by Eli Easton
“It was fun watching the match tonight. I never thought I’d be into wrestling, but I’m getting a feel for it. The scoring moves and all that.”
Mack gave a sardonic laugh. “You don’t have to pretend you like it for my sake.”
“I’m serious! It obviously takes strategy and strength. Thighs. You clearly need two good thighs. And feet! Feet are so critical. And you have to outthink your opponent. Lightning fast reflexes.” I did a quick judo-hands movement.
Mack looked bemused. “You’ve dissected the sport superbly. You should be on ESPN.”
“I know, right? Except I think it was only fun because I had someone to root for.”
Mack was silent for a minute. Then he said quietly, “I liked having you there, Gabe.”
I tried not to grin so hard my lips fell off. It was a challenge. “Really? Did you show off for me tonight? Just a little bit?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But I’d never admit that out loud.”
“Oh no! I heard you. You said maybe, and maybe is as good as a hell yes when you’re a stubborn-ass Vasquez like me. Give us an inch and we take ten.” I waggled my eyebrows at Mack.
“Ten? Is that all you can take?” Mack said dryly.
My mouth dropped open, and I stumbled. Mack had to steady me with a hand before I did a face-plant into the sidewalk. “Madre de Dios, you’re joking. Right?” I gasped as I pulled myself together.
Mack just grinned evilly and said nothing.
Perkins was decked with red-tinsel streamers for the holidays and packed with patrons when we got there. Other folks had come over from the wrestling meet too, and Owen and Mack ended up signing stuff. Owen was very laid-back about it, and Mack followed his lead. He glanced at Jim a few times, which made me think he liked looking like a big shot in front of his father. Interesting. I wondered what their relationship was like. Jim was obviously proud of Mack. He kept up a tough-guy reserve, which explained where Mack got it from. But you could see that pride shining in his eyes.
Finally we grabbed a table and everyone took pains to make sure Mack was seated next to me. Hell, I wasn’t about to complain. We all ordered hamburgers with fries except for Owen and Mack, who got the salmon.
When the food came, Jim watched Mack dress his salmon with mustard. He looked disgusted. “The only thing I hate about wrestling is watching Mack starve himself. They need a higher weight class. And I’ve written ’em about it too.”
“It’s fine, Pops,” Mack said, like it was an old argument.
“With your frame, two eighty-five isn’t enough.”
“It’s my last year. After March, I won’t have to ever do it again. Besides, it’s good for me to eat healthy.”
I picked up a lovely looking french fry and studied it. “There’s gotta be a recipe for healthy fries. I hate to see you suffer.” I grinned at him as I took an exaggerated bite.
Mack gave me an amused look. “Even healthy food has calories. You’re gonna put me over my limit if you keep making me stuff.”
“Gabe cooks for you?” Jim asked with interest.
“No. Well. He, um, made me some healthy cookies.” Mack looked around with feigned disinterest, but two spots of color appeared on his cheeks.
“Oh did he?” Jim leaned forward. “You should go steady with this one, Mack. He’s real pretty, and he cooks for you too.”
“Pops!” Mack sounded horrified.
I scrambled to think of something to say to dispel the awkward. “I think it’s cool that you’re so open-minded,” I told Jim. “My dad knows I’m gay, but he just ignores the subject. Like it’s a bad smell.”
Jim waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, fuck that. Son, I was in prison for six years. Believe me when I say I’ve seen love of all types, shapes, and sizes. Whatever makes Mack happy is okay by me. Long as you respect him and treat him right.”
The table got very quiet. Mack poked at his food, his face tight. Jordan and Owen exchanged a look.
“Ah, damn it. Sorry, Mack. I didn’t mean… Goddamn it.” Jim put down his burger and rubbed at his head with one big, beefy hand. He clutched at his hair in a way that looked like it hurt, his face tortured.
Mack leaned forward to take his dad’s hand. He gently lowered it. “It’s okay, Pops. I already told Gabe you spent time in prison.” Mack sat back and looked at Owen and Jordan. “My dad went to prison for aggravated assault when I was a kid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. McDonall,” Owen said carefully.
