John Cena's Arc

Chapter 7 of 12

The panel had been on the arch for six days when the clerk finally called. She told Cena the quorum had held. The dedication would be Thursday at noon. Cena wrote the date on the same receipt he had used before and drove to the arch to stand under his name one more time. The gold letters caught the morning sun. Moss had crept a little further around the frame. Bret Hart was waiting at the base of the old stone pillar beside the gate. Cena had known him twenty years. Bret was the kind of friend who told you the truth in two sentences and left. He was reading something folded in his hand. When he saw Cena, he held it out without a word. "Came to my place this morning," Bret said. "Addressed to you. He didn't know where you were staying." Cena took the envelope. His name was written on the front in a slow, careful hand. He knew the writing from the council minutes. Harris. He opened it under the arch. One page. No date at the top. The sentences were short. Harris wrote that he had watched Cena work the town for six months. He wrote that he had been wrong about the charity event, wrong about the marker with the four names, wrong about what an entertainer could be. He wrote that respect was owed and he was paying it. He signed his full name at the bottom. Cena read it twice. He handed it to Bret. Bret read it once and gave it back. "Respect and belief aren't the same thing," he said. "But that's respect. Plain." Cena folded the letter along its creases. He thought about the meeting six months back, the exact words he had written down that night. Entertainers are a distraction from real achievement. He had carried those words the way a fighter carries a bruise. Now the man who said them had written the opposite in his own hand. A truck pulled up on the path. Triple H climbed out with a coffee in each hand. He crossed to the arch and looked up at the panel, then at Cena's face, then at the paper. "From Harris," Cena said. Triple H read it standing up. He gave it back and drank his coffee. "Good," he said. "Keep it." "Ceremony's Thursday," Cena said. "Noon." Triple H nodded once. "I'll be there. Front row." Cena slid the letter into his coat pocket. The panel turned slightly in the wind above them. Six days ago the vote had been won and the stone hung. Now the last man who had stood against him had put his name to an apology. The retirement match was three days out. The dedication was four. For the first time since he had walked into the council building, Cena felt the ground under his boots settle.