The Beginning and End of Everything

by Stevie J. Cole

  He did the same, and we shook. A small smile pulled at his lips, and the hostility from only moments before disappeared.

  “Connor!” His ma yelled from the house. “Tea.”

  I jumped down, and Connor landed beside me before he slipped on the damp grass and fell on his arse. I hid my laugh with my hand and hurried through the rain, beating him to the back door.

  “You staying for tea?" Connor yanked off his wet hoody then kicked his shoes to the side.

  "I can’t. My dad’s taking me to watch a fight tonight."

  "Why would you want to watch a fight?"

  "My dad said it’s time.” After he had smacked me one the week before and I’d gotten right back up, he said I was ready. “He says next year, I'll be fighting. It’s a gypsy tradition. Uncle Darren used to be a bare-knuckle champion, you know?"

  "I thought you didn't like your dad?"

  I hated my dad. I had told myself I only wanted to learn to fight so I could hit him back when he hurt Ma, but the truth was, like any kid, I wanted his approval. Despite the things he did, I craved his attention because I’d never had it. Not once. At twelve years old, I didn’t understand why he hated me, and it was that hatred that made me feel like there was something wrong with me. If I learned to fight—especially if I were good at it—then maybe things would change, but that was the foolish hope of an innocent mind. I found myself spinning in a never-ending tornado of anger and hate. For him, for myself, for the crappy hand I’d been dealt. "I don't, but I want to be able to fight."

  I didn’t want to explain it to Connor. He and Poppy didn’t have a dad who beat on them or their mum. Their lives were perfect. And that was exactly why I needed them, so I could pretend like mine wasn’t messed up.

  By the time I got back to the camp, my stomach felt like a pit of snakes, slipping and coiling around each other. Dad was usually down at the pub by this time on a Sunday afternoon, but today, I knew he would be waiting for me.

  Sean barked the same way he always did whenever anyone approached the caravan, growling and snipping until he realized it was me. My lungs filled on a deep breath as I pulled open the door, the unoiled hinges squealing when I stepped into the dreary darkness of the caravan.

  A thick haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air, along with the stale scent of cheap whiskey. Dad sat on the couch, a beer bottle hanging lazily from his hand while the Sunday races commentary buzzed from the TV. No doubt, he had money on the race.

  Ma poked her head around the corner. Her eyes darted between the back of my dad’s head and me. The black eye he’d given her the week before had faded to a mottled green and yellow. The tension pulsing in the room made the tiny caravan feel even smaller.

  “Go wash up and get changed, Brandon,” she said, her voice tense.

  By the time I came out of my room, the TV was off, and Dad was waiting for me by the door. When his bloodshot eyes met mine, I knew he was drunk. Though in truth, I couldn’t recall what he looked like sober. My shoulders grew tense, and I released a shaky breath.

  “Let’s go.” He jerked his head toward the door, and I followed him outside.

  His beaten-up Transit van was parked out back, the wheel arches crumbling beneath rust and the locks hanging off from being jimmied with a screwdriver one too many times. Most of the white paint had peeled away, leaving behind rust, and every panel was dented. The door opened with a strained creek before he dragged himself into the driving seat.

  With a cough, the engine ticked over, and I hopped in.

  We drove the few miles down the road to the neighboring camp. It was a miracle my dad had never been pulled over by the cops, but he was so used to being drunk, I guessed he drove better than most people did sober.

  We pulled up to a gate where an old man nodded and let us in. Far too soon, I was out of the van and taking in the space around me.

  The McKinnley brothers’ camp was bigger than ours. Vehicles littered the field along with a janky swing set, an abandoned mattress, and a tattered sofa. Dogs barked at us, tugging on the chains that bound them to the caravans as we wound our way through the camp until we finally reached a clearing.

  A blazing fire crackled from an oil barrel where a large group of men had gathered. Some stood, others laid sprawled out in garden chairs—all with buckets of beer bottles dotted between them. My father guided me toward a cluster of men leaning against the side of a shiny, new caravan. There was even fancy decking by the front door. My ma would have loved a caravan like that.

  “Jonny,” Dad greeted one of them.

