She didn't laugh, didn't even look up at him. Sarah pressed her face into his bare chest and cried, inconsolably. Her slight shoulders shook and her hands pawed feebly at his breast. There would be no comforting her tonight, and he knew it. He'd taken his share of lumps over the years, and she'd watched him recover queasily each time, always urging him to be more careful. This time was different, however. This injury promised of permanent, life-changing damage. Her worst fear, short of his getting killed in a fight, had come to pass. This was something he'd carry with him for the rest of his days.
He reached into the freezer and pulled out a sack of frozen peas. Mashing it against his eye, he grit his teeth and paced about the kitchen as Sarah lingered nearby, stunned into silence. “Just gotta get this swelling down,” he said again and again, as though a baggie of frozen produce were in some way a replacement for expensive optical surgery.
The pitter-patter of slight feet rang out from the hall. Standing at the threshold of the living room, nap blanket in hand, was his daughter. She stared up at him dreamily as he stood in the kitchen. “Daddy,” she muttered, wiping her eyes. He still hadn't gotten used to the sound of her voice. She'd only just recently mastered a few words. Her name was Leah, and she looked just like him; stubborn black hair, prone to cowlicks, dark eyes with long lashes. Before a hundred fights had wrecked his nose into a crooked mess, his had been the very copy of hers.
Sarah wiped at her eyes quickly and snapped at the girl. “What are you doing up? Get back to bed.” She raised her hands, shooing her away.
“Leave her be,” growled Silvio, walking cross the room and kneeling down beside her. “Well, good evening,” he said. “What you doin' up, baby?”
The girl shuffled towards him, yawning. She placed a chubby palm against his cheek, inciting a little wince in him, and then studied his face with sleepy eyes. Pushing away the makeshift icepack, she narrowed her gaze and appraised his wounded eye. “Boo-boo?” she asked, a single finger giving the bulbous upper lid a poke.
He leaned away, smirking in spite of the pain. “Y-yeah, got a boo-boo.” He laughed. “Daddy wasn't being smart. He went and got himself hurt.” The subtle concern in her eyes pained him, and he turned away, clearing his throat. Turning to Sarah, he motioned towards the hall. “Just get her to bed, yeah? I'm... I'm gonna go for a little walk.”
Sarah's eyes shot wide. She gathered up the girl but shook her head. “No, don't even think of leaving the house. We should take you back to the hospital, see if they won't reassess you and--”
Silvio turned his back on her and began a willful march to the door. “Don't wait up,” he said, slipping out the door just in time to avoid the sounds of her sobs. He dashed down the sidewalk, peas still pressed to the side of his face and upper body exposed to the cool air. He needed some time to think, and there was no way that tiny little apartment of theirs had room enough for the thoughts in his head.
***
Silvio could still remember it clearly. A summer day at abuelo's place, stationed in front of the television. The old man had slipped an old VHS tape into the player, a boxing match he'd recorded ages ago. The image was a little murky, skipping around the screen in slightly faded colors. But from the very first Silvio was transfixed.
He didn't remember what fighters they were, or the significance of the fight. He only remembered the way the crowd cheered each time the combatants took a swing, the way abuelo would become excited or agitated as the fight wore on, and the way one of the fighters, in particular, managed to weather hit after hit until finally delivering a knockout punch, seemingly out of nowhere. There was something hypnotic about that kind of endurance. What kind of strength would one have to develop to take punches like those? How strong would a man have to be to survive in that ring? What did it feel like to take such punishment, only to turn around and decimate an opponent? These were all questions Silvio set out to answer on the day he decided to become a professional boxer.
Abuelo had taught him rudimentary movements, teaching him how to punch correctly, how to block, how to keep his footing even so that his opponent couldn't knock him down. The only thing his grandfather couldn't teach him was how to take a punch. Even now, so many years later, the old man's advice rang in his ears. “Doesn't matter if they hit you,” he'd always advised. “It's going to hurt when they do, and someday you're going to get hit. It's unavoidable. But don't give in. While they may get one in on you, it's going to hurt more when you hit them back. Make it so. Make them sorry they climbed out of bed that morning, hijo.”
