by Markus Zusak
Again, when he climbs out of the ring, they smother him. Drunk men. Horny women.
They all rub up against him. They all try to touch him, and Rube remains as he is. He walks straight through them, smiling out of obligation and thanking them, but never losing the concentration on his face.
Sitting in the room, he says to me, “We did good today, Cam.”
“Yeah, we did.”
Perry gives him his fifty. “No tip for the winner,” he says. “He gets his fifty anyway.” “No worries.”
When Rube stands and goes to the toilet, Perry and I have words together.
“They love him,” he explains. “Just like I thought.” A pause. “You know why?”
“Yep.” I nod.
He tells me anyway. “It’s because he’s tall and he’s got looks and he can fight. And he’s hungry. That’s what they like most.” He grins. “The women out there are begging me to tell ‘em where I found him. They love fellas like Rube.”
“It’s to be expected.”
Outside, when we leave, there’s a blonde thing hanging round.
“Hey Ruben.” She tiptoes over. “I like the way you fight.”
We walk on and she follows and her arm touches slightly with his. Meanwhile, I look at her. All of her.
Eyes, legs, hair, neck, breath, eyebrows, breasts, ankles, front zipper, shirt, buttons, earrings, arms, fingers, hands, heart, mouth, teeth, and lips.
She’s great.
Great, dumb, and stupid. Next, I’m shocked.
Shocked, because my brother stops and they look at each other. Next thing she has him in her mouth. She’s swallowing his lips. They’re against the wall. Girl, Rube, wall. Pushed up against each other. Merging. He kisses her hard for a fair while. Open tongue, hands everywhere.
Then he stops and walks away. Rube walks on and says, “Thanks, love.”
“Hey Rube. Y’ awake again?”
“As usual. Do you ever shut up of a night?”
“Not lately.”
“Well, I guess you’ve got an excuse this time — you fought real well.”
“Where’s the next one on at?”
“Ashfield, I think, then Helensburgh.”
“Rube?”
“What now?”
“Why haven’t y’ moved into Steve’s room?”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Why hasn’t Sarah?”
“I think Mum wants to turn it into like an office, for doin’ paperwork and that kind of thing. That’s what she said, anyway.”
I say, “And it wouldn’t feel right, I don’t reckon.”
The basement is Steve’s room and it always will be. He’s moved on but the rest of the Wolfe family stay as they are. They need to. I feel it in the dusty night air, and I taste it.
I also have another question.
I don’t ask it.
I can’t bring myself.
It’s that girl.
I think about it but I don’t ask it.
There are some things you just don’t ask.
CHAPTER 10
We train and fight and keep training, and I get my first win up. It’s down in Helensburgh, against some lowlife yobbo who keeps calling me cowboy.
“That all y’ got, cowboy, huh?”
“You hit like my mother, cowboy.”
All that kind of thing.
I put him down once in the third and twice in the fifth. I win it on points. Fifty dollars, but more importantly, a win. A sniff of victory for the Underdog. It feels gr
eat, especially at the end, when Rube smiles at me and I smile back.
“I’m proud a’ you.”
That’s what he says afterward, in the dressing room, before concentrating again. Later, he worries me. He … I don’t know.
I notice a deliberate change in my brother. He’s harder. He has a switch, and once a fight comes near, he flicks it and he is no longer my brother Rube. He’s a machine. He’s a Steve, but different. More violent. Steve’s a winner because he’s always been a winner. Rube’s a winner because he wants to beat the loser out of himself. Steve knows he’s a winner, but I think Rube’s still trying to prove it to himself. He’s fiercer, more fiery, ready to beat all loss from his vision.
He’s Fighting Ruben Wolfe.
Or is he actually fighting Ruben Wolfe?
Insid
Proving himself.
To himself.
I don’t know.
It’s in each eye.
The question.
Each breath.
Who’s fighting who?
Each hope.
In the ring tonight, he leaves his opponent in pieces. The other guy is barely there, from the very beginning. Rube has something over all of them. His desire is severe, and his fists are fast. Every time the guy goes down, Rube stands over him tonight, and he tells him.
“Get up.”
Again.
“Get up.”
By the third one, he can’t. This time, Rube screams at him. “Get up, boy!”
He lays into the padding in the corner and kicks it before climbing back out.
In the dressing room Rube doesn’t look at me. He speaks words that are not directed at anyone. He says, “Another one, ay. Two rounds and he’s on the deck.”
More women like him.
I see them watching him.
They’re young and trashy and good-looking. They like tough fellas, even though guys like that are likely to treat them poorly. I guess women are only human too. They’re as stupid as us sometimes. They seem to like the bad ones a bit.
But is Rube bad? I ask myself.
It’s a good question.
He’s my brother.
Maybe that’s all I know.
As weeks edge past us, he fights and wins and he doesn’t bother shaving. He turns up and wins. Turns up and wins. He only smiles when I fight well.
At school, there’s a new air about him. People know him. They recognize him. They know he’s tough, and people have heard. They know he does fight nights, though none of them know that I do. It’s for the best, I s’pose. If they saw me fight, it would only make them laugh. I would be Rube’s sidekick. They’d say, Go watch them Wolfes fight, ay. The younger one, what’s his name, he’s a joke, but Ruben can fight like there’s no tomorrow.