  “Des.” The man shoved away and pulled my dad into a bear hug. “This your boy?”

  I looked up at the grey-haired man and his smile full of crooked teeth.

  “Ay. He’ll be in the ring next year.”

  The man laughed. “He got a swing on him?”

  My dad squeezed my shoulder.

  I wanted to shrug away from him, but I didn’t.

  “Of course. He’s cut from the same cloth as his old man.”

  My stomach sank, fast and hard. I didn’t want to be the same as my dad. In the blink of an eye, my whole future flashed before me, and it looked like days and nights in the pub, a shitty caravan, and hopelessness.

  “Nah,” Uncle Darren strolled toward us, “He’s like his uncle.” His massive frame strained against the faded hoody he wore. His red hair was combed, and for Uncle Darren, he almost looked smart. He clapped a hand on my back as he came to stand beside me, dwarfing everyone around him. “He’s gonna be a champ. Aren’t ya, Brandon?”

  I gave a meek nod.

  The men talked a while before heading over to a ramshackle-looking barn at the back of the site. Inside, a layer of straw covered the dirt floor, and several wooden pallets had been tied together with bailing twine to form a pen.

  People gathered around all four sides, from the way they swayed and stumbled, I didn’t think there was a sober one here, including the woman across the pen who leaned over the pallets, her boobs nearly falling out of her top. Then an older, bearded man stepped into the pen, tugging his jeans over his gut. Something about him carried a frenzied, infectious excitement across the crowd.

  “We have a treat for you tonight.” He spread his arms wide and turned in a slow circle. “These two have been waiting to go at it since the championship last year.”

  I didn’t see anyone other than more men that looked just like my dad until the announcer stepped aside.

  “Thomas O’Leary and Jimmy Gregor.”

  Cheers and applause erupted when the two men marched into the pen, wearing only their jeans. They couldn’t have been much older than me, but as soon as the first punch landed, I could tell they were every bit men. The violence that unfolded before me was captivating. With every blow, blood decorated the straw at their feet, and their faces and knuckles split until the pair of them were streaked in crimson. It terrified me as much as it thrilled me.

  Dad hit me, and I feared him. But these men, they were fighting back, and even though I was a kid, I was tempted by that power.

  I glanced at my father, his teeth snarled and fist raised as he encouraged the blood bath. I decided then and there that I wanted to be like those two boys. I wanted the respect that I didn’t have from my dad, but more than anything, I wanted to be able to protect my ma.

  7

  Connor

  September 2000

  The sky was still tinted with slight purples and pinks from the setting sun, although the nearly full moon was out.

  Brandon and I had pitched an army green tent five feet from the back door. It was my first outdoor sleepover, and Ma was worried.

  The sleepover wasn’t the only reason nervous energy fired through me at lightning speed. It was Poppy’s birthday, and I wanted to make sure it was special. Even at twelve, I wanted to make sure I did things to ensure Poppy would never forget me.

  Brandon swatted at the fairy lights we’d tied from the tree to the tent. “These lights are dumb.”
/>   “Are not.”

  Poppy had fairy lights on her bed, so I knew she liked them, which is why I’d insisted Brandon and I hang them. Of course, Brandon griped about it.

  He cocked a brow, thumping another bulb. “They’re girly.”

  The back door creaked, drawing my attention away from the lights. Poppy stood on the back stoop, fiddling with the skirt of her purple dress. One look at her and my palms grew sweaty. My chest went tight. Poppy was the first girl I ever thought was pretty—but that night, she was beautiful.

  “Fairy lights!” She clapped before running toward the tent with a huge smile.

  I glanced at Brandon and smirked while he just rolled his eyes on a groan. I bent and lifted the flap. “Come in.”

  Once Poppy had crawled inside, I hurried around the back to grab her present from its hiding spot before ducking inside myself.

  Poppy sat in the middle of the mounds of blankets and torches and snacks. Her eyes locked with mine. “You did all this for me?”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, even though I hoped to God it was, and her face lit up with a smile.

  Her gaze finally dropped to the pink, glittery box in my hand, and I fought to keep my voice from cracking. "Happy birthday,” I said, handing her the present.

