Champion of the World

by Chad Dundas

  He was by himself in the dormitory hall, resting a set of broken ribs, the first time Willem Van Dien came to see him. Van Dien ran the academy’s wrestling team and he was one of the older brothers, into his early fifties by the time Pepper arrived—ancient in the eyes of a twelve-year-old. The boys all called him “Professor,” though Van Dien freely admitted never graduating past grammar school in his native Denmark. Later, when they became better acquainted, Pepper discovered Van Dien had been arrested at age nineteen for stealing a pair of women’s shoes from a fashionable shop in Copenhagen. Somehow, instead of jail, he wound up on a boat to America, where he enlisted in the Union army to win his citizenship. It was in the army camps of the Civil War that Van Dien learned the brutal style of catch-as-catch-can wrestling he would eventually teach the boys at the orphanage. That day, though, Pepper didn’t know a thing about him as he squatted next to him and talked to Pepper in a low, kindly voice.

  “Do you know why you bit that boy?” Van Dien asked him, and Pepper twisted on his cot. He was nervous in the presence of this man, with his cool blue eyes and stale coffee breath. “No?” Van Dien said when Pepper didn’t answer him. “Well, I do. You wanted him to remember you. Even though you lost that fight, you wanted to leave your mark on him.”

  “How’s that, sir?” Pepper said. Had this man come there to punish him?

  “You took a piece out of him. There’s no shame in admitting it,” he said. “You wanted those boys to think twice the next time.”

  “It was a mistake, sir.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But it showed me you’ll do what it takes to survive. Have you ever thought about wrestling?”

  The gym Van Dien had constructed was a simple rectangular room that smelled of varnished pine. There were no mats, and the boys wrestled on the bare wooden planks. The room’s only decoration was a large canvas mural depicting a yellow sun rising over a dark mountain, and underneath in unpretentious script, a quote from Ephesians: Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.

  Professor Van Dien became the first and only real wrestling coach Pepper ever had. As he stood in the weeds outside the hunting camp’s garage, he decided that if he could muster half the old man’s knowledge and poise, things would be all right with Taft. The air was sharp and fresh, and for the first time since the big sawmiller had knocked him out on the floor of that barroom back in Oregon, he felt a rush of hope.

  After a few minutes he began to hear the slapping and grunting noises of Fitch and Prichard warming up. He walked back inside, finding the two men pushing each other around the mat in a collar-and-elbow tie.

  “Easy, boys,” he called out to them. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  Fritz showed up an hour later, looking pale and tired in just a pair of light slacks and an undershirt beneath his jacket. He didn’t seem surprised to find training not yet under way for the day—that it was just Pepper sitting on one of the benches, watching Fitch and Prichard take turns trying to climb the rope.

  “All these weights,” Pepper said as he came over and sat down. “You’d think we were getting ready for a beauty contest.”

  “Don’t start,” Fritz said. “I drank too much and now I’m going to die.”

  “No Taft yet,” Pepper said.

  “He’ll be along,” Fritz nodded. “Taft’s all right. He’s one of the boys, just like you and me.”

  “I’m not sure he would see that as a favorable comparison,” Pepper said. “So far he doesn’t seem particularly taken with me.”

  “He isn’t accustomed to being pushed,” Fritz said. “He likes getting his way.”

  “Don’t we all,” Pepper said.

  On the other side of the room, Fitch had managed to get himself halfway up the rope before he let go and crashed back to his feet, shaking his hands like the thing had bit him.

  “You think we need to have a talk here?” Pepper said. “Me and you?”

  “A talk about what?”

  “You know what. About last night.”

  “About your wife trying to bilk me out of a cut of the promoter fees, you mean?”

  “Not that,” he said.

  Fritz sighed the sigh of the terribly hungover and pinched the bridge of his nose with two sausage fingers. “I know everybody wants it to be a perfect world,” he said. “Like big-money wrestling matches just fall out of the sky and we all get rich. But you know it doesn’t work like that.”

