by David Lubar
“Johnny,” she said. There was no joy in her voice. No sound of big-sister pride.
I waited.
“He died when he was three months old.”
“That’s brutal,” I said. “I can’t even imagine what that would be like.” I remembered the way she’d reacted when I suggested adding a baby to the painting. Worse, I remembered exactly the words I’d used. “You did an awesome Buddha. If you can do that, you can do a killer baby.” No wonder she’d fled the Art House.
“He was in his crib, playing with a stuffed bunny rabbit my aunt made him.” The rest came in isolated sentences, bracketed with painful stops. “I picked him up. I did it all the time. He looked so happy. I put him on my shoulder and rubbed his back. He fussed a little at first, but then he got so quiet. I didn’t know. The rabbit had button eyes. One of them was loose.”
She couldn’t finish.
“He choked?”
She nodded. Then, as we both swallowed huge portions of silence, said, “He died in my arms.”
No way. I am so glad that was a thought and not a blurted exclamation. Holy shit, she’d been smacked and slammed by life. I could see where her mom might think Jillian’s love was a death sentence. I’d even understand it if Jillian thought that way herself a little.
“That must have been terrible.”
She nodded.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have noticed.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“Every man in my life, everybody I loved…”
She dangled the thought, like a noose.
Don’t let her fall in love with you.
I had context now for that bizarre warning. I hoped her mother didn’t blame Jillian. It was one thing to feel that love led to curses. It was another to blame the beloved. Jillian’s love was no more to blame for those deaths than my presence at the next desk was to blame for Nola’s or Lucas’s tragedies, or my presence at home was to blame for my father’s unemployment. I left those thoughts unspoken. Jillian didn’t need rational responses right now. She needed understanding.
“Damn. That’s a lot to live through,” I said. “You should write a book.” I flinched. That sounded so stupid and insensitive.
“Nobody would believe it,” she said. “It’s too much.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You’re right.” It was okay in a book to have a dead parent, or a dad in jail, or a dead sibling, but all three would be way too much.
“And then I’d have to do something destructive,” she said.
“Like dating the wrong guy?” Oh, hell. I can’t believe I said that.
To my eternal relief, she smiled and gripped my shoulder with her free hand. “I’m too smart to do that. But you’re right. That’s how it would play out in a book. I’d date a guy who hit me, because I felt I needed to be punished.”
“At least you didn’t have a dog,” I said, trying to lighten the air a bit more. “They rarely make it through a book alive.”
Instead of smiling again, she gave me a look of such bottomless pain, I knew I’d stepped into another unseen pit.
“Oh, no…,” I said.
There was a nod buried somewhere in the convulsive sobs that followed. It was obvious, at least in Jillian’s case, that life was far more painful than fiction.
She let me hold her as she cried. My God, even racked with tears and wrapped with tragedy, she felt right in my arms. But after all my years of wanting and lusting to hold a girl this close, body pressed to body, there was no passion at the moment—just compassion.
Eventually, she pulled away. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be.” I wanted her back in my arms. I wanted to embrace and swallow all her sorrow. I wanted to be her comfort. I settled for handing her my handkerchief, and reminding myself to do something amazingly nice for Mom.
“I needed to tell you.” She dabbed the tears from her cheeks.
“I’m glad you did.”
“I don’t let myself get close to guys. A date or two, maybe … but I never let myself get close.”
“You can’t go through life like that.” I thought about how I’d avoided any attempt at dating after I’d been hurt by Shelly.
“I know.… There aren’t any real curses. Right?”
“Right.”
We didn’t talk much the rest of the way to her house. When we reached her front door, I put my hands on her shoulders and said, “I’m not going away.”
“I know.”
“No curses.”
There was a kiss—brief but full of promise. Lips slightly parted, her hand against the back of my neck. I realized I was inhaling through my nose the very breath she exhaled, as if she were giving me a gift of life. Then, too soon, it ended.
