“GEEZ, MOM. CALEB’S STARTING TO make our front yard look like some kind of ancient burial ground,” I commented as I dove into my third bowl of Cheerios. Those couple of weeks after I joined cross-country, Mom told me I was devouring food like an elephant with a tapeworm.
I was watching Caleb crawl around the front yard on his hands and knees, having an intense discussion with himself. He was obsessed. Bit by bit, he was scalping our lawn, making one mound of debris after another. Caleb labored before and after school, plucking each and every blade of dead grass, little twig, and dirt clod by hand.
“It makes him happy,” she said. “Those little mounds he builds are kind of like your Cheerios.”
“Not quite the same,” I corrected her, before slurping the last soggy bits from the bowl.
As I headed out the door for school, Mom stopped me. “Why don’t you invite one of the guys from the team over for dinner?” she asked.
“Really, Mom? Don’t you think that might be kind of weird with the sacrificial graveyard out front? I’ll think about it. Are we having cheese pizza or fish sticks?”
“Your choice.”
Our family abandoned the church a couple of years ago, but Mom still harbored some residual Catholic guilt and clung to a few traditions like no meat on Fridays.
“You know I’ve never been a big fan of fish sticks. That’s Caleb’s thing.”
“So I’ll doctor up some cheese pizzas and plan on a guest?”
I gazed out at Caleb hacking up the yard and told Mom again that I’d think about it.
Curtis believed in a daily dose of intense focus and effort. He called that portion of the workout “red miles.” I called it pain. The first ten minutes of our run were conversational. He would give me the rundown on what I needed to know about life at Ladue: the best-looking girls, a few thugs to avoid at all costs, and a couple of locations on campus where various sordid events had transpired. But after those first ten minutes, he jacked up the pace and things got serious.
By the time we crested the first hill that Friday, I was suffering. I told Curtis to go ahead, and I staggered along until the pack of Rasmussen, Stuper, Rosenthal, and Burpee pulled up beside me.
“So Rasmussen is our winner!” Burpee announced, raising Rasmussen’s arm in victory.
“Winner of what?” I asked.
“We placed a bet the other day on how long it would take before you crashed and burned trying to hang with Kaufman,” Stuper explained.
“The guy hammers,” I gasped.
“No kidding.” Rasmussen laughed.
“Kaufman’s been running twice a day since ninth grade,” Rosenthal offered up.
“He’s a freak,” Burpee said, as if it were widely accepted fact.
“Not to mention he took five APs last year,” Stuper added.
“Kaufman is one intense freak,” Burpee repeated.
“How does he do it?” I asked, suddenly feeling like a fool.
“There is rumor of steroid use,” Rasmussen said with a raised eyebrow. “Or perhaps he’s bionic.”
“Come to think of it, the bionic theory might explain the way he speaks,” Burpee suggested.
“Why does he talk that way?” I asked.
“Kaufman is a man of mystery,” Rosenthal said to me.
The rest of the run was grueling, but when we finally finished, Curtis was waiting in front of the school, stretching under the shade of a tree.
“Look what we found during our run today, Kaufman!” Stuper yelled as he and Rasmussen grabbed my arms and pretended to haul me.
“Another one of your roadkill victims,” Rosenthal said, laughing. “Someday you’re going to be charged with manslaughter.”
I looked at Curtis and shook my head. “I feel like total dog meat.”
He laughed. “You’re doing fine, Coughlin. Third week is the worst. Hang in one more and it’ll get easier.”
We headed onto the track, where Gorsky dictated the final portion of the workout: twelve strides a hundred meters in length.
We began each one slowly and increased the speed in increments, until we were going flat out the last thirty meters. My legs burned, but I could still hang with Curtis, given the short distance. The recovery was short, a ten-meter walk to and from the fence. By the time I’d completed my fourth, I was getting ready to blow chunks.
“Leo!” Gorsky bellowed. He waved me over and pulled a roll of white athletic tape from his equipment bag. “Give me your hands,” he ordered.
