"What a Man Would Do" -- (i)

Long ago, I threw the discus. For a kid in a little high school, I wasn't half bad--went twice to state, once got sixth. Other than that, this isn't my story, even though I wrote it.  There's no prototype really, even though early in my profession I was a high school teacher. The only bit of story I picked up won't occur until the last day--maybe second--of this series, this story. 

"What a Man Would Do" is one of the last short stories I wrote. I know it was published somewhere, but I haven't a clue where anymore, probably as many as a dozen years ago. 

It's not nice. It's about rape--or attempted rape or something; but I thought I'd put it up for as long as it runs for two reasons: 1) my wife and I will be gone for two weeks, looking around Italy at some of the world's most beautiful and celebrated art. I won't be able to keep up this blog.

And 2) because the issues this story raises are about as old as any--the conflicts between genders and among 'em. Accusations of rape are sounded in this story, and problems are pretty much left unresolved, as they almost are when there is he said/she said. This one take a bit of a different tack, however, in that the opposing parties and son and mom--and the behavior of a dad who left them both behind. 

If you can stick with it, I do hope you like it. 

His head wasn't in it, and he knew it. Not until he stepped into the circle and pulled himself into a crouch did he realize the wind was gusting from the west, perfect for a record. Any other day he would have felt it first thing in the morning. But the meet was the last thing on his mind.

He pumped three or four more times, carrying the disc behind him, then, in three quick turns in the circle spun every bit of anger and frustration into his hand, his fingers, and the disc, heaved it out and up with a grunt he had to fake. The big wind picked it up, but turned it over way too fast and it dropped dead, ten feet inside the chalk line.

"Good throw," the judge said.

Like hell. He stepped out of the ring from behind and saw his coach leaning up against the fence, showing him thumbs up, a big smile on his face as if the throw were major league. "Don't forget that 200," Coach mouthed, pointing behind at the track.

Darren nodded and turned back. Some kid was poking a metal pin in the ground where his disc had sliced the turf. At best 153, he thought. The difference between big time and playground stuff was having his head together. And his wasn't.

And he knew why. He knew very well why. Saturday night was why. It hadn't been his party and it hadn't been his booze. The whole business of going over to that girl's place wasn't his idea of a good time. He didn't like it the moment the guys he was with decided they were going. Didn't like it because of Kristine being out of town--sure, but his girlfriend wasn't the whole reason it was a bad deal either. There was more to it. The whole idea of some big-time party with some women from some other school--it was trouble, right from the start. But he hadn't said a thing. That was his fault.

"Hensley, Dickinson," the judge yelled, and a tall kid with glasses stepped into the ring.

It was a dual meet, and nobody expected him to lose. He could have taken first place simply by standing at the edge of the circle and grunting out one humungous reverse. That's what he felt like doing--perfect wind or not. Just grunt one out, win this thing, and get the heck out of there.

"Dickinson" it said on the guy's jersey--his mother's school.

And moving--moving out of Shorewood wasn't his idea either, wasn't his fault. It was his mother's idea, picking up the pieces and coming to a town nobody'd ever heard of, just down the road from the school where she'd taken a new job to start all over again. "I don't want to live in a glass house, a single mom in a small town--new and everything," she'd told them. "I don't want to live in the same little town where I teach." She'd looked at him, the oldest. "You don't mind, do you, Darren?" she'd said. "What's the difference?--I'm the one who's got to commute."

What did he know about small towns? The only place he'd ever lived was Shorewood. What could he say? Besides, he'd seen her broken, his own mom coming apart at the seams when his father left her behind like dried-up bait. And he'd been the one to hold her up. He'd held his mother in place himself for more than a couple months or she would have tucked away in some loony bin.