Max called us—Elaine included—into his office yesterday before the afternoon workout, I think to help us with some of that. “Remember at the end of Stotan Week, when I talked about what I thought the lessons were?” he asked, and we nodded our heads. “Remember I said when it comes time to meet the Dragon, you’ll know the depth of your well? Well, the Dragon is here. Nothing they’ve done with Jeff seems to have made much difference in his condition, which is deteriorating, slowly but consistently.”
A collective sigh went out of us.
“I haven’t talked much about this with you for a couple of reasons,” he said. “I wanted to let you sit with it awhile, let you see how you really felt, and I had to do the same for myself. Jeff is real important to me; I’ve known him and his folks for a long time.”
Max put his head down and stared at the floor, then looked up at us with clear eyes. “The point is, the Dragon is here and he seems to have come in the form of Death. He’s ugly. And, guys, what you learned about yourselves during Stotan Week can help you here. The magic wasn’t in gritting your teeth and enduring the pain with no show of emotion. It was in letting go; accepting reality; what is, as they say. That’s the only way you’ll find strength to deal with this. It doesn’t mean Jeff can’t go into remission or get better or whatever, but so far nothing like that has happened. We all need to accept that Jeff may be gone. I know you’ve spent the past month asking why, but ‘why’ isn’t the question. All that’s important is that it’s so.”
Max stood up. “I’m here if anyone needs me. More likely than not, you’ll need each other.” He shook his head. “Guys, I wish I could make it different.”
CHAPTER 15
March 10
Well, the 1985 State swimming meet is history. Turns out you couldn’t have beat me in the 500 free with a club. It was my race and my time. But in no way was it the highlight of my meet, believe it or not.
Jeff gave us a little false hope a couple days before the meet—he actually seemed to improve some. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but he looked to have more color in his face and he was certainly in better spirits. We even talked among ourselves about figuring out a way he could come along and watch, though it was never really a possibility. The fact that the three of us had the overwhelming feeling we were doing it for him made us want him to come see us do it. But Thursday morning, just before we left, I called his house to let him know he was with us in spirit if not in body, and found out that he’d been admitted to Sacred Heart again the night before. Damn it.
The school held a short convocation for us at the end of first period in the gym. Mrs. Stevens gave a little speech about how proud of us they were, and said she was confident we wouldn’t let them down. Max said a few words, which he botched miserably; a public speaker he ain’t. I was supposed to say something as team captain, and all I could think of was this: “We thank you all for supporting us and we want you to know that every stroke we swim will be for Jeff Hawkins.” It was then I realized why I’d been dreading the meet so much. I really had been, though I never mentioned it—not even to myself. I dreaded it because as soon as it was over, there was nothing else to offer Jeff. Workouts have been fierce since we got back from Montana, mostly because we knew we wanted to place absolutely as high as we could in every event in Jeff’s name: so he’d know we were with him; so he’d feel it. We wanted to take the thing we do best, do our best in it, then give it to him. After all, that’s what he asked for.
But when it’s over, what is there?
Outside, in front of the school, as we loaded our suitcases and workout bags into the van, the pep band played the school fight song and the cheerleaders did a couple of silly cheers they converted over from football and basketball to fit swimming. That isn’t easy. The sidewalk was icy and two of them fell on their butts before it was over. It felt warm and good to have all the attention, and for the first time this year I actually wanted to bring home something for the school too, instead of just for us. I guess maybe we’ve been a little arrogant. It isn’t the student body that’s terminating the swimming program.
Devnee came up as we closed the back of the van and pecked me on the cheek and wished me good luck, and the crowd cheered, calling for a big smooch, but I don’t do that stuff in public, so I clowned around and slapped her on the butt and we started loading ourselves into the van. I felt a tug on my coat and turned to see Elaine. She hugged me and said to kick some ass, which I promised I would. Then she said, “Walker, I know what’s been going on with you,” and I gave her a look of complete uncomprehension.
