One Shot Away (23 page)

D
IGGY EMERGES THROUGH A TEAR IN THE COVER.
H
IS HEAD
aches from Trevor's fists and the cold. Nick grabs his hand and hoists him from the water. Diggy lies on the patio bricks, exhausted, coughing, and catching his breath.

“Where's Trevor!” yells Jimmy.

Nick falls to his knees and tries to peel the cover off the edge of the pool. “Untie the lines,” he screams, looking into the dark water. “We've got to get the cover off.”

Diggy watches, waiting for Trevor's head to surface. Jimmy and Nick pull at cables attached to lag nuts turned into the cement.

“This is impossible!” shouts Jimmy.

Diggy charges onto the sinking cover, then plunges into the water. If he saves Trevor, he'll be the rescuer, right? Some kind of hero. Nick will forgive him. Jimmy might understand that he didn't want this to happen. He takes a deep breath and swims under the cover into the inky blackness. He knows the pool. He's been in it a hundred times.

He hits a wall of cold and can barely move. He reaches into the darkness for Trevor. He can't let him die, not over something he did. Not in front of his brother and Jimmy. Diggy comes up for air and is blocked by the pool cover. His heart is hammering. He needs air. The cold is tearing the skin off his body. He wants to scream, but he's underwater. He dives again with his arms reaching for one last try.

Diggy brushes something. A coat sleeve, an arm? He seizes it and pulls toward the surface. He follows the pool's cover to the tear where the patio lights dance in a crazy collage. Gasping, he emerges. Jimmy and Nick stand on the sides of the pool. Their faces shine in the dark.

Diggy tows Trevor through the filthy water. He's lifeless and blue-faced. Nick and Jimmy heave Trevor to the pool's side and roll him onto the cement.

Diggy's mother scurries from the house in a terry robe and furry slippers. “Yes, yes,” she says into her cell. “Someone fell in my pool.” She waves her free hand. “I don't know when he fell in. Nine-one-one says to start CPR,” she cries.

Jimmy grabs Trevor and sits him up. Trevor's head lolls to one side, his mouth bubbles and foams. Jimmy squeezes Trevor's chest. A spurt of water shoots from Trevor's mouth.

Jimmy squeezes harder. Again water spurts from his mouth. He presses Trevor's chest, over and over, with the same result.

“He's blue, and he's not moving,” yells Beverly to the operator.

Diggy wishes he were saving Trevor's life. He could cover Trevor's mouth with his and breathe life into him. Then everyone would have to forgive him.

Jimmy tilts Trevor's head to create an airway.

“Do you know what you're doing?” asks Nick, shaking Jimmy's shoulder.

“Yes,” yells Jimmy. “C-A-B. Compressions-Airway-Breathing.”

Trevor's face is so blue, it looks to be made of rubber. Jimmy puts his ear to Trevor's lips and nose. “I don't hear anything. He's not breathing!” Trevor's jaw droops open, his top two teeth visible between his lips. Jimmy places his hands on Trevor's chest and gives thirty compressions and then blows two breaths into his lungs.

“Come on. Come on.” Jimmy blows again into his mouth. Trevor's not responding. Jimmy begins pounding his chest.

“He's still not breathing,” cries Beverly into the phone. She listens. “The operator says to keep going.”

Diggy crawls over to Trevor's side. “Let me take over,” he says.

“Diggy, back off!” roars Jimmy.

Nick grabs Diggy by the shirt collar and yanks him away. “You did enough already,” snaps Nick. Diggy falls to the cement and realizes nothing is going to be the same again.

T
HE AMBULANCE'S REVOLVING LIGHTS STREAK THE HOUSE AND
trees with red. The EMTs bend over Trevor, who is lying on a stretcher covered with a metallic blanket. He's moaning, pushing an oxygen mask off his face. They shake his shoulder. “What's your name? Say it.”

Trevor doesn't answer. He leans over and throws up. Watery puke splatters on the pavers. The EMTs collapse the stretcher, lift, and roll Trevor into the ambulance.

Beverly's back and shoulders are trembling. She turns to Diggy, Nick, and Jimmy. They are all dripping wet. “Why was Trevor Crow in our yard? Why were you fighting?” Fright covers her crumpled face.

