Jan Irving - Sylvan

For Nana and Aunt Poppy

and a wonderful weekend at the lakeside.

T HE best portion of a good mans life is the little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.

William Wordsworth

Prologue

H EART pounding, Mal Harrison stood outside Coach Mathers office door. He licked his lips, looking at the mans secretary. She flicked him a grim look and his gut twisted.

Hed just finished his latest swim meet, and although he was being mentally tough and fighting off negative thoughtssomething every athlete who made it to the Olympics had to learn how to dothe frustration that hed been living with was rising like smoke from a growing fire. He trained hard, very hard. Hed been focused. So why had he come in third again?

He went over the event in his head, seeing that his turns were still his weakness, despite the way he worked out over and over again to improve them. Maybe Coach Mather wanted to cover that with him again? Mal swallowed thickly, hoping that was the case.

After a moment, Mathers secretary nodded to him stiffly. You can go in, Mr. Harrison.

Mal nodded, taking a deep breath the way he did before an event with stiff competition. He reminded himself of everything hed accomplished in some very tough years. Everything hed sacrificed. How discreet hed tried to be about his choice of sexual companion, though admittedly lately hed been partying pretty hard when he wasnt working out all the timehe knew it stemmed from his frustration. And finally, he reminded himself that in the duffel in his hotel room was an Olympic gold medal for the backstroke.

But that didnt stop his hand from smoothing his still-water slick hair back from his face before he reached for the doorknob; something told him that when he walked over this threshold again, everything would be different.

C OACH M ATHER leaned back in his desk, his steel-gray eyes on Mal. He ran a hand over his jaw and then cleared his throat, saying the words that Mal dreaded: Youre off the team, Harrison. Im sorry.

Mals face stiffened, like a pale, sweating mask as he held the Coachs uncompromising gaze.

He knew this was it. He was officially washed up at age twenty-three. He wouldnt be competing for Olympic gold in two years in the butterfly and backstroke events.

Coach, if its about coming in third today. Mal leaned forward. He held onto his dignity with his fingernails, taking another deep gulp of air and fighting tears. He couldnt stop pushing now, even knowing it was useless.

Its about coming in third for almost a year, Mal, Coach Mather said flatly. Im really sorry, son. You push hardmaybe too hard. Lately I dont feel like you have the passion for it anymore, so believe it or not, this may be the best thing for youa fresh start. What will you do now?

Mal swallowed, fighting the need to throw up. He rubbed his stomach through his T-shirt, feeling sweat prickle his underarms and his upper lip.

Go home, I guess, he said, his voice echoing dully in the Coachs office. Hey, good news is at least I dont have to shave my body hair anymore, he quipped weakly.

A second too late, he asked himself why hed said something that inane? Fighting the swell of emotions that felt like sea water right up to his neck, Mal stared blankly at the wall as the Coach gave him a few suggestions on what he might do next.

Right. The rest of his life.

A LONE in his room later, Mal sat on the bed, a page from his grandmother Nans latest letter in his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, not wanting to cry. Hed have to call her. Hed let her down.

But when he looked at her letter again he reread something shed written: More and more you dont sound happy to me, Mal. Are you sure this is truly what you want to do? I have a feeling if you just came home, youd find what it is you are looking for

Nan had pressed him to think about the bigger picture of his life more than once, but Mal had blown her off. He shifted so he was sitting with his back to the headboard of his bed, looking out at the cold, winking lights of New York City that never seemed to go out.

At least he could still go back to Nan and to Sylvan, the little farm town hed been so desperate to escape as a teen.

He lifted the gold medal out of his duffel, fingering it as he remembered winning it at a very young age. Maybe he wasnt as successful as his other teammates, but he had this.

After a moment, he reached for his phone. Nan had always accepted him. She knew who he was, and unlike him, she hadnt struggled with the fact he was gay. He knew shed take this in stride also, welcome him home. Back under her roof, and with her loving support, hed somehow figure out what to do with the rest of his life.

The line rang a long time, and then Jed Morris, Nans nearest neighbor, answered. Weird, Mal thought. Why was he?

Mal, that you? Jed asked, though he had surely recognized Mals voice.

Yeah, is everything all right? I want to speak to Nan, Mal said, his belly knotting up again though this time he wasnt sure why.

Mal. Jeds voice was heavy. Son, I have some bad news.

T HE truck driver who had given him a ride let Mal off on an unpaved road. Mal got out, stiff from sitting for so long, and banged on the cab in thanks, watching the rig pick up speed, leaving him. He felt very small standing in the shadow of the bleached wooden grain elevators. They towered like sentinels over the yellow and green striped fields that stretched out like a prairie carpet all the way to the purple foothills.

He put his duffel over his shoulder and pushed back his black hair from his eyes before he started walking. He was probably two miles away from Sylvan Lake and Nans cottage by the water.

Wearing jeans so worn they were white and a pair of his old cowboy boots hed dug out of his storage locker, Mal walked past some fenced-in grazing cows. A curious calf trotted close, watching his shadow as it passed by at a laconic pace.

The hot July sun, the huge bowl skyeverything was home, even the choking dust that rose in the wake of a car that passed him, driving much too fast on the country road.

Just ahead, Mal saw someone dart into the center of the road, and the speeding vehicle swerved, music blaring.

Shit! Mal dropped his duffel and sprinted ahead, seeing with disgust that the unknown driver hadnt even stopped, just picked up more speed. Couldnt be from around here, that was for damn sure.

He knelt next to an old man with gray hair in his eyes who had fallen in the center in the road, panting. His elbows and hands were raw and scraped from the tumble hed taken to avoid the car. When Mals shadow fell on him, blocking the hot yellow ball of sun, he blinked up at Mal through dazed eyes.

Hey, mister, Mal said gently. He reached out and took the elderly mans arm. Are you all right? You might want to move off the road.

Road? the man asked, looking around, obviously confused. Had he hit his head somehow? You tricked me, didnt you?

Mal shook his head, helping the old boy climb to his feet and then guiding him to the sandy side of the road. No, I didnt trick you. Uh, are you alone out here, mister?

I dont know. The man sounded abruptly frightened, and Mals throat tightened in sympathy. Lately, everything hurt. Everything got to him where he lived.

Dont worry, Ill help you, he said.

Oh, heres Leif! The elderly man pointed to a tall man running toward them on the dirt road, his hair as silver as his fathers, only as he got closer, Mal could see it was silver-blond, not gray. He must be about six four, wearing a blue work shirt plastered to a muscled chest and jeans as well as work boots. He was also deeply tanned with crows feet at the corner of his pale eyes.