At one point between bouts, he said, “My brother always said a good fighter is like a warrior.” He smacked his one shin and both forearms. “Shields, to defend.” He extended a bony arm. “Sword, to attack.” He bent the arm and swung the elbow, then tapped it. “Knife, for up close.” Then he unfolded his one remaining leg, angling his socked foot to a point. “Spear.”
“No kicks!” Khajee hollered from the kitchen table.
Than smiled and shrugged, then ran a hand along his left leg, the one that ended in a stump at the knee. “No use anyway, I’ve got a broken spear,” he said, laughing at his own joke.
A couple hours later, after Khajee helped her uncle get settled in bed, the two of us headed over to the river again, back into Camp Hill. The night air was cool and we took the jog slowly. Midway across the bridge, I asked her what happened to Than’s leg.
“Diabetes,” she said at my side. “His foot went bad and the doctors had to amputate.”
“So all that coughing — that’s diabetes?”
“No,” Khajee said. “Just this cold that won’t go away. Plus, he keeps getting cigarettes somehow. I ever find the neighborhood brat who’s sneaking them to him, and I’ll show you a chokehold you won’t believe.” She eyed me up here, and I felt the urge to confess about the Peppermint Patties.
“I love that man. But his health isn’t the only thing he’s handled badly. Trust me when I say that for a guy who talks about right action, he’s made a lot of wrong choices. They haven’t made his life any easier.”
Or yours, I wanted to say. But it seemed understood. Khajee was stewing a bit.
When we reached the west shore, we began to walk along the shoulder up the incline that leads to Camp Hill. We passed under a bridge with a rumbling train. Traffic whizzed by, close enough that we could feel the breeze. I backed into the shadows and rubbed a hand over my beard, which was thick enough now to change how I looked a little. Combined with my hoodie, it wasn’t a world-class disguise, but I wasn’t about to color my hair or anything stupid like that. The silence was bugging me, and I wanted to be distracted from our destination, so I asked Khajee, “That thing you said before, about being a Buddhist, was that like a joke or something?”
She tossed me a nasty look and stopped. “There you go again, Mac, with that awesome impersonation of a sheltered white kid.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just curious.”
She shook her head and resumed walking. “Just don’t say ‘I never met a Buddhist before.’ ”
“How’d you know I was going to say that? Can you read minds with your mystical powers?”
This crack got her to lighten up, and she tried to hide her smile as we moved on. After twenty feet I said, “Really. I want to know. What’s up with that? Is that bronze statue in the living room this Buddha dude?”
Maybe she was tired of me asking, or maybe she figured out I was serious. “CliffNotes version? Buddha lived in the sixth century BC. He was heir to a throne, legit, but he walked away from wealth in search of truth. What he discovered was the biggest cause of all suffering is desire — wanting things. So the way to end suffering is to stop wanting.”
“That’s impossible,” I said.
She dropped a cold stare on me. “From what I heard, your guy wants you to stop sinning.”
“Point taken.”
As we finished the hike up the hill, I thought of St. Francis and how he, like Buddha, had rejected a life of riches to get closer to peace.
“I’ll tell you something else,” Khajee said behind me. “Buddha teaches that the mind is the source of everything — happiness, sorrow, anger.”
I stopped and faced her. “I’ll bet you a dollar Buddha’s dad never smacked him around.”
Khajee looked into the trees. My pissy comment brought our world religion class to an abrupt and awkward close.
The Perkins sign read “Tr your newd ishes” which didn’t make any sense until I realized somebody had messed with the letters. The restaurant sits in this huge parking lot outside a Radisson hotel and an industrial office park. Right next door, down a little grassy slope, is a gas station, and Khajee and I snuck behind it to finalize the plan. I handed her a folded-up five-dollar bill that I’d tucked a note inside of and said, “Okay, at this hour it won’t be real busy. Just go in and give this to whoever is up front. Tell them Janice was your waitress before and you forgot to leave a tip.”
Khajee took the note and the money, nodding.