  She lifted it to her ear and shook it gently before tearing off the paper, tossing it to the ground. Her finger slipped underneath the side of the white cardboard box. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

  “Oh. Connor.” She held up the framed photo of me, her, and Brandon—the picture my ma had taken a few weeks before, prior to Brandon getting sent home for pulling out a nudey magazine. "I love it,” she said. “It’s the best present." She wrapped her arms around me, pressing her body tight to mine, and I took a deep whiff of her strawberry-scented hair—I couldn’t help myself.

  Seconds later, the tent flap lifted, and Brandon tumbled inside, sprawling over the blankets with a huff. I frowned at his Iron Man T-shirt and ripped jeans. He was supposed to dress up for Poppy’s birthday. I’d told him at least three times.

  He grabbed one of the flashlights and flipped the switch, holding it under his chin before he sat up and folded his legs. The white light shined over his face, highlighting the nasty, purple and black bruise on his cheek.

  "Con.” He flicked the light on and off. “Why are you wearing your church clothes?” His brow creased when he glanced at Poppy. “And possum, why do you have on a dress?"

  I stopped myself from frowning; I hated that he had that stupid pet name for her.

  Poppy smoothed out her skirt. "You were supposed to dress nice, Brandon. It's supposed to be a tea party."

  Brandon let out a snort and thumbed in my direction. "He looks like an idiot. I'm not wearing a tie."

  I swatted at the top of the tent, trying to ignore him. I liked my tie. He was the one who looked like an idiot with his rat’s nest hair and dirty clothes.

  "Not only did you not dress up,” Poppy shoved Brandon, and he almost fell over on the pile of tattered blankets, “But you look filthy.”

  "Yeah? Well, you look clean. I managed to get out of shower night on Tuesday." A smug grin worked over his face.

  Already annoyed, I nudged Brandon in the ribs, then jerked my head toward Poppy while glaring at him. "Have something you want to say to her, Bran?"

  “I didn’t forget.” He waved a dismissive hand through the air, then pushed onto his knees, biting at his lip while he dug around in the pocket of his jeans. "Happy birthday, poss." He placed a little knot of bailing twine into her palm. "Made you a friendship bracelet." He sniffed, then thumbed under his nose. "Ma showed me how to make it. I told her you'd rather have a puppy, but she wouldn't let me give ya one."

  Poppy smiled—bigger than she had at my present—and then she hugged Brandon so hard that she nearly knocked him over. Now he was smelling her strawberry hair, and the first taste of jealousy danced over my tongue.

  "I love it. Thank you, Brandon." Poppy looped the tatty thread around her wrist, looking up at him with big eyes while he tied the knot. She twisted it, smiling even bigger. "I'll wear it forever."

  Brandon’s gaze went to the floor, and his shoulder hiked in an awkward shrug. "Okay."

  Poppy kept staring at that bracelet, and Brandon kept stealing glances at her. The only noise in the tent was the soft chirp of the crickets, hiding in the thick grass outside. I wanted whatever moment was passing between them to end, so I cleared my throat, then clasped my hands together, and stretched them out. "So, what do you want to do now?"

  "We could tell ghost stories." A twisted grin formed on Brandon’s face.

  Poppy crept closer to me, pulling one of the blankets into her lap. "I don't like scary stories.”

  "Aw, come on, poss.” Brandon thumped her knee, and she slapped his hand away. “Don't be a baby. It's just a story."

  "Yeah," I said, nudging Poppy’s shoulder. I didn’t like those stupid stories either, but I spotted a chance to put my arm around her, so I went with it. And she let me and settled into my side. "It's just a story, Poppy."

  She huffed but didn’t protest again, and I guessed Brandon saw that as his go-ahead. His eyes gleamed, and he rubbed his palms together like some greedy swindler preparing to rightfully screw someone over.

  "So, there was this girl..." His gaze strayed to Poppy, and his smirk deepened. "Her parents left her all alone one night.” Brandon paused, placing an inquisitive finger to his chin before locking eyes with me. “Now that I think of it, it was Blaire O'Brian. You remember her, right, Connor? The girl that lived in Poppy's house before it was Poppy’s house?"

