’s because he’s a boy, Mr. Brewster. It seems to me that the two of you are locked in a power struggle that’s tearin’ the both of you up.”

  “That’s not a power struggle of my making. Bo knows what he has to do to meet my standards.”

  “To my mind,” Naks says, “don’t much matter who’s makin’ the struggle, only that it’s there. One side or t’other has to ease up.”

  “I’ve tried everything I could think of with that boy, Mr. Nakatani, and nothing works.”

  “I’m assumin’ you’re aware of this Yukon Jack’s thing he’s out there killin’ himself for.”

  “Oh, yes,” Lucas says, “I’m aware of it.”

  “It’s real important to him, sir. I’m thinkin’ it might be a place to start mendin’ some fences. It’d change his whole picture of things if he had your support.”

  Lucas leans back against the counter, folding his arms. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. If I have anything to say about it, Bo’s going to learn an important lesson on that day.”

  “An’ what lesson would that be?”

  “He’s going to learn the cost of having things his own way. And he’s going to learn about quitters.”

  Nak smiles again. “Oh, Mr. Brewster, I don’t think he’ll quit.”

  “He already did,” Lucas says, his eyes narrowing. “Let’s stop playing games, Mr. Nakatani. You know Bo quit the football team this year. In fact, I’ll bet you know a lot about Bo, and you most likely know a lot about me, or at least Bo’s perception of me.”

  “I know some of his perceptions.”

  “So you must think I’m a pretty unreasonable man.”

  “I ain’t had a lot of reason to judge. I’ve perty much been focused on your boy.”

  “Well, let me tell you something,” Lucas says, as if he hadn’t heard Nak’s last sentence. “I’m not unreasonable at all. I’m sure I made some mistakes with Bo—no parent is perfect—but I don’t need some self-righteous Zen-thinking outsider to give me advice about my relationship with my son. I’ve put some feelers out, Mr. Nakatani, and I have a pretty good idea what goes on in that so-called anger management group of yours. In fact, I’ve been thinking of bringing it up with school authorities, because I don’t think you’re helping those kids, entertaining their juvenile ideas—”

  Nak holds up his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Rein ’er in there a minute. I didn’t realize I was in hostile territory. I thought we were talking about your son.”

  “Mr. Nakatani, do you have children?”

  Nak’s eyes soften, and he leans back on the bench. “Is that important?”

  “It is to me, because I think you may be meddling in something you don’t understand. Do you have children, Mr. Nakatani.”

  “No sir, not anymore.”

  “Not anymore. Then I take it you’re divorced?”

  “My children are dead, Mr. Brewster.”

  Nak’s frankness stuns Lucas, and he sits back. “Oh, I’m sorry….”

  “Two daughters an’ a son. Killed in a car wreck, back in Texas.”

  “I really am sorry to hear that. I just—”

  “They died ’cause I was drivin’ drunk.”

  Lucas stares.

  “Right around Christmastime,” Nak says. “Three kids, all under the age of six. Went to a party at a parent’s house; got to drinkin’ this here special homemade eggnog, had a powerful bunch of rum in it. I dropped my wife home around midnight—my ex-wife now—an’ drove over to the baby-sitter’s to round up the kids. Crazy thing, the night started off almost seventy degrees. Time I picked up the kids, we were in the middle of one of them hard-blowin’ west Texas ice storms. I’m three sheets to the wind bringin’ ’em home anyway, an’ the damn wipers just keep blurrin’ the ice across the windshield. Happened real simple-like; quick, too. See these headlights comin’ around the canyon bend an’ I tap the brakes, tryin’ to pull to the shoulder an’ stop because I can’t see. Next thing I know, I’m slidin’ broadside an’ them headlights are growin’ like the devil’s eyes.”

  Nak stands, looking shaken. “Not a scratch on me, Mr. Brewster. Not a scratch. Car’s flat on the shotgun side where my boy is, an’ the entire backseat is gone. Driver’s side is untouched.” Nak takes a deep breath. ?
??Universe made a bubble for me, Mr. Brewster. I was untouched, an’ my children are dead.” Nak pulls on his jacket. “Well, I tell you what sir. I sobered up right quick. I can’t tell you all I wished.”

  Lucas is silent, his eyes averted from Nak’s steely gaze.

  “So no, Mr. Brewster, I don’t have children. But I know about ’em. I figure I know just about how precious they are; I think I know that, sir. An’ I think I know about missed opportunities.”