“If you see any cops or somebody giving you a hard stare, bolt. Otherwise, head for the train underpass. I should be there in like fifteen or twenty minutes, depending on when my mom can take a break.”
Khajee said, “Be careful,” and just stood there. Behind the gas station, the light was dim, and in the shadows I couldn’t see her face all that clearly. But part of me had the sense that she might give me a kiss, just for good luck. The idea warmed me and I leaned down, bringing my face closer to hers. We froze then, our lips only a few inches apart, till Khajee took a full step back. “See you under the train bridge,” she said, turning then to scamper up the hill.
Alone behind the gas station, even though it was dark, I felt exposed and anxious. The back of my neck warmed with sweat. I had no good reason for being where I was if anyone asked, and I considered going inside to buy something, a can of soda even, just to have an excuse. But then I pictured the cameras that always hang from the ceilings in places like that, how they record everything. I had no idea how much the cops were really searching for me. On one hand, I hadn’t committed a murder or robbed a bank, so it’s not like a manhunt was going on with bloodhounds and helicopters. On the other hand, Camp Hill’s pretty small and my dustup with the ref had made a lot of noise, even in the Harrisburg paper. So the notion that somebody like Harrow could be keeping an eye on my mom didn’t seem all that crazy.
That’s why my note to her just said, “It’s me. If the coast is clear, come down to the gas station on your next break. I’m by the dumpster.”
I knew that if she could, she’d take a break right away, and that’s just what happened. Khajee was only gone a few minutes before my mom appeared at the top of the rise, rushing down in her waitress uniform. She nearly stumbled in the shadows, and she was running so fast that she’d have fallen if I hadn’t caught her at the bottom. She collapsed in my arms, weeping, and I held her close, careful not to squeeze too hard. The hug felt warm and good, and I didn’t want to break our embrace, but I also knew she didn’t have long, and we could be spotted at any moment. When I pulled back, she wiped her eyes and ran a hand over my face. “You haven’t shaved.”
I chuckled and then she hit me with a flurry of questions. “Where have you been? Why did you leave? What are you eating? Where are you sleeping at night? Who was that girl?”
I held up both my hands and spoke quietly. “Hold it. All that matters is that I’m okay. I’m safe and taking care of myself. I feel bad I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye.”
“Is that what this is?” she asked. “You came back just to go again? You have to come with me. Right now. We’ll call Detective Harrow. She’s worried about you. She says that public defender Mr. Quinlan still thinks —”
“Mom,” I said. “We’re not calling the police. I’m not turning myself in. No way I’m going to jail, not for a day.”
She sniffled back tears and looked confused, a little angry. “Then what are you going to do? Hide your whole life? Run?”
I crossed my arms. “I’m trying to fix things,” I said, with some heat in my voice. “To make them right.”
She fell quiet. A skinny gas station clerk emerged from a side door, spilling weak light into our scene. She dragged a bag of trash to the dumpster about ten feet away, lifted the lid, tossed the bag inside. When she dropped the metal top, it boomed, and she strolled away from us, into the parking lot. Far as I could tell, she never saw us. Soon as she was gone, my mom whispered, “You’re scaring me, Eddie. You’re sounding like your
father used to.”
Mom knew this would hurt, and her words hit me as strong as any gut punch. I wanted to get away, but first I had to do what I came to. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the envelope Sunday had given me. Inside were eighty twenty-dollar bills. I handed it to her and she took it, asking, “What’s this?”
“It’s for you,” I said. “Later, there’ll be more. Maybe a whole lot more.”
She peeled back the flap and reached inside. Her fingers pulled out a few of the twenties from the stack, and even in the shadows I could see her eyes get big. She shook her head. “Eddie! Where’d you get this?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She dropped the envelope on the ground and buried her face in her hands. Her hair formed a gray-black veil around her cheeks. “Please please just come home with me now.”
I picked up the envelope and held it out. “That’s not going to happen. You have to take this.”
“That!” she cried out, tears running down her face again. “I want nothing to do with that! I don’t know what’s happened to you.”