“Yeah, Mack, that must have been really hard,” Jordan agreed. But I could tell from their blank expressions that they weren’t sure how to take it.
Jim closed his eyes and heaved a few deep breaths, as if trying to calm down. It sort of scared me a little. Like, was he all right? Did he have anger problems? Because if he did, he would be damn scary at his size. But then he opened his eyes and they were filled with sorrow, not rage.
“I worked for a guy who wanted me to squeeze people, people who didn’t make payments to him on time. I tried not to hurt people, I honestly did. But one night things got outta hand. Am I ashamed and embarrassed about what I done? Hell yes. But I paid a heavy price for what happened. And we’re doin’ okay now. Me and my boy.” He looked at Mack, his eyes haunted. “Aren’t we doin’ all right, Mack?”
“Yeah, Pops. We’re doing fucking awesome.” Mack forced a smile. He took a bite of his fish and nodded at his dad’s plate. “Go on and eat that before it gets cold. I’m living vicariously through you, you know.”
Jim grunted and took a bite of his burger, but it didn’t keep him quiet for long. “Mack, he’s got a head on his shoulders. He won’t have to earn his living being a brute like me. Did he tell you guys he’s gonna be a civil engineer?” Jim said the words with the kind of awe another person might reserve for “supreme court justice.”
Owen nodded. “Yeah. That’s impressive. Mack’s always studying, even on our away trips.”
“Gabe was telling me more about what Mack wants to do,” Jordan added. “About working to protect cities from climate change. That’s so noble. Me, I just wanna draw comic books.”
“It is noble. He’s a rock star.” I said it without thinking it through. It made me sound all moony, but, fuck it, it was true.
Mack turned his head to look at me. “Yeah? You think so? You can have my autograph if you want.”
I snorted and pushed him with my shoulder. Of course, he didn’t budge at all.
“I just hope he finds a good job with that degree,” Jim said. “It’s a tough job market out there.”
“I’ll find a job, Pops. Don’t worry.”
“I know you will, Mack,” George agreed with a fond smile. “You’re smart and a hard worker.”
“You know he could keep wrestling,” Jim went on. “Bet some of those pro wrestlers make millions, like ball players. Only Mack doesn’t want to do that. See, I always told him not to fight. It’s not worth it.”
I chewed a french fry and listened, wanting to hear more.
“The problem with being a tough guy is, people expect you to act mean, even when that’s the last thing you wanna be. And there’s always somebody tougher, or someone with a gun. And the bigger you are, the more likely they are to shoot first and ask questions later.” He leaned over to cup the back of Mack’s neck, his eyes shining with affection. “That’s not the way it’s gonna be for my boy. No way. It’s not worth it.”
“It’s not worth it,” Mack agreed. He patted his father’s arm. “But I’m not going to do that kind of work, so you don’t need to worry. Now eat your food before it gets cold, Pops. How you doing over there, George?”
“I’m doing great!” George said, picking at his french fries. “Just happy to see you, Mack.”
Mack gave him a real smile. “Me too. Glad you felt up to coming tonight.”
I could tell Mack had given up being embarrassed by anything his dad said. At this point, the cat was out of the bag, and he probably figured what the hell. Jordan st
arted talking about how Owen wanted to coach and about California, where they’d probably end up living. The atmosphere at the table got chattier and louder, more like one big normal family. It triggered some old memories of vacations spent in Mexico City, with about a million relatives gathered around a table talking about twelve things at once. I had a pang of missing those days.
But no, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but right there at that moment. I was glad to be able to see Mack like this, to meet his family. Jim McDonall was certainly a character, but meeting him helped me understand Mack a little better. And seeing how careful Mack was with George was pretty sweet too.
“The fun thing about wrestling,” Owen said, “is that you get to be big and tough and feel like a badass without actually fighting.”
“No, now wrestling’s a sport,” Jim said adamantly. “There’s rules and a ref and all of that. It’s not fighting at all. Though I’m sure fucking glad Mack didn’t go into boxing. Those boxers get hurt for real, all those head blows. Hey, did you see that match between Vargas and Salido?”
