Stacy was at every tournament, too. During the long lulls between Johnny’s matches, she sat in a corner of the gymnasium with the other kids from Lincoln High. The girls took turns braiding each other’s hair or passing around homework to be copied; they snapped gum and sucked lollipops and leaned close, heads together, for a whispered conversation that ended in a bout of hysterical laughter. Stacy carried a thick binder that was completely covered with doodles. Stacy and Johnny. I love Johnny H. Stacy Lynne Hammarstrom. It made me feel funny, to see her trying on our name for size.
She always crossed the bleachers to say hello to us, to chat about how Johnny was doing or how Johnny was feeling or who Johnny was up against. She had become a wrestling expert overnight. “See that one there, in the green sweatshirt? That’s Crowley, he’s in the 160s, too. That’s Johnny’s toughest opponent of the day,” she would say, bent into our airspace. From her necklace dangled the gold heart locket that Johnny had bought her for Christmas, with the money he’d saved from doing his chores and other odd jobs around our farm.
When Johnny was on the mat, Stacy was a ball of nerves. She whispered, over and over, “Get him, Johnny, pin him, Johnny” like a breathless rosary. Once, when the tension became too much, she grabbed my hand and squeezed it until tears pooled in the corners of my eyes. Even when I tried to wriggle free, she hung on, not noticing.
Johnny qualified for regionals at the end of February, and Stacy made the drive to Wausau with us. Wrapped in a navy peacoat over her Ships sweatshirt, she perched in the middle of the backseat between Emilie and me and insisted that she was perfectly comfortable, even though her long legs were wedged against the front seat. Mom turned on the radio and hummed along to the Top 40. Mostly we watched the frozen Wisconsin countryside pass in a dull blur through our windows.
“You know what?” Stacy confessed into my ear at one point. “I have this theory. If I’m watching Johnny’s match, then he’ll win. If I don’t watch, he’ll lose. Like it’s all up to me. Is that crazy, or what?”
I looked up to see Dad glancing at Stacy in the rearview mirror. I could tell from the rigid way that Mom was holding her neck that she was listening, too.
We were joining Johnny on the second day of regionals; to move on to state, he would have to wrestle his way through a thirty-two-man bracket. Coach Zajac spotted us in the gym immediately and waved us over.
“How’s he doing?” Dad asked, extending his hand for a shake.
“Three wins. First guy, he pinned in only twenty seconds. He ran into a tough guy in the second round, kid who kept shoving him around, and the ref wasn’t calling it. So Johnny roughed him up a bit.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dad asked.
“Got him in an arm bar, twisted it too far, and all of a sudden the kid’s screaming.” Coach shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Your kid doesn’t take crap from anyone, that’s for sure. Come on, let’s say hi to some folks.”
Coach walked Dad around the gymnasium, introducing him to scouts and WIAA officials and reporters who had come all the way from Milwaukee. Stacy and Emilie found friends to sit with, and Mom, with a spirit of abandon, ordered us greasy slices of cheese pizza and bottles of Coca-Cola from the snack stand in the foyer. When we took our seats in the bleachers later, my stomach was protesting.
Johnny, prepping for his matches, kept to himself. He seemed to lurk in one corner of the gym or another, his face mostly hidden by the hood of his sweatshirt. We watched him pin his opponent from Sturgeon Bay easily, securing his place in the final. Someone behind us said, “Watch out for that one. He nearly broke a kid’s arm last night.” I turned around, trying to identify the speaker, but no face stood out of the crowd.
Then Johnny wandered over to us, the straps of his singlet hanging down, a few ribs and curly golden chest hairs visible. Sweat shone on his forehead.
“How are you holding up, kiddo?” Dad asked.
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“Are you hungry?” Mom asked.
Johnny pulled his warm-up jacket over his head. “I guess.”
Mom produced her wallet and handed over a five-dollar bill, carefully, as if she was parting with a small fortune.
“Thanks,” he said, and wandered off in the direction of the Ships cheering section. Stacy was waving her arms back and forth beneath a sign that read “GO JOHNNY H!” in three-foot letters, and Johnny raised one hand in greeting and moved toward her.
