Brawler

by Neil Connelly

  I nodded. No need for them to know it, but this was all in line with my plan.

  Sunday said, “This is important. I need to hear you say it.”

  “You betcha,” I said, ticked at being pushed. “I’m not here to kill the guy. This is just going to be a friendly family get-together. I thought there would be cake and ice cream.”

  Sunday grinned. “Sarcasm is the language of the ignorant, Kid. Don’t think so little of yourself.”

  After the pep talk, we all waited together. Sunday and the guy in the suit sat down and whispered. Grunt took a post by the door. Blalock checked his phone, illuminating his birdish face in the darkness. I paced back and forth by one of the boilers, feeling the radiant heat. That thick guard kept an eye on me and popped his knuckles.

  When the door to the catwalk swung open, we all turned as one to the two figures stepping through. The hallway light cast them in silhouette, so they had to come forward before I could see the big one in the back was a uniformed guard, holding a nightstick in both hands. The one in the front wore flip-flops and was dressed in an orange jumpsuit with short sleeves and had his hands chained at the wrist. But there was something wrong.

  “That’s not my father,” I announced, before I had a chance to consider my words.

  The man stopped walking about ten feet away. Frozen in place, he said, “Eddie?”

  Sunday motioned with one hand, and the guard behind the chained man pushed him forward, closer to me. I took a few steps in his direction, and we stood face-to-face. He was silent while I looked him over. This man was forty, fifty pounds lighter than my father, and surely a few inches shorter. His hair thin, his cheeks gaunt, his eyes without fire. This man was wearing wire-rim glasses.

  But when he spoke, when he licked his lips and searched my face and actually smiled a bit and said, “Eddie, what are you doing here?” I recognized his voice with absolute certainty. It simply didn’t go with this body, like in a sci-fi movie where two people switch minds or something.

  He leaned forward, and I think he would have tried to hug me but for the handcuffs, and I reared back. “You’re thinking of the wrong scene,” I said.

  Now my father scanned the other people in the boiler room. His eyes fixed on one and he named him, his tone not hiding his disdain. “Sunday.” But quickly he turned back to me. “I’d heard you were on the run.”

  I was surprised he kept tabs on me, that I was even on his radar, but I didn’t want to give that away. “I didn’t run far.”

  Sunday stepped forward, put a hand on my father’s shoulder. “Don’t worry Victor. We’ve taken him in and are watching over him. He’s family.”

  My father’s face, twisted in anger, suddenly looked quite familiar. “So help me God, Sunday, if you —”

  Sunday waved a hand dismissively and stepped away, taking a position in front of Grunt. “Forgive me if I’m not in the mood for a series of empty threats.” He shifted his gaze to the guard. “Lose the cuffs.”

  The guard stepped in between me and my father, yanked his hands forward by the chain, and pulled a key ring from his belt. I noticed the chunky guard who had been eyeing me up reach for his holster. With a thumb, he unsnapped the flap.

  In turn, my father rubbed each wrist with the opposite hand, and I saw black-green ink covering his forearms. One displayed a huge cross, slightly lopsided, and the other broadcast the message “Christ Alive in Me!!” He saw me looking and I said, “You’re freakin’ kidding me, right? You’re going to tell me you found Jesus in here?”

  My father grinned and shook his head. “More like He found me.”

  “He who was lost has been found,” I said. “Praise the Lord and pass the cheese whiz.”

  “Don’t mock the Lord, boy.” This came from the old man, the one in the suit, still seated. He looked at Sunday and said, “Can we get on with this? I didn’t pay for a conversation.”

  My father’s forehead knotted in confusion, and he looked around as if some answer could be found. Blalock saw the same thing I did and said, “Allow me to articulate your dawning epiphany Victor, in parlance you will comprehend: Your boy is here to even the score.”

