In One Person

of bursting into tears.
    “We started wearin’ the singlets
and
the tights in ’58—if you remember, Jacques,” Herm Hoyt said, but Kittredge had not recovered the ability to speak; he managed only a disheartened nod.
    “The singlets
and
the tights are redundant,” Miss Frost said; she was examining her nail polish disapprovingly, as if someone else had chosen the color. “It should either be
just
a singlet, and
no
tights, or you wear
only
tights and you’re bare-chested,” Miss Frost said. “Personally,” she added, in a staged aside to the silent Kittredge, “I
prefer
to be bare-chested.”
    “One day, it will be just a singlet—no tights, I’ll bet ya,” the old coach predicted. “No bare chests allowed.”
    “Pity,” Miss Frost said, with a theatrical sigh.
    Atkins emitted a choking sound; he’d spotted the scowling Dr. Harlow, maybe a half-second before I saw the bald-headed owl-fucker. I had my doubts that Dr. Harlow was a wrestling fan—at least Elaine and I had never noticed him when we’d watched Kittredge wrestle before. (But why would we have paid any attention to Dr. Harlow then?)
    “This is strictly forbidden, Bill—there’s to be no contact between you two,” Dr. Harlow said; he didn’t look at Miss Frost. The “you two” was as close as Dr. Harlow could come to saying her name.
    “Miss Frost and I haven’t said a word to each other,” I told the bald-headed owl-fucker.
    “There’s to be no
contact
, Bill,” Dr. Harlow sputtered; he still wouldn’t look at Miss Frost.
    “
What
contact?” Miss Frost said sharply; her big hand gripped the doctor’s shoulder, causing Dr. Harlow to spring away from her. “The only
contact
I’ve had is with young Kittredge here,” Miss Frost told Dr. Harlow; she now put both her hands on Kittredge’s shoulders. “Look at me,” she commanded him; when Kittredge looked up at her, he seemed as suddenly impressionable as a submissive little boy. (If Elaine had been there, she at last would have seen the innocence she’d sought, unsuccessfully, in Kittredge’s younger photographs.) “I wish you luck—I hope you tie that record,” Miss Frost told him.
    “Thank you,” Kittredge managed to mumble.
    “See you around, Herm,” Miss Frost said to her old coach.
    “Take care of yourself, Al,” Herm Hoyt told her.
    “I’ll see you, Nymph,” Kittredge said to me, but he didn’t look at me—or at Miss Frost. Kittredge quickly jogged off the mat, catching up to one of his teammates.
    “We were talkin’ about
wrestlin
’, Doc,” Herm Hoyt said to Dr. Harlow.
    “
What
record?” Dr. Harlow asked the old coach.
    “My record,” Miss Frost told the doctor. She was leaving when Tom Atkins made a gagging sound; Atkins couldn’t contain himself, and now that Kittredge was gone, poor Tom was no longer afraid to say it.
    “Miss Frost!” Atkins blurted out. “Bill and I are going to Europe together this summer!”
    Miss Frost smiled warmly at me, before turning her attention to Tom Atkins. “I think that’s a
wonderful
idea, Tom,” she told him. “I’m sure you’ll have a great time.” Miss Frost was walking away when she stopped and looked back at us, but it was clear, when Miss Frost spoke to us, that she was looking straight at Dr. Harlow. “I hope you two get to do
everything
together,” Miss Frost said.
    Then they were gone—both Miss Frost and Dr. Harlow. (The latter didn’t look at me as he was leaving.) Tom Atkins and I were left alone with Herm Hoyt.
    “Ya know, fellas—I gotta be goin’,” the old coach told us. “There’s a team meetin’—”
    “Coach Hoyt,” I said, stopping him. “I’m curious to know who would win—if there were ever a match between Kittredge and Miss Frost. I mean, if they were the same age and in the same weight-class. You know what I mean—if everything were equal.”
    Herm Hoyt looked around; maybe he was checking to be sure that none of his wrestlers was near enough to overhear him. Only Delacorte had lingered in the wrestling room, but he was standing far off by the exit door, as if he were waiting for someone. Delacorte was too far away to hear us.
    “Listen, fellas,” the old coach growled, “don’t quote me on this, but Big Al would
kill
Kittredge. At any age, no matter what weight-class—Al could kick the shit out of Kittredge.”
    I won’t pretend that it wasn’t gratifying to hear this, but I would rather have heard it privately; it wasn’t something I