Weaver

"None other," he responded.

"Oh my God, what did he say? Is he going help you?"

"I don't know. He didn't say anything. I was in the ring working one of the boys with punching mitts when I saw him standing in the corner by the door. By the time we were finished he was gone."

"What do think he wanted?"

"Beats me but I don't think he would've come around if he wasn't at least considering my offer. In spite of what he said at the bar about boxing taking everything he loved, once something gets into your blood it's hard to shake."

"Wouldn't it be wonderful if he started working with the kids like you do?"

"Well, I'm not getting my hopes up," Bob replied. "From just the little we talked, he seems very bitter but we'll see."

They talked a little more about their dinner plans but had to get back to work. Not more than a few minutes after she hung up with Bob, Carolyn told her she had another call holding. It was Derick Hoover, the investigator.

"Derick, did you get something?" she asked with eagerness.

"Well, I wasn't able to come up with much. There must be a dozen different stories about why this guy quit the ring but not one can be confirmed. I did get something for you though."

"What," she excitedly asked.

"The whereabouts of his former trainer, Eric Schaeffer; if anyone knows the truth it would be him."

Arlene felt a tingling all over as she thought about finally uncovering Weaver's mysterious past. "He's still alive? Where; where does he live?"

"Yeah he's still alive. He's retired but he's still alive. He's only in his early sixties, Arlene. He lives about three and a half hours from here in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I was going to call and ask him his version of the story but I thought maybe you'd like to do that yourself."

"I'm not going to call him, I'm going to go see him," she retorted with excitement.

Arlene got the information and asked Derick to keep checking.

"How about his wife?" she asked. "Have you tried looking for her?"

"Yeah but she seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. I checked under her social security number, her married name, and her maiden name...nothing. I checked for marriage licenses, birth certificates, and death certificates...I got zip."

"Well, keep checking, okay Derick? Maybe we'll get lucky," she told him sounding hopeful.

"Will do, Arlene."

After hanging up with Derick, Arlene was going to call Bob with the good news but decided to wait and tell him at dinner. By the time they got to the restaurant she was bursting at the seams and could hardly wait to be seated before blurting it out.

"Guess what?" she started.

Bob knew something was up. He could see she was excited about something from the minute he picked her up. "What?" he inquired.

"Derick found Weaver's trainer. His name is..." her words hung in the air while she dug the information from her purse, "Eric Schaeffer. He lives in Grand Rapids. I'm going to drive up there and talk to him; want to go with?"

The name struck a familiar chord with Bob. "Eric Schaeffer, yeah, I almost forgot about him. He pretty much disappeared too. He was the one telling everyone Weaver was sick."

Bob really wasn't comfortable digging into someone's past like that, especially someone who just wanted to be left alone.

"I don't know, Arlene."

"Oh come one, Bob. I thought we could make a weekend of it; maybe stay the night in a motel along Lake Michigan."

Okay, he wasn't too keen on digging into Weaver's past but he wasn't about to turn down an invitation like that. "Well...since you put it like that..." he countered with a smile.

The years hadn't been kind to Eric Schaeffer. He lived in an old, rundown apartment building in one of the tougher neighborhoods of the city. His fingers were bent and twisted with Arthritis; poor nutrition and years of self-inflicted physical abuse and neglect had also taken its toll on the rest of his body. He appeared to be years older than he actually was.

At first he had refused Arlene when she called asking to talk to him about Weaver, but changed his mind when she offered to pay; two hundred dollars was the settled amount.

Both Bob and Arlene winced as they walked inside the small studio flat that was now the former trainer's world. There was a sour stench in the air and it felt clammy. The old hardwood floor was stained and sticky. On a small table in the corner, next to the only chair in the room, was an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Neither of them took their host's offer to sit, saying they'd been sitting in the car and preferred to stand.

"Where's the money?" he grumbled while sitting down on the dirty sheets of his unmade bed.

Arlene handed him an envelope containing ten, twenty dollar bills.

The old man coughed with a sick sounding wheeze before counting the money. "Okay, what do you want to know?"

"The real story," said Bob. "Why did Weaver quit the ring?"