“When’s his next match?” Mom asked, checking her watch.
“Probably an hour, hour and a half.”
Yawning, I stretched out on the bleacher, my head on Mom’s lap. While we waited in the stands, people from Watankee and Manitowoc kept wandering over to talk to Dad and Mom for prolonged congratulations and rather boring discussions about wrestling. Another Ships teammate, 119-pound Dirk Bauer, was headed for the finals, too, and all in all it was a good showing for the Ships. I sneaked a few pieces of hard candy from Mom’s purse and let them dissolve, one by one, on my tongue.
Then the first call for the middleweight classes was announced over the loudspeaker. I sat up, paying attention. That meant Johnny would be taking the mats within half an hour. I suddenly started to feel a bit of Stacy’s nerves—my brother could be a regional wrestling champion in only thirty minutes.
We waited anxiously as skinny, pale Dirk Bauer vied for victory. I looked around for Johnny, but it was hard to see with the cluster of people near the mats.
As if reading my mind, Mom asked, “Where’s Johnny? I don’t see him out there.” She craned her neck around a family walking in front of us.
“He’s gotta be down there somewhere,” Dad said, unconcerned. I stood in the bleachers, straining to see over the heads of the people in front of me, but couldn’t find Johnny, either. Of course he was down there—the whole team was there to support Dirk Bauer. Curious, I looked over at the small student cheering section in the far corner of the bleachers. Stacy’s sign was propped against the wall, but I didn’t see her. I waved at Emilie, who nodded her head ever so slightly in recognition.
The 125-pounders took the mats, shook hands and the referee started the match.
Over the loudspeaker, the announcer’s voice said, “Second call for 160 pounds, Hammarstrom from Lincoln.”
Dad stood, looking around. “Johnny’s not down there?”
“He’s here somewhere,” Mom reasoned, standing, too. “Where could he be?”
I spotted Coach Zajac at the same time Dad did. He was standing at the foot of the bleachers, surveying the stands. Dad raised his hands palms-up, asking the question. Coach shook his head.
“Jesus!” Dad swore. “Where the hell is he?”
From the center of the gym, we heard the ref’s hand slap the mat, setting off a wild celebration. Someone had been pinned.
“He doesn’t get his ass on that mat and he’s out,” Dad said, loud enough that the family sitting in front of us turned to look. He started down the bleachers in a quick jog, taking the steps two at a time.
“Where could he be?” Mom moaned. “Do you see Stacy anywhere?”
I’d been looking but still hadn’t spotted her.
We followed Dad’s progress around the perimeter of the gym floor, wending his way brusquely between slow-moving groups of parents.
“Shit,” Mom said.
Dad reached the set of double doors leading into the foyer at the exact moment that Johnny burst through them with Stacy in tow. I didn’t need to be in hearing range to know exactly what Dad said; Johnny started across the floor in a quick sprint, wriggling out of his warm-up jacket as he went. For a second, Dad glared at Stacy. It looked as if she was trying to apologize, but Dad wasn’t having any of it. He turned his back on her and marched back to the bleachers. Stacy followed slowly, walking past us and up the bleachers to her section. One of her red barrett
es was missing, I noticed, and the hair on the top of her head was mussed.
Mom was shaking her head when Dad rejoined us in the stands. “Do you see what I’m talking about now?” she hissed.
Dad was still seething, but more quietly now. “I swear, I’m going to kill that kid,” he said under his breath.
And Mom said, half joking, “Which one?”
Stacy found a seat in the bleachers, but now she was sitting a little apart from everyone else, hugging her arms to her chest. What had happened in the hour or so when they’d been alone? I remembered with a shudder that afternoon in Johnny’s bedroom, with Johnny insisting they had to leave, and Stacy refusing.
It was eight-thirty when Johnny took the mat for the championship match against Plinker, a squat kid from Onalaska. Watching them face off in the circle, I was amazed they were in the same weight class. Plinker was almost a head shorter than Johnny, his body tense with muscle and movement. Johnny was tall and powerful, but looked as if he could use a good meal or three.
