Short Bus Hero (23 page)

I usher Ally and Stryker out of the room.

“You stay away from us,” Jeff shouts at their backs, hysterical and clutching at Trish.

Lois rushes forward as her daughter exits the room. She heard the commotion from the other side of the door and is concerned. “What happened?” She brushes the hair out of Ally’s face and hugs her. Ally smiles up at her. Ally’s left cheek has a bright red handprint on it. Lois is confused. Did someone hit her? And where are the tears? Why isn’t she crying?

“It’s okay, Mom. It’s not the end.”

I try to whisper to Lois, but, as you know, ever since Ally’s own hospital experience, we haven’t been on the best of terms. Sometimes she listens, sometimes she doesn’t. She senses my presence, though, and I think she resents it.

She thinks she’s haunted or something.

Maybe she is.

In any case, I’d shown Ally and Stryker something they both, in their own ways, needed to see.

43. Bustrophobia /
bus
ˈ
-tr
ō-fōˈ-bē-ə / fear of buses

T
he Cool People
troop into the home after spending the day at the funeral home and the freezing cemetery. They find Ally in the media room, watching a live WWC match. Her friends gather around her, knowing she’s sad about having been excluded from saying goodbye to her best friend, her fiancé. They tell her that they saw the beautiful flowers she’d sent. They tell her that they told Jason goodbye for her and told him that she’d wanted to come.

She tells them that he wasn’t there. They don’t know what she means.

She hadn’t meant any disrespect at the hospital, but there was no way that Trish and Jeff could have known that. What they saw was Ally and Stryker smiling at and talking to their dead son. And Ally telling him that he was “hot.” It’s sad, but they will never understand what happened that day. I could not have shown them. It was not my responsibility, or my place, to do so.

Mara sits next to Ally on the ocean of the sectional sofa and puts an arm around her. Ally lets her head fall on her friend’s shoulder. She remembers what Mara said on move-in day, about Jason never getting that bedroom, about Jason being dead. She forgives her. She’s her best friend.

That room belongs to Ally now, but she’ll always think of it as Jason’s.

They all watch Gemini destroy Re-animated Andy, the WWC’s answer to the monsters featured in the Heavyweight Heroes of Horror. Re-animated Andy looks like a low-rent Herman Munster, only smaller and not as scary. This character causes commentators to make fun of Drake Murray and his raging jealousy of the new HHH juggernaut.

At the end of the match, Drake Murray himself makes a surprise appearance. He walks to the center of the ring and pulls down one of those old-fashioned chrome-grilled microphones.

“I got a message for someone out there.” People boo and catcall. “That’s right, you losers. Listen up, it’s gonna be big.” He looks around frantically for a camera. He finds one and steps toward it. “Hey, Short Bus, you out there? Yeah, that’s right, I’m talking to you, Ally Forman, leader of the brand new soon-to-be-defunct Heavyweight Heroes of Horror.” Cheers and applause fill the arena. “Shut up, you stupid sons of lepers. Short Bus, I got something for you. A challenge. You think your stable of brainless zombie idiots are up to it? An inter-league championship fight. The battle to end all battles. Winner takes all. You think you can handle that, Short Bus?” Fans go wild. Murray points at the camera, posing for a dramatic second, then he pulls a stupid looking idiot face and walks off.

The Cool People sit in the media room with their jaws on their shoes. They all start talking at once.

“Ally, you gotta do it!”

“Yeah, A-Ally…do…do it!”

“Ally, shit, Ally, beat the crap, shit, out of him!”

“You can do it!”

Everyone jumps around until Wendell starts swearing too much and foaming at the mouth. Debra makes everyone sit down and stop shouting. That woman is less than no fun sometimes.

Ally, though hurt and incensed by Murray’s name-calling, begins to recognize the potential in this situation. She fantasizes about taking her promotion all the way to the top, knocking Drake Murray off his stupid throne.

She would be a super-diva, and Stryker would be the heavyweight champion again.

And she would not ask her mother.

She will just do it.

* * *

“If I do it, will you do something for me?” Stryker studies Ally’s sleep encrusted eyelashes across the breakfast table.

“I…I…I’ve be-been doing everything for you!” She scratches the bird’s nest of her hair and takes a sip of her milk. “I mean, th-this is w-w-what you want!”

Well, she has him there. He sighs.

“I know. This is something different, okay? Something good.” He smiles at her. She narrows her eyes. She still trusts him, only not quite as much as she once did.

“What?”

“Look around you.”

