Ironman (15 page)

“An agenda? No sir, I wouldn't say I have an agenda. I'd call it more like a crusade.” He thinks a moment. “Yeah, I'd call it a crusade.”

“So you figure you can pay for your sins working with other people's children. That's admirable, but…”

Nak's smile is humorless. “You don't pay for that kind of sin, sir. You beg the universe to teach you the quality of mercy, is what you do, so you can get from one day to the next. An' then you stand up for kids ever time you get the chance, an' you stand up for their
parents, too, because I'll tell you what: I can't stand up for your boy without standing up for you. This is about a father's relationship with his son, an' it's either gonna be there for the both of you, or neither.”

Lucas takes a deep breath. He is touched by the intensity of this man, and he is touched by his story. But he thinks that this strange Asian cowboy clearly has no sense of what a father-son relationship truly is; how tightly the band between the two needs to be stretched so that the son does not take over. “Mr. Nakatani, I admire what you're trying to do, I really do. But I'm already working with someone from your school on my son's problems, and I'm afraid it's someone who shares a philosophy closer to mine.”

Nak leans forward on the counter, his body weight supported almost entirely by the iron strands of his arms. “At the risk of wearin' out a welcome I never had,” he says quietly, “I'm not talkin' about you workin' on your son's problems. That's the boy's job. An' like I said, he ain't doin' bad. I'm talkin' about settin' the stage for how the two of you will be with each other for the rest of your lives.” He relaxes a bit and sighs. “Your son's seventeen, Mr. Brewster. His problems belong to him now.”

A cold cloud settles in over Lucas Brewster. He has
been told to let his son find his own way in the world one time too many. “You're right about one thing, Mr. Nakatani. You're about to wear out your welcome. Now, I don't believe in coddling kids, and you do. We're not going to agree on that, so let's just stop talking about it. Bo has been a rebel all his life, and if he doesn't get it under control he's going to be miserable for the rest of it. I don't have a lot of control over what happens to him, because he doesn't live with me, and he won't listen anyway. But any chance I get to influence things from behind the scenes, I'll do that. I'm not saying I
am
doing that, but I will at any opportunity. Now, you're a professional and so am I. I'm trusting that this conversation will not go back to my son. When I want him to have information, I'll give it to him. I don't want you meddling in my life, Mr. Nakatani, so do we have that agreement?”

Nak straightens to leave. “Yes sir, we do have that agreement. Your son doesn't need me to interpret what's goin' on between y'all. I won't involve myself in your life, like you asked. But let me tell you somethin'. I'm an adult, an' your son's a child. In a good tribe every adult is a parent to every child, so don't ask me to take myself out of Bo's life as well.”

When the door closes and Lucas is alone in the
office, rage nearly consumes him. He has a mind to show up at the principal's office tomorrow morning and demand that Mr. Nakatani do his job and cease meddling in people's lives. He will not take advice from a man who admittedly screwed up his own family's life with alcohol, then decided to take a hand in Lucas Brewster's. And he is damned sick and tired of all these bleeding hearts taking up for Bo just because the boy throws out a little charm.

I went too far, Nak thinks, walking down the sidewalk outside Brewster's Sporting Goods. I gave him information he couldn't use, an' I scared him. I should have let it be. It's gonna play out whether I like it or not. An' I guess it needs to.

Bo packs his gear carefully into the back of the Blazer late Friday afternoon. Yukon Jack's River Resort lies eighty-five miles south and west of Clark Fort, and he'll drive halfway this evening, then camp along the river. His mother and Jordan will drive down early tomorrow morning with Lionel and Mr. Nakatani, leading the Angry Management Caravan, as Hudgie calls it.

Tonight Bo wants to be alone with his challenge. When your role in life is to be a smartass for the benefit of all within earshot, he tells himself, it's good to get alone and welcome some seriousness. Yukon Jack's is famous throughout the state for its carnival atmosphere, and many physically less-taxing events than the triathlon are scheduled for this weekend: contests for beer guzzling, sailing cow pies, chasing tumbleweeds,
and the like. There is need for focus.