“You know what I’m talking about,” she said, looking through me.
I gave it up and nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “I know what you’re talking about. Sorry.” Then, “How did you know?”
She smiled, closing her eyes, and shook her head. “You think you’re so cool about things. I’m a witch, Walker. You’ve always known that. I know everything.”
“Well,” I said, embarrassed, “it wouldn’t have worked.”
She nodded and raised her eyebrows and said, “Yeah.”
In the van, as we passed Four Lakes and Cheney, Nortie moved into the portable seat, snatched Lion’s sketching pad out of his hands, threw down a deck of cards and said, “Deal.”
Lion closed his eyes and his chin dropped to his chest, and he dealt what turned out to be one of the sorriest Gin Rummy games in modern history. I tell you, the most useful thing either of those two can do with a playing card is to clothes-pin it to the spokes of his bicycle wheel. Sitting up front, talking to Max and listening to the radio, I could remember which cards had been played better than either of them could.
It was a bright day, a hopeful day. This has been a tough winter, probably more snow and cold weather than any winter since I was born, and there have been very few days when anyone saw the sun, but this day was blue and bright and eastern Washington stretched like a soft cotton blanket as far as we could see in any direction. Horses and cattle in the fields modeled shaggy fur coats and hung close together; smoke from farmhouse chimneys drifted straight up, like maybe we were going to get rid of this cold, miserable winter straight out through the ceiling. Max made great time; the roads were bare and dry and he was determined to get us there as fast as possible so we could go over to the pool at the University of Washington, get a good warmup and still have plenty of time for rest. Max coddled us as much on this trip as he worked us in Stotan Week.
The sense of anticipation increased in intensity as we passed by Cle Elum and headed up into the Cascades, over Snowqualmie Pass with its high mountain lakes; then became keener as we moved down toward North Bend and Issaquah, and a half-dozen other little towns named after the people who were really here first. The closer we got to Seattle, the more focused I felt—that city means competition to me, running all the way back to my AAU days. We caught I-5 heading north and took the Lake Washington exit to our motel, right on the shore. We checked in, hung our clothes out, then located the sauna and Jacuzzi. Max took us over to the University then and ran us through about 2,000 yards of half-to-three-quarters-effort workout. I knew from the moment we hit the water he’d tapered me just right. I felt I could have jumped into Puget Sound, swum out to the ocean and kept going right on to Japan, or whatever’s over there. God, I was strong.
We went out for a good fish dinner, then walked around the Wharf awhile, feeling the calm and enjoying the coastal weather, which seemed almost balmy compared to Spokane all winter. But we were missing a piece; there was no redheaded loon giving us running commentary on the history of every boat and building we passed, no one to bring it alive in that exaggerated, sometimes ludicrous way Jeff has of presenting The Truth.
We went back to the motel early and lay around my room, watching TV and shooting the bull. Max turned in early, around 9:30, but we stayed up for Hill Street Blues. I remember thinking I was going to swim my 500 like I imagined Mick Belker would, snarling and growling all the way. I lay awake awhile after everyon
e had gone to their rooms, staring at the ceiling in the dark, visualizing my race, the way Max taught me. I must have swum through it ten or fifteen times, feeling myself putting on the pressure in those middle laps, swimming my own race, allowing no one to pull me into their pace. I saw the prelims first, qualifying in the top four so I’d have an inside lane in the finals. I knew, because of the way they set up the prelims, that I wouldn’t get the best competition there, but that I needed a good time. That was okay; I’ve said it before, I’m good against the clock. I drifted off to the rhythm of my two-beat kick.
Max had us over at the pool by 8:00 the next morning. The 500 prelims are the first event of the meet and he wanted to give me plenty of time to warm up. The defending champ was a senior from Wilson High School in Tacoma, a full-blooded Indian named Charlie Knows-His-Guns, and I stood up in the stands for a while watching him warm up. What a sweet swimmer he is, long and lean, not a whole lot of muscle definition, but smooth and flowing, with long arms and huge hands—big paddles, Max says. He seemed to shoot into each turn, accelerating off the wall like a rocket. I vowed to see him up close later on, for all the marbles.