I headed home. I have a girlfriend. The thought tried to fit itself into the rigid self-image I’d constructed over the years. I’d built a walled fortress from the large and small hurts thrust on me by others or brought about by my own actions. Or inactions.
I have a girlfriend.
I think.
A girlfriend who’s afraid to fall in love.
I decided not to add that to my stack of worries. Not tonight.
* * *
BACK IN SCHOOL on Monday, Jillian’s first glance toward me was loaded with uncertainty. I realize she might have regretted revealing so much of herself, her past, and her fears. Maybe I wasn’t the only insecure human on the planet.
I smiled, trying to send a thousand reassuring messages in one simple expression. She seemed relieved. We talked in Art, but kept away from any mention of death and curses. We shared a bag of Doritos at lunch. We both thanked Ms. Ryder for the tickets when we got to Government class.
The day went perfectly. Until it ended in bloodshed.
Battle
“FRIES?” I ASKED when Government ended.
“Sure,” Jillian said.
As we cut across the front lawn, I heard a loud whoop of triumph. I glanced back just in time to see Jimby vault out of the front exit, clutching a handful of papers. He kept looking around as he walked down the center path toward the street.
“Hang on,” I said to Jillian. “I think Jimby’s trying to find me.” I waved at him.
He stopped when he saw me, held up the papers, and shouted, “Cliff! I got a B-plus!”
“Awesome!” I shouted back.
“She said I did a good job!” He broke into a happy dance. I hate to say it, but even Jimby, loaded down with a backpack and holding a story, danced better than I did.
Some of the kids on the lawn turned toward him when he shouted, but they lost interest right away. Jimby’s displays of exuberance were familiar enough to be unremarkable. As he was stomping the cement in celebration and I was grinning at the sight of his pleasure, I saw Clovis and his crew spill out of the front entrance.
“Oh, no. This is bad.” I waved at Jimby again, trying to get his attention, but his gyrations had shifted him enough that he was facing away from me.
“Jimby!” Jillian shouted.
He kept up his dancing and whooping, right in the middle of the sidewalk, shouting, “B-plus! B-plus!”
“We better get over there,” I said to Jillian.
“Out of my way, retard,” Clovis said when he reached Jimby. There was plenty of room on either side for him to walk around, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen.
Jimby froze. I knew how much he hated that word.
“You deaf?” Without waiting for a response, Clovis gave Jimby a shove.
Jimby staggered back and toppled down on his butt. I relaxed a little, relieved that Clovis hadn’t punched him. He’d be okay. We knocked each other around harder than that when we played touch football. Or basketball. Even checkers, one time.
He started to get back up.
Stay down, I thought. I dropped my backpack and ran toward them.
Not having the good fortune to have this page in front of him, Jimby wasn’t instan
tly aware of my thoughts.
He pushed himself up and screamed at Clovis, “I’m not a retard! You’re a stupid bully. I should have let you burn up in that fire!”
Clovis recoiled and wiped his face. Oh, hell. Jimby gets a bit wet when he shouts. I rushed toward them, shifting from a jog to a full-speed sprint, but not in time to stop Clovis from punching Jimby in the stomach.
He went down again. Then he rolled on his side and puked, splattering Clovis’s shoes.
“You disgusting brain-dead piece of shit!” Clovis shouted. “I’m gonna kill you!” He kicked Jimby in the face. I saw a spray of blood shoot from Jimby’s nose.
I dived forward and tackled Clovis.
It wasn’t exactly like diving headfirst into a tree, but it was closer to that than to a leap into a pit full of pillows.
Even so, Clovis went down.
We tumbled across the ground. I rolled free, figuring I was better off on my feet, where I could move around and avoid a choke hold or armlock. If Clovis got his arms around my neck, I’d be in trouble. I had a feeling he didn’t recognize the concept of tapping out.