She looks. Debra wheels Wendell into the kitchen, trailing a streamer of curse words. Stainless steel reflects the sunlight that spills in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. They sit at a gorgeous oak table and eat from fine bone china. The rest of the house is pure opulence mixed with Willy Wonka. It is functional and beautiful and whimsical. And the neighbors have finally dropped their stupid petition, challenging the operation of a group home in their fancy ‘hood (after they found out who Ally was, they even brought homemade cookies and invited her to progressive dinners which she never attended).

“Now, imagine other Cool People, just like you guys, living in places like this all over the country.”

She seems to consider this for a moment, then pulls a long piece of hair out of her mouth. “Aaah, eeeeeeeew!” She tries to fling it onto the floor, but it sticks to her fingers.

“Ally. Ally. Back here, okay?” Stryker says, trying to regain her attention. “Cool People group homes all over the country, where no one would have to worry about their loved ones, where the Cool People themselves could enjoy the freedom of living like you do.” He looks into her liquid walnut eyes. “A whole chain of group homes. The Ally Forman Cool People’s Refuge. What do you think?”

Whaaaat? Okay, Stryker Nash wants to help retards? Are you kidding me? Oh, my God.

This guy. I love this guy.

Debra stares at him from the island where she’s making breakfast. She blinks back tears. She doesn’t believe what she’s hearing. Her heart swells. I think she loves this guy, too.

Ally fills her lungs, puffing out her chest and raising her head. A smile lights her face. “I love it.”

Her smile falls.

“But it has to be the Jason Gibson Cool People’s Refuge.”

44. Cardiophobia /
karˈ-dē-ō-fōˈ-bē-ə / fear of the heart

T
raffic coming
out of the Callahan Tunnel inches along to a soundtrack of random honks and squealing tires, 93 is a complete mess (whatever happened to that Big Dig deal? It didn’t help anything as far as Stryker can tell), and Route 3… Forget it. Boston traffic sucks. And watch out on surface streets. People make left turns as soon as the light goes green, darting right out in front of oncoming cars. Crazy drivers.

I’ve heard them called “Mass-holes.” By Stryker, actually.

The flight from Pittsburgh was okay, no turbulence or bomb threats or anything, but Stryker’s stomach spent the whole time doing back flips anyway. He didn’t want to admit it, but he’d prayed for a crash. As he stepped into the terminal at Logan International, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and get right back on the plane. His hands shook, his shirt was soaked through and plastered to his chest. He thought maybe he was sick. Yeah, like with the flu or something. Maybe he’d really better just go back home.

Nope, I came a long way for this. I’m a better man, now,
he thinks as he wheels his carry-on through Logan Airport.
I can do this.

Now, after sitting in traffic jam after traffic jam, Stryker finds himself in Braintree. His stomach churns loudly and he needs to go to the bathroom as he cruises down a tree-lined street.

Stop it.

Come on, let’s do this.

Stryker parks the Enterprise Rent-A-Car at the curb. Nice neighborhood, quiet cul-de-sac. Fenced yards with towering swing sets. He steps out of the car and immediately feels like throwing up. He swallows hard and looks up the sidewalk to the two-story red brick colonial. He looks up and down the street, enjoying the surprisingly warm, New England springtime breeze. The trees are just starting to bud. He’s glad he didn’t wait any longer to make the trip—he’s allergic to new leaves.

He’s sweating again. He wipes his palms on his jeans, but it doesn’t help any.

Each step toward the house brings him closer to the biggest mistake he ever made. He feels sick.

The bell plays a distant melody when he finally musters enough courage to thumb the button. The rhythmic clicking of high heels on polished wood, then, the hurried plodding of socked feet, closer and closer. The deadbolt clicks and Stryker draws a sharp breath.

This is it.

The moment he’d been both dreading and dreaming of for so long.

“Hi!”

Stryker looks down at the young boy who greets him. He had expected a teenager, but he guesses the kid’s growth was probably stunted. He’s cute.

“Well, hi.” The hulking wrestler manages a smile, although he feels like crying.

“Stryker.” His ex-wife stands behind the boy, holding the door open. She’s clearly shocked. “What a surprise.” She purses her lips and looks down at her beaming son. “Well, would you like to come in?”

“Hi,” the boy says again, smiling. “You’re Stryker Nash. I know you.” He claps. “Mom, a real wrestler! No way! Is he coming inside our house?” The boy’s eyes grow wider and wider.

They sit in a formal living room with leather furniture and heavy wood. The boy and his mother perch on a couch while Stryker sits on the edge of a heavy club chair opposite them. He gazes at the boy, who is now fourteen years old. His reason for traveling so far.

His reason for a lot of things.

The boy has short dark hair worn in a straight bowl-cut, a round pale face, the tell-tale almond-shaped eyes, and a lopsided grin. A hot needle pierces Stryker’s chest.

This boy has Down syndrome.

