Her Son's Hero

Sean really was too smart for his own good some times.

She’d spent half the night tossing and turning, feeling guilty. The U-Haul truck was still parked on the street this morning. Dominic probably hadn’t finished unloading yet.

She should have made more of an effort to be welcoming. She and Sean had been newcomers here once, too. They still were after a year and a half. It was nearly impossible for anyone to integrate into the tight-knit community.

A figure darted out onto the road and Fiona slammed on the brakes. Rubber squealed on asphalt. The car shuddered to a halt as another person dashed after the first.

And wouldn’t you know, it was Denise Kirkpatrick and her spawn of Satan, Rene. Fiona honked the horn.

Denise slowly straightened. She said something to her son, and he scooted his pudgy butt up to the sidewalk.

Fiona rolled down the window as Denise walked to the car.

“Morning, Fiona.” The brunette’s wide lips curved in a scythe-like crescent as she leaned in. One manicured hand gripped the roof as she casually leaned against the door. “Guess you haven’t had any coffee yet, huh?”

“Excuse me?” Fiona’s fingers curled around the steering wheel. “Your son just ran out into the middle of the road without looking.”

“Boys will be boys,” Denise said. “Here in Salmon River, they tend to be a little rambunctious.”

Fiona ground her teeth. Denise had lived here all her life; her ancestors had practically founded the riverside town. Since Fiona and Sean had arrived, the woman had taken every opportunity to point out just how much they didn’t belong among good, hardworking, decent folk. Denise had been among the most vocal gossipers when news of Mitch’s troubles had made it to town. And while outwardly she pretended to be friendly, there was no mistaking the poison beneath her polite veneer.

Denise peered around the leather interior of the Toyota Camry. “Good thing you have this fancy car, huh?” She patted the door. “Otherwise Rene might be just a stain on the road now.”

Considering Denise drove an electric-blue BMW coupe, Fiona didn’t understand what she had against her nine-year-old sedan. She’d once owned a Beemer herself, but she’d traded it in years ago for this more practical vehicle. She’d also wanted to cleanse herself of her old life when she’d moved here.

“Well, you have yourself a good day, and drive safe,” Denise said after an uncomfortable beat of silence. She slapped the roof of the car a little harder than Fiona thought necessary.

It was only as the woman was ushering her son away that Fiona realized she’d missed her opportunity to tell the mother about her little bully. She rolled up the windows and let out a string of expletives.

Minutes later, her mood now pitch-black, she parked her car behind Leeds Reads, the bookstore where she worked. She breathed deeply, submersing the ill feelings she harbored for the Kirkpatricks in the still waters of calm. It was going to be a busy day: this was the first sunny Saturday they’d been blessed with this May, and the weekenders would be flooding the town. It wouldn’t do to scowl at every customer who came in.

GOLDEN SUNSHINE AND A CLEAN, sweet breeze alternately warmed and cooled Dom as he jogged briskly to Sensei Mako Miwa’s dojo. The run into town was a good warm-up, but more importantly, it helped work off some of his frustration at not being able to finish moving all his stuff in. He was just glad the place came furnished; he’d never have been able to wrestle a sofa by himself. By the time he’d managed to find the box of sheets so he could fix up the bed, he’d been too exhausted to eat. Thank God for energy bars. He’d have to stock up on groceries today, as well.

Right now, however, he had to see his old karate master and get his training back on track. The most important fight of his life was coming up in September. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. His manager had staunchly reminded him of that this morning when he’d called to check on him.

“You need to get your mojo back, Dom,” Joel Khalib had said. “I’m having a hell of a time convincing Silverstreak to keep you on.” Silverstreak was the energy drink company with the biggest logo on Dom’s trunks. “I told them you’d be ready for the belt in September. You gotta prove me right on this.”

“I will.” He didn’t have the luxury of doubt.

“You sure you don’t want me to send some of the other guys over? I mean, if you have the space, a little work on your jujitsu and wrestling…”

“This is about more than physical training right now, Joel.” Dom knew his sad performance ever since his fight with Bruno DiMartino had been entirely rooted in his brain.

He still hadn’t called Katy DiMartino to offer his condolences…or anything else. He asked tentatively, “How’s Bruno doing?”

“No change.” Joel’s tone was grim. “But don’t you worry about a thing. I sent over a nice bouquet of flowers from you. Made sure Katy has everything she needs. I even got her a rent-a-maid. You know, so someone can help her clean house while she’s at the hospital.”

Dom had grunted noncommittally. “You know it’s not your fault, right?” Joel said. “You should really be seeing a sports psychologist, man. I have some great references for—”

“Thanks, but no thanks. Sensei Miwa has always been able to straighten me out. I trust him.”