“Some sort of problem back here?” a voice asked. The skinny clerk stood over by the dumpster. She was holding a box.
Mom turned to the Perkins above us and said, “I need to get back. Kevin will be asking why I was gone so long.”
As she started up the hill, my hand reached out for her, caught her one wrist and anchored her. She looked down at me and I shook the envelope at her. “I worked hard for this. You could use it. You should take it.”
She tugged a little, but, without even thinking, I held firm. I could feel her thin bones in my grip. “Let go, Eddie.” My mom leaned away from me, struggling to free her arm. “You’re hurting me,” she said, and I saw it in her eyes, heard it in her voice — something you might call fear.
Terrified, I released my grip and whipped back my hand, like I’d touched a hot stove. Mom had been tugging away so hard that now she stumbled up the hill, collapsing. The bills scattered on the grass.
“Hey!” the clerk hollered, dropping the box.
From her knees, Mom looked up at me, her eyes wet with tears. The lazy one aimed up the hill, again suggesting an escape route. She tucked her arm in close to her chest like a broken wing and covered it with her other hand.
“Mom!” I said. “Oh shit. Wait. I never meant to —”
She cleared her throat and said, “Just go away. Go!”
I couldn’t be sure if she was talking to me or the clerk, but the skinny lady was quick to answer, “Like hell I’ll go away.” She started toward us, pulling a cell phone from her back pocket, and something in me just snapped. I sprang like a spooked rabbit, hauled ass away from the clerk and my mom and what I’d done to her, charging through the gas pumps and straight into flowing traffic. A car locked up its brakes and another laid on its horn, but I didn’t slow down or turn. I just ran, a flat-out sprint across the private school yard soccer field and then down into the brush along the road. A minute later, sirens split the night air behind me, and I wondered if they belonged to a police cruiser prowling for me or an ambulance from Holy Spirit, sent to tend to my mom. I wondered if I’d really hurt her wrist, and I ran. Even when I got to Khajee I didn’t stop. I charged by her and she fell in behind me, and we sprinted across the bridge, back into Harrisburg, crossing the water. Khajee asked me some questions I think, but I said nothing, only running, running, running from what I’d done, running from what I was becoming.
Right on schedule, my first official brawl went down a couple days later, Sunday night. Blalock drove me and Khajee south, along Route 83 almost to York. Again there was a winding road off a random country exit, this one leading ultimately to “Vic’s Auto Salvage Yard,” according to the faded sign out front. Just like back at the barn, Grunt guarded the front gate. Blalock steered through a maze of abandoned cars with crushed front ends or missing tires or shattered windshields.
We came to a clearing by the main office, where a dozen expensive cars, including Sunday’s limo, sat in gleaming contrast to the graveyard of wrecked vehicles. A crowd of maybe fifty spectators gathered around something burning. Blalock slow-rolled past and said, “Showtime.” In my chest, my heart began to thunder.
He parked by a compactor surrounded by squares of crushed metal. Walking past the office, a sad-looking trailer waiting to collapse, we were startled by Dobermans. Black as midnight, the dogs charged at us, lunging as they neared, jaws snapping the air. I stepped between them and Khajee, but the dogs were caught short by their chains, staked to the ground ten feet back. They strained against them, drawing the links taut, and barked ferociously. Khajee stepped around me and extended a hand as she bent. “Easy,” she said. The Dobermans stilled and dipped their heads. They looked baffled, clearly unaccustomed to tenderness. But then one snarled and the other showed its teeth, and in moments they were each growling, up again on their hind legs, choking themselves against their collars.
“Come along,” Blalock said, ushering us away. “You can take the dog out of the fight, but you can’t get the fight out of the dog.”
I couldn’t tell what this meant but didn’t care. It sounded like he was quoting something.
As we approached the crowd, everyone turned. Some stepped aside to clear a path for us, applauding weakly and eyeing me up like a piece of meat.