  “If you’re getting into hock with people like James Eddy, I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I should take advice from you?” Fritz said. “Because you handled that part of your life so well when you had the chance?”

  He was trying to think of something smart to say to that when Prichard—himself now nearing the top of the rope—cried out and fell, landing flat on his back in a puff of dirt a few feet from the weight racks. He groaned and rolled onto his side and lay there wheezing while Fitch came and stood over him.

  “Ker-clunk,” Fitch said.

  Pepper grimaced. “You got an extra set of tights lying around?” he said to Fritz. “I might need you here.”

  That made Fritz laugh. “Not me,” he said. “Not today.”

  They had just gotten Prichard up onto one of the benches and sitting with a towel draped over his head when Taft came in wearing a long winter overcoat with fur on the lapels. Pepper and Fritz both stood up, but, instead of coming over to them, Taft walked to the other side of the gym and shrugged out of the coat, taking care to lay it flat across a row of bleachers.

  If he stood shy of six and a half feet, it was only by an inch or so, and his shoulders were piled high with muscle. He easily slung one leg up onto the top step of the bleachers and reached to grab his toe, pressing his great bald head close to his knee. His only obvious weaknesses were his long, skinny limbs and the slight pooch of gut that hung over the waist of his trunks. As he straightened up he turned, and Pepper saw the scars again, the mottled pink mass that made it look like his back was boiling.

  Taft took his sweet time limbering up, and when he finally made his way over to Fritz and Pepper, he seemed to gaze over the tops of their heads out the open end of the garage.

  “Here’s how this’ll work,” he said. “Tuesday and Thursday are my grappling days. I roll for an hour in the morning and an hour in the afternoon, with an hour break between for lunch. Monday and Wednesday are for my strength and wind training. Mornings we do roadwork, down the hill to the edge of town and back. Then we break for lunch. Afternoons or evenings I lift weights and do drills if I choose. I don’t do squat thrusts on account of my knees and I don’t do pull-ups after one of these”—he pointed out Fitch and Prichard like there was no word for them—“messed up my shoulder. Fridays, I run and then drive into town to get my rubdown at the Chinaman place. If we have to meet at all that day for business, what have you, it’ll be after I return. Saturdays and Sundays I reserve for my wife. That’s our private time together and I won’t be disturbed. Monday morning we go again with weights and wind, see? It’s a good schedule, and if we can stick to it, we won’t have any troubles.”

  His voice was a sweet baritone, a hint of book learning and good manners making it sound friendlier than it should have. He showed an easy grin, and when he finally looked Pepper in the eye, it was plain and unchallenging. The look you give a steward when you ask if he could bring your bags up from the lobby. Fritz turned to Pepper like he should say something.

  Pepper chewed on his bottom lip, weighing different ways to play it. Finally he said: “What day is it today?”

  Fritz patted the pockets of his pants like he might pull out his watch and then said it was Tuesday.

  “Very good,” Pepper said. He clapped his hands and swept an arm out to the side like a theater usher, inviting Taft out onto t
he mat with Fitch. Prichard was still getting his breath back from his fall, towel hanging around his shoulders, watching.

  As Taft shook out his arms and strolled onto the mat, he gave Pepper a look out the corner of his eyes, as if to let him know he understood he was being tested. Fitch came at him in a crouch and they’d barely touched hands before Taft went under him with a tackle so fast, it made Pepper smile to himself. Sprawling his legs backward, Taft walked a full circle around Fitch’s prone body before shoving him away and letting him get back to his feet. It was a pure show-off move, and Fitch had barely gotten up before Taft swooped in and took him down again. This time he leveraged him onto his side, snared his arm in a hammerlock, and used it to roll him to his back. Fitch was helpless, kicking his feet in the air like a dog in its owner’s arms. Taft pinned him and slapped his own hand on the mat.

  “Fall,” he announced, voice booming in the rafters.