“It’s all rumors,” is what Rube tells people. “I don’t fight anywhere except in my backyard.” He lies well. “Look at the bruises on my brother. We fight all the time at home, but that’s it. No more than that.”
O morning, a colder one than normal, but clear, we go out for a run. The sun’s barely coming up, and as we run, we see some fellas just coming home. They’ve been out all night.
“Hey Rubey!” one yells.
It’s an old mate of Rube’s named Cheese. (Well, at least, his nickname’s Cheese, anyway. I don’t think anyone knows his real name.) He’s standing on the walkway up to Central Station with a giant pumpkin under his arm.
“Hey Cheeser.” Rube raises his head. We walk up toward him. “What y’ been doin’ lately?”
“Ah, nothin’ much. Just livin’ in a drunken haze, ay. Since I left school, all I do is work and drink.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s good, mate.”
“Enjoyin’ it?”
“Lovin’ every minute.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” But really, my brother doesn’t care. He scratches his two-day growth. “So what’s the go with the pumpkin?”
“Been hearin’ you’re a bit of a gunfighter these days.”
“Nah, just in the backyard.” Rube recalls something. “You of all people should know that.”
“Yeah mate, certainly,” because Cheese used to be in our yard sometimes when we got the gloves out. He remembers the pumpkin he’s holding. He lifts it back into the conversation. “Found this in an alley, so we’re gonna play football with it.” His mates arrive, around the three of us.
“About here, Cheese?” they ask.
/>
“Why, certainly,” and he gives the pumpkin a good kick down the walkway. Someone chases it then and comes running back with it.
“Belt him!” someone else yells, and it’s on. Teams divide quickly, the fella gets belted, and pieces of pumpkin go flying all over the place.
“Rube!” I call for it.
He passes.
I drop it.
“Ah, y’ useless bloody turkey!” Cheese laughs. Do people still use that word? It’s a word people’s grandfathers use. In any case, I erase my disappointment by tackling the next guy into the concrete.
A bag lady walks past, checking things out for breakfast.
Then a few couples get out of the way.
The pumpkin’s in half. We continue with one of them, and the other half is squashed against the wall under the money mach
Rube gets belted.
I get belted.
Everyone does, and all around us, there’s the stench of sweat, raw pumpkin, and beer.
“You blokes stink,” Rube tells Cheese. “Why thank you,” Cheese responds.
We keep going, until the pumpkin’s the size of a golf ball. That’s when the cops show up.
They walk up, a man and a woman, smiling.
“Boys,” the bloke cop opens with. “How’s it going?”
“Tosser Gary!” Rube calls out. “What are you doin’ here?”
Yes, you’ve guessed right. The cops are our mates from the dog track. Gary, the corrupt, bet-placing male cop, and Cassy, the brilliant brunette gorgeous cop.
“Ahh, you!” the cop laughs. “Been down the track lately?”
“Nah,” Rube answers. “Been a bit busy.”
Cassy nudges Gary.
He pauses.
Remembers.
His job.
“Now fellas,” he begins, and we all know what he’ll say. “You know this kind of thing isn’t on. There’s pumpkin all over the place and when the sun hits it, it’s gonna stink like my old man’s work boots.”
Silence.
Then a few yeahs.
Yeah this, yeah that, and a yeah you’re right I s’pose. But no one understands, not really. No one cares. I’m wrong.
I’m wrong because I find myself stepping forward, saying, “Okay Gary, I know what y’ mean,” and start picking up pieces of pumpkin. Silently, Rube follows. The others, drunk, only watch. Cheese helps a bit, but none of the others do anything. They’re too shocked. Too drunk. Too out of breath. Too stoned.
“Thanks a lot,” Gary and Cassy say when we’re done and our drunken friends are on their way.
“I think I’d love to beat the hell out of some of those fellas,” Rube mentions. His words are offhand, but fierce. Like he’d do it if the cops would turn their backs for a minute.
Gary looks at him.
A few times.
He notices.
He says it.
“You’ve changed mate happened?”
All Rube says is, “I don’t know.”
Neither do I.
It’s a conversation with myself at Central Station. It goes on inside my head as Rube and Gary talk a little further.
It goes like this:
“Hey Cameron?”
“What?”
“Why does he scare you all of a sudden?”
“He’s fierce now, and even when he smiles and laughs, he stops it real fast and concentrates again.”
“Maybe he just wants to be somebody.”
“Maybe he wants to kill somebody.”
“Now you’re bein’ stupid.”
“All right.”
“Maybe he’s just sick of losin’ and never wants to feel it again.”
“Or maybe he’s the one that’s afraid.”
“Maybe.”
“But afraid of what?”
“I don’t know. What can a winner be afraid of?”
“Losing?”
“No, it’s more than just that. I can tell….”
“All the same, though, Cassy looks great, doesn’t she?”
“She sure does….”
“But afraid of what?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
CHAPTER 11
I only know that I’m a new kind of afraid.
