“We know, Ray,” the night groomer was consoling her, when the snowshoer just showed up—Elliot Barlow suddenly took hold of the small heavyweight’s wrists. In the Exeter wrestling room, Mr. Barlow had been the hand-control man. With all the chin-ups and the ski-poling, the little English teacher had more hand strength than most middleweights.

“You’re a natural one-ninety-pounder, you know,” the pretty snowshoer told the undersize heavyweight. “I always wondered if you found your proper weight class in college—if you wrestled in college.” (In the marine’s most likely wrestling years, after he’d been a backup heavyweight at Exeter, there was a weight class for 191 pounds—later, for 190 pounds—in college.)

“I didn’t wrestle after Exeter,” the natural 190-pounder told the beautiful Elliot Barlow. “I was in the Marine Corps,” he repeated—this time, more proudly.

“Oh, you poor thing—I’m so sorry!” my mother wailed. She came toward him to give him a hug; the marine made an effort to turn away from her, but she hugged him from behind, locking her little hands around his waist, her face pressed against his broad back. “Are you okay now, are you all right?” my mom asked our marine.

The backup heavyweight could hear that her concern for him was genuine—he had to feel that her hug was heartfelt. “Yes, ma’am,” the marine answered her—both politely and stoically. Wrestlers know who has the hand control, and who doesn’t. Mr. Barlow had the tall guy’s wrists locked up; my mother had him in a bear hug from behind. Our marine would have had to start a fight to break free of them. He didn’t. I could see his hatred for all of us, but I also saw his restraint. In his mind, he was held fast by two queers, and I knew he didn’t like Molly or me any better. I watched him restrain himself.

“We’re glad you’re okay—we’re happy you’re all right,” I said to him, sincerely.

“We’re an anti-war family—we’re happy when a soldier comes safely home,” the pretty snowshoer said.

“I didn’t come home, I never liked home—the Marine Corps was my home,” the soldier said bitterly, but without anger. He was doing all he could to hold back his anger. My mom didn’t realize how angry the marine was; she just hugged him harder.

“As Ishmael says, ‘a whale-ship was my Yale College and my Harvard.’ I’m guessing the Marine Corps was your whale-ship,” the little English teacher told the proud marine, who somehow managed to look more appalled. It was apparent that the heavyweight hadn’t read Herman Melville; from the stricken look on his face, the marine must have imagined a “whale-ship” was a sexual expression peculiar to gay men, or to lesbian or transgender women. Molly tried to allay our marine’s fears.