Abuelo's sage advice hadn't been true, exactly. The first time he'd gotten smacked around during a practice bout, he'd cried, gone to pieces. There was something about getting hit that made him terribly frightened, something that set his heart racing and scrambled his thoughts into something like static on an old TV set. But he slowly learned to rein it in; learned how to take a punch; how to take a punch and then deliver one in kind. Progress was slow, but in the ring Silvio found a happiness and purpose that eluded him elsewhere.
Then, in his last year of high school, he'd knocked the shit out of some hick from a rural school, a former State champ. Third round knockout, clean and calculated. Textbook. Abuelo had been real proud of that, buying up as many copies of the local paper as he could and bragging about his grandson, the hard-ass who'd win the Golden Gloves some day.
Silvio kicked a flattened pop can down the road, its clatter breaking the pervading quiet like a gunshot. Grandpa was some years gone. Silvio hadn't earned a decent payday fighting locally, much less the Golden Gloves. He was a nobody, a disappointment. And now he was half-blind, good for nothing.
What could he do now? He'd spent so many years boxing, had come to define himself as a boxer. It was all he thought about, and for the entirety of his adult life he'd eschewed a normal existence in favor of pursuing his dream of professional competition. But all of that was firmly out of grasp now. His depth perception was shot, and he'd never be able to go toe-to-toe with even the shittiest of fighters. He was spent, worthless in the ring. The dream was dead. Maybe it was the fact that he'd never been good enough to begin with; the fact that, even in perfect health, he'd never really cracked it, that bothered him most.
He felt himself unfit to live. If he couldn't be a boxer, then what could he be? An office worker? A mechanic? A retail worker?
The streets were a little damp here. Down the road he could see a street cleaner chugging along, its bristles digging into the pavement and leaving long, wet tracks in its wake. He was coming up on a viaduct to his right. He looked over the edge of the bridge, watched as a few cars screamed by on the road below, their rear lights glowing like hot coals.
With a careless toss, he let go of the peas, sent them falling over the side where they struck the street below with a loud smack.
Combing a hand through his stubborn hair and slicking it back, he grasped the stony edge and wondered if he shouldn't follow suit, plummet after them.
What else is there in store for you? You're done, worthless now. If you can't fight, what's the point? Everything you worked for is gone. Without even realizing it, his good eye began to overflow with tears. They streamed down his cheek, dampening his bare chest. Groaning, he buried his fist against the stone before him, splitting his hand open and leaving behind a bloodstain. Even before this you weren't good enough. With two working eyes you were still a joke.
Silvio stared at the road below. Cars continued speeding past.
Maybe you should do it.
Maybe you should jump.
Maybe it's what you deserve.
You were weak. You haven't got any talent. This is for the best, the only fate you deserve.
Silvio took a deep breath and climbed up onto the edge. Looking out from such dizzying heights, he raised one foot and felt out the emptiness before him. It would be so easy, to just take one step forward. He could pretend there was an invisible staircase before him. Gravity would take care of the rest.
&nb
sp; It's no Golden Gloves, but it'd get you into the local papers again, at least.
He brought his left leg forward and took in a sharp breath.
3
Silvio mopped up the yolk of an egg with his toast. The edge of his newspaper had been left sticky with pancake syrup, a tiny handprint in the corner of the classifieds section leaving all of the pages clumped together. He arched a brow and wiped off Leah's hands with a paper towel. “Don't grab the paper while daddy's reading,” he said.
The girl scampered off, giggling.
Sarah looked over at him apprehensively, studying his face closely in the morning light. The swelling had gone down, had almost completely gone, but now the bruising had begun and it wasn't a pretty sight. “Anything?” she asked, averting her gaze to the newspaper he'd set aside with a sigh.
Silvio grimaced. “Oh, yeah, lots.” He reached over and tapped the paper firmly with his finger. “Says here I can get paid real well by walking some lady's dogs twice a week. Imagine that. What'll we do with such a wage, eh? Think the landlord will accept a few packs of Big League Chew in place of rent, because that's about all we're gonna be able to afford on these shitty jobs.”