Our part of the gymnasium chanted as one: John-ny, John-ny! On the other side of the gym, fans took up a cheer for his opponent.
Photographers crouched at the edge of the mat, focusing their lenses.
“You get him! You get him, Johnny!” Dad yelled.
“Come on, Johnny, come on!” Mom called.
Johnny entered the circle, crouched, shook hands with Plinker.
The ref blew the whistle, stepped back, and the two began stalking each other, their bodies circling, teasing, tangling, positioning.
From the mats, I could hear Coach Zajac’s voice, although his exact orders were lost in the din. Calls of encouragement came from the stands. “Let’s go, already!” someone yelled close to my ear. The wrestlers from the lower weight classes formed a loose ring around the perimeter, chanting.
Johnny lunged, and Plinker caught his arm. Using Johnny’s momentum against him, Plinker caught him off balance and threw him to his back. Johnny hit the mat with a thud, his legs flipping over his body.
“No!” I screamed.
Johnny had three seconds to get out of the pin. I’d seen him do this before on our living room carpet. Feet on the mat, he arched his back, bridging to keep from being pinned. Johnny rolled to the right, grabbing Plinker’s arm. I was watching it as if in slow motion, Johnny on his knees, finding his footing with Plinker behind him, trying to bring Johnny back to ground. Within seconds, Johnny was up, and they separated.
Dad had been clutching Mom’s arm, and his grasp slowly eased in relief.
The circling began again. Johnny was moving faster now, angered by the close call. He lunged forward, reaching for Plinker. There was a blur of limbs, a mad scramble of maneuvering, two sets of thigh muscles quivering. Johnny got hold of Plinker’s arm and moved behind him, twisting. The arm bar, a position of strength—I remembered that. Johnny had the leverage and drove forward until Plinker went down. Then he was on his stomach, struggling for position, and Johnny was on top, forcing Plinker’s shoulder down for the roll.
“That’s it, Johnny!” Dad screamed, his voice hoarse. “Drive, drive, drive!”
Plinker tried to work his way up, but Johnny wasn’t giving an inch. It was the beginning of the end, a battle Johnny was not going to lose. He was simply stronger. Johnny wanted this. Every muscle in his body was straining...and just like that, Plinker collapsed on his back, his shoulders down.
The ref smacked his hand on the mat, and everyone around us screamed. The Ships went crazy, jumping up and down. Hands reached out, slapping Coach on the back. In the stands, Dad was suddenly mobbed by Ships fans.
Johnny hopped to his feet, the victor. Plinker rolled himself into a standing position, and they took the circle again, one with his shoulders back, the other with his shoulders forward. The ref seized Johnny’s hand, showing it first to one corner, then to the other. Mom, jostled by the crowd in the stands, snapped a quick photo that would come out too blurry months later, when she finally developed the roll.
I turned again to spot Stacy in the top row of the bleachers. While the rest of her schoolmates screamed and jumped, Stacy stood perfectly still, a smile spread across her glossy lips.
We didn’t get back to the car until after ten o’clock, and there was still a drive ahead of us. As excited as we’d been in the gym with all the cheering and congratulating and snapping pictures, that feeling seemed to disappear the second we were back in the station wagon. Dad and Mom talked to each other, replaying the action. They deliberately ignored Stacy.
At one point, realizing this, Stacy leaned forward. “I just want to say I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”
“Could have been the end for Johnny right there,” Dad responded immediately, as if he’d been waiting for the opening to rebuke her. “All those years of practice, and that would have been it.”
“I’m sorry,” Stacy said again, her voice small in the interior of the car.
Mom said, “It’s still cold in here, John,” and Dad cranked up the heat until the windows were fogged up on the inside. Emilie took off her coat and bunched it up to use as a pillow. She fell into a noisy, mouth-breathing sleep, but the rest of us sat quietly, staring at the same dark countryside, mile after mile.
Once I caught Dad glancing in the rearview mirror—not checking up on me or Emilie, or the dark road behind us, but staring directly at Stacy.