  Lucas regains his composure. “I’m sorry about your family, Mr. Nakatani. I truly am. But wouldn’t you say it’s possible you have an agenda now, when you work with these kids?”

  “An agenda? No sir, I wouldn’t say I have an agenda. I’d call it more like a crusade.” He thinks a moment. “Yeah, I’d call it a crusade.”

  “So you figure you can pay for your sins working with other people’s children. That’s admirable, but…”

  Nak’s smile is humorless. “You don’t pay for that kind of sin, sir. You beg the universe to teach you the quality of mercy, is what you do, so you can get from one day to the next. An’ then you stand up for kids ever time you get the chance, an’ you stand up for their parents, too, because I’ll tell you what: I can’t stand up for your boy without standing up for you. This is about a father’s relationship with his son, an’ it’s either gonna be there for the both of you, or neither.”

  Lucas takes a deep breath. He is touched by the intensity of this man, and he is touched by his story. But he thinks that this strange Asian cowboy clearly has no sense of what a father-son relationship truly is; how tightly the band between the two needs to be stretched so that the son does not take over. “Mr. Nakatani, I admire what you’re trying to do, I really do. But I’m already working with someone from your school on my son’s problems, and I’m afraid it’s someone who shares a philosophy closer to mine.”

  Nak leans forward on the counter, his body weight supported almost entirely by the iron strands of his arms. “At the risk of wearin’ out a welcome I never had,” he says quietly, “I’m not talkin’ about you workin’ on your son’s problems. That’s the boy’s job. An’ like I said, he ain’t doin’ bad. I’m talkin’ about settin’ the stage for how the two of you will be with each other for the rest of your lives.” He relaxes a bit and sighs. “Your son’s seventeen, Mr. Brewster. His problems belong to him now.”

  A cold cloud settles in over Lucas Brewster. He has been told to let his son find his own way in the world one time too many. “You’re right about one thing, Mr. Nakatani. You’re about to wear out your welcome. Now, I don’t believe in coddling kids, and you do. We’re not going to agree on that, so let’s just stop talking about it. Bo has been a rebel all his life, and if he doesn’t get it under control he’s going to be miserable for the rest of it. I don’t have a lot of control over what happens to him, because he doesn’t live with me, and he won’t listen anyway. But any chance I get to influence things from behind the scenes, I’ll do that. I’m not saying I am doing that, but I will at any opportunity. Now, you’re a professional and so am I. I’m trusting that this conversation will not go back to my son. When I want him to have information, I’ll give it to him. I don’t want you meddling in my life, Mr. Nakatani, so do we have that agreement?”

  Nak straightens to leave. “Yes sir, we do have that agreement. Your son doesn’t need me to interpret what’s goin’ on between y’all. I won’t involve myself in your life, like you asked. But let me tell you somethin’. I’m an adult, an’ your son’s a child. In a good tribe every adult is a parent to every child, so don’t ask me to take myself out of Bo’s life as well.”

  When the door closes and Lucas is alone in the office, rage nearly consumes him. He has a mind to show up at the principal’s office tomorrow morning and demand that Mr. Nakatani do his job and cease meddling in people’s lives. He will not take advice from a man who admittedly screwed up his own family’s life with alcohol, then decided to take a hand in Lucas Brewster’s. And he is damned sick and tired of all these bleeding hearts taking up for Bo just because the boy throws out a little charm.

  I went too far, Nak thinks, walking down the sidewalk outside Brewster’s Sporting Goods. I gave him information he couldn’t use, an’ I scared him. I should have let it be. It’s gonna play out whether I like it or not. An’ I guess it needs to.

  CHAPTER 15

  Bo packs his gear carefully into the back of the Blazer late Friday afternoon. Yukon Jack’s River Resort lies eighty-five miles south and west of Clark Fort, and he’ll drive halfway this evening, then camp along the river. His mother and Jordan will drive down early tomorrow morning with Lionel and Mr. Nakatani, leading the Angry Management Caravan, as Hudgie calls it.

  Tonight Bo wants to be alone with his challenge. When your role in life is to be a smartass for the benefit of all within earshot, he tells himself, it’s good to get alone and welcome some seriousness. Yukon Jack’s is famous throughout the state for its carnival atmosphere, and many physically less-taxing events than the triathlon are scheduled for this weekend: contests for beer guzzling, sailing cow pies, chasing tumbleweeds, and the like. There is need for focus.

