In One Person

club I know on Central Park South, Billy,” Herm Hoyt told me. “It’s a pretty good one.”
    “When Arthur understood what my history with the duck-under was, he didn’t seem interested in pursuing the matter of my coming to wrestling practice,” I explained to Coach Hoyt.
    “It might not be the best idea,” Herm said. “I don’t know the fellas at that club—not anymore.”
    “They probably don’t get many gay guys wrestling there—you know, for self-defense—is that your guess, Herm?” I asked the old coach.
    “Has this Arthur fella read your
writin
’, Billy?” Herm Hoyt asked me.
    “Have
you
?” I asked Herm, surprised.
    “Jeez—sure, I have. Just don’t ask me what it’s
about
, Billy!” the old wrestling coach said.
    “How about Miss Frost?” I suddenly asked him. “Has
she
read my writing?”
    “Persistent, isn’t he?” Uncle Bob asked Herm.
    “She knows you’re a writer, Billy—everybody who knows you knows that,” the wrestling coach said.
    “Don’t ask
me
what you write about, either, Billy,” Uncle Bob said. He dropped the empty bottle and I kicked it under Grandpa Harry’s couch. The woman with the dyed-red hair brought another beer for the Racquet Man. I realized why she’d seemed familiar; all the caterers were from the Favorite River Academy dining service—they were kitchen workers, from the academy dining halls. That woman who kept bringing Bob another beer had been in her forties when I’d last seen her; she came from the
past
, which would always be with me.
    “The wrestlin’ club is the New York Athletic Club—they have other sports there, for sure, but they weren’t bad at wrestlin’, Billy. You could probably do some practicin’ of your duck-under there,” Herm was saying. “Maybe ask that Arthur fella about it, Billy—after all these years, I’ll bet you could use some
practicin
’.”
    “Herm, what if the wrestlers beat the shit out of me?” I asked him. “Wouldn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of Miss Frost and you showing me a duck-under in the first place?”
    “Bob’s asleep, and he’s pissed all over himself,” the old coach abruptly observed.
    “Uncle Bob …” I started to say, but Herm Hoyt grabbed the Racquet Man by both shoulders and shook him.
    “Bob—stop pissin’!” the wrestling coach shouted.
    When Bob’s eyes blinked open, he was as caught off-guard as anyone working in the office of Alumni Affairs at Favorite River Academy ever would be.
    “España,” the Racquet Man said, when he saw me.
    “Jeez, Bob—be careful what you say,” Herm Hoyt said.
    “España,” I repeated.
    “That’s where he is—he says he’s never coming back, Billy,” Uncle Bob told me.
    “That’s where
who
is?” I asked my drunken uncle.
    Our only conversation, if you could call it that, had been about Kittredge; it was hard to imagine Kittredge speaking Spanish. I knew the Racquet Man didn’t mean Big Al—Uncle Bob wasn’t telling me that Miss Frost was in Spain, and
she
was never coming back.
    “Bob …” I started to say, but the Racquet Man had nodded off again. Herm Hoyt and I could see that Bob was still pissing.
    “Herm …” I started to say.
    “Franny Dean, my former wrestlin’-team manager, Billy—
he
’s in Spain. Your father is in Spain, Billy, and he’s happy there—that’s all I know.”
    “
Where
in Spain, Herm?” I asked the old coach.
    “España,” Herm Hoyt repeated, shrugging. “Somewhere in Spain, Billy—that’s all I can tell ya. Just keep thinkin’ about the
happy
part. Your dad is happy, and he’s in Spain. Your mom was never happy, Billy.”
    I knew Herm was right about that. I went looking for Elaine; I wanted to tell her that my father was in Spain. My mother was dead, but my father—whom I’d never known—was alive and happy.
    But before I could tell her, Elaine spoke to me first. “We should sleep in your bedroom tonight, Billy—not in mine,” she began.
    “Okay—” I said.
    “If Richard wakes up and decides to
say
something, he shouldn’t be alone—we should be there,” Elaine went on.
    “Okay, but I just found out about something,” I told her; she wasn’t listening.
    “I owe you a blow job, Billy—maybe this is your lucky night,” Elaine said. I thought she was drunk, or else I’d misheard her.
    “What?” I said.
    “I’m sorry for what I said about Rachel. That’s what the blow job is for,” Elaine explained; she
was
drunk, extending the number