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The city of Seattle slept. The weather outside was atrocious, as it had been for much too long in a rowing year as important as this one: boats rocked in their moorings out on Portage Bay, and in drafty dormitories across the University of Washington’s campus students donned extra layers before climbing into bed. The boys of the newly-chosen varsity boat pulled their blankets over their heads to drown out the rain lashing against the windows and dreaded the morning’s workout.
Al Ulbrickson and Tom Bolles barely felt the cold - or, if they did, it was only the chill of cooling sweat on bare skin as they held each other and simply breathed until their racing hearts slowed to a lazy, synchronous beat.
“I can’t believe we solved it,” Tom said.
Al laughed in disbelief. “Strategy? Now?”
It wasn’t often that Tom stayed the night - usually only when they were close enough to a race that they could plausibly claim that a late-night strategy talk had stretched too far into the wee hours of the morning and it had been simpler for Tom to crash in the guest bedroom than head back to his own rented rooms. No one except Hazel need know that Al shared it with him.
“Admit it, you’re thinking about it too,” Tom said, with a teasing poke to the ticklish spot below Al’s ribs.
Al relented. He pulled Tom close to his side as he stared at the ceiling, rueful. “I can’t believe Rantz, of all people, was the final piece.”
“I always knew,” Tom said, shifting within Al’s embrace to tangle their bare legs together, cold toes brushing beneath the sheets. “Every time I took him out of that freshman boat it slowed down. He just needed to find his crew.”
“Yes, yes, you’re very prescient. They are a good crew,” Al admitted. He smoothed the sarcastic edge of it with a brief kiss. “They spend so much time with their heads together that sometimes I worry what they might be cooking up.”
Tom closed his eyes and, with a contented sigh, settled in for the kind of night’s sleep they so rarely got to have together. “Strategy, probably. Just like us.”
The nine varsity boys, now including Joe Rantz in the number seven seat, trooped miserably back to the shell house and its lukewarm showers the next morning, cursing Al Ulbrickson under their breaths. Warm clothes and towel-dried hair did much to improve their moods for the most part, but one boy still looked troubled as they lingered near the sinks to bask in the steam before they had to brave the weather outside on their trek to class.
“Penny for your thoughts, John,” offered Roger.
Johnny White blinked. “What?”
“You’ve had something on your mind all morning. You rowed just fine, but you weren’t all in the boat, you know?”
Johnny, looking for a way out, found instead eight pairs of eyes watching him expectantly. He sagged in defeat. “It’s nothing, really. I just saw something odd today, that’s all.” He stopped in the hopes that that would suffice, but when it became clear that he would have to elaborate, he sighed and went on. “You know how I walk by Ulbrickson’s house on my way to campus, right, and this morning, around five, I saw Coach Bolles leaving through the back door. I think he spent the night.”
“Maybe they were talking strategy real late, now that we’ve got Joe and things are finally working, and he just stayed over. They have a second bedroom. What?” Chuck said defensively, adding, “we got invited over there one time last May, me’n Bobby and the old varsity boys, and I snooped around a bit when I went inside to use the bathroom. As if you all aren’t curious about how he lives.”
Several of the boys rolled their eyes or mimed disgust. Johnny remained uneasy. “Maybe. But then why would he sneak out through the back? I don’t know, maybe it really is nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” Jim’s voice, unusually quiet, turned every head in the room. The boys looked on with wide eyes as he explained. “Remember when Ulbrickson was out of town for a few days last year? He asked me to take a few of his things home from the shell house 'cause he had to leave quick. I stayed to chat with Mrs. Ulbrickson for a bit, and as I was leaving, I saw Coach Bolles pull up with a suitcase."
“Maybe he was going out of town too, since we were off those days,” Chuck said, but it was less certain than before.
“No, because then the next day I saw him walking past Suzzallo. He was here.”
The group digested this in silence, until Jim dropped the next bombshell. "And that's not all. 'Cause when we got back to practices, Coach Bolles' shirt collar slipped down and I saw he had a bruise on his neck, right above his collarbone. You know, where you might bite someone."
Shorty, the youngest of the bunch, made a sound suspiciously close to a squeak.
Chuck grasped at one final straw. “How do you know it was a bruise? What if it was a shadow and you just mistook it?”
“Because I saw it too,” Roger said grimly. “Stub came to me and asked me if I was seeing what he was seeing, and it was a bruise alright. But you didn’t tell me about the suitcase stuff,” he added, accusatory.
“I didn’t want to start any rumors, in case I was wrong and I’d made something out of nothing after all. But that’s too many maybes for it to be nothing,” Jim said, with a mournful finality. Chuck, the skeptic, hung his head.
“Guys,” Johnny said, voicing the collective, unspoken thought. “I think Coach Ulbrickson’s wife is cheating on him.”
Nobody argued.
Joe slammed his fist against his locker door. “Well what the hell do we do?”
As their elected representatives - Jim, as team captain and the one in possession of the most concrete knowledge, and Don, as a calming influence - made the case to George Pocock, the rest of the boys paced. They could hear voices from the loft above: first Jim’s earnest one, then Pocock’s clipped, posh accent raised in disbelief, and finally Don’s quiet, serious tones. No one could say whether that meant it was going well.