Sarah frowned and returned to her pancakes.
The job search had been brutal. To start with, Silvio didn't much want to go to an interview looking like a sideshow freak. His face was painted in brilliant blues and blacks, and though he could open his right eye now, he still couldn't see through it. It was a dead-looking thing. The color had gone from it somewhat, except in the whites, where it looked more than a little bloodshot. He cringed as he remembered his most recent doctor's visit. His girlfriend's parents had taken pity on them, extended them enough money to get by til Silvio could find himself a “real” job. He hadn't wanted to accept it, but couldn't much refuse under the circumstances. Along with the money, they'd offered to pay for a visit with an eye specialist, whose thorough examination yielded the same result the ER physician had come to. Permanent blindness due to optical nerve damage. Surgery would be enormously expensive, the doctor had confided, and in his case, would have a less than ten percent chance of success.
His mornings had devolved into the same annoying ritual. A quick breakfast, a search through the paper for new jobs, a tantrum thrown over the shortage of good work and then, subsequently, he'd furiously send off a few applications. So far, no one had called him back. He liked it better that way.
He knew he'd have to earn something, and soon. There was no way Sarah's folks were going to support them forever. Still, the thought of taking on some shitty job, the kind of busywork usually done by high schoolers, pissed him off. He was a fighter. He belonged in the ring. Anything less felt degrading to him.
During his doctor's visit, he'd broken down, asking the ophthalmologist whether anything could be done to salvage his eye. The doctor's response was kicking around in his head even a week later. “No, sorry. The technology's just not there yet.” Medical science could do some incredible things; just recently Silvio had stumbled upon a story about scientists who were growing new organs using stem cells or some such thing. How was it that they couldn't fix an eye? It seemed so damn simple, at least in theory. The doctor claimed that the nerve had been irreversibly damaged. Couldn't they just fix it? Patch it up somehow, or reconnect it?
Apparently not.
And so, Silvio searched the wanted ads every morning, looking out for something worthwhile. He needed a job that paid him well enough to live comfortably, but it also couldn't be so dull or unrewarding to him that it made him want to return to the viaduct.
After breakfast, Sarah took Leah out to the park, and advised Silvio to stay at home, in case any job offers came in. He stationed himself by the phone and brewed up a pot of coffee while waiting for the phone to ring.
It never did.
On his hundredth perusal of the wanted ads, when he didn't find anything worth his time, Silvio lost it.
He stood up and overturned the kitchen table. He planted his fist in the wall, knocking straight through the drywall and denting the stud within. He kicked one of the legs off of his chair and batted the stack of days-old newspapers about until they were practically confetti. And then he wept. This was his life now. He was at the world's mercy. If someone didn't throw him a bone, offer him some side job, he'd be sunk. It hadn't been like that before, when he was in the ring. He didn't often win and his earnings were meager, but at least he had a direction. He didn't have to ask for permission, didn't have to send off a resume anywhere. He simply stepped into the ring and had a go. The only requirement was a quick pair of hands.
When Sarah returned, she found him laying face down in bed, seething. Her face was white in stumbling upon the destruction in the kitchen, and she lingered in the doorway a long while, Leah asleep in her arms. “Silvio,” she said after a time, fighting back tears. “You have a phone call. I'm... I'm going to clean up.” She was on the very edge. Sarah couldn't stand it anymore, couldn't cope with his outbursts and mood swings. In the past few days he'd had many. Though Silvio had always been a bit mercurial in temperament, the loss of his eye and boxing career had made him a good deal more volatile. She crept out of the room, rocking Leah and picking up the fallen newspapers.
Silvio jumped up, nostrils flared. A phone call? Probably the goddamn electric company, he thought. Someone lookin' for money, someone calling to fuck us around right now that we have nothing to give 'em. He stormed out, red-faced, and snatched the phone up off of the counter. “Yeah, this is Silvio.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then the caller began. “Mr. Echegaray, a pleasure.” It was a man's voice, smooth and quiet. Soothing in an eerie sort of way. “My name is Roger Trask. I'm with the Aderhold Corporation and I'm calling about an application you sent us a few days ago.”