“Oh yeah! That was awesome,” Owen perked up.
“They were well-matched,” Mack agreed. “I read there were over sixteen hundred punches thrown in that bout. Now that’s a fight.”
“Was that the one where you screamed at the TV?” Jordan asked.
“I always scream at the TV, babe,” Owen winked.
“Yeah, but usually that’s during The Walking Dead. I remember you screaming at a boxing match recently.”
“Vargas shoulda won,” Mack said, shaking his head.
“Totally!” I agreed, waving my hand. I had no idea who they were talking about, but it didn’t really matter.
I was happy to check out and just listen as they talked about sports. The warm weight of Mack’s thigh pressed into mine under the table, and that was enough to keep me content. I wanted to lean against him. That big warm body drew me like a magnet. Dios, that would feel so nice! But I stuck to my private airspace. I didn’t have the right to act like a couple in front of Mack’s dad, or even Jordan and Owen, much less the entire population of Perkins.
Would I ever? I could only dream.
My hand brushed Mack’s a few times when we went to pick up our glasses. The second time, we let them linger side by side on the table, barely touching. It made me feel warm and fuzzy. Also? I wanted to jump his bones.
I sat there fantasizing about how lovely it would be to just swing myself around and climb into that lap.
Patience was so not my strong suit.
At one point, Mack looked down at me and gave me a small smile. His eyes said, Thanks for being cool about my dad.
I nodded. No worries. I’m not that easy to scare off.
I could only hope the same was true of Mack.
On Saturday morning, I called St. Mark’s to ask Sharon Mandel if I could interview some of the kids on Monday or Tuesday after school.
“Weekdays aren’t great,” she said in a distracted voice. “But why don’t you come help us decorate for the dinner? We’re doing that this afternoon. Show up at the Elks Lodge between one and five. You can interview some of the kids there. Elbow grease mandatory, I’m afraid.”
“Um… I’d like to, but I’m not sure I can.” I had a ton of homework to do, and I needed to make significant progress on the article. I wanted to add more background for the version I’d submit for my class.
“Mack McDonall will probably be there today,” Sharon threw out there, all casual.
“W-what?” I couldn’t believe I’d heard her right. It was like my imagination had made it up.
“Mack?” she said sweetly. “I think you said you knew him. He often shows up to help us decorate for the Christmas party. Of course, I can’t promise he will this year.”
Wow. Sharon sure knew her way around a little blackmail. No wonder St. Mark’s was so efficiently run.
“You’re evil,” I said.
Sharon laughed. “Oh, Gabriel! I haven’t raised boys for thirty years without learning something about motivation. See you this afternoon.”
I took extra care getting ready—showering, fussing with my hair, and putting on a soft pair of old jeans, a fitted black long-sleeved T-shirt, and my beloved black Doc Martens.
It occurred to me that Sharon might be pulling my leg. But what if Mack really did show up? What if he was still active with St. Mark’s? I’d assumed that was part of his past, like my own high school, that he had nothing more to do with them, an unfortunate memory he’d want to forget.
But now I realized that was a pretty ignorant assumption. St Mark’s was right there in Madison. And Mack was a loyal guy—just look at how he treated his dad and that other guy, George. Maybe Sharon Mandel was like a mom to him. Or maybe he was still tight with some of the kids at St. Mark’s. Some of the older kids could have been there when Mack lived in the home.
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Mack had a lot of walls. He let very few people in. But I got the sense that, once you were in, you were in to stay. Mack didn’t walk away from his responsibilities or his family.
That thought really got to me as I drove over to the Elks Lodge. It even choked me up to the point where the road blurred. What the fuck was wrong with me? I was not the blubbery sort, not wiseass Gabriel Martin. But then I made the connection.
My own father had walked away from my mom and from us three kids and just started a new life somewhere else. He was content to see us once in a blue moon. And everyone accepted it like that’s just how life was. But apparently, I was still really fucking angry about it.