He drives under the speed limit to a wide, clam spot on the river where his father used to take him fishing, and he sets up a small camp only feet from the shoreline. Wrapped in a warm jacket and watching the sun drop below the bluffs across the river, he considers the sadness lodged like an anvil in his chest. At five, he caught his first fish in this exact spot. Lucas Brewster patiently showed him how to bait his hook, helped him cast his line into the smooth, flowing waters. He untangled Bo's line from the reeds growing close to shore eight or nine times before the tiny fish finally struck, and he stood back and let the boy bring it in alone. Bo felt so proud he thought his chest would burst.

Where was that father? What happened to him? How did it get like this?

Sitting on the shore now, watching the last light give way to a moonless night so dark the sky seems a carpet of stars, Bo looks to his future. He'll graduate in less than a month, maybe go to college next year, maybe get a job. A lot depends on Shelly's plans, because he can't imagine not having her there to touch. Whatever he chooses, he promises himself, he'll always give himself physical challenges. He loves the way his body has responded over these past months as he stretched,
tuned, and pushed it toward Yukon Jack's, hugely thankful for the way it has encased his spirit and his mind.

As he drifts into dreamless sleep, the air crisp inside his nostrils, crickets singing, stars dancing, Bo Brewster yearns to become a man.

 

“Got you some headgear,” Shuja says, handing Bo a light blue sailor's hat, brim turned down all around. A set of Sportsman earphones is hemmed into the underside, the cord dangling down the back.
STOTAN
is embroidered in rainbow colors across the front. “Keep the sun offa you head in the run,” Shuja says. “Fit under your helmet on the bike.” He hands Bo a neoprene belt and pouch with a Walkman inside. “Words of wisdom in there,” Shuja says. “Punch 'em at the gun.”

Bo turns the hat over in his hands, then tries it on. The 'phones are perfectly placed, and the cord is just long enough to reach the tune belt when he straps it around his waist. He pops open the Walkman to see a tape with a blank label, smiles, and shakes his head, imagining what wisdom must lie within.

The parking lot at Yukon Jack's boat landing, on the shore of the Columbia River near the southern border of the state, is beginning to fill with cars, many
outfitted with bicycle racks supporting the latest in sleek, colorful, technologically advanced two-wheel rockets, and vans with license-plate holders reading
TRIATHLETES DO IT IN THREES and MARATHON MAN
and such. Flashy rainbow cycle wear stretches tight over four percent body fat as contestants perform last-minute fine-tuning on spokes and sprockets, and joke with familiar faces.

Bo opens the back of the Blazer, glancing around in search of the CFU team as he carefully removes his racer. He examines the interior of the bicycle seat bag for his extra tube and repair equipment, then checks the cooler for Gatorade, which he will dump into his drinking bottle shortly before the race starts.

“Great hat,” Shelly says, moving toward him from the late registration table.

“Like that? Shuja gave it to me a minute ago. It's a regular mobile sound system. He said there are words of wisdom on this tape. Wanna check it out?”

“Touch the play button before the gun goes off, and I tear off your arms,” Shelly says. “That tape is perfectly timed.”

Bo pulls his air pump from the back of the Blazer, shaking his head and smiling. They made me a tape, he thinks. Is that great or what?

Muffled rock pulsates across the dusty parking lot as Ian Wyrack pulls in, seat-dancing to a bass-heavy version of “Fire Lake.” He cuts the engine but remains in the car until the song is finished, glancing out at Bo. He gives a quick wave that turns into an extended middle finger the moment Bo waves back.

“He's a real prick, isn't he?” The voice comes from behind.

“That doesn't give pricks much credit,” Bo says, and turns, discovering himself face-to-face with Lonnie Gerback. “Hey, Lonnie, how ya doin'? Think you can give these guys a big enough lead?”

“Gonna try,” Lonnie says. “Cycling season starts pretty soon, and I want to hammer out a short one to see where I am.”

It does not bode well for Bo Brewster that Lonnie Gerback considers this race a “short one,” but his respect does not register. He nods at the sleek black racer beside Gerback. “Nice bike.”

