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Mary and James Hanna are writers who live in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Mary C. Hanna
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James E. Hanna
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The Wall (part 2)
continued from part one
We had come to Washburn for different reasons, both of
which were atypical since the small Virginia prep school -- despite an
Appalachian nesting and ivy-strewn walls -- impressed me as little more
than a reform school for middle-class boys. As a general's son, you had
taken seriously its brochures of military schooling and manicured parade
fields while I was an airier dreamer, indifferent to structure of any
sort, but destined, by having failed the eleventh grade, to complete my
high school education in an institution of last resort.
We were issued M-1s on our day of arrival -- World War Two relics inappropriate
for the enduring war in Southeast Asia, but not too burdensome to carry
about on the parade field or perform the nineteen-count manual, which
most of us had perfected by our third month. Though we cleaned these antiques
constantly, we were never allowed to fire them. We used .22 rifles for
actual target practice -- an exercise we performed infrequently in a bunker
range beneath the school foyer. Since we shot without earplugs -- the
guns crackled feebly -- I was always surprised when the sandbags tore
and the small paper squares, once reeled in by pulleys, were peppered
with clusters of miniature holes. I had too few opportunities to narrow
my rather sporadic clusters and suspected the school, depleted of federal
grant money during those war years, regarded this outlay of ammunition
as an inordinate expense. For the most part, we marched about incessantly,
mixed shoe polish with spit, and stood numerous parade inspections, a
prerequisite for every meal. Given this emphasis on cosmetic soldiering,
I could not always resist the impression that an army's worth lay less
in its field effectiveness than in the glitter and pomp with which it
presented itself in ranks. Such a fetish, I suppose, had its compensations
since we did grow complacent with the ceremonies of war and did not consider
our jaunty battalion a real tributary to the messier ordeal in Vietnam.
At night, before taps, I would ream a
single patch through my rifle bore, blow the lint from my belt buckle,
and drape a handkerchief protectively over my dully glazed shoes. I had
no serious illusions that these efforts would protect me from the morrow's
scrutiny, but I accumulated the demerits cheerfully, considering them
a wise alternative to the hassle of endless polishing.
*
I met you on a Sunday. There was no drill scheduled that afternoon so
I invited you to the gym to wrestle. I did not take you seriously as a
prospective rival for my weight class, but I wanted your measure as a
wrestler as well as an opportunity to practice my takedowns.
We wrestled on a dusty peeling mat spread out on a stage above the basketball court. You opened my nose with an awkward jerk of your elbow before I stacked you with a cradle, holding you on your shoulders for the requisite two-count. I pinned you twice more in the course of a minute and then deigned to notice the rather severe mat burn developing on your forehead. Blood stains, my own, were drying on your cheeks and browning spots dotted the fatigues you had not bothered to change out of.
You were matter-of-fact in accepting the loss -- you had not really expected to beat me -- and you did not challenge my dominion when we had wrestle-offs for the varsity lineup. You did make the lineup, but only at the urging of the coach since you had to drop twelve pounds in order to fit into the weight class below mine. I remember you padding around and around the gym during practice, a yellow plastic suit plastered to your body, then groaning in the steam of the showers, patting your stomach -- "Nothing in there, T-Tom, nothing at all" -- then hopping hopefully upon the scales. You would sit over a trash bucket after tipping the scales, spitting away the excess ounces, even pushing a finger down your throat. When nothing came up you would pull your sweat suit over the clinging plastic and return once again to circling the gym.
You were ashen from weight loss when we had our first meet and you were stacked rather neatly by a drowsy looking farm boy from Culpepper. You even cost us a sportsmanship point when you punched the mat in anger or embarrassment, whichever it was, after relinquishing the match so quickly. I don't really know why you had expected to win; wrestling was never your first priority and you spent most of our practice time running off weight. I was irritated for other reasons as well; you had preceded me to the inner wrestling circle and your instant loss had deprived me of my warm-up. Still, I won my match easily enough, a first period pin, and condescended to accepting your handshake when the bout was over.
I won all my matches our junior year -- a testament less to my prowess as a grappler than to the struggling athletic programs of the small academies and factory town high schools that made up our opposition. We sucked as a team -- two and twelve for the year -- but our record did not diminish my small gem of accomplishment nor offer you much consolation in your rather unprecedented string of defeats. At least you lost quickly -- usually in the first period of your matches -- but you continued to cost us hard won points when, red-faced and muttering, you would fling your headgear upon leaving the mat or kick over your chair instead of sitting on it. Considering the overall point total, we would have been no worse off forfeiting your matches outright than retaining you as a member of the lineup.
You did win once -- a total surprise since you looked so pale surrounded by the target-shaped mat, waiting for the whistle to blow. Perhaps you rebelled finally at the hollowness of your sacrifice -- you had been starving for three days to make the weight -- or maybe you were provoked by a mocking word or glance from your opponent, the same hayseed from Culpepper who had beaten you so abruptly in our first meet. In any case you dropped him to the mat, using the fireman's carry I had taught you, and somehow you remained on top of him when he attempted a clumsy roll and landed himself flat on his back. I think he simply collapsed before you did because you did not realize you had triumphed, not even afterwards when you were helped to your feet and awarded the match.
You fainted shortly after stepping from the mat and you were taken to the school infirmary where the nurse gave you pills and an extra blanket for your bed. You were chastised of course for losing so much weight, but it was still unconvincing to see you eating again at dinner that night. You poked cautiously at your spaghetti, pinching the handle of your fork, as if trying to corral a plateful of worms. You may just as well have skipped the meal; as it turned out you were too weakened from weight loss and dehydration to hold down any solids. You were confined to your room for a week, bedridden with the flu, and we were forced to finish up our few remaining meets without the benefit of a 154-pound wrestler. Your class remained empty.