Icarus w-2, page 13
part #2 of Westwood Series
Jack made it to seven lifts. After that, totally flat on his back, he shook his head slowly from side to side. He was finished.
"You look exhausted."
Jack was so tired he couldn't even answer. All he did was nod.
"Okay," Kid said, "now stand up."
Jack took a deep breath, finally was able to say, "You know I can't get up from this position."
"So let me get this straight," Kid said. "You can't get up from the floor and you can't even lift your leg ten times in a row. With no weight attached to it."
"Are all our conversations going to end with me saying fuck you?"
"No. I just want to show you something. You watching?"
"I'm lying on the goddamn floor, Kid, doing my best carrot impersonation. What else do you think I'm doing but watching?"
Kid went to the barbell that was lying on the floor, rolled up against the wall under the room's two small windows. He moved the bar to the center of the room, went to the rack in the corner and pulled off two weights. He attached one of them to each end of the barbell, bent down as if to lift it, then stopped and went back to the rack. He took two more weights and added them to the bar.
"Watch me, Jack."
He put his feet shoulder-width apart and positioned himself so his shins were practically touching the bar. Then he bent down and grasped it, his palms down. Kid's body revealed no tension; there was no apprehension or even hint of strain to come. His legs bent so his thighs were almost parallel to the floor. With his head up and his arms extended straight down, he inhaled deeply and suddenly and, seemingly in one motion, lifted the bar up past his waist and, flipping it so his hands were now underneath it, to shoulder height. He was standing perfectly erect and the bar was resting on his chest. He was not breathing hard and there was no outward sign of exertion.
"This is called a 'clean,'" Kid said. "It's the hardest weight exercise there is. I'm doing two hundred pounds. That's a serious weight."
"And you're showing this to me because…?"
"Because you're gonna be able to do this. With this exact weight."
"Kid, I can't even stand up by myself, as you've so kindly pointed out."
Kid exhaled deeply and, in one motion, returned the bar to the floor. The weight touched down so softly it barely made a sound.
"A year from today, Jack. Mark it down in your calendar. That's the day you clean two hundred. You're not going to be as good as new, you're gonna be twice as good as you ever were."
Jack didn't say anything. He just motioned for Kid to help him up. When he was safely back in his chair, he looked up at Kid and said quietly, "How long have you been back?"
"A year," Kid told him. His voice was just as muted as Jack's. "I came back a year ago."
Jack looked down, shook his head as if clearing away a physical pain. "What the hell have you been doing this whole time?"
"I told you. Keeping my head above water."
"I could have helped," Jack said. "When did I ever refuse to help you?"
"Never. That's one of the reasons I didn't call. I needed to do this on my own."
"What are the other reasons?"
"Let me hook you up to the machine now, Jack."
There was silence between them until Kid moved to something that looked a bit too much like R2-D2. It was the ultrasound-ultrastim machine. "You won't feel anything at first. I'm starting really low. Gradually you'll feel a kind of prickly sensation." Kid now attached Jack to the machine. Wires led out to directly above his left knee and just above his right hip. "I just want this to be nice and soothing for now."
"Doesn't seem right," Jack muttered sarcastically. "You're giving me something where there's no agony."
"Don't worry," Kid said. "The agony'll come soon enough." And then with a half laugh and a shrug of his shoulders, he said, so quietly that Jack could barely make out the words, "And the strange part is you're gonna start to like it."
SIXTEEN
In the months since Caroline had died, Jack had spoken very little about her. He accepted awkward condolences with a quiet thank-you or a silent nod of the head and he rarely reminisced about her, even with Dom, who spoke to or saw him every day, or Herb Bloomfield, his lawyer, who called him every other day – Jack decided that his lawyer friend had to have had his secretary put "Call Jack, see how he's doing" on his calendar, blocking off five minutes three times a week as if it were a business appointment. But he thought about Caroline a lot. If the truth were known, almost constantly. Little things would bring memories rushing back. He'd look out from his balcony and see a fir tree flourishing in the park and he'd remember a trip to Vermont; it was snowing, and they went cross-country skiing through miles of perfect firs. From his perch above Manhattan, Jack would smell the exquisite mix of minty fir needles and newly cut wood and fresh Vermont air. And he would see Caroline in her ludicrously bright orange parka, slithering along the dirty white paths of the forest.