  My father looked at me for confirmation, his eyes tightening, and I nodded. And with this, the whole endeavor returned to my mind. I was over the notion that yes, clearly he was physically not the man he used to be. I’d expected us to be equals, but certainly he was smaller. Still, he was larger now than I was in fourth grade, when he ripped an extension cord from the wall and whipped me with it, just cause the Raiders missed a field goal and I had the nerve to say, “Tough luck.” He was larger than I was the day I dumped his liquor down the drain, an act of rebellion that ended with him smacking me with a damn spatula, chasing me in my socks out into the autumn leaves behind the yellow house. His size advantage had never stopped him then, and it wouldn’t stop me now.

  Sunday said, “Let’s begin then, shall we?”

  Everyone stepped back, leaving us in the center of a loose circle. I slipped off my hoodie and tossed it into a corner. My father watched this and said, “I don’t understand. Listen Eddie, I’m not sure what this jerk’s got you involved in, but you can’t trust him.”

  A laugh rattled from me. “He’s the guy I can’t trust in this room? That’s what you’re going to tell me?”

  “Enough talk,” Sunday shouted, his voice agitated now. “Eddie, if you can’t follow through on what we discussed, I’ll have Grunt take your place.”

  I turned to the big man, standing with this arms crossed by the catwalk, statue-like. Then I told Sunday, “No. I fight my own battles.”

  “Fight?” my father echoed. “No way am I going to fight you, Eddie.”

  Hearing him say this, which somehow I’d been expecting since I saw him, tightened my hands into fists, and in the next instant I was streaking forward, plowing a punch sideways across his chin. It snapped his head hard to the right and he took a step back, shook it off, and then wide-eyed said, “That’s one hell of a cross.”

  I slid easily into a fighting stance, the familiar blood rising. “I got a lot more than that.”

  But my father remained flat-footed. “Look Francis,” he said to Sunday. “I’m not sure what you expected would happen here tonight, but if you think I’m going to fight my son for your sick thrills, you’re out of your mind.”

  “I wanted this,” I told him. “This was my idea.”

  My father looked at me, mouth open in shock.

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “This scene has kept me company on a lot of long nights.” The adrenaline was taking hold of me now, and the thrill of all those violent fantasies settled in me like a fever.

  As my father stared my way, something shifted in his eyes. Finally he said, “I understand now.” With that, he knelt on the concrete floor, tucked his hands behind his back, and lifted his face. “I was a drunken man, fallen and wrecked, full of hate and spite. You and your mom deserved way better, and me getting locked up was a blessing for us all. I’ve begged forgiveness for my many sins, prayed a thousand nights for absolution, from your mother and from God. They’ve given me their answers, and I guess now it’s time for you to give me yours.”

  The man with Sunday dabbed a handkerchief to his forehead and said, “What kind of maudlin BS is all this?”

  I reached down and with both hands took hold of my father’s orange collar. Twisting my fists I lifted him to his feet. “Be a man,” I said. What he used to say to me.

  Weakly, he stood before me, his arms still behind his back. “I won’t hit you, son.”

  My left hand held him up and I cocked my right, like I was pulling back a nocked arrow. I was thinking of a cool line to say — You picked the wrong night to be a pacifist — I’m not your son — when my fist flew forward, flattening his nose and snapping his head back. Only my grip on his collar kept him from falling, and I’ll confess a certain thrill at seeing his eyes roll. I decided I wanted some evidence of his pain, a trail of blood, a shattered tooth, an
d I drew back my fist again.

  “Eddie,” he got out before I pounded him to silence.

  I could feel his weight as his legs went limp, and I released him, letting his body collapse to the concrete in a heap. “Come on!” I shouted. “At least put up a fight.”

  Facedown on his knees and elbows, he said, “I won’t.”

  As he turned to look at me, I stepped in and swung my right foot into his gut, which made a satisfying crunch. Could be I broke a couple ribs, and I didn’t give a damn about Sunday’s rules. My father doubled over, curled away from me. To my side, the man with Sunday mumbled something about “hardly seems sporting” but I couldn’t have cared less. My plan of a soft beatdown was abandoned, and I fell on my father’s fragile form, kneeling above him. I whaled away with righteous fury, no hint of pity or mercy.

