Bruiser

by Neal Shusterman

  I gaped at Tennyson, unable to believe the suggestion. “No!”

  “Well, do you have a better idea?” he snapped.

  But I just looked away, because I had nothing but misgivings.

  Brew, on the other hand, was genuinely moved by Tennyson’s offer. “You’d do that for me?”

  And Tennyson said, with his typical smirk, “Sure. What’s a friend for if he can’t take credit for punching you out?”

  Brew took Tennyson up on his offer; and before lunch, people were buzzing with the news that Tennyson had beaten him senseless. My friends came out to console and support me, calling Tennyson every name in the book; and in turn, Tennyson’s friends supported him, giving him kudos and high fives that he had to accept or else risk tainting the credibility of Brew’s story. Suddenly Tennyson and I were at war with each other in the eyes of our classmates, and no one but Brew knew that it was all fake—a tricky, nasty subterfuge designed at throwing everyone off the track.

  I couldn’t help but feel I’d made a terrible, terrible mistake. There were so many times during that awful day when I held my phone with 911 dialed in, ready to hit Send, but in the end I didn’t do it.

  I don’t know how things would have been different if I had made that call. Maybe it might have saved Brew from what happened next. On the other hand, it was going to happen one way or another, no matter what any of us did.

  BREWSTER

  40) EMBOLISM

  (I)

  Where sorrow waits,

  With cold and clammy hands,

  Shaking in grim anticipation,

  Is where I must return.

  Home.

  A house in a fallow field,

  Losing its battle with time,

  The wreck and ruin,

  And the man inside,

  Who never laid a hand on me,

  Yet left me battered.

  My uncle.

  Nothing ever changes,

  But the fear fermenting to dread,

  As Cody and I go home.

  (II)

  “Do ya think he’s calmed down?”

  “Do ya think he got his job back?”

  Do you think, do you think, do you think?

  “I don’t know, Cody.”

  What I mean to say is I don’t care, because my uncle has cut my soul from my body, leaving bitterness behind; a stretch-lipped grimace of futility, because whatever happens to my uncle happens to me.

  Even as his own hope is strangled, so is mine, beaten like a blunt boot to my ribs, snuffed like a candle with too short a wick, and not even Brontë can rekindle it.

  What he’s done is unforgivable.

  “Maybe he’ll be okay.”

  “Maybe he’ll be sorry, ya think?”

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  “We’ll see, Cody.”

  I creak open the rusty gate—from here it’s thirty-eight steps across the field to our door, steps I take slowly, in no hurry to know the answers to Cody’s questions, when suddenly a jagged sound peels at the edge of our awareness, stopping us in our muddy tracks.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Something has shattered—a tinkling, muffled by closed windows—then another smash of a different, finer timbre. The first smash was glass, the second china, and Cody now looks to me with the wide eyes of fear mercifully cushioned by innocence.

  “What’s he doing in there, Brew?”

  Reaching deeply into my pocket, I scavenge a few crumpled bills and hand them to Cody, telling him to go to Ben & Jerry’s; and, grabbing the bills, he backs away from another, louder crash inside.

  “Guess he didn’t get his job back.”

  Cody runs to smother his fear in Cherry Garcia, and I go to face my uncle alone.

  (III)

  I’ll never understand how a man can live his life

  With his finger on the self-destruct button,

  Holding it there day after day,

  Blinded by an obsession to press it

  But lacking the conviction to do even that.

  This was my Uncle Hoyt before today,

  But today, the auto-destruct sequence is engaged,

  And counting down.

  My uncle has taken up batting practice with dinnerware.

  A minefield of broken china and glass

  Litters the floor in every room.

  He lobs a gravy boat into the air,

  I believe it was once my grandmother’s,

  Then he swings the Louisville Slugger,

  Detonation in blue and white shrapnel.

  I can smell scotch everywhere

  And wonder how much of that amber poison

  Is pickling his brain.

