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"No," his father said. "This is going to be a special season for
you.
"

Bobby shrugged. "Whatever."

"No, not whatever."

"Dad—"

"What about the states? What about
winning
the states?"

Bobby put down his fork. "Do we have to get into this now?"

It was a grueling road to the states, he knew. In late February, thirty-two district tournaments across New Jersey advanced the winners and runners-up in each weight class to the eight region tournaments held the following weekend. The same was true from the regions to the states, a week later, when the top sixteen wrestlers at each weight competed for the tide of state champ.

His father shook his head. "That's not the kind of attitude I expect from you."

"Sorry," Bobby said, smartly.

"I'll assume it's because you're tired."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm tired."

And still hungry. And, yes, he had thought about being a state champ. What wrestler in New Jersey hadn't dreamed of standing atop the winner's podium at Princeton University's hallowed Jadwin Gym to have the championship medal placed around his neck? Any wrestler worth a damn dreamed it a thousand times. But Bobby didn't feel that way right then. Not hungry and dehydrated and wondering how many more nights his mother's chair would be empty.

His father's voice was uncompromising. "You weren't 18–5 last year on a fluke, Bobby."

"I know."

"You won the districts and placed fourth in the regions."

"I know, I know. I was there."

"Relax, young man," his father said sharply. "You can be much better this year. Everyone believes it. Now
you
have to."

"I have other things to think about."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, like..."

"Girls," Christopher said. He pursed his lips. "Kiss, kiss, kiss. He does that on the phone
all
night."

It wasn't exactly the truth. There was only one girl— Carmelina Veloso. Bobby had met her at the Livingston Mall the month before, while she worked the perfume counter at Macy's. She was brash but soft, and she seemed to dance without moving. She had a killer smile, semi-dark skin, and eyes that reached out and held his gaze, so that even if he wanted to look somewhere else, he couldn't possibly. Bobby kept a photo of Carmelina in his shirt pocket. During class, he would look at it and wonder what she was doing at that moment in her school. Late at night, they would talk on the phone about nothing in particular, but everything, it seemed, that mattered.

"You shouldn't be up that late," his father said to Christopher, then he turned back to Bobby. "You get one shot at your senior year. One shot, that's it."

"I know."

"You've got to be more selfish. Understand? You want the team to do well—fine—but think about yourself first. The state tournament has to be your primary focus. And enough with the phone."

"Yes," Bobby said. "Focus."

But Bobby knew he had said it halfheartedly, and when his father shook his head, Bobby felt he had to say more. "Dad, it's not like I'm saying I can't do it. But if the team is ranked high in the state, and I win the districts and regions, wouldn't that be great?"

His father stood up, carrying dishes to the sink. "But would it be enough?"

Bobby didn't answer.

"Well, would it?" his father said. "You should certainly win the regions. And the states? Who knows what'll happen once you're at Jadwin."

Bobby still didn't say anything.

"Did you see the Yale application?" his father said. "I put it on the staircase."

"I saw it."

"Don't settle, Bobby. Do you understand me? Don't settle. If you want to be a state champion, then make it your goal and accept nothing less."

The thought of that made Bobby's stomach tighten. His final season of high school Wrestling had always been off in the distance. Now it was here. No days to count, no waiting for summer to turn to fall, and fall to turn to winter. It was time to deliver. And now his father was talking about him being a state champ.

Damn, Papa," Ivan muttered, his voice hoarse.

He sat up in bed, awoken by the sound of a grinding ignition as his father tried to start the Chevy Nova. Sunlight fought through the ice-frosted bedroom window, and Ivan could tell it wasn't any later than seven o'clock.

Ivan climbed out of bed, draping a wool blanket over his shoulders, and shuffled across the floor to the window. With his fingernail, he scraped away a patch of ice on the inside of the glass so he could see the front yard and the pile of logs his father had begun moving the day before.

Frost dusted the evergreens along the driveway and made the Nova appear even older than its hundred-and-sixty-thousand miles. His father tried the ignition a half-dozen more times, until the engine finally turned over in a grating screech. Plumes of exhaust chugged from the tailpipe, drifting upward.