  The sounds he made were pathetic, but I found no further satisfaction in the beating. It came to feel more like an obligation than a pleasure. I paused to catch my breath, and in that break I recognized something. The chamber at the center of my heart, which I’d expected to surge with revenge or justice, remained empty. It was hollow.

  His face, I thought. I just need to see his face. So I grabbed him by the shoulders and roughly flipped him to his back, with the full intention of mounting him and returning to his punishment. Only when I rolled him over, and the light above us flashed on his face, he wasn’t crying as I’d imagined. He didn’t look hurt or scared, or any of the things I’d hoped for. Instead his eyes were flat, deadened. I saw the stubble of beard covering his gaunt cheeks. My father looked resigned to whatever grim fate his future held.

  This was a look I knew all too well. The man in the boxcar. My mom. This was a look I’d surely worn back in that mothball closet. I stood up, stepped away.

  Those gathered around us stopped cheering, and only then did I really register that they’d been applauding.

  I stepped over my father’s body and walked to where I’d dropped my hoodie, snatched it off the ground. Behind me, I heard whispering, and when I turned the man with Sunday was leaning into him, looking my way. Sunday nodded, then said, “Eddie, you won’t get this chance again. You should finish him off.”

  I looked at my father, sitting up now on the floor with his elbows draped over his knees. I shook my head. “There’s nothing left to finish. He’s done.”

  I headed toward the catwalk only to find my path blocked by Grunt, who planted his feet and squared his shoulders. My hackles were up and I didn’t stop.

  Sunday caught up to me from behind me and took me by the arm. He turned me so I was again facing my father, who had staggered up and was now standing on shaky legs. “You’re going to let him off that easy? This is the guy who beat your own mother, disfigured her for life. He’s at your mercy.”

  My father, bent slightly, took a few steps toward us, and Sunday ushered me closer. We faced each other and Sunday egged me on. “He deserves more. Did he ever go easy on you?”

  I stared into my father’s emotionless face, like some mask he was wearing. I watched it soften, grow tender, and the thinnest of smiles took shape. “It’s okay, son. Do what you have to do. I’ll understand. He’s right that I deserve it. Later, just know that I’m sorry and that I’ll always love you because —”

  My hand flashed out, grabbing his throat and trapping his words. And I was shoving him backward, hard and fast, so quick his feet almost couldn’t keep up. We charged straight past the old man who came with Sunday, straight past the prison guard with the nightstick, and only stopped when we hit a wall, which I smacked his head into. I pinned him against those thick bricks, still gripping his throat. “There’s nothing you have to say I want to hear. There’s nothing you can do to make up for what you did. I don’t forgive you. I don’t pity you. I don’t hate you.”

  Here, I released his neck and he took in a deep breath. I said, “You’re nothing to me.”

  I turned and walked past the others, zipped up my jacket and slid the hood over my head, then marched up to Grunt, still blocking my path. He eyed me hard, and I felt ready for anything. But Sunday raised a hand. “We’ve got a long drive home,” he said. “The show here is over.”

  When I fought my father, or rather when I delivered his beatdown, I made at least one stupid mistake. Because I didn’t wear gloves or even tape my hands, my knuckles were pretty swollen come morning. Before dawn, I woke on Khajee’s couch with a pulsing pain and I stumbled to the kitchen. After wasting a few minutes trying to rig ice packs with plastic bags, I just filled a couple bowls with cubes from the freezer and eased my hands into them. The cold stung like it always does, but just on the other side of that burn, there’s a dull numbness that registers as comfort. Sitting in the dark at the kitchen table, my tired mind tumbled to where my bruised and battered father was at that instant — in his cell bunk? On some gray cot in the prison infirmary? Was he thinking of me like I was thinking of him?

  Part of me wished Mom could’ve witnessed what I did, how I avenged her. Maybe she’d feel justified, but more likely, I knew, she’d be horrified. If I could go back and replay my encounter with him, I wasn’t sure what exactly I’d do differently. But I knew I wouldn’t do the same thing.