  Blaire O'Brian had lived in Poppy's house, so I nodded.

  "Anyway, she was all alone”—he held up a finger—“Mind you, Blaire told me this herself. Anyway, that night, she kept hearing a dripping noise. Drip. Drip." He leaned in close to Poppy, and she shrunk back. "Drip!”

  She got up and checked in all the rooms, but she didn’t find anything that could be causing the noise. When she laid back down, she felt her dog, Spunky …” Brandon nodded. “Yeah, Spunky, the dachshund—Blaire felt ole’ Spunky lick her hand, so she knew everything was okay. Only thing, it wasn't. Because that dripping kept going."

  By then, Poppy clutched my arm so hard, my skin burned. That was why I kind of wanted Brandon to keep going—even though I felt bad that Poppy was obviously scared.

  "She finally got up and looked in the wardrobe, and there was Spunky, hung." Brandon stuck his tongue out and made a choking sound as he clutched his neck. "And that dripping was poor Spunky's blood falling on the floor."

  Poppy whimpered.

  "And there’s a note that says, 'Humans can lick, too.’"

  Poppy screamed, and Brandon laughed so hard he toppled over.

  "That's not true!" she said.

  "Is, too."

  "Is not."

  "I mean, I never heard that,” I said.

  Brandon glared at me. "Blaire told me herself."

  "Blaire was a liar."

  Brandon shrugs. "Don't know, but I sure wouldn’t want to sleep in the room Spunky was hung in."

  "I hate you, Brandon," she huddled against my side.

  He laughed. "It's just a story, Poppy."

  Something rustled in the bushes behind the tent, and she jumped. "What was that?" she whispered.

  "It's the crazy man from your wardrobe. He's gonna lick you, possum."

  She screamed again, and I hugged her. "Stop it, Bran!"

  Tears clung to the corners of Brandon’s eyes from how hard he was laughing. Part of me wanted to punch him for scaring her. Part of me wanted to thank him because I had my arms wrapped around her.

  Poppy wiggled out of my hold and, placing her palms flat on Brandon’s chest, she pushed him over. He toppled to his side, cackling.

  “It’s not funny, and now I need to go to the bathroom.” She glanced nervously at the flap of the tent.

  I opened my mouth, ready to offer to walk h
er through the dark backyard and to the safety of the house.

  Her gaze went right past me to Brandon. "Brandon, will you take me?”

  Brandon’s laughter quieted.

  I didn’t want him walking Poppy to the door. I wanted to be the knight in shining armor. “I will,” I blurted, but Brandon was already outside, holding the flap for her.

  "No, offense, Con." Poppy crawled through the opening and glanced over her shoulder. “But Brandon makes me feel safe.” The flap fell at the same time I felt the slight smile on my face drop.

  Why did Brandon get to scare her, and then be the one to walk her inside? And why did I even care? I snatched a Milkybar from the pile of snacks, tore off the wrapper, then crammed it into my mouth.

  Brandon was mean to Poppy while I was nice. He was trouble. I went to church and prayed every day. Good girls were supposed to like good boys, at least that’s what Ma had always told me. But Poppy—I was pretty certain she liked Brandon more than me. I hated that almost as much as I hated that it made me angry at my best friend. At twelve years old, I didn’t understand why I wanted her to like me more than him. All I knew was that I did.

  I tossed the crumpled up Milkybar wrapper to the ground, then tugged off my tie, and rubbed a furious hand over the top of my head until I was certain my hair had to actually look like more of a mess than Brandon’s.

  Whatever it was about him that Poppy liked more, I’d figure it out.

  8

  Poppy

  September 2001

  Pretty soon, the memories of American highways and suburbs were replaced by rolling hills and afternoons spent darting between run-down caravans, playing hide and seek with Brandon and Connor. For two years, it had been just the three of us.

  It didn’t matter that most of the girls teased me, or that the other boys made fun of Brandon and Connor for hanging out with a girl. All that mattered was that, no matter what, we were always there for one another.