by Dean Hughes
Crack. The gun fired and Wally burst from his marks. He jumped into the lead so suddenly that the other runners were already out of his vision as he angled toward the inside of the track and headed for the corner. He had never felt so powerful in his life.
He took the first turn cruising, the chopping sound of the cinders the only evidence that he was even touching the ground. “Hold back,” he tried to tell himself, but he couldn’t contain the energy that was pulling him into the back stretch.
As he came out of the corner, the whistle in his ears disappeared, and he knew that the wind was now with him, and he was still floating, still running without strain.
“Take it easy, Wally. Take it easy,” he heard Coach Morse calling from across the track, and he knew the man was right. But he wanted that record. He would give everything he had, and then gut out the finish, no matter what it cost him.
He could hear no one behind him, and he wasn’t about to glance back and foul up the stride he had going. But as he neared the end of the backstretch and started into the second turn, he knew for the first time that he had pushed himself too hard, too early. The pain hit him suddenly. It grabbed at his thighs and burned his lungs, but he didn’t let up. He pushed himself into the corner and kept striding hard toward the final straightaway.
But he was slowing. His legs had turned heavy, and as he came out of the turn and picked up the sound of the wind again, he felt his stride break. He almost stumbled, but he
muscled his way through and tried to thrust his legs, to find his rhythm again.
He had known all along how much it would hurt, but he had told himself he wouldn’t give in to the pain. And so he drove his arms and tried to keep lifting his knees. But the strength was draining from him. His stride was shortening, his lungs giving out.
He heard the girls screaming, everyone screaming. “Keep going, Wally. Keep going. Push!”
It was all as though he were swimming under water, with the sound of the people out there somewhere, above the surface. Still, he tried to respond. He pressed harder. He only had about forty yards to go, a few seconds.
But everything was shutting down. And now he heard the footsteps, heard the crowd noise intensify. And then he felt a runner coming alongside him. Williamson. He could sense the height of him, saw his long arms swinging. Wally reached for something more and held his own, and the two battled forward, both losing speed but straining to match each other step for step.
And then Wally let go. With twenty yards to run, his body simply surrendered. He commanded himself not to give up, but his stride faltered and Williamson was gone. Then, almost at a stop, he took a final step across the line as Farrell slipped by him and took second.
Wally dropped to his knees. He knew, abstractly, that the cinders had cut into his knees, but he felt nothing. He fell forward, scraping his forearms into the track, and then dropped his face onto his arms. He didn’t care whether he cut himself. He sucked for air and waited for some relief from the sickness. He wanted to vomit, wanted to do it right there on the track and end the agony. But two people had hold of him, grasping him by the arms and around the middle. They were pulling him up. “Don’t,” Wally managed to grunt.
“Walk it off,” Mel was saying. “You’ll be all right.”
“Leave me alone,” Wally tried to say, but nothing came out. He bent forward and breathed for maybe a minute, and then he found the energy to pull himself free. He stumbled a few steps forward, bent over and put his hands on his knees,
then took deep breaths as he waited to vomit. But the relief wouldn’t come, and he was coming back to life enough to know that he didn’t want to do it here anyway. So he began to walk resolutely down the track toward the first turn. “Let me help you, Wally,” Mel was saying.
“Just leave me alone. I’ll be all right.”
He walked to the end of the bleachers, stepped underneath, grabbed a metal strut and bent over again. And finally it all let loose. He felt the convulsion in his stomach, the acid in his nose, but a second later, he already felt better. He spat on the ground, waited to see whether there would be more.
“Wally, are you all right?”
Wally didn’t look back. He knew the voice. It was Gwen.
“Can I do anything for you?”
Wally finally turned around. “No.”
“You’re all cut up. You’re bleeding.”
“I know.” But now Wally took a better look. Blood was running down his shins from his knees, and black cinders were imbedded in his skin. His elbows were burning now, and his forearms were covered with blood.
Wally couldn’t stand to look at Gwen. He kept his head down as he said, “I’ll go shower. I’ll be all right.”
