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grabbed the rung of the starting block, back curved perfectly toward the water. A split second wiped the grin from her face. When the beep sounded, eight swimmers arched backwards, hands piercing the crayon-blue surface, went under, pulled, came up, but she was already a length ahead.
    I drive into purpling sky, turn off the campus road and left onto Route 3. There were other things in Indianapolis. Sitting there by myself in those stands after the meet, McMullen and his stopwatch gone, noticing how bright ceiling fluorescents successfully eliminated tired old stains from the walls. The only thing new about the place was the pool, gleaming, bright, sparkling a cool welcome. I was waiting for some sound. A drip. Aware—for a second, suddenly, out of nowhere—of this dark all-alone thing in me that could pull me right down into it. It would happen easily, if I let it, would happen when I was alone.
    But I wasn’t quite alone then. Someone else was there, and I watched her: this big, tall, broad-shouldered girl meandering back and forth behind the starting blocks looking wistful, a little lost, unutterably lonely as she paced, swinging the embossed equipment bag that said SOUTHERN—THE BIG U on one side. Words left me thoughtlessly:
    Babe.
    I leaned over the bleacher railing to offer a hand.
    Babe, I’m Bren Allen. The women’s coach at Northern Massachusetts.
    We shook hands then. Her face had changed since that high school meet—wasn’t, after all, as open as it had been then. It was older, strained, full of a surprising discomfort that seemed to run very deep. Still, the body was lean and perfect, designed for the sport. Great genes. Kay would have said I was being a fucking Nazi—all that crap about genetics. Anyway, I smiled.
    So. You had a bad day.
    She nodded once, tiredly.
    Listen, we all do. Anyone who tells you she doesn’t is lying. But I noticed something, I think — I think you can get more out of your walls.
    You do? The response was immediate and eager. That’s what I keep saying, but he — I mean— the kid stopped suddenly, embarrassed, unwilling to speak his name. I was being diplomatic and waved a comforting hand.
    Ah, well, never mind. Sometimes it just takes an old breaststroker— then gave a conspiratorial wink. We’re specialists, right? We can see these things very clearly sometimes — sometimes the rest of them just don’t know. A dim light of hope sprayed the face. I could see her grabbing at straws. You’re so good that it’s difficult to see your mistakes, Babe. But I think you’re a little flat coming off your walls. Not much, just a shade. Still, it’s probably worth half a second right there—
    God, you’re right.
    Anyway, I said, maybe you can use that in the future.
    The kid thanked me profusely, a lot more profusely than the information was worth, and I wished her all the best of luck. Then watched her leave, gym bag sagging against her legs. A perfect athlete, the likes of whom I would never coach.
    *
    The driveway’s in rotten condition twisting through trees, past a garden in even worse shape. Kay spent plenty of weekends watering and weeding. It was her thing entirely. Early on she’d asked if I had any interest in learning about roses and I told her, None whatsoever, why? Case closed. But once in a while, when I least expected it, something would send gentle shock waves up my neck and I’d turn to see her holding petals between thumb and forefinger with a teasing look. Saying, Well, Coach, are you still uninterested?
    Things spill from briefcase, purse, and gym bag as I head up the steps. I open the door and Boz jumps out panting welcome.
    “Hey guy.”
    He slobbers all over the first draft of some long memo I’m supposed to read, wags so hard his entire rear end shags from side to side while he noses through my sweats.
    “Come here, dude.” I sit in the middle of everything and he licks my face. I pull his ears, scratch and rub and caress. He’s hungry and his