I held out my arms, too exhausted, nauseous, and confused to question him.
“Now make fists and place your thumbs outward over your index fingers,” he instructed.
I did like he said, so my thumbs were now pointing outward like some wayward hitchhikers. He taped my thumbs tightly around my fists so I couldn’t move my fingers.
“Your arms flop back and forth like a rag doll when you run,” he explained. “Go on back there and do a few more strides at full strength, but this time pump those arms of yours. Then come back and tell me what you notice.”
I jogged back to the pack, my hands hanging outward, away from my hips. The guys were waiting for me, looking at my hands curiously.
“That’s going to make going to the bathroom very problematic,” Stuper decided.
“What’s up with the bandages?” Rosenthal asked. “You look like a land-mine victim.”
But as we accelerated into our next stride, it did feel different. My arms pumped, drove forward, and provided power. By midway through that stride, I’d moved comfortably ahead of Curtis by five meters.
“What the hell?” he yelled from behind.
“Kaufman is finally getting his butt kicked,” Burpee howled.
We did another, and I exaggerated my new arm swing and went even faster. “It’s just a measly hundred meters, Coughlin. Anything farther, and I’ve got your ass!” Curtis shouted.
We ran the next two together, and I focused on my new arm swing. Gorsky had stopped throwing and was now leaning against the fence, studying us. We did four more before we jogged over to him.
“What did you notice, Coughlin?”
“I feel stronger,” I told him. “Like my arms aren’t just dangling from my shoulders.”
“You run with more than just your legs, Leo. You need your arms, too,” he explained. “When they’re all moving in the same direction, and every part of your body is working together in concert, you run faster. It’s that simple. We’ll put that tape on your hands when you run for the next week and see if we can fix this little problem.”
He picked up his shot and rolled it around in his palm. “Focus on your form and believe that what you are attempting to do is good for you, that it will make you a better runner. Learn the patterns, until it’s innate.”
“How come you don’t tape our hands?” Rosenthal asked, offering his hands to Gorsky.
“The only place I’d put tape on your body is over that mouth of yours,” Gorsky answered. He headed back to his shot put ring, but not before scolding Curtis. “You’re pushing it too hard, Kaufman. I can tell by the length of your stride. You’re your own worst enemy. If you don’t back off, you’re going to end up sick again.” He blasted the shot once more. “That means rest, Kaufman,” he said as the shot crashed upon the gravel.
“Relax, old man,” Curtis told him. “I’ve got everything under control.”
“I worry about you, son.”
“No need to fret, Gorsky. I’ve learned my lesson.”
At the bike rack Curtis helped me take off the tape. “What was that all about?” I asked.
“Ran myself into the ground last summer and fall and ended up with mono in October. I was running out of my mind, and then I imploded. Not fun.” He pulled the tape off my hands, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it into the trash. “Hell, maybe I should tape my hands up to help me go faster, or just chop them off,” he said with a chuckle.
I climbed aboard my old bike. “Believe me, you have plenty of speed.”
“It’s got to suck riding that bike home after running,” he said to me. “You want a lift?”
“I thought you’d never ask. Give me a ride home and my mother will feed you dinner.”
“What’s the Friday-night special at the Coughlin house?” he asked.
“Pizza.”
He took a moment to weigh the offer. “I’m in.”
When I threw my bike in the hatch and climbed in, I suddenly realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d brought a friend home.
Curtis pulled into the driveway and immediately surveyed the yard. “What’s up with all the little mounds?”
“It’s a long story. I haven’t told you about my brother yet.” I gave Curtis a quick crash course on Caleb while we headed into the house. Before opening the door, I warned him that he was about to be interrogated.
Caleb met us in the front hall with his arms crossed.
“Good evening, Caleb,” Curtis said, extending his hand to him. “I’m Curtis.”
Caleb squeezed his hand briefly, crossed his arms again, and studied Curtis a moment. “CURTIS GRANDMOTHER DEAD!”