He stepped out from under the bleachers, but now he saw his coach coming. “Wally, let me have a look at you,” Coach Morse said. “How bad is it?”
“Not bad. I just got scratched.” Wally glanced up to see that a couple of young boys were leaning over the end of the bleachers. For some reason, that embarrassed him more than anything. The illness was gone now, and the blood wasn’t that important. What Wally didn’t want was to be stared at. He hated that Gwen was looking so concerned and supportive. All he could think was that she had seen him vomit.
“I’ve got a first-aid kit out here,” the coach said. “Walk back to—”
“No. I’ll just go shower.” He started to walk away, but it was only then that he realized he had made a decision. He stopped and turned back. “Coach, I’m quitting.”
“What?”
“I’m quitting track. I don’t like it. I can’t do it.”
“Wally, you went out too fast, but if you keep training hard, you’ll hang on for those final yards and beat those guys. You have a good shot at the city championship.”
“No. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
And Wally walked away. He didn’t go back to the track for his warmups or his gym bag. He just walked into the locker room. He wanted to get away from the school as fast as he could.
Two hours later, Wally was upstairs in his room lying on his bed. When he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, he knew his dad was coming. “How does he know already?” Wally asked himself.
A moment later, he heard a knock and then heard his dad’s voice. “Wally?”
“Yeah?”
The door came open. Dad took a step inside and then pushed the two wings of his double-breasted suit coat aside and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He was still wearing his hat. Wally dropped his head back onto his pillow.
“Your coach called me. He said you were quitting the team.”
“That’s right.”
“I told him you were probably upset by what happened, but I promised him you wouldn’t quit.”
“You shouldn’t have told him that.”
Dad stepped closer. He pulled his hat off and held it. Wally looked away, at the ceiling, but he could hear his dad breathing hard, as though he were trying to control his anger. “I told Coach Morse that I don’t raise quitters.”
“Only one,” Wally said.
“For crying out loud, son, what are you talking about? Can’t you take a setback? Your coach told me that you’re faster than your brother ever was. All you need to do is put in more work.”
“Is that what Alex did? Work harder than me?”
“I don’t know. But he always gave it all he had—and he
didn’t back down from any challenge.”
“Well, I’m not Alex. Never was, never will be. He’s made of better stuff—as you have pointed out to me many times before.”
President Thomas stepped closer to the bed. “Sit up,” he said. “Look at me, and talk to me like a man.” Wally did sit up, and for the first time he looked his father straight in the eye. He was furious, and he didn’t mind letting his eyes show it.
“Wally, your team won today—in spite of you. The only relay East lost was the one you were supposed to run. But South is stronger, and the coach says he�
�ll need you to have a chance to win the city championship. You can score some points and help your team—whether you take first place or not. Isn’t that important to you?”
Wally had thought this through more than his dad realized. He was not going back out on the track. “Dad, I told you. I quit the team. I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Wally, there’s nothing I hate more than a quitter,” Dad said, almost shouting. But then he calmed himself and said, more quietly, “That’s not your heritage, Wally. That’s not who you are. I won’t allow you to quit.”
“You aren’t going to make this decision, Dad,” Wally said, firmly and acidly. “I am.”
Wally saw the skin along his father’s throat turn deep red, and he sensed that he had won. He suddenly felt powerful. He stood up. “Where were you today anyway?” he demanded. “You always went to Alex’s track meets.”
“That’s not true. I went when I could. And I would have been there today if I could have made it. I can’t just drop everything and run off every time I want to.”
“You told me this morning you would come.”
“No. I said I would if I could get away. But something came up. A man in our stake needed to see me. It wasn’t the sort of thing I could put off.”
“So it was church business.”
“Yes, it was, in this case. I do have my church calling too, Wally. That’s something you ought to understand by now.”
“Oh, I do understand. You always put the Church ahead of our family. We all know that.”
Wally wasn’t even sure he believed that. But it was the closest weapon he could find, and he was fighting back.