In the middle of them, four barrels formed a rough square, each with a fire crackling from its mouth. The flames sent orange-and-red ambers drifting into the cloudless night sky, where the Big Dipper and Orion’s Belt watched from premium seats.
On the far side of the ring, Dominic stood between two of the barrels, close to a man with a shoulder-mounted camera. A thin woman fiddled with a second camera, this one set up on a tripod. Behind Dominic was Maddox, eager to coach his protégé I guess. Dominic shook his arms out and started hopping on his feet. His dreadlocks whipped and snapped in the air like things alive, and I remembered my mom reading myths to me, the one about Medusa. But when my eyes met with Dom’s, I didn’t turn to stone. I sneered, and he stepped forward into the firelight to execute a series of spinning kicks, jabbing his feet high into the air. The crowd clapped wildly.
Blalock said, “I’d consider it highly advisable to avoid Dominic’s feet,” then slid off, to locate Sunday I guessed. He walked past Badder on the fringe of the crowd, standing behind one of the fire drums. The flames played across his tattooed face, and his eyes were steely. I knew he was there to take notes, in case we ever fought.
I ducked out of my T-shirt and kicked off my sneakers. Khajee massaged my shoulders, kneading the flesh. “Fight your fight,” she said under her breath. “Ground and pound.” I squeezed my fists. Despite several more attempts at the wall in the days since my first try, I hadn’t made it to the top, but my grip felt stronger.
Sunday, decked out in white as always, emerged from the trailer and climbed onto a box of some sort, elevating himself a few feet above the crowd. The firelight shined off his head’s bald dome. Those assembled began to cheer, but he raised his hands to silence them. “Gathered friends, the offering this evening is a special one indeed. While you’re all familiar with the high-flying assassin known as Dragon, tonight a new brawler enters the arena.” With a sweeping flourish, he brought all faces to me and cried out, “Please welcome Wild Child!”
I wasn’t a big fan of my new nickname, any more than I was of the sports reporter’s “Brute Boy,” but the rush of applause told me the audience liked it. Khajee helped me fit my gloves and settled my mouthpiece into place, then slapped me twice, hard, across the cheeks. She balled up her fists and banged my chest. All around me, I couldn’t help but feel it, the energy of the crowd’s lusty need. I knew what they wanted, to witness violence up close, to see me and Dragon batter each other bloody. Just like in all those high school auditoriums, their fever became my own.
Sunday lifted his tiny gong. At the first strike, the congregation yelled, “No mercy!” and with the second, “Prepare!�
�� He paused for dramatic effect, drummed the golden disk a final time, and the air shook with, “Brawl!”
I started forward, hunched in my stance with raised fists. Dominic, strangely, stopped bouncing and went flat-footed, as if the fight had ended and not just begun. Maybe he thought this unexpected act would catch me off guard, but I’ve seen all sorts of stunts, so I just stayed on my game, plodding forward. I was about six feet away when he launched himself at me, left leg tucked up tight, right extended like a spear, just like Than said. The bottom of Dominic’s foot landed flush in my chest and drove me back three steps. The instant his toes touched dirt, he sprang and spun left, swinging 360 degrees and driving a heel toward the side of my head. I blocked this with a forearm, but the force was still enough to make me stumble. The fans roared.
Blindly, I charged forward, hoping to tackle him to the ground, but he danced away, elusive and airy. He feigned another spin kick, locking me in position, then poked a jab through my raised fists, catching me flush on the nose. Shots like that don’t hurt so much as sting, more distraction than pain, but it left him an opening to drive his right knee into my stomach, hard enough to fold me in half.
Coach Gallaher always told me that you don’t really win a match on the mat, but in the practice room, that you’ve got to reach a point where you put your faith in your instincts and your training. This notion flashed through my mind when I realized that both my arms had locked on to Dominic’s right leg when he kneed me. Realizing he was in a vulnerable position, he unleashed a series of blows onto the back of my skull, battering me with fists and elbows, but my head was tucked in tight to his thigh and I wasn’t about to release my prize.
Brawler Page 10