  I was grateful for the weight of Rosie’s thick head, which dropped suddenly on my lap. She had padded out from the bedroom, leaving the door open behind her. I guessed that my attempts at being quiet had failed. The big dog huffed and nuzzled me, mooching for a few pats on the head. In the dim light from the stove, I saw the scar marks where her ear had been mauled and decided to pull one hand from the ice, though when I went to pet her, my touch was too cold. She recoiled and walked over to the front door, scratched at it with a paw.

  Before I could get up, Khajee appeared in the entryway to the bedroom, tightening a belt around her pajama robe. Without speaking, she let Rosie out for her morning pee, then scooped out a cup of dog food from the bag under the sink. “Hey,” she said sleepily, as she got a pot of coffee brewing.

  Rosie came back in and bent to her breakfast, and after a couple percolating minutes, Khajee sat at my side with a steaming white mug. “Looks like you’re getting a manicure,” she said.

  I pulled out a fist and let her examine the swelled flesh.

  Peering down she declared, “That’ll be two days.”

  “Just in time then,” I said.

  With all ten fingers, she tenderly lifted the mug, sipped. “Still think that’s a good plan, huh?”

  “A deal’s a deal,” I told her. “And I’m not seeing it as much of a choice, frankly.”

  She took another drink, slowly. “So you got what you wanted last night? With your father?”

  I turned my hands in the ice. The throbbing pain had dulled some. “I got enough.”

  “You don’t exactly sound convinced.”

  “I am,” I told her. “Absolutely. One hundred percent.”

  “If you say so. Will you be around after school?”

  I looked at her. “I can be.”

  “Okay,” she said, standing. “There’s just something I need to do. Something I don’t really want to do on my own.”

  “I’ll help however I can,” I told her. My mom always said there were two kinds of friends, and you could tell the difference if you called them up at midnight and said you needed them to come over. One sort asked, “What’s up?” The other said, “I’m on my way.”

  Khajee finished her coffee and showered in silence, then left for school with no further explanation. Given the shape my hands were in, there’d be no lifting weights, and I thought about going for a jog but couldn’t summon the mojo. So instead, I took Rosie for a marathon walk along the waterfront, following the bike path all the way to the wildlife refuge. I found the underpass where Khajee and I first trained not all that long ago. It felt like a year had passed. Walking those wooded trails, I kept getting caught up at the forks, trying to decide which way to go. Looking back at my recent history, I couldn’t shake the sense that I’d m
ade a series of truly crappy decisions, award-winning screwups. Each one seemed to lead me further from the life I was supposed to live and deeper into something else. And now, this match with Badder felt like one more mistake.

  Maybe worse, my involvement with Sunday seemed about to escalate. In the prison parking lot, leaning against Grunt’s van, Sunday told me he was glad I’d given my father what he deserved. “Welcome to the pack,” he said, flashing his teeth. “So look, Grunt needs to take a trip down to DC next week. We got word that a former associate is flying in, and he needs to be taught a particular kind of lesson. You’ll be lead instructor.” This was no request, I could tell. Sunday was giving me an order.

  I felt my life racing down a dead-end alley, and I needed a way to fix all that was wrong.

  Back at the apartment, I iced my hands more and watched a couple hours of fighting tapes, trying not to stare at Than’s empty seat. I wished he were alive, and I recalled him mocking game show contestants and bad poker players. I imagined telling him about my fight with my father and the deal I’d made with Sunday. I could hear his goofy voice, only from my memory, saying, “Not so good.”

  I made some lunch and watched a dumb movie about a scientist’s college intern who accidentally activates a defective time machine. He keeps jumping throughout history — from the Revolutionary War to the time of the dinosaurs to the year 2176 — trying to get back to where he belongs. The harder he tries the more lost he becomes.

  Instead of disappearing into the sci-fi story line, I found my mind sliding to real-life images of my mom alone and crying, my father’s ragged tattoos, the hilly campus in State College where now I’d never take classes. I thought of the future, the fight with Badder, the nights with Grunt, what I might be pressured to do down in DC. I felt like I was in a match against an opponent who was dictating the pace, blocking every move. A couple crazy ideas popped up, schemes that promised escape, but each seemed more farfetched than the movie’s lame plot.