It was surprising to see how sort of famous we were. Nortie has been a hot number at State for four years, so swimmers always approach him, but my name is new as a threat, so I hadn’t had the celebrity experience before, and I have to say it’s all right. Most of the really good swimmers are on the coast, and see us only at State because we spend most of the season on the eastern side of the state and in Idaho and Montana. To them we’re just names and times on a printout, though a few are kids we know from the old days in AAU.
My 500 prelim is a breeze. I qualify second to Charlie and feel like I’m holding back all the way; and the splits are my fastest ever. Nortie qualifies first in the 200 IM and Lion makes the consolation finals in the 100 ’fly. We’re hot.
After a good rest back at the motel, Max brings me over to the pool an hour before the finals and runs me through a thousand yards or so of pacing.
“Give me a fifty-five-second hundred,” he says, and I’m within two tenths. “Another one,” and he gets it.
“Give me a fifty-three,” he says, and I turn up the heat. The pool fills up with other swimmers and I get into the circle patterns. Some lanes are for continuous swimming, some for 50s, some for 100s; one for sprints. I switch in and out of each at Max’s command, giving him back exactly the pacing he asks for. We are in tune. I blow it out with eight 25-yard sprints, then get out and dry off; and wait.
The State meet is a big deal over here. Swimming is a big deal. The stands start to fill, and ten minutes before the race they’re packed. Adrenaline flows like a river through me.
They introduce us one by one, and we stand on the block facing the crowd, like in the Olympics. Charlie Knows-His-Guns is a hero over here and gets a huge ovation. He’s gracious, almost elegant, as he shakes my hand and says, “Go for it.”
I say, “You too,” and the starter calls us to the blocks. At the gun, we’re off exactly together; no advantage. I’ve got the power, Charlie’s got the finesse. I pull ahead toward the middle of each lap, he catches me on each turn. Coming off the wall through the first 100, we’re neck and neck. I’m swimming easy, really strong, but so is Charlie. Going into the turn at the end of the eighth lap, Charlie pulls ahead a little, maybe a tenth of a body length, and holds it through lap fourteen. On fifteen I pull even, then ahead a little on seventeen. He eats me up on the turn; he’s like a slingshot coming off the wall, but I pull even again before the turn going into nineteen. But I somehow get in too close to the wall on the flip—God, I never do that—and bring my heel down solid on the edge and lay it open. Pain shoots up my leg and I know I’m trailing blood; but I don’t actually lose much because I find the wall quick and get a strong push-off. Charlie gains a hair. My heel is on fire! I hear Max in my head: You can either let it stop you or take it with you.
When I think back, I might have lost the race if I hadn’t mangled my foot. It hurt so bad I forgot about my burning lungs and my arms and pecs starting to go. I just hauled it out—touched Charlie Knows-His-Guns out by three hundredths of a second. The first thing I heard when I touched and looked up at the clock to see my new state record was Nortie and Lion up on the deck screaming, “Stotan! Stotan! Stotan!” Then Max was there with a gauze pad and a towel to wrap my foot, and a big, big grin.
I got back from the University Medical Center with the Wilson High School trainer, who volunteered to take me there, in time to see Nortie win the IM by a half-body length, but I missed Lion’s eighth-place finish in the ’fly: both personal bests, and Nortie’s a state record. The doctor at the Med Center who stitched my heel told me not to swim anymore or I’d wreck his handiwork. I said if I did, I’d be back to give him another shot at it; that I had the 200 tomorrow. He must have been a jock himself, because he said to ask for him.
I did swim, though my foot hurt so bad pushing off the wall in the 200 that I qualified ninth and had to settle for that place in the consolation finals too. Nortie went on to win the 400 IM and place third in the 100 back, so, for such a small team, we amassed quite a few points.
