For a while we rode in silence. My father had his eyes closed. I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or if he was trying to block out the pain. Finally he spoke.
“This is it, Molly. I’m through. I can’t do this any longer.” His eyes were still shut. His voice was slurry. I figured the doctor had given him something for the pain.
My mom brushed back his hair from his face. It was caked with white face paint. “Don’t think about that right now, Mark,” she said. “Wait and see what the doctor has to say.”
“No. I should’ve quit a long time ago.” He took her hand from his forehead and kissed it. “I was stupid to have agreed to come off the top turnbuckle the way I did. I’m too old to be attempting that high-risk stuff.” He paused and glanced around, taking in his surroundings. “You know, all along I’d been worried about blowing out my knee again. I never thought it’d be my ankle.”
We arrived at the emergency room. Dr. Fielder pulled up behind us. He opened the rear ambulance doors, and we climbed out. The paramedics rolled my father out and wheeled him into the hospital. Dr. Fielder spoke briefly to the nurse at the admitting station. After that, my father was taken down a corridor. He and the paramedics disappeared behind two gray metal doors.
My mom filled out some forms while I sat in the waiting area.
There was a TV set hanging from the ceiling across from me. It was airing an old I Love Lucy episode, but I wasn’t interested in watching it. A disturbing thought had been running through my head during the ambulance ride to the hospital, and I couldn’t shake it loose.
Back in my old school, we read a short story called “The Monkey’s Paw.” It was about a soldier who had given a husband and wife a mummified monkey’s paw. He claimed that the paw could grant its owner three wishes. As things turned out, the wishes did come true, but not in the way the couple expected. The husband in the story, not really believing the legend of the monkey’s paw, casually wished for two hundred British pounds. Later the couple learned that their son had been killed at the factory where he worked. While the company was not assuming responsibility for the son’s death, in consideration of his service, it presented the boy’s parents with a certain amount of money as compensation—two hundred pounds! Later, the wife demanded that her husband wish for their son back. The man knew it was a terrible wish. The boy had died when he was caught in a machine at the factory, and his body had been badly mangled. The man realized that if he wished for their son back, he would return in that same mutilated condition. But his wife was insistent, and, ultimately, he gave in. Soon there was a sound outside their house, and the wife knew it was their dead son, risen from the grave. In the end, the man wisely wished his son back into the grave before his wife had a chance to see him.
I had forever been wishing that my father would be able to spend more time at home with us. Now, through a horrible circumstance, it appeared that he would. I’d cursed my father with a monkey’s paw wish!
My head was throbbing again. It had begun to hurt when I struggled with the security guard at the arena, then it eased up. But it continued to return in spurts.
After she finished filling out the forms, my mom joined me. I nuzzled up to her. She wrapped an arm around my shoulder. Her sweater felt warm against my face, and it seemed to soothe my headache. I glanced up at the wall clock. It was almost twelve-thirty.
On TV, Lucy had gotten herself locked in a walk-in freezer. When Ricky found her, she was frozen stiff, with icicles hanging from her face. It was a funny episode, but neither one of us laughed. We sat there quietly and stared blankly at the screen.
“Mom, Dad’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” I asked. After seeing his foot torn the way it was, it didn’t seem possible he ever could be.
She played with my hair, curling strands of it on her fingers. “Of course he is, sweetheart. I know it looks bad, and it is. But I’ve seen your father go through injuries like this before. He’ll come out of it all right, trust me.”
“Do you really think he’s going to quit wrestling?”
Her fingers stopped twirling. She shifted uneasily in her chair. I sat up. She slipped her arm from my shoulders.
“Jesse, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished that your father would leave the business. His being on the road so much has been a tremendous strain on all of us. When he first started wrestling, I tolerated it because I knew it was something he wanted to do. I thought he’d wrestle for a couple of years, get it out of his system, and then go into some area of law enforcement. Then he became the Annihilator. Even then, things weren’t so bad because he usually wrestled in nearby arenas. And since he wore a mask, no one ever recognized him in public. We could go out and enjoy ourselves in peace. But in our wildest dreams, Jesse, neither one of us ever thought that his career would skyrocket the way it did. Now, the Angel of Death is one of the most popular sports figures in the world. There’s an incredibly high demand for him, and Frank Collins is all too happy to give the public what they want.”
I Love Lucy ended. It was replaced by an infomercial. A man was offering a set of eight stainless steel, dishwasher-safe steak knives for only $19.99, two more if you called right now. I wondered how many people had a need to buy steak knives in the middle of the night.
“The other day, Dad told me he wasn’t going to wrestle much longer, that he was going to retire as soon as his contract expires,” I said.
My mom snickered.
Immediately, I felt as if I’d said something dumb.
“Jesse, your father’s been singing that song for years. Every time he gets hurt he talks about leaving wrestling.”
“So, you don’t think he was serious about quitting?” I asked.
“I honestly don’t know.” She wrapped her arm around me again, and I leaned up against her. “But watching him in the ring tonight, live, seeing how much the fans adore him, I realize that your father was born to be the Angel of Death. Destiny gave him that opportunity, and I have no right to try to take it away from him.”
“But what about his foot?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It’s just another injury. He’ll recover from it in time. He always has. Your dad’s had more work done on his body than Frankenstein’s monster.” She chuckled at her joke. “As soon as he gets well, I promise you he’ll forget about everything he said in the ambulance. And you know what?” She sat up straight and gazed into my eyes. “I’ll never again say or do anything to discourage him. If he wants to continue to wrestle, then I’ll just have to learn to be more accepting of his career.”
I realized that I would have to be more accepting of it, too. At least I had a father. Poor Wendell would have to grow up without his.
Some fathers were meant to be construction workers, office managers, teachers, police officers, or grocery store clerks. Mine just happened to be the black-clad, skeletonface behemoth called the Angel of Death.