Silvio straightened, shoving his anger out the door for a moment. “Oh, yes, yes. Aderhold, yes. How can I help you?” He'd seen the listing in the newspaper, a warehouse job for the Aderhold Corporation. They were a big company, had a finger in all sorts of pies. Their claim to fame was their online storefront, the biggest in the world. They prided themselves on customer satisfaction, coming up with programs that allowed them to ship all kinds of pointless shit-- books, toiletries, clothing-- half a world away within the space of a day. He frowned a little bit as he imagined himself working at one of their fulfillment centers, filling shipping containers. He'd applied only because Sarah had insisted. The pay was reasonable and, for employees who stayed on more than six months, benefits were offered.
Trask continued, chuckling a bit. “Yes, I'm just calling to say that your application stood out to us, and we'd like you in for a detailed interview. Would you be interested in visiting our headquarters in San Francisco at nine, sharp, tomorrow morning?”
Silvio hesitated, giving a weak shrug. San Francisco was an hour's drive in good traffic. More likely he'd take the bus. “S-sure,” he said after a time, glancing over at Sarah. “I'll meet you for the interview tomorrow at nine. Do I just, uh, walk in and tell someone in the lobby I'm there for an interview?”
“Precisely,” said Trask. “We'll be waiting for you in the lobby. Don't be late.”
The line went dead.
Silvio hung up the phone and smiled sheepishly. “Well, that was Aderhold. They want me to come in for an interview.” His smile faded somewhat as he imagined himself running around a dim warehouse, wearing an Aderhold-branded polo. “You happy now?”
Sarah's eyes softened. “I know it's not what you want, but this is a good start. If you get this job, we'll be able to support ourselves. And if you stay there a while, we'll get benefits out of it, too.”
Silvio nodded. “Guess so.” Still, he wasn't pleased. He wondered if he was doing the right thing, if such a tedious job could really keep his attention. He'd never worked a proper job before. He'd always sustained himself by competing in boxing matches; first in unofficial street matches, then in the local small-time circuits. Showing up on-t
ime to a building only to clock in and spend half the day there sounded like hell to him. “Gonna have to give it a try, either way,” he added.
One day you're aiming to become heavyweight champion, the next you're blind in one eye and packing boxes for a living. A goddamn disgrace, that is.
He set the table upright, picked up the remainder of his mess and apologized to Sarah for causing such a stir.
It's a disgrace... But a man has to eat, he reminded himself.
4
Silvio turned up at Aderhold HQ in his best clothes. He'd sucked down a coffee before leaving the apartment and hopped onto a bus, arriving with a quarter of an hour to spare. He spent this time in the restroom adjusting the floppy collar of his dress shirt and trying to smooth out the wrinkles in his khakis. It didn't really matter what he did. No piece of clothing, no matter how pristine, was going to divert attention from the bold bruises on his face.
The building was massive. He remembered hearing about its construction in the news a few years back. It was a sprawling thing, took more than a year to build and brought a record number of jobs to the area. Of a decidedly modernistic make, the halls and entrances were done up in thick panes of glass, so as to give full display of the well-manicured grounds. Gurgling fountains, meticulously-shaped shrubberies; it was picturesque. It didn't look at all like the headquarters of a massive retail company. The interior was kept spotless, a real marvel considering the foot traffic a building of its importance probably got in a day. Smooth, rocky tiles made up the floors, tasteful pieces of framed art lined the walls, and corners sometimes featured elegant sculptures.
The bulk of the light was natural, flooding in through the windows and scattered skylights, but here and there expertly-positioned mood lights cast a glow on items of interest, such as artworks or desks. The reception area was one such target, basking in the yellowish glow of a recessed lighting system. Every countertop in view was fashioned of marble, and the fixtures themselves, down to the very last waiting area chair, were built of strong, dark wood.
Bonecrusher: A Kaiju Thriller (The Armageddon Tetralogy Book 1) Page 2