  He hurls a teacup, swings, and misses,

  Taking out the hanging kitchen lamp instead. And he mumbles,

  “Close enough.”

  I should turn tail,

  I should just let him be,

  But if I’ll ever make a stand,

  It must be here; it must be now,

  And though I know I’m not wired for war,

  The time has finally come to fight my own nature.

  I’m ready for this dance.

  (IV)

  A swing of the bat, the sound of my voice,

  Tentative, timid, a catch in my throat,

  I must take command, I must take the lead,

  A swing of the bat, a shattering glass.

  I move through the madness and reach for the bat,

  Wrench it away from his white-knuckled hands,

  I toss it behind me and don’t miss a beat,

  Time for my uncle to learn a new step.

  He turns like a scorpion ready to strike,

  But his stinger is dull and his venom is weak,

  His eyes blaze with anger, his soul burns with bile,

  Like the world is to blame for all of his misery.

  “Go get your brother; we’re leaving tonight,

  There’s more work up north; there’s more hope than here,

  You’ll do what I tell you; you’ll do what I say,

  You’ll go pack your things, ’cause we’re leaving right now.”

  The room is in ruins, his bridges are burned,

  And Cody and I are still chained to his fate,

  His life lies in ruins; his life is not mine,

  He gave me these shackles, but I can break free.

  And I say to him “No” with a break in my voice,

  “NO!” sounding much more commanding,

  “We’re not going anywhere; neither are you,

  You’ll back off right now, or you’ll feel my hand.”

  “So do it,” he says with a strange, slanted grin,

  I dare you to hit me—go on, take me down!

  What are you waiting for? Knock yourself out,

  But don’t start a fight you can’t finish.”

  A line in the sand, a dare there between us,

  My hand is a weapon; my blood’s in a boil,

  I strain to move mountains; I strain to swing free,

  Denying my nature, I raise up my arm.

  Let me, for once, be the bruising brutality,

  Let me at last be a fist in the face

  Of the vicious injustice my brother and I

  Have endured at the hands of our uncle.

  But my fist is still fixed by invisible shackles,

  The mountain won’t move; my hand won’t swing free,

  I cannot deliver; I only receive,

  And he gloats at his victory, laughs at my shame.

  “You’re weak and you’re worthless, that’s why you need me.

  You’re helpless and hopeless; your brother’s the same

  You’ll remember how lucky you are that I’m here.

  So you’ll take what I dish, and you’ll like it.”

  Then he shifts with a slouch and slumps in a chair,

  Something is wrong with him, wrong with me, too,

  I can’t feel my arm, and I can’t move my shoulder
,

  Feet start to tingle, and skin starts to itch,

  My hand’s still a fist that I cannot unravel,

  My face has gone loose, like an avalanche slide,

  My tongue becomes rubber; my lungs barely breathe,

  I fall to the ground as my left leg gives way,

  And there in the chair Uncle Hoyt is the same,

  Our eyes are now locked in a clear understanding,

  What falls on my uncle rebounds out to me,

  Oh, my God—he’s having a stroke!

  (V)

