In One Person

of saying to the old coach: “I think I could do a duck-under
blindfolded
.”
    “Is that so, Billy?” Herm asked me. “Stay right here—don’t leave the mat.” He went off somewhere; I could hear him on the catwalk, but I couldn’t see him. Then the lights went out, and the wrestling room was in total darkness.
    “Don’t worry—just stay where you are!” the coach called to me. “I can find you, Billy.”
    It wasn’t long before I felt his presence; his strong hand clamped me in a collar-tie and we were locked up in the surrounding blackness.
    “If you can feel me, you don’t need to see me,” Herm said. “If you’ve got hold of my neck, you kinda know where my arms and legs are gonna be, don’tcha?”
    “Yes, sir,” I answered.
    “You better do your duck-under on me before I do mine on you, Billy,” Herm told me. But I wasn’t quick enough. Coach Hoyt hit his duck-under first; it was a real head-banger. “I guess it’s your turn, Billy—just don’t make me wait all night,” the old coach said.
    “Do you know where she’s going?” I asked him later. It was pitch-dark in the old gym, and we were lying on the mat—both of us were resting.
    “Al told me not to tell you, Billy,” Herm said.
    “I understand,” I told him.
    “I always knew Al wanted to be a girl.” The old coach’s voice came out of the darkness. “I just didn’t know he had the balls to go through with it, Billy.”
    “Oh, he has the balls, all right,” I said.
    “She—
she
has the balls, Billy!” Herm Hoyt said, laughing crazily.
    There were some windows surrounding the wooden track above us; an early-dawn light gave them a dull glow.
    “Listen up, Billy,” the old coach said. “You’ve got one move. It’s a pretty good duck-under, but it’s just one move. You can take a guy down with it—maybe hurt him a little. But a tough guy is gonna get up and keep comin’ after you. One move won’t make you a wrestler, Billy.”
    “I see,” I said.
    “When you hit your duck-under, you get the hell out of there—wherever you are, Billy. Do you get what I’m sayin’?” Coach Hoyt asked me.
    “It’s just one move—I hit it and run. Is that what you’re telling me?” I asked him.
    “You hit it and run—you know how to run, don’tcha?” the old coach said.
    “What will happen to her?” I asked him suddenly.
    “I can’t tell you that, Billy,” Herm said, sighing.
    “She’s got more than one move, doesn’t she?” I asked him.
    “Yeah, but Al’s not gettin’ any younger,” Coach Hoyt told me. “You best get home, Billy—there’s enough light to see by.”
    I thanked him; I made my way across the absolutely empty Favorite River campus. I wanted to see Elaine, and hug her and kiss her, but I didn’t think that would be our future. I had a summer ahead of me to explore the much-ballyhooed sexual
everything
with Tom Atkins, but I liked boys
and
girls; I knew Atkins couldn’t provide me with everything.
    Was I enough of a romantic to believe Miss Frost knew this about me? Did I believe she was the first person to understand that no one person could
ever
give me everything?
    Yes, probably. After all, I was only nineteen—a bisexual boy with a pretty good duck-under. It was just one move, and I was no wrestler, but you can learn a lot from good teachers.

Chapter
11
    ESPAÑA
    “You should wait, William,” Miss Frost had said. “The time to read
Madame Bovary
is when your romantic hopes and desires have crashed, and you believe that your future relationships will have disappointing—even devastating—consequences.”
    “I’ll wait to read it until then,” I’d told her.
    Is it any wonder that this was the novel I took with me to Europe in the summer of 1961, when I was traveling with Tom?
    I’d just begun reading
Madame Bovary
when Atkins asked me, “Who is she, Bill?” In his tone of voice, and by the pitiful-looking way poor Tom was biting his lower lip, I perceived that he was jealous of Emma Bovary. I hadn’t yet met the woman! (I was still reading about the oafish Charles.)
    I even shared with Atkins that passage about Charles’s father encouraging the boy to “take great swigs of rum and to shout insults at religious processions.” (A promising upbringing, I’d oh-so-wrongly concluded.) But when I read poor Tom that defining observation of Charles—“the audacity of his desire protested against the servility of his conduct”—I could see how hurtful this was. It