He'd watch TV and see a pregnant woman on a mindless sitcom and he'd remember how Caroline cried when she told him she was pregnant and, when he went to hug her, how she'd waved her hands, a totally feminine gesture, embarrassed at her tears, which were brought on by a combination of bliss and fear and raging hormones. Then he'd remember all their promises to each other, how they'd love and honor and always be kind to each other. How they'd be friends, not just lovers. He'd kept all the promises he'd ever made to her, he thought. Except for the most important one, the one about keeping her safe and happy forever.
Jack had played the scene in Charlottesville over many times in his head. What if he hadn't barged in on them? What if he'd done it differently? What if he'd managed to overcome the brutal blow to the head and talk to the killer? What if he hadn't let Caroline talk him out of having a TV monitor – maybe they'd have a face for the killer. What if…
It was the last "what if" that usually stopped Jack cold. Especially as it was the same one that had haunted him ever since he'd seen his mother die.
What if he'd been killed instead of her?
What if…
"You ready to boogie, Jack?"
Jack looked up, his regretful reverie over. Kid stood in the entryway, on the edge of the living room, looking in at him.
"How'd you get in?"
"The key," Kid said. "From when I cleaned out the office. I drove here, so I just parked in the garage and came up."
"You have a car?"
"Borrowed a friend's," Kid said. "I'm running around all day today and it's a lot cheaper than cabs." He dug into his pocket, pulled the small, squat elevator key out, and held it in his palm. "Where do you want me to put it?"
"It's Mattie's," Jack told him. "Put it on the little table there so I'll remember to give it back to her."
Kid nodded, placed it on the side table in the hallway. "You're looking pretty serious today."
"I'm feeling pretty serious today."
"Thinking too much is bad for you, Jack."
"It depends what it is you're thinking, doesn't it?"
"Oh, right. Sorry. I guess you were sittin in here just thinking your happy thoughts."
"I'm paying you to be my physical trainer, not a psychiatrist."
"Sometimes they go hand in hand."
"But not this time," Jack told him.
"Okay." Kid shrugged, sloughing off any acknowledgment of Jack's self-pity. "Then let's get physical."
– "-"-"OVER THE NEXT month, Jack learned that his pain was inextricably tied to his improvement. And Kid was right. He'd begun to enjoy it in a strange and elusive way. As excruciating as it was, he could feel it bringing him slowly, inch by inch, closer to life.
Kid came, without fail, five days a week. Seven o'clock every morning, and they spent an hour together, sometimes two, Kid pushing Jack as hard as he would let himself be pushed. And then he'd give Jack another hour's worth of work to do on his own, a specific plan to do every afternoon. More exercises. More pushing. More pain. Sometimes, when he had the time, Kid even came back in the afternoon to oversee the second session. And often he'd show up on the weekend, occasionally cajoling Jack into an extra workout.
While they worked together, they talked. Gradually, Kid let his reserves down, began to open up and fill Jack in on his past. He also began to let Jack into his present. Jack, in turn, realized how much he'd missed the regular human contact he'd grown accustomed to at the restaurant, how much he'd missed having a daily dialogue with someone. The relationship they'd had years ago began to establish itself again. Kid began to rely on Jack to act as the father he'd lost at such a young age. And Jack began to think of Kid the way he had when Kid was a teenager – as his own son.
The ice was broken ten days into the training session.
"Come on. Push yourself!" Kid was exhorting him. Jack was curling two-pound weights, which felt as if they were two hundred pounds. "Does it hurt?" Kid asked.
"Christ, yes."
"Good, it's supposed to hurt. It's not your injury – it's surprise. Now give me more!"
