by Jack Gantos
“What’s he doing?” I asked the man next to me.
“He’s got too much blood in his head from the cut. It makes them dizzy. You got to suck it out so they can see properly,” he replied. “It’s a nasty business. But you either suck it out and let the cock fight on, or call it off.”
Cush squeezed into the front row and rooted loudly when Otis lobbed Cash back toward the other cock. But he was done in. He flapped his wings a few times, tried to get his balance and flash his spurs, but then he just flopped over onto the dirt. The other cock strutted up to him and gave him a swift series of kicks. Otis threw the net over them. The crowd roared with approval and rose up to surround Cush.
“Okay, okay,” he shouted. “Everyone form a single line and I’ll pay out one at a time.”
I thought of getting in the line along with everyone else, but I knew Cush wouldn’t pay me. I had taken the risk along with him. Now I was a loser, like him.
Instead, I followed Otis back to where the trainers had set up the first-aid station. Cush’s Cash was tossed onto a rough table. Blood drained out of his pierced eye.
“These belong to Cush,” Otis said as he used a pair of pliers to twist the spurs off of Cash’s legs. He tied a spur to each end of the thin leather strap and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said. “What happens to the bird?”
“They’re too tough to eat,” he said brusquely, and in one motion he picked it up and chucked it over the stone wall.
I turned and walked across the bull pen. I passed through the little door in the gate and went around to the back side of the wall where Cash had been thrown. When I turned the corner I thought I was going to throw up. There was a pile of rotting and freshly discarded birds being clawed at by cats and mongoose. Feathers, bones, feet, and skulls were scattered across the spreading field.
That’s what my big pile of money bought, I said to myself. A big pile of dead birds. I felt ashamed. I stooped down and picked up a few rocks. I threw them at the scavengers. They ducked and dodged, but they didn’t run from me. I walked around the edge of the pile until I spotted Cash. A mongoose had already begun to tear away at his belly. Flies were settled on him like black sequins. It’s a good thing you lost, I said to myself. If you had won, you’d be on the other side of the wall stuffing your pockets full of money and you’d never know that some other cock was back here with its guts ripped out. I reached over and pulled off a tail feather. I thought it would make a good bookmark in my diary.
I was sitting in the car when Cush stepped out the wooden gate. His face was as red as the fighting cock’s head. He was missing his hat, shoes, belt, and jacket. He pulled up his pants and stuck out his belly to keep them from sliding down as he walked forward.
“Hell of a day,” he said, dropping onto the seat. “How are you holding up?”
“Drive as fast as you can,” I replied. “I have a crazy feeling inside and I want to get rid of it.”
“I got it too,” he said and started the engine.
We drove up and down mountains, floored it on the straightaways, dodged goats, trees, cars, people, walls, and gullies. I suppose we could have been killed a dozen times and we still wouldn’t equal the life of one fighting cock. Cocks were killed because of me and Cush and everyone else who was trying to make a fast buck. Betsy was right. I simply wanted the money and I didn’t care how I got it. If I could have gotten the money without ever seeing the dead cocks, I could have lived with myself. I would have walked away, counting those tens and twenties. But I did see that pile of dead birds. And it was blood money.
When we pulled onto our street, he cut the engine and we coasted until Cush braked in front of the house before ours.
“You aren’t angry with me?” he asked.
“I’m angry with myself,” I replied. “And you stink.”
Cush laughed. It didn’t even bother him that I thought he was a jerk. “Ahh, don’t take it so hard,” he advised. “Easy come, easy go. That’s how it is in a man’s world.”
I got out of the car, then leaned through the window on the passenger side. “I forgot to give you something,” I said and reached into my pocket for the spurs.
He smiled. “I knew you wanted to get back in the saddle,” he said happily and stretched out his hand.
Suddenly I changed my mind. “Forget it,” I replied.
Keep the spurs, I thought. I paid for them. And if I kept them I’d know that some other cock wasn’t getting diced up with something I bought. Then I walked away.