  They stood once more and Taft called out for the Cumberland style. The two men began again with chests pressed together, chins resting on each other’s shoulders. It seemed for a moment that Fitch might be able to overpower Taft, but Taft was just playing possum, letting the smaller man back him up before he suddenly twisted his hips for an easy throw. Fitch bounced completely off the mat and into the dirt, coming to rest near the same spot where Prichard had fallen off the rope. He was bleeding from one elbow but smiled and punched Taft lightly on the arm to tell him good job as they passed. Taft patted Fitch on the belly.

  They went once more in the Irish style, starting from a collar and elbow. It lasted barely ten seconds before Taft simply whipped him off his feet. Both guys had a light sweat going, and as Fitch collected himself Taft put up a hand to call for a five-minute break. Fitch went back to the side of the garage where Prichard was up and stretching and Taft walked back to the bleachers, where he rested his elbows on his knees and sat dripping sweat into the dirt.

  “What do you think?” Fritz said, a sly smile creeping across his wide face.

  Pepper thought it was a joy to watch Taft move. There was a smoothness to everything he did, a glide in his step, a thoughtless grace in how he floated around the mat with the speed of a much smaller man. He was like an enormous greyhound, sleek and quick, albeit a few years past his prime. The spectator in him wanted nothing more than to sit and enjoy the show, yet in the same instant the wrestler in him was already cataloging Taft’s weaknesses. He saw at once that his greatest strength was also his biggest fault: Things were too easy for him. In his effortlessness, Pepper saw holes. Taft misplaced his feet on certain throws, leaving himself open for easy counters, his moves unguarded, as if he was so sure of his own success that he didn’t see the point in being cautious.

  “I think Lesko will wipe the floor with him,” Pepper said, and watched Fritz’s smile falter a bit. “Let’s see how he does here.”

  This time Taft worked against Prichard, who was bigger, younger and more mobile than Fitch. They ran a few drills first, moving through tackles and defensive positions at half speed, going light. Then Taft called out for the catch-as-catch-can style and the intensity picked up. Prichard came out of his corner aggressively during their first go, backing Taft up against the edge of the mat. The bigger man went with it, letting the momentum build until he suddenly dropped into a fireman’s carry, tossing Prichard over his shoulders like a farm boy bucking bales. As soon as he hit the ground, Prichard tried to scramble to his feet, but Taft threw himself with surprising elegance across his opponent’s back.

  Prichard’s hands went to his throat as Taft roped a massive arm around it in search of a stranglehold, a sly smile creeping across his face. They started hand fighting, huffing and puffing, and at first it looked like it would be only a matter of time before Prichard conceded. He was a veteran, though, and didn’t panic, finally making some space for himself to breathe. All at once he sat out and hit a switch, kicking his hips out of Taft’s grasp and stepping around to reverse the position. The move elicited a whoop of excitement from Fitch, who was sitting cross-legged just off the edge of the mat.

  Pepper could see from the pained looked in Taft’s eyes and the grunting sounds coming from both men that, maybe for the first time all morning, he was in trouble. Though he now found himself in a defensive position, Taft was still too strong to allow Prichard to get his arm around his neck.

  All at once, Prichard seemed to give up on the idea of a choke, ducking low to seize one of Taft’s ankles. Taft grunted in surprise but couldn’t pull his leg free as Prichard tried to use the hold to turn him over to his back. Prichard went for a toehold, the kind of move that could easily tear a knee or coil up an ankle if done in real competition. Usually the man stuck in it had no choice but to save himself by conceding, or offering up an easy pin. Prichard almost had the lock closed and Pepper could see Taft grimacing in pain as he fought against it. Fritz had opened his mouth as though he might say something, when suddenly Taft flipped himself into a kind of belly-down somersault and wrenched his foot free.

  It was a beautiful escape and before they knew it, Taft had completely swallowed one of Prichard’s legs, wrapping his arms around the calf and folding his legs around a thigh. For a moment Taft was upside down, but the force of the move sent Prichard toppling to the mat. He was done and knew it, unable to free the leg against the force of Taft’s body. Putting Prichard’s ankle under his armpit, Taft barred his knee in a way that would hyperextend it if Prichard didn’t quit. He cried out and then slapped the mat to concede, his face showing the pain and frustration.