Curtis turned to me casually and whispered, “Was that a question or a statement?”
“That was a question,” I whispered back.
Curtis turned back to Caleb. “Well, as a matter of fact, Caleb, both of my grandmothers have passed away.”
“Caleb!” my mother shouted from the kitchen.
“GRANDFATHER STILL LIVING!” Caleb continued.
“One died about five years ago,” Curtis explained. “However, my mother’s father is still alive and kicking. Next question?”
“Caleb!” my mother yelled again.
Caleb scrutinized Curtis once more for a moment, uncrossed his arms, and marched toward the kitchen.
Curtis turned to me. “Have I been granted permission to enter the Coughlin premises?”
“I hope you don’t think he’s finished,” I told him as we entered the kitchen.
“I’m up for the challenge,” he said.
Mom was at the counter, making salad. When I introduced Curtis she was pleasant enough, but I could tell her mind was focused somewhere else. Mom asked Curtis twice within a five-minute interval what year he was in at school and how he liked Ladue. She invited Curtis to take a seat at the table with Caleb, then grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the sink. “Your father promised he’d be home an hour ago. I know he’s playing golf with his buddies,” she hissed. “But don’t you worry. He’ll be wearing his suit and pretend that he was just working late at the office—some ‘unscheduled meeting’ or something.”
I nodded. “Sorry, Mom. Curtis and I can clear out if you want us to.”
“Nonsense. We’ll give your dad ten more minutes. If he’s not home by then, we’ll just sit down and enjoy this meal without him.”
Enjoy? I thought. Not likely.
A moment later I heard the unmistakable thump of Dad’s silver Chrysler tires rolling over the curb and into the driveway. I wasn’t sure whether I should sigh with relief or prepare for the ensuing battle. It wasn’t like I was worried about Mom and Dad having some big ol’ knockdown, drag-out fight in front of Curtis or something. My parents didn’t fight that way. It was going to be something less certain, and that might be way worse. My parents were skillful at getting underneath each other’s skin. Mom took advantage of Dad’s screwups in a passive-aggressive way. She cataloged his mistakes and exploded on him at the most inopportune moment and in the most unpredictable way.
Mom opened up the oven and pulled the pizza pans out with a thin dish towel, cursing under her breath when the second pan singed her fingers. Dad appeared just as Mom predicted—he was wearing his suit, but the knot of his tie was loose around his collar. He had a sheepish grin on his face like he’d already had a few.
Mom stood rigid at the cutting board with her back to Dad, slashing onions, her knife pecking against the cutting board. Dad placed his briefcase on the counter, then strolled over to Mom and kissed her on the cheek. “Hi, honey.”
She turned the other cheek and nodded toward us. “Your dinner is ready,” she announced.
I decided it was time for me to try and squelch the rising tension in the room. “Dad, this is Curtis,” I said a bit too brightly. Curtis stood up from the table and they shook hands.
“Nice to meet you, Curtis,” Dad said in a friendly voice. “Glad you can join us for dinner,” he said, but Dad was also distracted by Mom’s cool reception. He knew she was onto the golf game. “I bet after all that running, you boys are famished.”
Dad removed his coat and tie, loosened his collar, and grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. He snatched some ice cubes from the freezer and poured some vodka. When he set a glass next to Mom, the chopping paused as she considered the drink. Then she nudged it away with the tip of her knife.
It’s on, I thought with a slight heart skip.
Dad let out a loud sigh and owned up. “So I played a little golf, Elise,” he confessed. “That’s part of doing business. I’ll slice the damn pizza.”
Curtis raised an eyebrow. I winced.
Dad opened the counter drawer and pulled out a long knife. He chopped the two pizzas into quarters—a deliberate move to irritate Mom—placed the pizza trays before us, and took his seat at the head of the table.
When Mom put the salad on the table, she took one look at the pans and rolled her eyes. She snatched the knife and began sawing the pizzas up. Melted cheese, onions, peppers, and sausage bits clumped to the knife blade as Mom mangled the pizzas.