“Hell of a nice bike,” Lonnie says. “Want to try it?”

“What?”

“This bike. You want to try it out?”

Bo shakes his head. “It'll just make me jealous for the race.”

“No, I mean
use
it in the race.”

Bo stares at the bike a moment. It is a flawless piece of technology. “What's the catch?”

Lonnie smiles. “The catch is, I'll beat you anyway. I'm a racer, man. I don't need space-age technology to run down a plodder. That's what I consider you multi-sport guys. I'm a purist.”

“You're serious?” Bo says. “You'd let me ride this?”

“Wouldn't have it any other way.”

Bo stares again at the bike, not knowing how to feel.

Lonnie slides his index finger under the crossbar and lifts the bike off the ground. “Defies gravity.”

“Why you doin' this, man?”

“Truth?”

“Truth.”

“Two reasons. One, you gave me a good push through the swimming season. While you were over there battling it out with Wyrack, I was using you as a standard for my own times. I'm not as fast on repeats as either of you guys, but I never back off. I like that about you, too, Ironman; you never back off. Gave me something to shoot for. When you weren't there, Wyrack was so inconsistent I'd even beat him on two or three. Hell, I picked up a couple of consolation bracket wins at Nationals because of you.”

“That right? Cool. What's the other reason?”

“My old man.”

“Oh, yeah? What about him?”

“Well, first he asked whether I was sure I wanted to be part of whatever war you were having with your dad.”

“Did you tell him what that war was?”

“I've never met your dad.” Lonnie says. “He and Wyrack cut the deal.”

“But Elvis said he saw two guys talking with him in the store.”

“That was Kenny Joseph, our runner. I like to think if I'd been there, this would have never happened, but”—he shakes his head—“I don't know. This is a hell of a bike.” He reaches for a folded paper tucked into the back of his biking shorts, handing it to Bo. “Bill of sale,” he says. “Your dad wanted it legit. Take it.”

Bo holds up his hands, palms out. “Tell you what. You let me ride this thing today, I'd feel right if you kept it. Hell, biking is my weak leg. You're the real thing. It wouldn't be right for the likes of me to own a bike like this.”

Lonnie smiles. “That's fair,” he says, gripping Bo's bicycle by the handlebars, examining it quickly. “This ain't bad,” he says. “I can kick your butt on this.”

“Go for it,” Bo says. “I'm coming after Joseph and Wyrack. One question.”

“Yeah?”

“You said
first
your dad asked you whether you wanted to get into this war. What was second?”

“My dad and I get along good,” Lonnie says. “He's always let me find my own way. He asked how I'd feel if the tables were turned—if some stranger stepped between the two of us. Then he said if I ever want to see how something works, look at it broken.” He shrugs and turns to walk away.

Bo watches Lonnie walk his bike across the lot.
Look at it broken
.

Lonnie waves, looking back over his shoulder. “The next loud noise you hear will be Wyrack grunting his drawers when I tell him. By the way, nice hat. What's a Stotan?”

“You're about to find out,” Bo yells back.

 

Hudgie looks as out of place in the Yukon Jack's River Resort parking lot as he does anywhere else in the world, resplendent in a pair of three-sizes-too-large Boy Scout hiking shorts and calf-high riding boots with gray-and-red striped wool socks peeking over the top and a T-shirt sporting a likeness of Elvis Presley with
rhinestones for eyes and the caption
THE KING
. He carries what, from Bo's distant vantage point, looks to be automatic sealant for inner tubes in an aerosol can. Bo is aware that Hudge likes to keep symbolic things around him, whether he's participating in a particular event or not.

At the opposite end of the lot from Hudge, Elvis—in jeans and an identical Elvis Presley T-shirt—mills around the equipment area where individual contestants bag their gear to ready it to be transported to the transition areas and relay teams make final arrangements to make the exchange. Bo swings his leg over the Ultra-Lite and pedals it toward the highway to get a feel for the ride. He sees his mother's car drive into the parking lot as he coasts toward the two-lane. Forty-five minutes until start time.