His father stepped out of the Nova, wearing overalls, a plaid flannel shirt, and work boots. He
had
to be cold, Ivan thought. Across the road, Mr. Peterson tugged at the leash of his golden retriever, Modine. The two men waved, then continued about their business. Ivan's father walked to the front of the house. A moment later, the door opened.

"We will leave in five minutes."

Go without me!
Ivan wanted to say.
Fd rather go by myself.
He sat down hard on the chair, looking around the bedroom as if somewhere behind his closet door or underneath his bed, there might be an escape. The sun slid behind clouds, casting the room in shadow.

Finally, he said, "I'll be down."

Ivan threw off the blanket, opened his closet, and reached along the inside wall, pushing aside a few pairs of jeans, four shirts, and a couple of hooded sweatshirts. He wished he had nicer clothes.

At the back of the closet, Ivan found a hanger with a pressed pair of navy-blue corduroy pants, a neatly tailored white shirt, and a burgundy tie. On the closet floor, he kicked away some rumpled clothing, uncovering a shoe box. He opened the top and pulled out black loafers.

Ivan reached his arms into the shirt, the starched material feeling cold against his skin. He stepped into the pants, pulled on a pair of argyle socks, then wedged his feet into the stiff loafers. His feet felt caged and pinched along the instep, reminding him how much he preferred the nylon and thin rubber soles of his Wrestling shoes. Ivan carefully knotted his tie, smoothed it flat, then inspected himself, making sure every stitch of clothing was in order.

When he was young, his mother would tease him about that. She would kneel in front of him, straighten his tie, and give him a kiss on the cheek. "You look like a very serious young man." Years later, he would take great pride when the
Lennings Chronicle
described him as a "very serious" freshman wrestler.

"You have much work to do later," his father called up from the bottom of the stairs. "We will go now."

The front door closed.

A smell of roses filled the Nova. His father handed him a bouquet of long stems wrapped in a cone of green tissue paper.

"These are nice," Ivan said. "Mr. Johnston made them up?"

His father nodded. "Special for us."

The Nova rumbled down Farmingdale Road toward the center of Lennings. At the Starlite Deli, a few townspeople were picking up the morning paper, and the Sunoco station was open for business. Otherwise, theirs was the only car on the road.

His father looked at him. "You are dressed nice this morning. I should have dressed up, too."

Ivan held the bouquet of flowers. He stared out the passenger window. "I don't think Mama will care," he said, quietly. "We're going to see her; that's all that matters."

A half hour later, they had passed through Stanton Station to the outskirts of Quakertown, where a wrought-iron gate marked the entrance to the cemetery. His father turned in and continued up the gently curving roadway. On the sloping hills, rows upon rows of headstones formed an endless pattern.

Across the way, a young woman, her head hung low, stood motionless. The hem of her dress flapped in the wind as she held the hand of a neatly dressed boy standing obediently still. A headstone overwhelmed his small frame, outlining his brown pants and matching coat.

Ivan's father parked the Nova under a barren maple tree. Ivan stepped out. Wind pressed against him, so he flexed his muscles for warmth and wrapped his wool coat tighter. The grass was firm under his shoes as he walked toward his mother's grave, his father a step behind. Ivan gazed at the woman and young boy—they still hadn't moved.
Who'd they lose?
he thought.
What was
their
pain like?

Out of the corner of his eye, Ivan watched his father. This wasn't the same man from a year earlier. That man had withered away. Someone had taken his place, someone bitter and distant.

Passing the graves, Ivan was careful not to read any of the headstones. It was a superstition he had learned years ago when he and the Scotts played capture the flag in the graveyard down past Wellington Farms. "Never look at the names," Timmy Scott had said in a hushed voice, "or you'll be haunted by the dead person for thirteen years."

But eventually Ivan came upon his mother's headstone, where he
had
to look. His father stepped forward and went down awkwardly to one knee.

Ivan held him. "Papa?"