"Eleven…" Jack breathed. And, arms trembling, eyes closed in concentration, he slowly forced his body to repeat the exercise one more time. "Twelve…" And then all the air swept out of him. His arms dropped to his sides and the weights dangled until Kid swooped them up. Jack sat for a minute, breathing heavily, then Kid handed him a bottle of water, which Jack raised gratefully to his lips then took a long swig.
"You can't be afraid to fail," Kid said. "It's the paradox of training. You have to embrace failure. You have to work until you do fail. If you don't fail, you don't get strong."
Jack, exhausted, nodded. He got it. He didn't like it, but he sure as hell got it.
The cell phone hanging from Kid's neck emitted a birdlike chirp of a ring.
"Excuse me," Kid said, then spoke quietly into the phone. Jack heard only Kid's end of the conversation. "Hey… Yeah, that's why I left the message… I'm really, really sorry… I know, but I got a management seminar at four, then I promised to fill in for Kim at the Saddle… Yeah, Friday, I promise… I promise… You're the best. Bye-bye."
He hung up, turned back to Jack. "All right, let's do the last set."
"Management seminar?" Jack asked.
Kid nodded, almost sheepishly. "I'm getting my MBA."
"You're shitting me."
"For real."
"Why didn't you tell me? And do they know you left most of your brains on the football field?"
Kid shrugged. "It's NYU – I'm on a minority scholarship for slow white quarterbacks who couldn't hit the side of a barn. And that's why I didn't tell you."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"I've got an idea." Before Jack could get out a word, Kid said, "Yes, I'll talk to you about it. But when I'm ready. When I've got the thing really planned out."
"But there is a thing?"
"I think so," Kid said. "I really do think so. Now stop stalling."
Jack did twelve more reps of light curls. He didn't pause at eight this time, didn't need the break, just gritted his teeth and kept going.
"You're my idol, Jack. That was very impressive."
Jack accepted the compliment with a quick nod. It took him a few seconds to gather himself before he could speak. "How are you paying for it? For grad school?"
"By the hour." Kid tapped his cell phone. "I'm back to personal training and that's why I hate bailing on a client. But she lives in Park Slope, way the hell out, and it's the Entertainer's birthday – and you do not disappoint her, believe me."
"Who the hell is the Entertainer?"
Kid breathed out a little laugh and said matter-of-factly, "She's a member of the Team."
"Okay. Let's keep going. What the hell is the Team?"
"Sorry. It's kind of a joke. They're the women I go out with."
"Plural?"
Kid nodded. "These days, it seems like it."
"At the same time?"
"I don't seem to be too good at the one-on-one thing. At least, well…" He shook his head. Something he wasn't ready to talk about. "So, yeah, I guess, at the same time."
"I didn't know you were such a stud."
"It's not always by choice. But for the moment it's what I've got instead of…" Kid stopped, bit off his words, and turned his head away from Jack.
Jack took a deep breath, then finished the sentence. "It's what you've got instead of a wife and a home, instead of a family."
Their eyes met now. And Kid nodded.
"It's what you've got instead of what I had," Jack finished.
"I'm sorry," Kid said.
"I think these weights are too light" was all Jack said in response. "Next time let's move up to five pounds."
– "-"-"TWO DAYS LATER, Kid's cell phone rang again in the middle of the workout.
"I won't answer it. She can wait," he said.
"How do you know it's a she?"
"It's always a she."
"Kid, I'm now officially intrigued."
"With my love life?"
Jack nodded. "Who's on this… this team?"
"I feel funny talking about this to you."
"Consider it part of the therapy," Jack told him. "I've been thinking about it. It might be good to hear about what's going on in the real world."
Kid held back the smile. But his eyes gloated. "You're paying me to be your physical trainer," he said, "not your psychiatrist."
Jack gave a grudging smile back. "Sometimes they go hand in hand," he said.