On the open road, he runs quickly through the gears, noting the smooth precision and responsiveness, and a sharp mix of sadness and anger fill his chest as he ponders the idea of his father giving someone something this wonderful in order to beat him.

It ain't gonna happen, Dad. It ain't gonna happen.

 

Yukon Jack is in his splendor. Decked out in the formal uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police,
he fires his starter's pistol at the deep blue Columbia Basin sky to call the contestants to the starting line. He gazes out over the field of fewer than two hundred individual contestants and twenty-three relay teams. “Welcome to Yukon Jack's!” he booms. “I see by the scarcity of human bein's present that we've once again weeded out the weak sisters by puttin' the swimmin' last and doublin' the distance. Good, 'cause we got beer-guzzlin' an' snake-throwin' and cow-pie-eatin' contests for those folks. What I see here in front of me is the cream of the crop, I reckon. Now I hope you all got your support teams in place to pick up your bikes an' your runnin' gear at the proper transition areas. Remember, this race don't double back, so you're gonna finish a ways on down the river.”

A loud skirmish breaks out just behind the group of contestants, and Bo whirls to the shrill resonance of Hudgie's voice. “Let me go! Let me go, you bastard! I'll kill you! Let me go!” Bo works his way quickly to a small rise that allows him to see Wyrack gripping Hudgie's arm as the aerosol can Bo thought was tire-repair equipment clangs to the pavement. Elvis is sprinting across the parking lot, booming, “Let him go! Let him go!”

“Son of a bitch is spray painting my tank suit!”
Wyrack yells back. “And Kenny's runnin' stuff!” He shakes Hudgie like a stern father. “What the hell is the matter with you, buddy?”

Elvis reaches them, and Bo expects big trouble. Ian Wyrack is a big, strong athlete, but that is no match for Elvis's history. But Elvis simply says, “It's okay, man. He's my brother. He's not right.” He points to his head. “Does crazy shit like this all the time. I'm sorry, man, really sorry. I'll pay for the shirt.”

Some of Wyrack's steam subsides. “Forget it. Just keep the creep away from me.”

“No sweat, man,” Elvis says. He grabs Hudgie roughly by the arm. “C'mon, little brother. I told you to stay out of trouble. I told you…” and they walk out of range. Bo sees Hudgie dance a quick little twist and shout, and Elvis's hand patting his back.

“Okay, folks,” Yukon Jack says. “Just a little distraction, part of the festivities. It's all over. No harm done, 'cept you'll know exactly where that team is at any point in the race. That's a fine bright orange. Everything okay back there now, boys?”

Wyrack waves and shakes his head in disgust.

Yukon Jack continues with the race instructions. “Now you support-team folks remember, you cain't help your man or woman in the transition areas in any
way that involves physically touching 'em. I mean, you can hand 'em a banana or a quick shot of whiskey, but don't be rubbin' down their shoulders or havin' sex or anything.

“You pansies—by that I mean all you relay team members—start with the individuals, and remember, you got to make physical contact with your teammate on the relay. Okay, you all know the rules, let's get out there and kill yourselves. An' have a real nice day.”

Bo pulls his bicycle helmet—a triathlon requirement—tight over his
STOTAN
hat and moves into an advantageous position for the starting gun. Seconds ago he watched Wyrack, scowling, jump into his Storm and head off to drop Kenny Joseph at the runners' transition area before continuing on to his own, down the river several miles. He flashed his middle finger to Lonnie Gerback on his way out of the lot, and Gerback waved and yelled at Wyrack to swim fast. Bo smiled and adjusted his helmet, then felt a hand on his arm. “You got a nice butt in those cycling pants,” Shelly said, and slapped it. “Go get 'em, Ironman.”

Space is tight at the sound of the gun, with cyclists sprinting toward the narrow parking lot exit. Bo turns the corner onto the two-lane with the leaders and is forced wide to the other side of the road, where he finds
himself staring at his father's face through the window of his gold Lexus, parked on the shoulder. Riding shotgun is Keith Redmond. Bo looks away and pours it on.