“Mom, not now.” Diggy's teeth are chattering. He wants to get dry clothes on, to get warm.

“I want to know what happened. I've got to call his mother. What am I going to tell her?” Her eyes are filling with tears.

“It was an accident,” says Diggy, trying to explain. His wet pants and shirt cling to him. “Can't we just leave it at that right now?”

“You went too far.” Jimmy points his finger at Diggy's chest. “Mrs. Masters, Diggy stole Trevor's dog. Trevor and I came to get him back.”

Beverly's lips pull in with pain. “His dog?”

“Mom, Diggy did something dumb,” Nick says, cutting the air with his hands. “Very dumb.” He locks eyes with Diggy. “Trevor fell in the pool and—”

“Diggy pushed him in,” says Jimmy.

“And I saved his ass,” yells Diggy. “Right?” His head is thumping. It's like Trevor's fists are banging inside his skull. “Mom, it was an accident,” says Diggy.

“No, it wasn't,” says Jimmy.

Beverly folds her arms. Her face is sick with anger and confusion.

“Ma'am, you better get in,” says the EMT. “This one is going to need some explaining.” He nods towards Diggy's bruised face.

Jimmy climbs into the front seat of the ambulance. Beverly gets in back. The other EMT comes around the rear of the ambulance and hops in next to her. “Ma'am, you'll have to buckle up,” he says.

“Meet me at the hospital,” says Beverly as the doors close.

Diggy tears off his wet clothes in his room. His lip is bleeding and his eye is swollen shut. He puts on a pair of sweats and a heavy wool sweater but can't stop shivering. Downstairs he finds Nick sitting on the marble tile with a towel over his shoulders. He's barefoot. The cuffs of his jeans have puddles under them. “This shouldn't have happened,” he says. “The way you attacked Trevor, pushing him into the pool, you were really scary.”

Diggy wants to tell his brother that he's still the same. Everything else changed. All he wanted was a winning senior-year season at 152—like that was too much to ask. And then the dog. Why did he take the dog? Why didn't he give him back sooner? He did want to hurt Trevor. He can admit that, at least to himself, and now Trevor could be brain damaged or something. Diggy meets Nick's eyes. “I wish I could go back and win the wrestle-off,” he says. “If I had won, none of this would have happened.”

Nick jumps to his feet, grabs Diggy's sweater, and presses him against the wall. “Don't you see, that's what I'm talking about!” A vein in Nick's forehead bulges. His fists press into Diggy's chin. “I called Trevor. I did, because what you did was wrong. You were wrong!”

Diggy doesn't struggle. Nick bangs him against the wall, once, twice, then releases him. “You called him?”

“Yes. I wanted it over. I wasn't going to go sneaking around with you trying to give the dog back.”

Tears fill Diggy's eyes.

Nick grabs him. “I have to get you away from Randy. That's the only thing I can think of.”

They hear the front door open and look toward the foyer. Randy comes in, followed by a balding man with glasses and beady eyes. They take off their overcoats and place them on the rack next to the door.

“Charlie, meet my wrestlers,” says Randy, stepping from the foyer. “Boys, this is Mr. Charlie Frederick. He owns Imperial Rental Car and he's thinking about updating his fleet with a few of my luxury vehicles.” Randy's eyes are heavy from his long day and one too many scotches.

“Randy,” says Nick, “someone almost drowned in our pool.”

“The pool?” He looks as if he hasn't heard correctly, then he laughs. “Charlie, will you excuse me? Make yourself at home.” He smiles and points to the fireplace and leather couch.

Nick leads them to the bar at the back of the house. Diggy follows like he's being pulled along, his arms limp at his sides. There's no stopping anything now.

“What the hell is going on?” asks Randy. “What happened to Diggy's face?”

“One of the guys from the wrestling team fell in the pool,” says Nick.

“I thought the pool was covered,” he says.

“Don't you remember? The cover was torn from the sycamore,” says Diggy.

Randy's face turns somber. “I know the cover was torn, but …” He shuts his eyes. “Where's your mother?”

“She went to the hospital in the ambulance with Trevor Crow,” says Nick. “He snuck in the yard.”

“What?” asks Randy. “Why would he do that?”