  “TakeItAway, TakeItAwayFromMeBoy, ThasWhyYerrHere, IKnowThatNow…ThasWhy Y’Came SssoManyYearsAgo, WhyYerMomDid WhutSheDid…NowYerr MySssecondLife, MySssecondShance, SssecondShance TahMakeSssomething A Mysself, TahDoItRight, NoMore YearssA LivinOn TheEdge A MyOwnLoussyLife, NeverNothin More AnClosedDoorss An MishedOpportunitiess…ButYerrChanginThat, you’re ChanginThat RightNowFerMe, Brewshter, you’re Makin’ It all all right, My BrokenSpiritBecomin’ yours, My SsorryBodyBecoming yours, I CanFeel it happening, FeelinBetter, TalkinBetter…SpongeItAll away, boy, ’CauseYouCareAbout me, YouCare and can’t deny it, I KnowIt In MyHeart, you KnowIt In yourss, all these YearssA Putting a roof OverYer head, food in yer stomach, have all GottaCount for ssomething, not perfect, no, NeverPerfect, but a family, RealAndTrue, lookin’ out ForOneAnother like you’re lookin’ out for MeRightNow, and so what if I GetFoul from time to time, who don’t, ButYouCan forgive it right, becausse you understand, YouCare, and I’m grateful for it, Brew…grateful ’cause today you KnowYourPlace on this good earth…your place and YourPurpose, and that’s to ssave me, YourPoorOld Uncle Hoyt, I can feel it all DrainingAway, the numbness, the heaviness…steal it all away, Yeah, That’s It…and I won’t forget it, Brew, and I’ll GiveYou the biggesst shiny marble headsstone and Cody and I will visit WhenWe can, and flowerss on your birthday, and the doors of heaven, they’re flung OpenWide for you ’cause of what you’re doing today, so take it away, take it away from me, Brew, like you’re supposed to…that’s why you’re here.”

  (VI)

  I try to speak but my tongue is now fat and lazy, and life starts trailing away, my body giving in…. This can’t be my purpose—to die in my uncle’s place, my flesh shutting down, left leg, left arm, half of me gone, and the other half beginning to follow, a catastrophic collapse, because I care just enough to be trapped—and the thought of him walking out of here free and clear is too much for me to bear—I do not want this—I want MY life, not HIS death, and my only hope is to stop caring—to kill in the depth of my own soul the pity and compassion I feel for the man who raised me for half my life—can I do that to you, Uncle Hoyt, now, when it’s either you or me? Can I find it in my heart to NOT find it in my heart? I dig down, down, down, to make the numbness taking root in my body invade that place in me that still cares about you and purge it so that I can leave you—not love, not hate, but leave you dark and indifferent, in an Arctic cold—I don’t care about you, not now, not anymore…and now…and now…I can slowly feel sensation coming back to my face—I don’t care what happens to you, Uncle Hoyt—I can twitch my legs now—and as your fate sinks back into you, you reach out to grab me—but with my one good hand I do what I could not do before—I swing my fist and connect with your jaw, and you fall away—I see your face—how it’s losing muscle tone as the stroke returns to you, sinking in—a mud slide seeking low ground—I have both my arms back—my legs are still not strong enough to carry me, but I scramble for the door on all fours as you wail incomprehensible fury—your fate is your own again—and if I can get far enough away and keep myself from caring just long enough, your fate will stay bound to you—so I drag myself out the door, falling off the porch, dredging through the mud, still unable to stand, but the farther away I get, the easier it is, until I can rise to my feet, until I am at the edge of the range of my gift—until I can’t feel you anymore, Uncle Hoyt, no, I can’t feel you at all. I can walk now—with a limp, but I can walk, and I stride powerfully across the field toward the gate. Your death is yours alone, Uncle Hoyt; it’s what you created, what you’ve earned. And you’ll know soon enough if God truly has mercy enough to forgive you. Because I can’t.

  (VII)

  I look for Cody,

  One foot almost dragging,

  And as I cross into a parking lot,

  I have to squint from the neon glare of the strip mall,

  And yet I’m relieved to be doused with light.

  In the ice-cream shop,

  Cody stirs a molten mess the color of a storm,

  Watching as I make an emergency call

  On a borrowed cell phone,

  Then says nothing as we leave the shop,

  Nothing as we turn toward home,

  Nothing, even as distant sirens draw closer.

  “Hold my hand, Cody.”

  “I’m not a baby.”

  “I said, hold my hand!”

  Because it’s not just for him.

  It’s for me.

  (VIII)

  Cody and I go home,

  With fear fermenting to dread,

  For everything has changed.

  My uncle.

  Who left me battered

  Yet never laid a hand on me,

  The man inside,

  A wreck and ruin,

  Losing his battle with time,

  In that house in a fallow field.

  Home.