Fire
The fires started on the dry cane plantations toward the northern tip of the island. They were driven south by the Atlantic winds. Pete and I rode our bikes to watch the fire crews try to stop them. The flames leapt fifty feet into the air and tacked back and forth across the fields like blazing yachts. No one seemed terribly worried that they would get worse, and since the fields were so far away from the towns, it felt to me like a disaster taking place in California while I was living in Florida. When I asked Dad if they’d spread he replied, “They’ll just burn themselves out. It’s nature at work. The burned stalks fertilize the ground.”
But they continued to spread. On nights when the winds shifted, the burning ash drifted across the sky like red eyes winking down on us. In the morning the roof, steps, windowsills, grass, and cars were all covered with tiny curls of black ash, like eyelashes. When I tried to pick up a perfect piece, it collapsed into a powder so soft I couldn’t feel it, even when I rubbed it between my fingers.
When the fires popped up in odd places, the police and the fire department announced an arson epidemic. Someone was pouring gasoline on telephone poles and setting them off. Part of the Flower Forest was burned down, along with the tourist information booth. Abandoned houses were torched. Everyone was nervous. The front page of the newspaper showed a map of the island with wavy red flames printed where every fire had broken out. There were so many flames the island looked like a bird covered with burning feathers.
After dinner we were sitting out on the front porch when a taxi pulled up. The driver opened the back door and BoBo II hopped out and ran up the driveway. Mrs. Wiggins, who lived two blocks away, knew BoBo was our dog. When she caught him in her yard she sent him home in a taxi. Dad had paid the first three times, but not now.
“You can just return the dog where you got him,” he said to the driver and pointed toward BoBo II.
The driver argued. Dad folded his arms and walked away. The taxi backed out of the drive and sped off.
“She’s a drunk,” Dad complained as he climbed the stairs. “She’s three sheets to the wind by noon and can’t tell the difference between a dog and a person.”
“Let’s go to the drive-in,” Mom suggested and looked up at the dusky sky. The wind had shifted and the gray smoke and ash had blown out to sea like a cloud of gnats. “It will help take our minds off of things.”
Dad took out his money clip and flipped through it. “Yeah, I could use a distraction,” he agreed.
I ran to get the movie section out of his office before they changed their minds.
“We just missed the Jerry Lewis film festival,” I announced when I returned to the porch.
“That’s too bad,” Mom said with a sigh. “I always get a kick out of him.”
“He’s an idiot,” Betsy pronounced. “It lowers your IQ just to watch those films.”
I gave her a look that was supposed to translate into: We’re trying to be in an upbeat mood here.
She just smirked back at me.
I kept reading. “Seven-thirty, Cool Hand Luke. Nine-thirty, Then Comedians. Eleven-thirty, Don’t Stop the Carnival. One-thirty, Island in the Sun. Three-thirty, The Wild Bunch.”
I looked up at Mom for a reaction.
“I’ve always liked Paul Newman,” she said. “Let’s catch the seven-thirty.”
The Rudolph Drive-In was over by the airport. We got in the Opel station wagon, stopped by the Cheffette fast-food restaurant, picke
d up a bucket of chicken snacks, and arrived in time to get a good spot in the middle of the field and far enough away to easily view the entire screen from the backseat.
When the movie started, Paul Newman was already drunk and happy. He stood in a parking lot cutting the parking meters off their poles with a plumber’s pipe cutter. I watched his face. He was so carefree and giddy. He was boozed up and couldn’t feel a thing. He didn’t care a wit for what trouble he was stepping into. It might matter later, but for now he was loaded and nothing could bother him.
But he was in trouble. In the lower right-hand corner of the big screen, a flame popped up, having curled around the edge from where it started on the back side. Someone must have set it and run.