Dad stared at Wally, and he seemed to calm. Maybe he gave up. “You’re pitiful, Wally,” he finally said. “You don’t have the guts to finish a race, but you won’t take responsibility for that. You have to blame it on me—and the Church.”
“No. I already admitted that I’m a quitter.”
“Well, then, you do what you want, Wally. Quit the team. And quit everything else that’s hard in life. And see what that will do for you.”
He stood for another moment, as though he hoped for a change of heart. But Wally only said, “Fine, Dad. That’ll be my plan. I’ll be the family quitter.”
“What a shame, Wally. When I think what God has given you, and what you’re doing with it, my heart just breaks.” He turned and walked from the room. He shut the door, pulled it until the lock clicked. Wally heard the sound like a gunshot, felt the pain of it. He dropped back onto the bed, pulled the pillow over his face, and tried not to cry, but the tears came anyway. He pressed the pillow tighter, trying hard not to let go. What he wished at the moment was that he had the power to keep pressing until he smothered himself.
Wally knew the truth. It wasn’t just that he had quit today; it was that he didn’t have what it took to win. He had tried as hard as he had ever tried in his life, but something inside him was simply too weak. When Williamson had kept pushing, Wally couldn’t. Dad didn’t understand that Wally hadn’t decided to quit. Something inside had decided for him.
He turned on his side and looked at the other bed. Alex had been gone from the room for a year and a half, but he was still hovering over Wally, and there was no escaping him.
Chapter 7
When Bobbi opened the front door, she found herself hoping that her parents wouldn’t be there, or at least that her dad might have gone off to a meeting. She was wearing her new spring outfit: a white flare skirt—the new “skating skirt” look that Sonja Henie had made popular—a lavender vest, white gloves, and a little round hat with a jaunty feather in it. She had spent a long time on her hair, too, which was pulled tight against her head on top but ended in curls. She liked the way she looked, but she knew what was coming that night, and she was nervous.
Phil stepped in behind her, his hand clasped against her waist with a new sense of ownership. She saw her dad sitting by the tall Philco console radio, listening to a news broadcast and reading the newspaper at the same time. LaRue and Beverly were on the floor, sitting cross-legged, playing a card game—Old Maid or Animal Rummy—and Mom was sitting under a lamp, on the couch, stitching on another of her endless needlework projects. At least Wally wasn’t there.
“Daddy, Phil wanted to—”
But Phil quickly stepped forward and said, “President Thomas, I’d like to have a little chat with you, if I could.”
Everyone looked up. The little girls smiled knowingly. “Woo, woo,” LaRue said, and Beverly giggled. Bobbi glanced at her mother, who gave her a little nod and smile.
“Certainly,” Dad said as he folded his paper. “Let’s step into my office.”
So Phil and President Thomas walked through the dining room to the office in back, and Bobbi was left with the females of the family all beaming at her. She sat on the couch at the opposite end from her mother, and she felt terribly self-
conscious.
“Oh, Bobbi, this is so wonderful,” Mom said. She smiled contentedly, her dimples appearing. She put down her needlework and reached her hand in Bobbi’s direction. Bobbi took her hand for a moment, but she didn’t say anything.
“Did he kiss you?” LaRue asked.
And Beverly said, “Hubba, hubba,” which brought peals of laughter from both girls.
“Be still, girls,” Mom said. “Someday, your day will come.”
“That’s right,” Beverly said. “LaRue’s going to marry Rex Halladay. He already kissed her—right on the lips.”
“Shut up,” LaRue said, and she slapped Beverly’s back. “I didn’t want him to.”
Bobbi didn’t need any of this right now. And when she heard footsteps on the stairs, she hoped Gene was the one coming down. But she saw Wally, and her breath caught. He came through the parlor and into the living room. “So what’s up?” he said. “I thought you and Phil were on a date.” He stuck his hands into his pockets and waited, all the while chewing hard on a stick of gum.
“Phil’s talking to Daddy,” LaRue said. “And I know why.”