He approached downtown Salmon River, jogging over the old stone bridge that spanned the fast-flowing tributary the town was named after. Fishermen were trying their luck from aluminum skiffs and old wooden rowboats, and they silently watched him go by.

Main Street looked like a life-size version of one of those miniature Christmas villages. Two-and three-story brick colonial-style buildings with tasteful signs and well-kept window boxes were designed to attract visitors for the quaint boutique shopping, gourmet and country home cooking—not to mention the scenic waterside view.

Dom slowed to a walk and pulled his hood down to cool off. The sun felt great on his head and shoulders and he took a minute to drink in the clean air and listen to the birds. Gaily colored banners advertising the Salmon River Arts Fair flapped from old-fashioned iron lampposts. A hardware store on the corner, a church, a dry cleaner and an electronics repair shop showed the thriving community would continue to flourish even after the tourists left. The smell of fresh-baked pastries wafted down the street. Dom’s stomach growled, but he ignored it—the last thing he needed was to be tempted by empty calories.

Most shops hadn’t opened yet, but Dom could see people heading out of one building. It was eight o’clock, which, if Mako Miwa still adhered to his rigorous schedule, meant his first class would just be finishing.

The familiar and comforting scent of rubber mats and sweat hit Dom as he entered the Five Elements Gym and Dojo. A couple students were speaking with Mako, so Dom slipped off his running shoes and hoodie, stuffing them into one of the cubbies provided for students and visitors. He approached the mat, bowed, then knelt, waiting for his old teacher, his sensei, to finish. When the students left, Mako turned to him, frowning. Dom placed his palms on the mat in front of him and touched his forehead nearly to the floor, bowing to the man who’d taught him almost everything he knew about fighting and about being an honorable person. “Sensei.”

Mako Miwa knelt and bowed back, then bestowed a smile upon his former pupil. Except for a few extra lines, his old master hadn’t aged a day. “Domo-san. Welcome.”

“Thank you, Sensei.”

Formalities over, Mako broke into a wide grin and embraced him, slapping his back. They fell into small talk, catching up on common acquaintances, and discussed how the dojo in Salmon River had been doing.

“Not bad,” was his teacher’s only remark, though Dom could see an infusion of funds wouldn’t hurt. Duct tape held some of the training pads together, the ceiling tiles were water-stained and a large crack in one of the mirrored walls had been hastily repaired with clear packing tape. It was a far cry from the facilities the renowned sensei had owned in New Orleans. But Mako Miwa had decided after Hurricane Katrina that the gods were trying to tell him something, and he’d moved his dojo here to Virginia. It made sense, Dom supposed, since the Five Elements’ sister dojo, Four Winds, was in Richmond.

“UFF still treating you well?” Mako asked.

Dom grimaced, unable to answer.

“Not so well,” his teacher concluded. He gestured for Dom to follow him into his office at the back of the dojo.

Sunlight slanted in through the dirty window behind the old desk, washing the tired-looking room in gold light. The fake-wood panel walls bowed with age, and a three-year-old calendar curled from a nail. Mako Miwa had never been much for aesthetics, but the man’s cool serenity and martial arts skills more than made up for the ghastly decor.

The karate master went to a counter where an ancient coffeemaker full of dark tea sat. Dom remembered that tea well—it tasted like floor varnish. “I heard about your fight with Bruno DiMartino,” the old man said as he poured. “How is he doing?”

“Still in a coma.” Dom rubbed his chin, and his hand shook a little as he said it.

“You know it was not your fault.”

People said that a lot to him these days. Martial artists who competed knew there were risks, knew safety could never be guaranteed despite the rules, the protective gear, the skill level and the precautions taken by competitors and judges.

“It was an accident,” his sensei went on.

“I have a hard time believing that.” Dom closed his eyes briefly. All he remembered was the blood, the sickening wobble of Bruno’s neck as Dom’s fist smashed the side of his head—

He shut the awful memory out.

“So, what brings you here, Domo-san?”

“I need you to retrain me.”

The karate master made a dismissive gesture and turned away. “You’ve already learned all I have to teach.”

Dom seriously doubted that. “After DiMartino, I lost three exhibition matches, Sensei. I need to figure out what’s wrong. Why I lost against three rookies.” The humiliation stung deeply. He’d been 15-0 for wins-losses until that first bewildering defeat. The blemish on his once-perfect record represented more than a simple lack of nerve or decline in skill—three consecutive losses meant his stats went down. And his sponsors didn’t want to back a loser.