  Taft turned him loose and they both rolled to their knees, facing opposite directions, their chests heaving and eyes blinking. Fitch clapped once in appreciation. It was a good round. Pepper sat back, pressing his back against the side of the garage, realizing he was sweating.

  “That’s it,” Taft said, waving one hand dismissively. “I’m done for today.”

  They hadn’t been at it much longer than an hour. Pepper looked up but couldn’t catch Fritz’s eye as he crossed the room to where Fitch and Prichard were toweling off, collecting their belongings as if this were the normal state of things. Fritz clapped both men on the back, chattering to them as he began peeling bills off a roll of cash he’d pulled from his pocket. Taft stayed on his knees for a bit longer, then slowly hoisted himself upright. He tipped his head back, eyes closed, and paced a circle around the mat before turning toward the bleachers. From the look of him, you’d think he’d just returned from the war. Pepper snorted and was about to say something about what a meager practice it had been when Taft stumbled and his legs gave out. He put out a hand as if to catch himself, but his knees buckled and he crashed down onto the floor of the garage.

  “Christ,” said Fritz, dropping his bankroll on the ground as he raced over.

  Pepper got there at the same moment and together they rolled Taft onto his back, like turning a great log. He flopped over, his eyes shut, one half of his face sticky with blood and dirt. Fritz brushed at it with a handkerchief and tried to bring Taft around with a few light slaps on the cheek.

  “It must be exhaustion,” Fritz said, pressing the cloth to a cut under Taft’s chin.

  “It goddamn well better not be,” Pepper said, pulling the man’s impossibly long legs out from his body and hoisting them up to try to force the blood back toward his head.

  Pepper asked if there were any smelling salts and Fritz just shrugged helplessly. Prichard and Fitch loomed over them, murmuring to each other until Pepper yelled at them to give him air. As they stepped back Taft stirred, his eyes fluttering open as if waking from a nightmare, one hand coming up to his face, smearing the blood.

  “What happened?” he asked, voice thick.

  “You swooned, beautiful,” Pepper said. “Fainted dead away.”

  Taft yanked his feet free and stood, shaking his head from side to side to clear the cobwebs.

  “Easy,” Fritz said. “Eas
y. Not too fast.”

  Taft ignored him, patting his face with a towel before draping it across his shoulders. He turned, realizing they were all still staring at him, and a menacing look flickered across his face.

  “I didn’t eat breakfast,” he said. “That’s all.”

  He folded his heavy coat over one arm in a way that reminded Pepper of a man returning from the opera. It was slow going, still a little unsteady on his feet, but he spun on a heel and walked out of the garage, his head high and his shoulders back, disappearing into the shaft of bright sunlight that filled the doorway.

  The big orange tomcat sat on the porch while Moira split wood. The axe she found buried in a stump behind the cabin was rusted but sharp, so she went along slow and careful as she chopped a few logs into kindling, trying not to imagine the sorts of infections she might get if she cut herself. When she had enough to fill the little box beside the stove, she walked up to pump water from the well, filled a glass for herself, and put a little saucer down for the cat.

  “Here’s to pioneer days,” she said as they both drank. It had been hard work and the water tasted icy and sweet.

  She left the front door open while she lit a fire and filled a cast-iron teakettle with the rest of the water. When it boiled, the shriek from the kettle sent the cat racing off across the road and back into the woods. Moira brewed a batch of tea from a jar of loose leaf she found above the sink and carried it across the lawn on a wooden tray with two cups and a sugar dish, a spoon but no sugar.

  Fritz’s hired girl answered the door to the lodge in a yellowing dress, telling her to wait while she fetched Mrs. Taft. Moira set the tray on the porch’s small sun table. From the amount of time she had to stand there, she knew Mrs. Taft was still asleep.