That set Dad off. He took a long, slow sip of his drink and considered his next move. I sat beside Caleb, and Curtis sat opposite us at the table, alone.
Caleb was the one who finally broke the silence. “CURTIS LIKE HONEY NUT CHEERIOS!” he announced.
Curtis looked up at me. I followed his eyes as they traveled from my father, to my mother cutting the pizzas, to Caleb, then back to me. He smiled. “As a matter of fact, Caleb, I do like a good bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.”
Mom finally finished hacking the pizzas, placed the knife on the counter, and sat down.
Caleb then resumed his interrogation. “CURTIS LIKE KELLOGG’S FROSTED FLAKES!”
Dad stood up and retrieved the knife.
“Okay, Dad,” I interjected. “Curtis and I are big boys. We know how to use a knife and fork.”
“Oh no, Leo. This is my pleasure. I’m just trying to help out your mother,” he said mockingly. He leaned over one of the pizzas and, using the tip of the knife and a firm wrist, chopped at the crust to make the slices into sixteenths.
Beneath the tension, Curtis continued to answer Caleb’s questions politely. “To tell you the truth, Caleb, I can’t remember the last time I had Frosted Flakes.” Curtis glanced at me, his eyebrows slightly raised. I rolled my shoulders slowly upward, shrugging an apology.
Dad placed the knife back on the counter and sat down again.
Now it was Mom’s turn. She grabbed the knife and began cutting the pizza again.
How much could one pizza take?
Caleb began to warm to Curtis and his voice calmed. “Curtis like Cocoa Puffs?”
“Come to think of it, Cocoa Puffs are nice every now and then,” Curtis answered.
“Raisin Bran?”
“Sorry, Caleb,” he said, shaking his head. “Not a big fan of Raisin Bran.”
Caleb quizzed Curtis about a few more cereal brands while Mom sliced the pizza. When she finished, there were thirty-two razor-thin slices of pizza before us. Mom put the knife down on the counter, sat in her chair, and glared at Dad.
Caleb was the one who finally stopped the nonsense. He took the delay in action as a cue that it was finally time to eat. He held both hands up in the air and shouted, “SAY PRAYER!”
“Amen!” I whispered to myself. I glanced at Curtis, who mouthed “Jesus!” to me and hid a smile.
I grabbed Caleb’s hand and reached for Mom’s.
My father turned to Curtis. “Caleb insists that we pray before dinner,” he explained. “It’s a routine we’ve kind of fallen into.”
Curtis took my father’s hand. “No problem. Let’s give thanks.” He looked over at my mother and extended his hand to her, too.
Caleb began his unique version of the prayer aloud in a single note. “Blessed our Lord, for these our gifts, about to receive, from my bounty, through Christ our Lord. AMEN!” he shouted. “HOW MANY SLICES PIZZA HAVE?” Caleb asked my father in the same breath.
We dropped hands. “As many as you want.” My father sighed. “There’s certainly plenty here!”
After his second drink, Dad started to calm down and managed to ask Curtis a few polite questions, mostly the same ones Mom had already asked. Caleb ended the breakfast-cereal survey and then moved on to cataloging the makes, models, and years of cars Curtis’s family had owned over the years. Curtis was patient with Caleb; his responses were upbeat and conveyed genuine interest. I even managed to coax a few words from Mom about her day.
As soon as we stepped out of the house, Curtis burst out howling. “So is that a typical dinner?” he asked.
I considered his question a moment. “I wouldn’t say it’s typical, but it’s within the bell curve.”
“That was priceless,” he said. “Our family dinners are nothing in comparison with that.”
“I hope not.”
“What do you mean?” he said as he climbed into his car, still laughing. “That was good, wholesome family entertainment!”
“Let’s say you experienced a slice of life in the Coughlin household,” I said in defense.
“If that was just a slice,” he answered with a sly grin, “I’m going to bet it was a very small slice.”