The flames confused me at first. They climbed up the edge of the screen so quickly and were so bright I thought I was suddenly watching a movie in 3-D. But it was real. Someone hit a car horn, then all the cars hit their horns and turned on their headlights, as though the extra light might douse the flames, the way turning on a light spoils a movie. But nothing stopped the screen from burning. The flames spread in ragged sheets up the front as the white paint bubbled and browned like grilled cheese. The movie kept running, and Paul Newman’s drunken, carefree face was projected on the flames, so that his smile danced and shimmied as he laughed and dropped to his knees and giggled at something secret and uproariously funny, like a little devil with fiendish plans.
Around us, engines started and cars began to pull out like stampeding cattle. Dad stayed put. “We’ll wait a few minutes,” he said with his arms crossed. “Let them slug it out. We’re far enough away from the screen.”
Both the entrance and the exit were jammed up with cars in a panic to escape.
Dad shook his head as he watched the commotion. “Idiots” is all he said.
The screen was soon fully engulfed in flames. They leapt up the top edge like wild red hair. Newman’s boozy eyes showed through. Whatever he felt, it looked good. He swooned and the screen swooned with him as it buckled, then split into pieces like a flaming jigsaw puzzle, collapsing on the ground beneath the twisted metal frame.
“Let’s go,” Mom urged. “It’s too depressing just sitting here.”
Dad started the car and we got in line. Slowly we worked our way out the gate. I looked back. I could see little bits of Paul Newman projected on a tree and part of someone’s roof.
“Where’s Jerry Lewis when you need him?” Betsy groaned.
“I heard he was in France,” Pete replied.
Betsy shook her head. “You drive me insane,” she whispered in his ear. He smiled.
Mom started giggling, then covered her mouth with her hand. “I shouldn’t be laughing,” she said. “I really hope no one was hurt, but that was the strangest thing I have ever seen.”
Dad had been unusually quiet. Still, he had to get in the last word. “Things are really falling apart around here,” he growled. “The whole place seems to be going to hell in a hand basket.”
I glanced at Pete. He was looking at me with his finger over his lips. I knew what he meant. One wrong word and Dad would go up in flames. He had been upset for weeks and we didn’t know why.
We found out why when some of Mom’s friends threw her a party at our house. Mom was weeping even before the guests arrived. She was polishing a spot on the silver punch ladle when she turned to me and asked, “Don’t you think Marlene would like the lawn chairs?”
“Sure,” I replied. “Are we getting new ones?” I was puzzled because the ones we had were pretty new. But I knew this was not the time to ask why. She had a tissue tucked under the cuff of her sleeve and every few minutes she brought her wrist up to dab at her nose. She thought she was being sneaky, but the harder she tried to hide her feelings, the deeper I felt them.
“We’re not getting new ones,” she said. “We can’t even pay for the ones we have.”
How could that be, I wondered. We had two new cars. A new truck, a full-time maid, a laundry woman, a babysitter, a man to cut the lawn, and a chauffeur when we needed one. Pete and Betsy and I went to private schools. Mom and Dad had all their clothes and our clothes handmade. They were always out on yachts or at parties or dances. Dad worked and Mom worked. So how could things be falling apart? I knew I was going to have to ask Betsy, but it would have to wait until later. Mom’s Swedish friend, Gunnie, had arrived along with Heather and Jo. Gunnie pronounced her name so that it sounded like Gooney. I liked her a lot.
“Jack,” Mom said and wiped her eyes, “stay in the kitchen and keep the cat off the hors d’oeuvres while I get the door.”
“Okay.” I went into the kitchen wondering what was going on. Pete was already there. He was stealing hors d’oeuvres, then rearranging the platters so it wouldn’t look like one was missing.
“Caught you,” I hollered.
He yelped. “Don’t tell Mom.”
“Give me half.” He held out a little piece of toast with cream cheese and red caviar. I took a bite, then licked the little eggs off my upper lip.
Mom appeared and almost caught me. “Go ask the ladies if they want a cocktail,” she said, suddenly in a festive mood. I liked playing the bartender because I was good at mixing fizzy drinks. She sent Pete to his room to put on a clean shirt.