On the second day, at the break between the prelims and the finals, during the coaches’ meeting, I got Max to ask the meet directors and other coaches if they’d let us swim three legs of the 400 free relay, kind of as a tribute to Jeff, and to see where we might have placed. It’s a nine-lane pool and there are only six qualifiers, so there was room to do it without bothering anyone. The unanimous decision was that we couldn’t, mostly because if it turned out to be any kind of distraction at all, someone could protest the race. Max accepted their decision and delivered it to us.
“You guys willing to go for it?” Lion asked, as soon as Max was out of earshot.
We looked at him.
“For Jeff?” he said.
“How?” Nortie asked.
“Trust me.”
As the announcement came over the speaker system for the entries in the 400 freestyle relay, the final race of the State meet, we moved down through the crowd toward the deck, sweatshirt hoods pulled over our heads, clad in Wilson High School warmups appropriated by Lionel Serbousek from several Wilson swimmers who thought it was a great idea. Wilson qualified both their A and B teams for the finals, so there were Wilson warmups all over the deck and we blended right in. We went over and sat against the wall, waiting for the introductions to end. When they named the sixth-place qualifier, I started to shed my warmup and the sweats underneath, then sort of sauntered toward the ninth lane and, as the starter called them to their marks, stepped up on the block. He hesitated a second, and I thought the jig was up, but he pulled the trigger and I was off like a shot. Nortie said there was a little confusion then, with a couple of meet officials running around asking questions and jumping into a quick huddle, but the decision was to go.
The pain in my foot didn’t exist; I was in and out of my turns fast and hard. I couldn’t see the rest of the field, but when you’re going a hundred yards, it doesn’t matter; there’s only one way to do it, and that’s as fast as you can. I touched with the leaders and Lion was stretched out over the water as I glanced up—a perfect start. He was all power; held even with the top two teams all the way. Just after his second turn I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned, face to face with the meet director. He said, “We told you not to do this.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry may not be good enough. Tell your third man not to go.”
I looked him in the eye and said, “Our friend is dying,” and he seemed to soften a little, but he said, “This could cost your whole team disqualification.”
I glanced up behind him to see Max working his way through the crowd. His stopwatch was in his hand, obviously running. I smiled at the director and said, “Nortie’s going to swim.”
It didn’t really matter what I said to the director, I’d have had to hog-tie Nortie to stop him from swimmin
g. He was already on the block and, as Lion powered in for the touch, shot out over the water.
“I suppose you can take back our medals and points,” I said, “but you can’t take back the act.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Our friend is dying.”
Nortie swam like a man possessed, pulling easily away from the field. Most teams swim their slowest legs in the second or third position and their fastest man last, so he needed a good lead—and, boy, he got it, looking like some kind of medium-sized nuclear torpedo. He touched, glanced quickly at the clock; you could see his little computer brain figuring what our time would have been had Jeff been there at his best. He smiled, gave a big nod and got out, waiting for the winners.
The lane ropes they use nowadays, for important meets at least, are a series of large round plastic fine-mesh cylinders, designed to keep any wave action from spilling over into the adjacent lane, so while the fury of the fourth leg boiled in the middle six lanes, our lane nine stood smooth as glass, the reflection of the overhead lights shining back at us and the ghost of Jeffrey Hawkins shooting through the still water. We stood there by the block watching it as Max approached from behind and slid his arms around our wet shoulders. “Pretty good swim,” he said, and Nortie burst into tears.
Something about the joy and pain of that moment, something about the excruciating contrast, made me feel that no matter what happens now, my life has been worth it. What a ride.
As the last Wilson swimmer approached the touch pad, Nortie came to and his eyes locked in on the clock. When it stopped his computer whirred again for a second, then his eyes lit up. “We could have done it!” he screamed. “It’s close, but we might have! We could have done it!” he screamed again, jumping up on the block and facing the crowd. “Awful close! Awful close! We might have!”