White mist rose from his father's mouth as he whispered something Ivan couldn't hear. A twig lay against the headstone, and a few leaves huddled beside the stone base. His father brushed them away.

Ivan glanced at the etched lettering.
ANNA KORSKE, LOVING WIFE AND MOTHER
. That was all that remained, her name in stone, her body buried below. And memories.

His father looked back over his shoulder. "This is a nice spot for her."

Ivan handed him the flowers. "Here, Papa." His father laid the roses at the base of the headstone and placed a fist-sized rock on the stems to keep the flowers from blowing away.

Ivan stepped back. His eyes began to well, but he fought back the tears. Two hundred and twenty-six days of unyielding loneliness, of missing his mother so much his temples throbbed, of wishing that somehow it had been a big joke and that one day he'd walk through the back door after practice and she'd be standing there in the kitchen.

"Ivan, did you wrestle good today?" she'd ask.

"Yes, Mama," he'd say. "Let me show ya what I did to one guy." And he would show her a hip throw, lifting her high off her feet.

And she would laugh, "Ivan, put your mother down; I am too old for this craziness."

April third. A Saturday. Ivan didn't remember whether it had been sunny, rainy, cold, or whatever. It seemed like yesterday, and five years ago, all at once.

April third. That's when her body gave in to the disease. He didn't know its despicable name. Something unpronounceable, something the doctors couldn't explain to him in any understandable way. They stood in their pristine white coats saying things that changed nothing. In the end, they could only delay her death, not stop it. Ivan watched as his mother, over a few months, became weak and brittle, until finally the disease took her away. And through it all, he could do nothing to stop it. Nothing.

Sunlight broke through a seam in the clouds. Ivan welcomed the faint warmth, tilting his head back to let the sun shine on his face. He squinted, searching for the woman and young boy. They were gone. On another knoll, an elderly man took their place. Then, just as quickly, the sun disappeared.

"We should go, Papa."

His father opened his eyes, dazed. "What?"

"We should go. It's cold out ... for you."

His father nodded and, with Ivan's help, stood up. "Take some time for yourself," he said, starting back to the Nova.

Ivan stood a few feet from the headstone, too tired for more tears, too drained to know what to think. His fingers outlined the engraved letters. She was in his heart. Now and always. But she wasn't here, in the flesh, when he needed her most.
Why her? Why my mama?
But there was no reasonable explanation. Nothing that made sense. And so he cursed God and any belief in Him.

Ivan stepped back and, without another look at the grave, stalked away. When he and his father returned home, he found the only comfort he could, running the roads of Lennings. The same streets, the same routine.

Over and over.

Ivan toiled through the afternoon, continuing the work his father had started earlier, carrying logs from a pile behind the shed to the edge of the driveway. Eventually dusk fell, making way for another cold night.

Ivan wedged the logs into a neat stack. His palms were nicked with splinters and rubbed raw, his right thumb smeared with blood. He stopped for some time, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"What's up, Champ?" Ivan heard from the end of the driveway. He turned.

Shelley's blond hair fell out from under a beret, spilling over a cherry sweater and white turtleneck. Her smile was the finishing touch of a perfect picture on an otherwise colorless day.

"Happy turkey day," she said.

"You, too."

Modine bounded toward Ivan, stopped at his feet, and spun around in a circle, tail whipping back and forth. Ivan knelt down and patted his side. "You just love the cold, don't-cha boy?" He looked up at Shelley. "How's your day been?"

"Holidays at my house are like a day out at the asylum, I swear to God. I barricaded myself in my room to finish up this A.P. English paper, but then I saw you out here. Can't stay long, though." She gave him a curious look. "Why in the world are you working today? Or should I even ask?"

"Papa thinks we're in for a bad winter."

"So ...?"

"He wants it done."

"Today?"

"Today."

"Well, okay," Shelley said.

Ivan appreciated that she didn't push it further.

Shelley followed him as he grabbed more logs. "You know," she said, with a whimsical grin, "even when you're doing something else, something totally different, you still look like a wrestler."