Nick's eyes turn to Diggy.

“What'd you do?” Randy smacks Diggy's head. “What'd you do?” he hisses.

“Randy, stop it,” says Nick. “You're drunk. This is a big mess and Diggy needs your help.”

“Stay out of it,” says Randy. “You waltz home whenever it's convenient for you, and you think you're running the show. Diggy, start explaining.” He tugs Diggy's sweater, stretching it.

Diggy only wishes he had a father he could talk to, but the man gripping his shirt, spitting into his face isn't someone who can help him with this mess.

“Randy, let him go.” In one easy motion, Nick twists his father's arm. Randy shrieks, but Nick hangs on and rams the arm behind Randy's back.

“Goddamn you,” Randy grunts. “You can go back to school and stay there.” Nick forces his father's arm higher.

“How do you like it?” asks Nick.

Charlie Frederick comes into the room. Randy cranes his neck, with terror flashing in his eyes. “Charlie, go wait where I told you, please.”

“Let him go. Nick, let him go,” says Diggy.

“He's the reason we're both so messed up.” Nick shoves Randy forward.

Randy's forehead bongs on the brass bar rail. He raises his head. “I want you gone. Out of my house,” he says to Nick. “You're not welcome here anymore!”

“My God, boys, this is your father,” says Charlie Frederick. “Randy, are you all right?” Charlie puts his hand under Randy's arm.

“Charlie, let me handle this,” growls Randy. “I've had it. I'm making a living, paying for this party, and I have to come home to this insanity. My son assaults me, embarrasses me in front of a client.” His forehead already has a cherry on it. Randy walks to the foyer, stumbles, and catches himself on the wall. Charlie Frederick tries to help him, but Randy pulls away.

At the door, Randy stops and looks back. “You two better get your act together,” he roars.

Nick charges upstairs and enters his room. Diggy goes after him. Nick pulls on dry clothes. “I should have stopped Randy a long time ago. Mom should have done something.” Nick slips a sweatshirt over his head. “When I got hurt and couldn't wrestle, you don't know what I thought. Nobody knows.” Nick stuffs his duffel bag with his clothes. “I would think about killing myself. I told my professor I was a lousy son, and do you know what he said?” Nick gasps for breath and tears start in his eyes. “He said there's no such thing as a bad son, there's only bad fathers.”

“Stay, don't leave me now,” pleads Diggy. “At least stay for the night.”

“I can't. You heard Randy. If you won't take me to the train station, I'll call a car service.” Nick yanks the drawstring on the duffel bag and drags it into the hall. He tosses it down the oak staircase, then carries it from the house.

Diggy shouldn't be driving. His face is swelling. He can barely see the lines on the road, but he's got to convince Nick not to leave. Nick speed-dials their mother. Each time, the call goes to voicemail. “They must have made her turn off her cell,” he says.

They pass the Secret Keepers Motel. Nick's eyes follow the sign. “That's where he lives?”

Diggy nods.

“You went there and just drove off with the dog?” asks Nick.

“Gino helped me.” Diggy chokes on the lie.

“But it was you, wasn't it, Diggy? It was all you?”

“Yes.”

They drive in silence for a few miles. South central Jersey, the exit ramps, malls, and giant box stores flash by. Diggy wants Nick to somehow understand. Diggy exhales carefully, not knowing how to ask this. “You thought about killing yourself?”

Nick stares ahead. “What was the great Nick Masters without wrestling? And Diggy, I missed it; the mats, the sweat, the moves, winning, being a wrestler. I missed it bad. I thought it was all I had.”

Diggy merges onto the parkway. Northbound traffic is light. Nick turns on the radio, finds a song, then turns it off. “College wrestling is a meat grinder. You've got to be dedicated to the max. You've got to be tough, wrestle with injuries, sit in the cafeteria eating chicken breasts and salad.” Nick keeps his face at his window. “When I got hurt, no one gave a crap, even the great Coach Randy stopped calling. Mom called, but she didn't know what to say. It wasn't that a part of my life had ended; it was like I had died. My coach scratched my name, and the next week he had another wrestler in for me. For a while, I went to practice and rode the team bus to matches, but being there was pointless. A cracked vertebra never really heals. At least not enough for the mat.”