  Where I must return

  Shaking in grim anticipation

  With cold and clammy hands

  Where death waits.

  TENNYSON

  41) INCOMMUNICADO

  There’s no funeral for Uncle Hoyt.

  Instead, his ex-wife has him quietly cremated and the ashes shipped back to her in Atlanta, where she will do whatever angry women do with their ex-husband’s ashes. Even so, the guy has it easier than Brewster, who has to suffer through The Week From Hell.

  FRIDAY: Uncle Hoyt dies under mysterious circumstances.

  SATURDAY: There’s no word from Brewster, and all we get are rumors from neighborhood kids—not just rumors about how it happened, but where Brew and Cody are now. Brontë and I are completely out of the loop, and it drives us nuts. There’s not a single reliable source of information, and all the possibilities are as nerve-racking as SAT choices:

  A) “I hear the Bruiser shot his uncle and ran away.”

  B) “I hear the Bruiser strangled his uncle, and the FBI is holding him.”

  C) “I hear his uncle was whacked by the Mafia, and now the Bruiser’s in the witness protection program.”

  D) “I hear Bruiser never actually had an uncle, and Ralphy Sherman says they found radioactive material in the basement.”

  We’re the only ones who know Brew well enough to know the answer is E) None of the above.

  SUNDAY: Brontë, who has never thrown a punch in her life at anyone but me, gets into a death match cat fight in the street with some cheerleader who calls Brewster a psycho. The offending young lady won’t be shaking her pom-poms anytime soon.

  “Welcome to the Dark Side,” I tell Brontë. She is not amused.

  MONDAY: In school, word comes down that Uncle Hoyt’s autopsy revealed a blood clot in the brain. It was a stroke, but it’s too late to shut down the rumors and the mindless whispers by asinine students that it’s just a cover story and that Brewster killed him. We still don’t hear from Brewster.

  TUESDAY: Brontë accosts our school psychologist—a tall, slithery man who, in my opinion, doesn’t exactly engender an air of safety and trust. He claims doctor/patient confidentiality and won’t say much of anything at first—but Brontë has a way of charming snakes.

  She seems much more relaxed after she finally breaks through to some actual facts. Brew and Cody were taken in by Mrs. Gorton—Cody’s old kindergarten teacher, now retired. She lives near Brew’s house, saw the police at their place, and took them to her house when social services didn’t show.

  It was a full day before a
social worker even arrived at their door.

  WEDNESDAY: We finally receive a call from Brew and get a clearer picture. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Gorton are very big in their church, which means setting an example as Pillars of Virtue and doing the whole What Would Jesus Do? thing. Of course, the problem with them being an example is that Brewster and Cody have to be examples, too: living testimonies to the grace of God. Brew’s the last person to want that kind of spotlight.

  “It’s much too Huckleberry Finn-ish for me,” Brontë says after she gets off the phone with him. “They’re keeping Brew and Cody under lock and key as they try to ‘civilize’ them. They wouldn’t even let Brew call me until today. Even in jail they give a person one phone call, don’t they?”

  I suspect that Brew has other reasons for going incommunicado, but I keep my suspicions to myself.

  THURSDAY: Brew still hasn’t resurfaced at school, and there’s no indication when, or even if, he ever will. Perhaps they’re transferring Brew and Cody to someplace else.

  That afternoon Brontë pays a visit to the Gortons with me in tow for moral support.

  “Brewster and Cody aren’t at home,” Mrs. Gorton says when she answers the door; but her story doesn’t wash, because Cody runs out and nearly tackles Brontë with a hug.

  “Brewster’s sleeping,” Mrs. Gorton says—but I see him peeking out between the upstairs blinds then ducking back out of sight. For a Pillar of Virtue, Mrs. Gorton sure does lie a lot. She tells us that the boys have been seeing doctors for much of the week, apparently for both physical and psychological assessments. Considering Brewster’s various contusions, which were clearly gifts from their late uncle, many doctors were in order.