BooksBarbecue
Back At Dawn
Chapters (39)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 1
  6. 1
  7. 1
  8. 1
  9. 1
  10. 1
  11. 1
  12. 1
  13. 1
  14. 1
  15. 1
  16. 1
  17. 1
  18. 1
  19. 1
  20. 1
  21. 1
  22. 1
  23. 1
  24. 1
  25. 1
  26. 1
  27. 1
  28. 1
  29. 1
  30. 1
  31. 1
  32. 1
  33. 1
  34. 1
  35. 1
  36. 1
  37. 1
  38. 1
  39. Copyright

On my way out of town I stopped at my mother’s grave for one last visit. I had hoped to say good-bye, to tell her that I’d never forget her and that I had felt her with me in March, when I stood covered in sweat in the middle of the mat with twelve thousand people looking down at me, my arms raised high, that I could hear her voice in the crowd and that I could have never done it without her. “You’re going to be my little state champion someday,” she had always said, and she was right, too. I was her little state champion, if only she could have been there to see it. I wanted to say these things to her, but when I got to the grave I had a hard time not imagining what effect two years had had on her body, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to look at the tombstone or the place I thought her face must be. In the end I didn’t feel anything looking at either, and I merely told her that I loved her. Then I turned and walked away.

3

I didn’t leave the apartment for two weeks. Then, in the middle of September, I couldn’t take being pent-up any longer. I went for a long stroll. The summer heat had ended and the crisp autumn cool had taken the reins. I stopped and bought a cheap cigar and smoked it on my way to the water. It tasted terrible and gave me a headache almost immediately, but I stayed the course and sat in the sand smoking it till it was gone. Then I left and passed by the Lamplighter, the bar that had started it all. I thought about walking in, but didn’t. I had beaten myself up enough already. It was time to move on.

I entered an Irish pub on Roscoe I’d never been to before. It was large, and the half-filled horseshoe-shaped bar was big enough to seat fifty people; around it, the Cubs game was being broadcast from fifteen or so televisions. I took an empty stool and ordered a Corona from an authentic and genial middle-aged Irishman with rosy cheeks and thinning hair and watched the game like everyone else. I lost interest quickly and then I just sat staring at my beer. I wasn’t in the mood to drink and only occasionally sipped at the bottle to keep up appearances. And it was then that a familiar voiced reached out to me from across the bar.