“Hush,” Mom said. “I mean it, LaRue. Be quiet.”
“I thought you were going somewhere,” Mom said to Wally.
“I am. Mel’s coming to get me—if his dad ever gets home with the car. Parents sure can be inconsiderate sometimes.”
But Wally had spoken absently. Bobbi knew what he was thinking. She looked at him and tried to seem confident.
“So this is it, huh?” Wally said.
“You don’t know that,” Mom said. “Maybe those men need to talk about the price of grain.”
Bobbi glanced at Wally again. He was nodding as though he were trying to accept the whole idea, but questions were in his eyes. Bobbi wished she had never said anything to him.
“I will say this,” Mom said. “I don’t know any better people than the Clarks—one of the great families in the Church. And Phil is such a sweet young man.”
Beverly got up and came over to the couch. “He’s dreamy,” she said, and she looked up at Bobbi, her face full of envy.
“He’s a wonderful young man,” Mom said. “He’s going to make something of himself, too.”
“Yeah, Mom, but have you checked his teeth?” Wally asked. “What if he has cavities? You can’t be too careful these days, you know. Behind that handsome smile could be . . . tooth decay.”
Beverly thought that a wonderful joke, but LaRue said, “He doesn’t have tooth decay. He has pretty teeth.”
Mom let out a little sigh, as if to say, “Wally, you’re impossible,” but she was still smiling. “I think the Clarks have a dentist or two in the family,” she said.
Wally stepped closer to Bobbi and put his hand on her shoulder. “Next time he yawns, stick your head in his mouth and check things out. Don’t jump into anything you’ll later regret.”
Bobbi didn’t think Wally was all that funny, but she didn’t say it. “At least he doesn’t have a cavity where his brains ought to be,” she said.
Mom chu
ckled, but Wally looked down at LaRue. “Wait a minute. Does she mean me? Was that an insult or am I just imagining things?”
“She meant you, all right,” LaRue said. “You’ve got a hole in your head. And you’re not handsome like Phil.”
But the office door was opening. Dad and Phil, both looking pleased, stepped out and walked into the living room. Phil was dressed fit to kill in a gray flannel suit and maroon tie. His hair was combed perfectly, with a wave in the front, and he was showing off those good teeth. He had a square-jaw, square-deal sort of look—every maiden’s dream. But Bobbi wished he
didn’t look quite so pleased with himself.
President Thomas stepped ahead of Phil. He reached for the lapels of his coat, found nothing—since he didn’t have his coat on—and then let his hands drop. “Where’s Gene?” he asked.
“At the ward house, playing basketball,” Mom said.
“Well, I’ll talk to him later. At least the rest of us are together—for once.” The radio was still on, and a dance band was playing an upbeat song—jitterbug music. Dad stepped over and turned it off. “This is a wonderful occasion,” he said. “Brother Clark has asked for Barbara’s hand in marriage, and I’ve told him that we are honored to join our family to his.” Phil nodded. He was trying to look serious, but he was glowing.
“Some might think it’s old fashioned to ask a father’s permission, but it’s the proper order of things. Phil is a young man with a wonderful heritage and a wonderful future.” Then Dad smiled. “And I look forward to his posterity.”
“They can name their kids after you, Dad,” Wally said. “The boys could all be named Alexander, and the girls, Alexandria.”
Lately, Dad had not had a lot of patience with Wally, but he smiled now. “That’s not necessary. Some could be David—or Thomas,” he said, and he grinned, but then he cleared his throat. “Well, anyway, we welcome you to our family, Phil. We couldn’t be happier.” And the two men shook hands.
Mom got up and walked to Phil. “I’ve got to have more than a handshake,” she said. She spread her arms wide, and Phil bent over to hug her. “I’m thrilled to death.” Then she came back to Bobbi, who stood up and accepted Mom’s embrace. “This is just perfect. It’s a dream come true,” she told Bobbi, and Bobbi felt good about that. It seemed right to please her parents so much.