Those old feelings would do jack all for me today, though, so I stuffed them back down deep where they belonged, turned on some Lady Gaga, and bellowed my way through the rest of the drive.
By the time I parked at the Elks Lodge, it was 2:00 p.m. I didn’t want to appear overeager, but I didn’t want to risk missing Mack either. I hung up my black parka on a coatrack by the door, so my best self was on full display, and found my way to the dining hall. It was a zoo inside. Sharon, Walter Stickle, several older ladies, and a twenty-something girl I recognized from my visit to St. Mark’s were inside, along with at least twenty kids. Some of them were at a long table making crafts with construction paper and assorted art supplies. Some were on the floor drawing a large brick fireplace on a huge sheet of paper. And a few, including Sasha and Josh, were hanging around by the windows, looking out at the lake. There was no sign of Mack.
I wandered over to where Sharon was helping the kids at the craft table. She was cutting a stack of white paper, making a snowflake banner.
“Hi, Sharon. How can I help?”
She looked up, her gaze running over me assessingly. She looked vaguely amused. “Gabriel Martin, intrepid newspaper reporter. I liked the first part of your article. Thank you for that. We’ve already had calls this morning from people wanting to donate.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Wow. That was an awesome feeling. I’d forgotten that part one was supposed to run in this morning’s edition. I needed to grab twenty copies or so, send some to my mom. She’d be thrilled. And Sharon liked it! And it had even resulted in donations to the home.
The power of journalism. I felt mighty. At the same time, I wanted to dig my toe into the carpet in an “aw shucks.” I resisted. “Yeah. Glad it, uh, helped.”
Sharon looked around. She nodded her chin toward the windows. “Why don’t you interview those rascals over there, since they’re not busy? Then I’d love to see what you can do with snowflakes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I went over to the windows. I dug out my phone so I could record.
“Hey, guys! Hi, Sasha. Hi, Josh.”
“You’re the Spanish dude.” Sasha was holding Josh’s hand as he tried to walk on the thin lip at the bottom of the wall of windows.
“Also known as Gabe to my best and closest friends.” I felt all sorts of cheeky after Sharon’s praise. “If you’re very nice to me, I’ll let you
call me that.”
“I like Spanish Dude better.” Sasha was not impressed by me at all.
I laughed. “Okay, Baseball Girl. We can use nicknames that commemorate our first meeting.”
“You’re weird,” Sasha said with a roll of her eyes, but she was smiling.
“Can I interview you guys for the newspaper?” I waved my phone. “I want to talk to you about the Christmas party.”
“I want to be in the paper,” said a sturdy boy of about eight who looked biracial.
“Me too,” said a little blonde wisp of a girl, maybe four.
“That’s cool,” I agreed. “The more, the better.”
I interviewed the kids with my voice recorder app. Being the youngest in my family, I didn’t have a lot of experience with kids. But they were okay—curious, enthusiastic, and not especially obnoxious. A few more kids wandered over to see what was going on, and it became a group interview.
They claimed the food they got at the dinner was yummy, with Christmas cookies being the highlight. One girl liked to dress up and see “all the grandmas and grandpas,” by which she probably meant the Elks. A boy liked it when there was ice on the lake.
The highlight of the party for everyone, though, was Santa.
“He’s the best,” Sasha said.
“He brings presents,” said the eight-year-old boy. “Good ones. Not crap.”
“Does he have reindeer?” asked the little blonde. Apparently, she was new to the scene.
“No. But presents are way better than reindeer,” Sasha replied with conviction.
“He goes ho-ho ho,” said a little girl of about six. “He’s really, really nice, and he’s like a big daddy, and he asks you what your favorite things are. Mine are paper dolls.”
“He already knows what we want,” Sasha explained. “’Cause we write letters to him and give them to Sharon. We already did that. Like, weeks ago? That’s how he knows what to bring us. He’s not like a dumb Santa that doesn’t know anything.”
“He keeps candy in his coat pockets,” added the boy. “Last year, I got a big box of Junior Mints ’cause I made the baseball team. Santa Claus is sick.”