Mom followed me into the living room with a tray of hors d’oeuvres while I said hello, answered a dozen polite questions about my health and happiness, and took orders. Vera, Eileen, and Marie had also arrived. Gunnie took the tray. Mom hugged her friends, then followed me into the kitchen.
The cat, Celeste, was standing on a platter of hors d’oeuvres and lapping up the caviar. Mom let out a hiss and in one motion scooped up Celeste and tossed her out the open window. Celeste howled as she twisted through the air. Then we heard a second howl. A human howl. I stepped out on the landing and saw Celeste leaping from a man’s head into the bushes.
Mom peeked out the window. “Oh my God!” she cried out.
“Are you Betty Henry?” he yelled, while one hand gently probed his scratched head. When he winced, I saw his teeth were mossy-looking, like rocks along the shore.
“I am,” she replied.
He waved a manila envelope at her. “I’m a representative of the Caribe Collection Agency,” he snarled. “I’ve come for our money.”
Gunnie entered the kitchen and stood next to Mom and placed her hand across her shoulder.
“I’m sorry about the cat,” Mom said nicely. “It was an accident …” She bit down on her lip.
“The cat’s not the problem,” he snapped, and kicked at the gravel. “Just give me the money you owe.”
Gunnie turned to Mom. “I’ll handle this vulture,” she insisted, and pushed a curl of hair off Mom’s forehead. “You go back with the girls and smile.”
“I want the money,” the man hollered. He was sweating down his face. His shirt was wet in wide stripes, as though he had leaned against a freshly painted fence. He had rolled the manila envelope into a tube and was beating it against the palm of his hand. “The law is on my side,” he said arrogantly.
“One minute,” Gunnie requested. “I’ll be right back … Don’t go away.”
Wow, I thought. She’s just going to whip out her wallet and pay for whatever he was asking.
Instead, she opened the freezer and pulled out a large bag of ice. “I’m coming!” she sang.
She lifted the bag with both hands over her tall hairdo and ran at the window. She threw it with all her might. He saw it coming and ducked. It hit the back of his shoulder with a loud crunch. He dropped to one knee, then popped up in a fit.
“You tried to kill me,” he screeched. He pointed at me. “You’re a witness. I’ll drag you to court.”
“Oh, shut up, you ugly bucket of worthless human scum,” Gunnie shouted back. “Now beat it before I come down there and kick you over the fence.”
He stepped back and hunkered down. “Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Well, we’ll see who gets kicked around. By the time I’m
finished, I’ll kick those debtors off this island.”
Gunnie grabbed the first thing in sight. She flung the glass measuring cup. It sailed over his head and into the bushes.
He jogged a few steps down the driveway before shouting, “I’ll get your cars, your house, your business … You’ll leave here like rats fleeing a sinking ship.”
“Damn him,” Gunnie muttered. She grabbed the spatula and pushed past me and down the steps. He took off for his car. She chased him. He got there first and slammed the door. She swatted the window.
“If I ever catch you, I’ll flatten your face,” she hollered, and continued to swat the car like it was a giant fly.
He rolled down the window just enough so he could push the manila envelope out. “Debtors!” he spat, then sped away.
I hopped down the steps to retrieve the ice. It was all crunchy and just right for mixing drinks. I balanced it on my shoulder and returned to the kitchen. Mom passed by and tried to catch my eye. I kept turning my head away. I set my jaw a bit crooked and made the drinks.
After I had served everyone and made certain Mom didn’t need me, I grabbed Pete and knocked on Betsy’s door. Something was definitely going on and we needed to know details. Betsy always had the answers.
“It’s simple,” she said. “They spend more than they make and then Dad has been taking loans from the bank while business is dropping. Now the banks want their money and he doesn’t have it. That’s why he declared bankruptcy.”
“Bankruptcy,” I repeated. I only knew the word from playing Monopoly. It usually meant the end of the game, like when you rolled the dice and landed on Boardwalk and there was a hotel and you couldn’t scrape up the rent. You turned in your mortgaged property and worthless single and five-dollar bills and went to bed a total loser.
“Does this mean we have to go back to Florida?”