He was still on the ground. That should have been my chance. I could have hit him hard as he was rising. But this wasn’t a movie, and I’m not a fighter. I hesitated as I contemplated my best move. Before he even got fully upright, Clovis proved his aggressive instincts were better-honed than mine. He charged forward, springing at me from a crouch. His first punch caught me on the shoulder. The next clipped my chin.
I was dazed for a moment, but mostly by the realization that I wasn’t badly hurt. The punch had jolted me, but it hadn’t knocked me down.
“Watch out!” Jillian shouted.
Good plan.
I backpedaled and watched Clovis’s hands. He went into an exaggerated windup like a Little League pitcher and threw a looping right at my head. I blocked it with my left arm. And learned that you can’t really block a looping punch that way. I took most of the impact on my forearm, but his fist still managed to continue the loop and jolt my cheekbone.
Despite the jolt, I was able to thrust my right fist straight out, hitting him in the stomach. He grunted and stepped back, more surprised than injured, I imagine. But I’d landed a punch.
I will repeat that.
I landed a punch.
My whole life, I’d never been in a serious fight. Somehow, I’d managed to avoid battle until now.
Clovis threw another looping right.
This time, I ducked.
That would have been a totally brilliant defensive strategy on my part, if he hadn’t followed the right with a left to my chest. Of course, thanks to my decision to duck, my chest had been replaced as the point of impact, altitudinally, by my face.
That one caught me straight in the jaw, briefly giving me a view of several minor constellations. I went back and down. But I tucked my chin in and rolled over my shoulders.
Holy crap. I’d never done a backwards roll, either. This was a day for potentially bone-snapping firsts. I hoped it didn’t turn into a day for lasts. Like last day on earth. Or last day with all my teeth. My brief exercise in gymnastics brought me next to Jimby, who was on all fours, watching the fight.
“Get out of here,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I got this covered.”
“We can gang up on him.”
“That wouldn’t be sporting,” I said. More to the point, it might bring the rest of the Thug Nuts into the fight. They seemed content, for the moment, to leave things one on one. I figured it would also be a good idea to get Jimby to a safe spot before Clovis reached us. I pointed at Jillian. “Do me a favor. Keep an eye on her. Things could get rough.”
I caught her eye, then pointed at Jimby. She nodded.
“Don’t worry,” Jimby said. “I’ll protect her.”
I had to protect her, too, from something far less solid than a fist, but far more damaging. As much as she tried to push herself away from it, I knew that somewhere deep inside, she believed that any guy she cared about would suffer. If I got badly hurt, which seemed to be Clovis’s plan, she might never talk to another guy. Not that I ever wanted her to talk to another guy. But if I got beat up, and she felt it was her fault, it’s possible she’d leave me. I couldn’t let that happen. I needed to survive. More than that, I needed to win. Somehow.
I got up and wiped my forehead with my arm, trying to keep the flood of sweat from blurring my vision. Clovis came in hard. In the peripheral world that was trying its best to distract me, I realized we were ringed by a mob of cheering students. Much of the shouting seemed to involve enthusiasm for my efforts and delight at any damage I dealt to Clovis. The volume definitely rose whenever I landed a blow, or even came close.
That helped.
I also realized that whatever beating I’d taken so far from Clovis, it wasn’t the first thumping I’d received. I’d been smacked plenty of times, both physically and emotionally. The Pit had walloped me pretty hard. So had Patricia and Mr. Yuler. Even Christopher and Brad, without knowing it, had smacked me in the gut with a spiked baseball bat.
Life had beaten the crap out of me in various ways over the years. I’d slipped on wet rocks once, when wading in the Black River, up near Hacklebarny State Park, and had gone down hard. That hurt a lot worse than a punch from Clovis. I’d fallen off bikes and skateboards. I’d tumbled down hills and slammed my fingers in plenty of doors.
As much as I liked to imagine myself traveling through life as a sensitive artist, I guess, deep inside, when it really mattered, I was one fucking tough dude.
I could handle this.