"Because of his damn wife, that's why," Eric growled with contempt. "The whore got pregnant with another man's baby and left him. Weaver insisted on having her there at the training camp. We all told him to leave her at home; he needed to concentrate on training for the fight but he was so damned in love with that bitch he couldn't stand to be away from her, not even for a crummy month. Then, four days, four lousy days before the fight she disappears. He wouldn't train until he knew where she went. I finally had to tell him she ran off with her lover. I tried; I tried to get him back in the ring. I told him to make his anger work for him, use it in the ring on his opponent, but he wouldn't listen. He didn't have the heart to fight after that. Next thing I knew he was gone too. He just up and vanished into thin air. I never saw him again."

"Well we've seen him," Arlene revealed before Bob could stop her.

The bent old man looked at her in shock. "You've seen Weaver?"

"Yeah, that's why we're asking about him."

They both could see his body tense up. "Is he...is he alright?" Eric asked as tears welled up in his eyes.

"Yeah," replied Arlene. "He's a little pissed off at the world but physically he seems okay."

A tear broke loose and rolled down his leathery, old cheek. "Tell him I'm sorry," he sniveled.

"Sorry; for wha..."

"Come one, Arlene," Bob said, interrupting her. "Can't you see how hard this is on him? We're stirring up a lot of bad memories. Let's just go."

"But..."

Bob took her by the arm and gently nudged her out the door before she could protest.

"Bob, I had more questions," she told him showing her agitation.

"Look, we found out what we wanted to know. The stories about Weaver's wife leaving him were true. What else is there? That old man in there was hurting big time. Didn't you see his tears? What was the sense of ripping open more old wounds?"

He was right, of course. It explained Weaver's bitterness and his reluctance to have anything to do with members of the female gender. Still, she wondered why Eric said he was sorry. Sorry for what?

Although she knew that question would haunt her, she protested no more. They had a wonderful evening planned in a beautiful hotel right on the lake and she didn't want to ruin the mood.

Their room was on the fifth floor and faced the lake. The sun was low in the western sky and already forcing its glowing colors upon the surrounding clouds. "Oh Bob," Arlene said, walking onto the balcony. "Look at this view. It's breathtaking."

"I agree," he said.

She looked back through the glass sliding doors and saw him standing in the room staring at her. "No silly," she said with a smile. "Not me. Come out here and take a look."

Bob wandered outside and put his arms around her. She laid her head on his shoulder and together they watched as a flaming red sun lit up the sky with luminous colors while slowly descending into the quiet waters of Lake Michigan.

As lights from the surrounding harbor glimmered against the twilight Bob took Arlene in his arms and kissed her. "What do you say we take a shower, change clothes, then find a nice restaurant?" he asked.

"Do I get to wash your back?"

"You can wash anything you want," he replied.

"Ooooh, you have a deal," she remarked.

At dinner, they talked about everything and nothing. Work was the only taboo subject. It was almost midnight by the time they got back to their motel room.

As Bob opened a bottle of wine he'd purchased on the way back from the restaurant, Arlene strolled back out onto the balcony. The night air welcomed her with a warm summer breeze. Below she could hear the sound of the waves lapping at the beach and above, pale yellow light from the full moon shown down and danced a path that skipped along the top of the water.

Almost lost in the fairytale-like setting, she didn't hear Bob approach but felt his presence and turned.

"Beautiful, isn't it," he commented while offering her a glass of wine.

Arlene took the glass and stared into his eyes. What was happening to her, she wondered? She'd certainly had her share of boyfriends but they were really more like fuck-buddies. Never losing sight of her career, she always kept the romance in her relationships to a minimum. If she felt whatever boyfriend at the time was getting too serious she'd cut him loose.

Bob was getting past her defenses; what's more, she was letting him. She held her glass to one side and reached for the back of his head with the other hand. Slowly she gently pulled until their lips touched. It wasn't simply a "pre-sex" type of kiss. It was tender and loving; maybe too loving, she feared. Was she losing control or surrendering?

Neither had taken a sip of their wine yet, but without saying a word, Bob took her glass and set them both down. Reminiscent of an old movie, he swept her up in his strong arms and carried her to the bed.

