just the two of us. “Don’t forget my delts, Tiger.”
But Arnold was never good at invisibility. “And vut is zis I hear you haff new wife? Congratulations.”
One thing I was learning about my new voice was that I didn’t have much control over it. “Hey Arnold,” I said, surprising myself.
“Beat it.”
Arnold broke into a wide grin, and set his hand atop my head.
“Junior haff big voice. Maybe someday he haff—”
“Just leave!” I shouted, loud enough that Mentzer, Padilla, and a few others turned to see what the fuss was.
To my astonishment, Arnold lumbered off with a wilting smile and, for once, I didn’t have sand in my face.
Big Bill couldn’t suppress a grin. “Easy, Tiger.”
A half minute later I heard Liam Halstead tell Arnold to bugger off , and I couldn’t help but feel that I’d given him the strength.
“How are the lats?” asked Big Bill, spreading them like wings.
“Looking good,” I said. “Remember to stay open when you make your turn. Don’t close up too much, or your elbows will get in the way. And don’t smile so hard. Breathe through your nose. Turn around, so I can get your abs.”
He turned around.
“Flex,” I said.
He fl exed. His abs looked great. Six distinct pillows tapering into a perfect V at the waistline. I oiled between the furrows. “Turn,” I said, with an edge of impatience. “Other way.”
My father complied with a very content look on his face. He winked at me. “Who’s gonna win this thing, Tiger?”
“We are,” I said.
And oiling him up, tracing the horseshoe musculature of a tricep, the dimpled crown of an immense bicep, running my small hands over the impossibly hard rubber girth of his upper arms and shoulders, I thought he felt superhuman. His body was impenetrable. For the fi rst time I could almost fathom my father’s unwavering faith in meat.
I stayed backstage beside Big Bill until the moment he was announced. As the applause set in, he straightened up and drew a shallow breath.
“Here goes nothing,” he said.
I patted his backside like Waller might have. “Remember. Stay within yourself.”
He smiled. “Gotcha, Tiger.”
The new and improved Big Bill Miller glided onto the stage as if he were skating on Vaseline. At center stage, he spun around ninety degrees, faced the audience, and stood at ease for the briefest of moments. Really at ease. Grinning like Ronald Reagan on Thai Stick.
Though his skin was stretched beyond all capacity, like a mutant blood sausage, he looked comfortable in it for the fi rst time ever.
Then the music began: something from Bach. Big Bill didn’t hurry, he didn’t force anything. He bowed his head and slowly exhaled, then rose up again like a sun fl ower to face the sea of fl ashbulbs. He stretched his arms out to embrace eternity, then eased them back in like he was gathering up the universe, and when he had the universe in his grasp, he closed his fi sts upon it and sent it crackling down his forearms to his biceps, which swelled until it seemed they would burst like supernovas. His transitions were seamless. Front double bicep melted into side chest melted into back lat spread. He made his mandatory poses look like tai chi. What’s more, he invented poses, or I should say Willow invented poses, poses that didn’t have names like “front double bicep” or “back lat spread,” that had names like “starry bowl of night” and “valley brimming yellow with mountain lilies,”
and that looked just like they sounded. When Big Bill left the stage, both at the prejudging and the main event, he got a bigger ovation, more oohs and aahs than anyone, even Arnold.
Backstage, Big Bill was ramped up, couldn’t sit still long enough to watch Corney or Platz follow on his heels.
“Relax. We got ’em,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Sure. You heard them.”
Big Bill leaned into my assurance like it was a camp fi re. “I think you’re right, Tiger. I think we got ’em this
Lynsay Sands, Hannah Howell