Shorty, whose pacing had taken on a frenetic edge, finally lost his composure. “I just don’t think Hazel would do something like that,” he said plaintively.
Roger, spread-eagled on the cold concrete floor, lifted his head and shot an arch glance at Shorty. “You on a first name basis with her, Shorty?”
“Of course not! I just think… it’s a pretty name, is all. It deserves to get said sometimes.”
“George Hunt,” Roger said slowly as he rolled to his feet and stalked closer, grinning wickedly, “do you have a soft spot for Mrs. Ulbrickson?”
Shorty was spared answering by the soft creak of the loft door opening, and three sets of footsteps echoed down the wooden steps. The boys turned as one, breaths held, to face George Pocock, looking sterner than they had ever seen him.
“James says you boys have some concerns about Coach Bolles’ friendship with the Ulbrickson family,” he said. His gaze stopped on each of them in turn, unflinching and serious. “You were right to bring them to me first, and I thank you for your care, but I can assure you that Mr. and Mrs. Ulbrickson are quite happy together and would, I’m sure, prefer it if their private life was not a topic of discussion in this building. Do not bring this up with them.” Some of the iciness in his piercing eyes softened, and he concluded, gently, “I promise you there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve known Al and Hazel for many years, and they love each other more than any man and woman I’ve ever seen.”
Just beyond the hangar door, hat pulled low over his eyes to shield him from the slanting rain, Tom Bolles shook his head in dismay. The jig, it seemed, was up.
Hazel and Alvin Ulbrickson were best friends. They had been inseparable since their undergraduate days, and everyone - including, for a time, the two of them - had thought they would be married by graduation. When Hazel, in tears, had confessed her secret, Al had been over the moon. She had been afraid he was in love with her and she would disappoint him; he had seen a bright new future opening up ahead of them both.
"Do you know what this means, Hazel? It means we can get married and no one will raise their eyebrows at us ever again. It means you can live your life, and I can live mine, and we can protect each other. Hazel, I'm like you."
He had proposed the next day.
Al took a job with the University, and Hazel began the work of making a home - a small, cozy craftsman overlooking Lake Union, with a covered porch and a patchy lawn that never seemed to thrive no matter how often Hazel weeded it or how many different flowers and vegetables she tried planting. It was too shady, Al said; the sycamores out back were too tall. Hazel kept trying anyway.
They kissed each other on the lips, in public and in private, and they slept in the same bed most nights. When one or the other of them brought someone home, they took the guest bed - the sex bed, as Hazel liked to call it, much to Al’s dismay and embarrassment. They loved each other deeply.
Tom Bolles had slotted into their lives with such an ease that it was easy to believe he had always been meant to join them. He and Hazel shared a sense of humor and delighted in teasing their stoic friend. Hazel appreciated having someone to share the burden of Al’s rowing talk both day and night almost as much as she appreciated Tom’s palate, more refined than her husband’s, and his delight in her cooking even when the vegetables she painstakingly harvested came out not quite as robust as she hoped.
It was a perfect, private life, and none of them allowed themselves to think what might happen if anyone ever intruded on it.
“The jig is up,” Tom announced, one foot still on the porch, shaking the rain off his hat and jacket as best he could before he stepped fully into the house. “They put their heads together and they cooked up something so far-fetched it’s butted right up against the truth.”
Hazel put down her potato peeler.
“What did they say to you?” Al asked, as he stepped forward to take Tom’s coat and kiss him hello.
Tom kissed him back, but his mouth was turned down in concern when he pulled away. “Nothing to me yet, though I doubt they’ll take George’s advice to keep their suspicions to themselves. They think I’m sleeping with you,” he said, inclining his head at Hazel, “and they’re very upset on your behalf, Al. Especially Shorty.”
“Shorty is the tall one who looks at me like he’s never seen a woman in his life, yes?” Hazel said, coming to stand beside her husband. Al Ulbrickson was frozen, face white. He startled when she placed her hand on his arm. “The police aren’t knocking down our door yet, darling. Let’s sit down and figure out our plan of attack.”
Ensconced in the living room with their coffee - decaf with milk for Al, black for Hazel and Tom - they began. Al and Tom sat stiffly beside each other on the loveseat, not touching, as if they feared any moment one of their students might peer through the window. Hazel sat in her usual armchair, feet tucked up beneath her, tapping her nails against the rim of her mug. “Well. The way I see it, the only thing for us to do is tell them what they already think they know. They’ll believe it, because all the evidence points there.”
“Hazel, no,” Al began, but a look from his wife quelled him.
“Sweetheart,” she said, gently but firmly, “we always knew this might happen. You pick smart boys for your boats. And we got lucky; this will be embarrassing, but it isn’t criminal.”
“I just… I hate what they must think of me now,” Al said, small and defeated.
Tom hesitantly took his hand, pulling it close, and held it between both of his own. “The truth would be worse,” he said.
“I know that too.”