“Mom told me… Are you…are you really my daddy?” the boy asks Stryker, point-blank. He’s never seen anyone famous this close up before. And wrestling is the coolest, he thinks. He watches the WWC all the time. He used to watch the AWG, too. Stryker used to be one of his favorite guys. “Seriously?”

Stryker clears his throat and swallows a lump. “Yeah. Yeah, Stevie, I’m your daddy.” He feels his face go red as thousands of regrettable images regarding the child flood his mind. The images are no longer scribbled out. Tears drip from his eyes and his nose begins to run.

“Why are you crying?” the boy asks. “Pro wrestlers cry?”

This boy doesn’t deserve this. I shouldn’t have come,
Stryker thinks.
It’ll just screw him up even more. God, I’m sorry.

“Stryker, can I get you some coffee or something?” his ex asks, surreptitiously wiping a tear from her own eye and standing up. She never thought she’d see the day. This no-good prick finally grew up. Unbelievable. She wants to hug him. And then shoot him.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” he says, wiping his nose on his coat sleeve, trying to be discreet about it. They live in a really nice house. She obviously takes good care of him. He’s got nice clothes, braces on his teeth, not a scratch on him. No worries there.

“Daddy, why are you crying?” the boy still wants to know.

“Well,” he begins, “I…uh…I have a lot of things to say to you.” But maybe he shouldn’t say them.

“You do? Good, because I have stuff to say to you, too! I have a guinea pig. You want to see him?” The boy looks like he’s just made a new friend on the playground. There is not a single shred of ill-will or disdain in him. It makes Stryker feel so much worse.

The ex-wife, Jessica, comes back into the room with a steaming mug of coffee.

“The first thing I want to say…um, Stevie…” He hesitates.

“He goes by Steve now,” Jessica says. Stryker tries not to let the interruption ruin his Hallmark moment. He tries to remember the words he practiced in his head on the plane. He has to say them. If he doesn’t, he’ll regret it for the rest of his life. His heart pounds, his palms sweat, his mouth goes dry.

“Steve, I’ve been a terrible dad, but I came here because I want to tell you that I’m sorry, and that…um…that I love you.” Just like that, he forces it out. Before he loses his nerve.

And it feels so good.

It feels like Heaven.

Steve jumps off the couch and runs straight at Stryker, almost knocking him off the chair. The kid grabs him in a big, smelly hug, laughing. He wonders if his mom has told him about deodorant yet. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want the hug to end.

“I had some pretty bad luck for a while,” he says, “but I made a new friend who taught me a lot of things that I never knew before.” He catches Steve by the head and looks into his face. “One of those things is how damn lucky I am to have you and what a complete ass I’ve been ever since the day you were born.” He tightens his lips in a thin grin, cutting off a loud sob, and his eyes mist over.

“You said ‘damn’ and ‘ass’!” Steve laughs, dancing away from Stryker’s embrace. “You’re not supposed to use those words. Put money in the cookie jar!”

“Steve, Stryker doesn’t have to put any money in the cookie jar,” Jessica says, trying to hide her face, just in case her mascara is running. “You know Stryker’s friend, Ally, the one I told you about? The one who won the lottery?”

“Oh, yeah, she’s rich!”

“Well . . . yes. And she’s smart too,” Stryker says. “She’d like to be your friend. She wants me to invite you to our big match against the WWC in New York next week. What do you say?” He looks at Jessica, hoping she can find it somewhere inside to let the kid see his dad wrestle, just once.

“Wooo, yeah!” Steve is already there. He jumps up and down and turns in circles. Does he have that ADHD, too? No, come on, the kid just found out his real dad is freaking Stryker Nash! Woo-hoo! Plus, he gets to go to the big match in New York! If that had happened to me when I was a kid, I would have had a total stroke.

“Well, I’ll have to get his assignments from school, and, of course, I’d have to chaperone him. And maybe Jerry would want to go.” Jerry is the new husband. The eye doctor. The guy who takes care of Stryker’s family now, since he’d thrown them away, abandoned them like a Christmas tree on New Year’s Day. “Unless that would make you uncomfortable.”

“No, no, no, not at all,” he lies. In truth, it will be highly uncomfortable, but he can’t let her know that. He feels like an ass. “Whatever you have to do. I just really want to see Steve, and this match is kind of an important one to me.” He doesn’t tell her that it may be his last. Stryker looks around the room, squinting at the happy family in the pictures lining the mantel. How he wishes he were in those photos.

He finally recognizes what he gave up all those years ago.

“I’d like to start seeing him more often, if we could somehow arrange that, too.”

Jessica nods her head, looking around the living room, wondering what he sees, hoping he really means what he says this time.