You know how dogs whine when they’re afraid, like when a storm’s coming? Well, I feel like doing it right now. I feel like asking questions, in desperation.
When did this happen?
How did it happen?
Why did he change so quickly?
Why aren’t I happy for himWhy does it scare me?
And why can’t I put my finger on exactly what it is?
All of those questions swing through me, eroding me a little each time. They swing through me during my brother’s next few fights. All knockouts. They swing through me each time he stands over his man, telling him to get up, and when the people touch him to grab a little piece of his greatness. I ask the same questions in the dressing room, among the smell of liniment and gloves and sweat. I ask them the next time I see Rube get it off with a nineteen-year-old uni student behind the Maroubra factory, before he walks away from her (without looking back). Then the next time a different girl. Then the next. I ask the questions at home when we eat our dinner with Mum pouring out the soup, and Sarah eating it politely, and Dad eating more failure with his meal. Putting it in his mouth. Chewing it. Tasting it. Swallowing it. Digesting it. Getting used to it. I ask them when Sarah and I wrestle some washing off the line. (“Damn it!” she yells. “It’s raining! Hey Cam! Come help us get the washing off!” Just lovely, the two of us sprinting out back and ripping it all off the line, not caring if it’s in shreds, just as long as it’s bloody dry.) I even ask the questions when I smell my socks to see if they can go one more day or if I should wash them next shower. I ask them when I go and visit Steve at his new place and he gives me a cup of black coffee and a silent, friendly conversation.
Finally, someone else arrives to help me out a bit.
It’s Mrs. Wolfe, who, thankfully, has some questions of her own. The best thing about this is that maybe she can get something out of Rube to help me understand him better. Also, she has chosen a night and a week in which I’ve won my last fight, so I don’t have any bruises on me.
It’s a Wednesday night, and Rube and I sit on our front porch with Miffy, patting him after his walk. The little wonder dog laps up the attention on the old lounge. He rolls on his stomach as Rube and I pat him and laugh at his ridiculous little fangs and claws.
“Oh Miffy!” Rube breathes out, and it’s the shadow of his former callings for the dog when we used to pick him up. He only laughs now with something inside the voice of his throat.
What is it?
Regret?
Remorse?
Anger?
I don’t know, but Mrs. Wolfe, she can sense it as well, and she has joined us now on the front porch, in the cold, dim light.
I love Mrs. Wolfe.
I’ve gotta tell you that right now.
I love Mrs. Wolfe because she’s brilliant and she’s a genius even though her cooking’s downright oppressive. I love her because she fights like hell. She fights better than Rube. Even Rube will tell you that — though her fight has nothing to do with fists. But it has plenty to do with blood….
Her words tonight are these:
“What’s up boys? Why are you always coming home so late on Sundays?” She smiles, alone. “I know that you were going down to the dog track not so long ago. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?”
I look at her. “How’d y’ find that out?”
“Mrs. Craddock,” she confesses.
“Bloody Craddock!” I yelp. Mrs. Craddock, a neighbor of ours, was always at the dogs, chewing a hot dog with her false teeth, and sinking Carlton Cold beer like there was no tomorrow. Not to mention smoking Long Beach 25s till the cows came home.
“Forget the dogs,” Mum sighs.
She talks.
We listen.
W
e have to.
When you love and respect someone, you listen.
“Now, I know things are rough at the moment, fellas, but just do me a favor and come home at a decent hour. Try to get here before dark.”
I break.
“Okay Mum.”
Rube doesn’t.
He says, straight and hard, “We’ve been goin’ down to the gym. Sunday afternoons it’s cheaper, and you can learn boxing.”
Boxing.
Nice one, Rube.
We know how Mum feels about boxing.
“Is that what you want to do?” she asks, and her mild tone is surprising. I think she knows she can’t stop us. She knows the only way is to let us find out. She continues and ends with two words. “Boxing? Really?”
“It’s safe. All supervised and taken care of. Not like we used to do in the backyard. None of the one-handed rubbish.”
Which isn’t a lie. Yes, the fights are supervised and taken care of, but by whom? It’s funny how truth and lies can come in the same clothes. They wear flanno shirts, gym boots, jeans, and Ruben Wolfe’s lips.
“Just look after each other.”
“We will,” and I smile at Mrs. Wolfe because I want her to think that everything’s all right. I want her going to work without worrying about us. She deserves at least that.
Rube gives her an “Okay.”
“Good.”
“We’ll try to get back quicker,” he goes on, before Mum returns inside. First she pats Miffy for a while, running her dry fingers through our friend’s softfluffy fur.
“Look at this dog,” I say once she’s gone. Just to say something. Anything. “What about him?”
I’m lost, and unsure what to say. “I guess, we’ve got to liking him, ay.”
“But what does liking do?” Rube looks at the road. “It doesn’t do anything.”
“Does hating?”
“What have we got to hate?” He’s laughing now. The truth is, there’s a lot to hate, and a lot to love. Love.
The people. Hate.
The situation.
Behind us we hear Mum cleaning up the kitchen. We turn and see the silhouette of our dad helping her. We see him kiss her on the cheek.
He is unemployed.
He still loves her.