Hazel smiled and said, with a playful lilt to her words, “besides, it does wonderful things for my ego to know a bunch of tall strong boys think I’m pretty enough to bag two handsome, athletic men.”
“You are,” Tom assured her, leering, and winked. Hazel laughed.
Al sighed, stood, and crossed to his wife’s armchair. When he reached it he simply stood, watching her, cataloging the lovely, familiar planes of her face, until he finally cracked a reluctant smile and leaned down to kiss her. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she said. “My darling little cuckold.”
“Hazel, please.”
They had elected Bobby as their spokesperson in order to talk to Coach Ulbrickson, because, as Bobby put it, “Ulbrickson’s been mad at me before; I can take it if he blows up at me.” Privately, some of the boys thought someone with more tact should have been chosen, but no one else had volunteered, and so Bobby it was.
Once again they waited, looking anxiously over their shoulders out onto the sparkling waters in case Coach Bolles happened to wander through the shell house on his Sunday off. The weather had finally broken, and the bright February sun had turned the normally slate-grey waters of Lake Union a blinding, sparkling white. No one wanted to be inside on a day like that, awaiting whatever doom Coach Ulbrickson might hand down as punishment for the sin of ruining his marriage, no matter how good their intentions.
The office door opened. Bobby descended the stairs one at a time, slowly, like a man much older and frailer than he was. His eyes were fixed on the far wall, unseeing.
“Bobby?” Don said, tremulous. “How bad was it?”
“It was…” Bobby reached the final step and shook his head as if dispelling a bad dream. “Informative. Not what I expected. He, well, he said - you might want to be sitting down for this one, fellas.”
They sat. Bobby joined them, settling cross-legged at the broadest point of their ragged circle so that everyone could see him as he launched into the tale of whatever Coach Ulbrickson had said to shake even Bobby Moch’s unflappable calm.
“They share her, you see,” he started, to general confusion, and held up his hand to forestall any questions. “Not all the time, and Al’s still married to her, but she and Coach Bolles also, you know, engage in the horizontal tango.”
Shorty squeaked again, blushing fiery red.
“Alright, so it’s cheating except he already knew about it?” Jim said dubiously.
Bobby shook his head. “No, it’s - they have an agreement, see, it’s all worked out between the three of them. Ulbrickson and Bolles are like equals, only bigamy’s not legal and Ulbrickson got to her first so they’re the married ones. He said they both love her, and they’re happy to share.” He shrugged, as if to say he didn’t understand either and he was just reporting what he’d been told. Some of the boys nodded along; others remained unconvinced.
Johnny, once again, said what everyone was thinking. “Hazel Ulbrickson must be some woman.”
“Forget that,” Chuck said wonderingly, “Coach Ulbrickson must be some man. I couldn’t do what he’s done.”
“It’s easy enough to fall for a woman,” Joe said. The vague, discontented murmurings from those who hadn’t yet been convinced died down; Joe rarely talked about his love life, but everyone knew he and Joyce were as serious as serious could get. If Joe had something to say about love, it was worth listening to. “It’s harder to let her live her life when you want so badly to keep her at your side all the time. Coach Ulbrickson must love her a whole lot to let her love Coach Bolles as well.”
“Yeah,” Bobby said, into the ensuing silence. “That’s pretty much what Coach told me. Joe just said it better.”
The day, though sunny, was cold, and no one wanted to hang around in an old airplane hangar for very long - least of all Al Ulbrickson. He braved the stares of the remaining boys as he descended from his office and made his way across the Cut towards home, ducking out of sight of familiar faces as they passed. He had only wanted to get through a little paperwork on his day off; the morning had gone off the rails much quicker than any of them had anticipated.
“Home already?” Hazel asked in surprise when he entered the kitchen, unannounced, through the back door. Wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck, breathing in her familiar perfume and the spices she insisted on cooking with even though she knew he didn’t like turmeric. “Did something happen?”
“I swear, I don’t know what Moch said to them, but it was awful, Hazel. They all looked at me like I was some kind of enlightened wise man as I passed them on the way out of the office.”
Tom’s fond, warm chuckle sounded from the living room doorway. “And you were worried they’d call you a cuckold.”
“There’s a happy middle ground between cuckold and saint,” Al grumbled.
Hazel patted him bracingly on the forearm. “And I’m sure you’ll find it someday. You’re welcome to lunch, since you’re here. There’s turmeric in it.”
Al grimaced. “I know.”
“I’ll do you one better,” Tom said, as he dished out three bowls of turmeric-yellow soup. “I got here only moments before you, and I passed Shorty Hunt on my way. The one who looks at you like you hung the moon,” he clarified to Hazel, who nodded in understanding. “And he looked at me, eyes as big as dinner plates, and he said, ‘Coach Bolles, I just want to say - you’re a very lucky man.’”
Hazel smothered a laugh into her napkin. Tom’s expression was chagrined, but his lips twitched. Al, helpless against the mirth of his two favorite people in the world, gave in and joined the laughter. “And what did you say to him?” he asked, wiping his eyes. Hazel slipped her hand into his and squeezed.
Tom set down his spoon, grabbed Al by the tie, and pulled him in for a kiss. “I said, ‘I am.’”