I kept swinging, dodging, counterpunching, and doing various pugilistic stuff I couldn’t even find terms for. I had no idea how long we’d been fighting. I was panting. Sweat drenched my back and rolled down my face, stinging my eyes. Clovis was heaving for air, his breath rasping like someone having a bad asthma attack. His face was ruddy. The glare of rage was tinged with a coating of confusion. In his world, I was supposed to go down at the first punch, if not sooner.
But I guess the reality was that, unlike movie characters and comic book action heroes, both of us pretty much sucked at fighting. I, because I chose not to seek out fights. Or, to be brutally honest, because I feared them. Clovis, because he chose intimidation and weak opponents in lieu of true combat.
As he hauled back his fist for another of his increasingly predictable looping rights, I landed a solid left jab to the side of his face. My hand felt like I’d slammed it against a steel beam, but Clovis spun halfway around. The crowd cheered.
I risked a quick glance to my right. Jillian had an arm around Jimby’s shoulders, both to comfort him, I’d imagine, and to keep him from leaping to my aid.
When I stepped toward Clovis to follow up my jab with a right, he lunged forward and gave me a hard shove with both hands. I staggered back as I fought to regain my balance, and bumped into the wall of flesh that ringed our arena. Past Clovis and beyond the crowd behind him, I saw fragmented flashes of a dark suit and yellow necktie moving our way. Principal Strichtman was coming down the front steps.
We were a zero-tolerance school. It didn’t matter whether someone came at you with a machete. If you fought back, you got suspended. If I got suspended, my dad would really make me suffer.
Just then, Holy Moses, the crowd behind me parted. I felt hands on my shoulders. My classmates were dragging me into the sea of spectators. To my right, Jillian whispered something to Jimby.
He nodded. His nose had mostly stopped bleeding. But it had flowed heavily enough to stain his shirt, which was also splattered with vomit.
Jimby stepped into the open area and dropped to the ground at Clovis’s feet.
The crowd closed in around me, swallowing me into its anonymity like I was a marble dropped into a bowl of pudding.
The principal burst through the other side of the human-walled arena.
Jimby rolled on the ground, clutching his face and howl
ing. “Don’t hit me again, Clovis. Please don’t hit me. You can have my money. All of it.”
As I stood propped there, hands above my knees, and dragged oxygen into lungs that had almost quit working, I frowned, puzzled by Jimby’s actions. The frown became a grin when I realized what was happening. This was perfect.
Clovis’s jaw dropped. Befuddlement clouded his face. At that moment, Jimby was the smartest person in the room. Or the arena. Or maybe even the universe.
The forces of justice, in the form of a half-dozen teachers and administrators, including one excessively rough and visibly angry eight-fingered shaved-headed shop teacher, swooped in on Clovis and dragged him off. He screamed inarticulately about the frame-up being perpetrated against him, flailing his arms as he pointed alternately at Jimby and in the direction of my disappearance from the front lines.
“Tell them!” he shouted at his lackeys.
They remained mute. I could already see them sizing each other up, figuring out who would rise to the top.
A hand, cool and soft, rested against the back of my neck. “You okay?” Jillian asked, her words entering my ear on currents of a warm breath that sent a tingle through my flesh.
“I’ve battled floors and doors that hit harder,” I said. “Not to mention some fairly jagged river rocks.”
She hugged me, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “Well fought, Romeo.”
I flinched at the pain, but sucked it up. Meanwhile, in the center of the former boxing ring, one of the teachers was trying to convince Jimby to go to the nurse, but he told her he was fine.
I went up to Jimby after the teacher left and asked the same question Jillian had asked me—without the erotic presentation. “You okay?”
“I’m super duper,” he said. “I can act. Right, Jillian?”
“Right,” she said. “You were perfect.”
“I was pretty smart,” he said.
“You sure were.” I threw him a hug, not caring at all about the contact transmission of blood and vomit. “Smartest guy in the fight,” I said.
We’d always been blood brothers at heart. This just made it official. We were blood and guts brothers.