And although she didn’t say a word, Stacy was looking right back.
twelve
We came home from Wausau to a sign on the Stop ’N’ Go marquee: Go Dirk B! Go Johnny H! Make us proud!
On Sunday afternoon, Aunt Julia and Uncle Paul stopped by to congratulate Johnny. Aunt Julia brought a chocolate cake that said CONGRATS in white icing, and we ate it like gluttons, picking directly at the cake with our forks.
Grandpa came over, too. He might not have understood the rules of wrestling or why sports were important, period, but even he could understand that Johnny had done something well. “All right, Johnny, all right,” he kept repeating, clapping Johnny roughly on the back.
Jerry came over to shake hands with Johnny, too. “What’s it gonna be, you think—University of Iowa?”
“It’s looking that way,” Johnny said, grinning. His picture made the front page of the afternoon paper, and Dad drove into town to pick up a stack of copies. Stacy didn’t stop by, which seemed a little weird to me—she was usually the first person to point out Johnny’s name on the local sports page.
On Monday, the boys at school who usually ignored me now included me in their conversations. “Hey, Kirsten—is your brother going to win state? What’s he wrestling at?” I was only too happy to oblige with the details. If Johnny Hammarstrom was on his way to being the best thing to come out of Watankee, I saw no problem in going right along with it.
That Tuesday, the last day in February, Kevin Coulie and I won the class spell-off and were asked to stay after school to practice for the annual county spelling bee. We would be representing all the fourth graders at Watankee Elementary. In the next round we would face older kids—fifth and sixth graders—from much bigger schools in Manitowoc, and from smaller schools all over the county. This was rather intimidating news for someone who went down on scissors the year before.
Miss Swanson had copied about twenty pages of practice words for each of us, then placed them in crisp manila folders labeled smartly with our names. She thrust them into our hands at the end of the review session. “Study hard, okay? We’re down to the last week.”
Kevin’s dad had agreed to give me a ride home, and his truck was idling in the parking lot when we stepped outside. Kevin climbed in first and settled into the middle, his knees banging into the stick shift. Mr. Coulie grunted a hello and was pulling out of the parking lot almost before I had the passenger door closed. I spent a fruitless minute digging fo
r my seat belt, but its clasp was wedged deep beneath the seat cushions. I had to hold on to the door with both hands, or else bump knees with Kevin at each turn.
We rode through the dusk in an uneasy silence. I stared out the half-fogged windows at the frozen piles of snow that lined the streets of Watankee and sat heaped around the edges of parking lots.
We weren’t far from my driveway, maybe a half mile or so, when I saw two vehicles pulled to one side of the road near a ditch—Johnny’s hulking Green Machine, looking less and less green as more and more of its paint flaked off, and Stacy’s Camaro, red and shiny as Christmas. It was strange to see their cars parked there, so close to our house.
I sat up, straining to see. Was something wrong? Had something happened?
I’ve gone back to the moment a thousand times, a million maybe, over the years, trying to see it from every angle, to read facial expressions or lips, to interject myself into the scene, not only as a witness but as the person who could put things right.
Nothing screamed wrong, exactly. They were standing between the tail of his car and the front bumper of hers, close enough to lean in for a kiss. The air between their faces was fogged with breath.
Kevin’s dad slowed for the turn, and I put up my hand, ready to wave.
It happened in about a second, in about the time it would take to let out a laugh or blink or glance at the radio dial.
Just as we passed, Stacy put her gloved hands on Johnny’s chest. I’d seen her touch him like this before—her hands reaching for his shoulders, inching around his neck. It looked like that now, too—the start of an embrace, one of her sweet “Come here, baby” moments—but instead she gave him a hard push. I gasped. Johnny took a rough step backward, off balance, righting himself with his hand on the tailgate. I had seen that look on Stacy’s face before—her mouth tight, chin raised. It reminded me of the way she had squeezed my hand during Johnny’s wrestling match, so hard that I’d felt as if all those little bones might snap.
The Mourning Hours Page 7