  He drives under the speed limit to a wide, clam spot on the river where his father used to take him fishing, and he sets up a small camp only feet from the shoreline. Wrapped in a warm jacket and watching the sun drop below the bluffs across the river, he considers the sadness lodged like an anvil in his chest. At five, he caught his first fish in this exact spot. Lucas Brewster patiently showed him how to bait his hook, helped him cast his line into the smooth, flowing waters. He untangled Bo’s line from the reeds growing close to shore eight or nine times before the tiny fish finally struck, and he stood back and let the boy bring it in alone. Bo felt so proud he thought his chest would burst.

  Where was that father? What happened to him? How did it get like this?

  Sitting on the shore now, watching the last light give way to a moonless night so dark the sky seems a carpet of stars, Bo looks to his future. He’ll graduate in less than a month, maybe go to college next year, maybe get a job. A lot depends on Shelly’s plans, because he can’t imagine not having her there to touch. Whatever he chooses, he promises himself, he’ll always give himself physical challenges. He loves the way his body has responded over these past months as he stretched, tuned, and pushed it toward Yukon Jack’s, hugely thankful for the way it has encased his spirit and his mind.

  As he drifts into dreamless sleep, the air crisp inside his nostrils, crickets singing, stars dancing, Bo Brewster yearns to become a man.

  “Got you some headgear,” Shuja says, handing Bo a light blue sailor’s hat, brim turned down all around. A set of Sportsman earphones is hemmed into the underside, the cord dangling down the back. STOTAN is embroidered in rainbow colors across the front. “Keep the sun offa you head in the run,” Shuja says. “Fit under your helmet on the bike.” He hands Bo a neoprene belt and pouch with a Walkman inside. “Words of wisdom in there,” Shuja says. “Punch ’em at the gun.”

  Bo turns the hat over in his hands, then tries it on. The ’phones are perfectly placed, and the cord is just long enough to reach the tune belt when he straps it around his waist. He pops open the Walkman to see a tape with a blank label, smiles, and shakes his head, imagining what wisdom must lie within.

  The parking lot at Yukon Jack’s boat landing, on the shore of the Columbia River near the southern border of the state, is beginning to fill with cars, many outfitted with bicycle racks supporting the latest in sleek, colorful, technologically advanced two-wheel rockets, and vans with license-plate holders reading TRIATHLETES DO IT IN THREES and MARATHON MAN and such. Flashy rainbow cycle wear stretches tight over four percent body fat as contestants perform last-minute fine-tuning on spokes and sprockets, and joke with familiar faces.

  Bo opens the back of the Blazer, glancing around in search of the CFU team as he carefully removes his racer. He examines the interior of the bicycle seat bag for his extra tub
e and repair equipment, then checks the cooler for Gatorade, which he will dump into his drinking bottle shortly before the race starts.

  “Great hat,” Shelly says, moving toward him from the late registration table.

  “Like that? Shuja gave it to me a minute ago. It’s a regular mobile sound system. He said there are words of wisdom on this tape. Wanna check it out?”

  “Touch the play button before the gun goes off, and I tear off your arms,” Shelly says. “That tape is perfectly timed.”

  Bo pulls his air pump from the back of the Blazer, shaking his head and smiling. They made me a tape, he thinks. Is that great or what?

  Muffled rock pulsates across the dusty parking lot as Ian Wyrack pulls in, seat-dancing to a bass-heavy version of “Fire Lake.” He cuts the engine but remains in the car until the song is finished, glancing out at Bo. He gives a quick wave that turns into an extended middle finger the moment Bo waves back.

  “He’s a real prick, isn’t he?” The voice comes from behind.

  “That doesn’t give pricks much credit,” Bo says, and turns, discovering himself face-to-face with Lonnie Gerback. “Hey, Lonnie, how ya doin’? Think you can give these guys a big enough lead?”

  “Gonna try,” Lonnie says. “Cycling season starts pretty soon, and I want to hammer out a short one to see where I am.”

  It does not bode well for Bo Brewster that Lonnie Gerback considers this race a “short one,” but his respect does not register. He nods at the sleek black racer beside Gerback. “Nice bike.”

  “Hell of a nice bike,” Lonnie says. “Want to try it?”