Free Wrestling Sturbridge by Rich Wallace Page B

girl—Jody, the one from theMobil station—sitting over to the side with another girl about her age. They’ve got a little kid with them, probably not even two years old, and he’s playing on the floor at their feet. Jody keeps looking over at the entrance.
    After a few minutes three guys come in and she stands up. The one guy, who looks vaguely familiar, is maybe three years older than me and has longish hair and a cap that says Marlboro on it. He’s about my size and has a thin, fuzzy mustache.
    He sees them and walks over and nods with a trace of a scowl. The other two guys leave. The Mobil girl hands the guy the baby, and says, maybe to both of them, “Long time no see.”
    The guy holds the kid up and says “Hey, buddy,” sort of wiggling him while the kid’s legs dangle. The baby looks back at Jody, reaching for her.
    “It’s okay,” she says gently, taking the kid’s finger. “That’s your daddy.”
    I’m trying not to watch too closely, glancing around, looking at the pool table, but I’m hanging on every word. Jody is keeping an even tone, but there’s enough of an edge to her voice that you could imagine her tacking “you son of a bitch” onto the end of every sentence.
    “I left a message on your machine last night,” she says. “Why didn’t you call?”
    He just says, “I was out,” not looking at her.
    “Daniel and I are leaving at eight,” she says. “You said you’d be here at six.”
    “So what is it now, ten after?” he says.
    “It’s quarter to seven,” she says. “We’re leaving at eight.”
    She turns to her girlfriend and they start out the door. Then she stops and comes back to kiss the baby, who’s starting to whine. “It’s okay. You spend a little time with your daddy.” She shoots a look at the guy. “We’ll be over there in the pizza place. Watching.”
    The guy puts the kid down and takes his hand, and they walk over to the side where they’ve got rides for little kids. He lifts him into a rocket ship and feeds it a quarter, and it rocks back and forth while the kid spins the steering wheel.
    Kim pokes me on the arm with her cue. “You know those people?” I shake my head and look at the table. I’ve got stripes, and all seven of them are still sitting there. There’s only one solid ball left, and Kim is smirking at me.
    But I run the table, then sink the eight ball with a long clean stroke. Between every shot I look over at the guy with the baby. The kid is happy now, on his third ride, and the guy just looks lost and bewildered.
    Kim looks beautiful, and a big part of me wants to take her down on this pool table and wrestle until we’re sweaty and exhausted.
    Another part of me—the part I can’t quite measure—wants to pick up that baby and find the Mobil girl, take both their hands, and help them.
    The other part of me—the one that wins—makes me retreat inside, makes me shrivel. Makes me wonder if I’ll ever do anything that matters.
    Kim squeezes my arm and looks up at me (not many people can look up at me, but she’s short enough), and says “Rack ’em up?”
    I start to say “No, I’m tired,” but I know that isn’t true. So I say “Yeah, I’ll play another game.” It’s healthier than playing games in my head.
    Kim deposits a quarter to release the balls, then spends about two minutes racking them up, rearranging them about fifteen times.
    I can see the guy sitting outside now with a cigarette, staring straight ahead, holding the baby on his knee. The kid is playing with the buttons on the guy’s shirt, and the guy doesn’t seem to realize that he’s blowing smoke in the kid’s hair.
    Kim sinks one on the break, but doesn’t leave herself much of a second shot. I sink five in a row before she shoots again, and I win on my next turn. I haven’t said a word in ten minutes.
    “You’re good,” Kim says.
    I nod. “Sometimes.” I force a smile on her, too, and start digging in my pocket for another quarter.

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