Kid hesitated, then said, "Okay. But it did start as a kind of goof. One day I realized I was seeing a lot of women. Four, five, six of them. And individually they were okay but when you put them all together, took the best of what each one had to offer, well, they made a kind of perfect woman. It was like a baseball team, you know. You don't need a real star as long as you've got a real team."
"So what's the lineup?"
"It's fluid. And you gotta be flexible. Like I said, you can't just go out with the MVP's all the time."
"That's very magnanimous of you."
"Just being practical. You gotta go with your occasional gritty veterans, a designated hitter or two, the franchise player…"
"And the Entertainer? She a franchise player?"
Kid shook his head. "Short relief. My closer."
"You're unbelievable. What's her name?"
"No names, Jack. Trainer's code."
"What are you talking about?"
"For real. I'm telling you personal stuff about her, maybe about some of the others. I mean, I know you won't go gossiping or talking about this, but you never know, you might meet one of them someday and I wouldn't want to embarrass her."
"That's very gentlemanly."
"Good for business, too. It won't help me get work if people know I'm out spilling my guts about them to all my clients. I'll tell you about them, but it's all nicknames – the Entertainer, the Mortician, Samsonite, the Rookie…"
"Very descriptive."
"There's some logic behind it," Kid admitted. "I'm pretty careful about my nicknames. I pick 'em for a reason. The Rookie'll change – that's just until I know more about her, until I can really peg her."
"Are all these women clients?"
"Most of them, yeah."
"That's how you meet them?"
"Mostly. Sometimes at clubs, after-hours places. Bars. I met the Rookie at an after-hours club, then saw her again in an art gallery. Sometimes I meet 'em just walking down the street." He grinned. "What can I say? Women like me."
"Keep going."
"Gimme fifteen leg lifts and we'll gab."
Jack began to strain, sitting on the Universal leg-lift machine. As the small stack of weights slowly began to rise and fall, Kid began to elaborate.
"So there's the Entertainer, you know about her."
"I don't know anything about her."
"What do you want to know?"
"Something. What does she do?"
"She's a dancer."
"A few more details, please."
Kid thought for a moment. "Okay. She's got a great body, she chews with her mouth open sometimes, which drives me a little crazy, she surprises you sometimes with how smart she is, and she's a little bit sad."
"Why sad?"
"Because she has to live a secret life." When he saw Jack's look of confusion, he went on. "She's got things she can't tell anybody."
"Not even herself."
It wasn't a question and Kid nodded, pleased that Jack understood so quickly. "Especially herself."
"That is sad," Jack said.
"The saddest thing there is," Kid said, and Jack was suddenly surprised to realize that this wasn't really part of the conversation, that this was, in part, Kid talking directly to Kid. Then his eyes focused back on Jack and he put another two-pound weight on the machine. "But, hey," he said, "that's what makes her an interesting closer. Great stuff – but she's too damn wild to depend on."
– "-"-"SEVERAL MORE WEEKS passed and Jack's body was aching all the time now. But it was an ache that excited him. He could feel his body responding, getting stronger. It seemed as if strength was surging back into him almost on a daily basis. It made him work harder, force his body to absorb more punishment. It made him realize the possibilities and hunger for more of what he was just beginning to taste.
It was in the middle of one particularly grueling session, perhaps the biggest push he'd made yet, that Mattie wandered into the workout room.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said, "but I'm off to the store. Is there anything special you want me to get?" she asked Jack. His only response was a weak wave of the hand, grateful that she'd rescued him, giving him a few seconds respite from the torture Kid was putting him through.
"Mattie," Kid said. "How is it you haven't aged a day since I first met you?"
"Stop messing with me," she said, but she grinned as she said it. She could not get angry at Kid. She had told Jack several times how glad she was that he was back. How much livelier the apartment had seemed since he'd returned.
"And you've gotten even more beautiful," Kid told her. "What's the secret? A pact with the devil?"
"I'll give you the devil," she said, but her grin grew even wider. "This is your last chance to tell me what you want."