Arlene felt her heart rapidly beating as Bob slowly undressed her. She tingled all over at his touch. She closed her eyes and allowed his tender kisses to take her away to a land of castles and prince charming. A land she dreamed of as a teenager when she wondered what it would be like to be in love.

Involuntarily her body shuddered as his tongue caressed her sensitive nipples. She was on fire with passion. Her back arched and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he slipped this throbbing cock inside of her. Screams of pleasure filled the room as they came in blissful rapture.

It was only the first of several such loving interludes they would experience before drifting off to dreamland, wrapped in one another's arms.

***

The following Monday at work, Arlene called Derick as she and Bob had discussed.

"Hi Derick," she greeted as he picked up.

"Hi, did you get to talk to that guy over the weekend?"

"Yes, Bob was with me. Thanks for tracking him down, Derick. He pretty much confirmed what everyone said, Weaver's wife ran off with another guy; in fact she was pregnant with the other guy's kid," she sadly reported.

Derick was sorry to hear that. Even though he'd never met Weaver, during his investigation he felt like he was getting to know him. He was hoping to hear some encouraging words.

"That's too bad," he responded to Arlene's statement.

"Yeah," she replied. "I guess there's no reason to keep searching for anything else. Bob thinks we should just let it drop. He says there's no sense in stirring up anymore bad memories for anybody, especially Weaver. He's probably right."

"You don't sound like you're too sure you agree."

"Well it's..." she sighed, "I don't know, it's just that I had such high hopes of helping him, you know. Bob's right though. That old man we saw was actually crying when we left. I guess it's better to just let it go," she admitted.

"Okay, Arlene, if you say so."

"Yeah, it's for the best. Stop by my office with a bill and I'll write you a check."

"There's no charge, Arlene; it was my pleasure," he told her.

She thanked him again and hung up with great disappointment that she was unable to help Weaver. From the moment she decided to make him her pet project, she had fantasized about getting him and his wife back together to live happily ever after. Now she had to face the fact that was never going to happen.

During the rest of the week, Arlene found herself in uncharted waters once again. She wanted to spend every minute with Bob but they both still had separate lives to lead. She found herself feeling jealous of his involvement with the CYO. Yes, they stole a lunch together that Wednesday and talked on the phone now and then, but he spent his week nights at the gym instead of with her. She knew she had no right to be jealous but she couldn't help herself, she wanted to be with him.

Bob felt the same way but he had obligations. He felt responsible for the kids he worked with, each and every single one of them, and he wasn't going to let them down.

Thursday night he was busy in the ring, refereeing a sparring match. He had just blown his whistle to indicate the start of another round when he caught a glimpse of a figure standing by the door. He recognized Weaver immediately. Bob didn't want to scare him off so he just kept doing what he was doing, but he tried to keep an eye on the welcomed visitor.

When he looked by the door again, Weaver was gone, and for a moment, Bob was disheartened. Then he spotted him again sitting in one of the ringside chairs.

Three minutes were up. Bob blew his whistle to signal each of the young boys to their corner.

"You're letting that kid in the green trunks backpedal all around the place," Weaver offered. "He should be cutting the ring short, not retreating."

Bob was elated but tried not to show it. Okay, he thought, be casual. The hook was set but he knew how skittish Weaver was. He learned that the day they met at Jerry's Place. He knew he had to be careful. The last thing he wanted to do was alienate him again.

"Actually, Weaver, that's something I think everyone would like to learn. You were the master at it. Do you think you could come up and show the boys what you mean?"

Weaver sat; such a simple request, but for him it could be a defining moment in the rest of his life. What had drawn him there in the first place? For the last ten years he'd almost lived like a hermit. He had no friends, no one to talk to or associate with on any kind of regular basis. In fact, the guy asking him to enter a ring for the first time in a decade was the closest thing he had to a friend.

Maybe it was finally time, he thought. He couldn't keep living the way he had been.

Weaver stood and slipped gracefully between the ropes.

Bob extended his hand. "Thanks," he said with a smile.

The former middleweight took his hand with a nod of his head.

Bob turned and rendered a mighty blast from the whistle that hung from his neck. "Hey everyone, stop what you're doing for a minute and come over here."

The boys all gathered around one side of the ring.

"I want to introduce Chuck Adams, better known in boxing circles as Weaver; one of the finest middleweights ever to step into a ring."

That was high praise, in deed, coming from the man every kid in the place looked up to. Everyone was impressed. You could see it in their faces.

"Really?" questioned someone.

"Hey Weaver," a young voice called from the crowd.

Bob continued. "I've had Dale and Alan sparring for a couple rounds and Weaver picked up on a problem Dale is having with his footwork. I want everyone to pay attention. Weaver," he said directing his attention back to the sinewy figure. "I'm going to turn it over to you. Tell them what you told me; show them how it should be done."

Weaver looked at Bob with alarm. He wondered if he really wanted to do this. He was tempted to simply walk away, but...

"They're here to learn," Bob told him. "This is a classroom, your classroom, and nobody's better prepared to teach them than you."

Weaver took a breath trying to calm his nerves. "Alright you two," he said, spreading his arms out in the direction of two boys. "Come here."

Both boys joined him in the middle of the ring.

"Okay, you; Dale is it?" The boy in the green trunks nodded. "You're letting your opponent here be the aggressor all the time. He's throwing lefts and rights at you like he owns you, and right now he does. Now you're doing a great job of blocking but you're constantly on defense. Most of the punches you throw are counter punches. Pro fighters wear eight ounce gloves and you can knock your opponent out with a counter punch just as easy as any other, but these things," he said taking a hold of Dale's sixteen ounce gloves, "are more like pillows. You're never going to knock anyone out with them. You have to win a match on points, and in a close fight the aggressor is always going to take it. If you want to win, you have to take control of the fight."

He faced the other boy and took his fighter's stance. "Okay, let me show you. Go ahead young man; come at me like you did with him."

Alan looked over at Bob who gave his approval with a nod.

The fourteen year old aggressor snapped a jab at Weaver's head but instead of moving to the left like he did with Dale, Weaver ducked under the punch while stepping forward and to his right, effectively cutting off the boys charge.

"See what I mean," he explained. "Now he has nowhere to go and he's open for a right hook to the ribs," he said, feigning the punch.

"Oh wow," he heard someone say from his audience.

"Okay, Dale, you try it. When he goes to his left, you go to your right and take a step forward. When he goes right, you go left."

Both boys met in the middle of the ring and again started to spar but this time it was different. Dale was a good student and moved as Weaver had showed him. Within seconds he had Alan backing up.

"That's it...see. He was dancing you around in circles before; now you've got him on defense. You're now in control of the fight. It's called cutting the ring short. Oh, and one other thing. You're very good at using your right hand to block, but it's like using your queen strictly for defense in a game of chess. You're not taking full advantage of your most valuable asset. Your opponent should be respectful of that right hand. How are you going to teach him to respect it if you never throw it? I always preferred slipping a punch or getting under it. That way I can use both hands for offense at the same time."

Immediately he had captured the attention of the young pugilistic hopefuls.

Bob could see the ex-prize fighter was starting to enjoy himself and wanted to keep it going. "That's also how he got the name Weaver," he revealed to the crowd of boys.

"Weaver, do you think you could give me a hand tonight; maybe work with some of the kids in the ring while I help them with the heavy bag?" asked Bob.

"Sure," he said, already showing Alan how to better protect his chin.

For the next hour, Bob watched as the kids lined up to work with his new assistant. Weaver might not know it just yet, thought Bob, but that's what he was. The kids loved him and he was great with them.

As Bob was locking up he offered Weaver use of the showers then out for a drink.

He declined, saying he hadn't any clean clothes but asked for rain check. That night, as Weaver returned home, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat in his sparsely furnished apartment. Over the last decade, he had gone through more emotional turmoil than any man should have to endure in a lifetime. After his wife left him for another man, he'd given up on life. Despair, depression, even thoughts of suicide had haunted him time and time again. Loneliness was his constant and only companion. The cruel irony was, as empty and hollow as it made him feel, it also protected him from being hurt again.