As he lifts the sag of leatherskinned rope and ducks underneath, the boy looks down. And does not look up as he walks to the blue. Turns and sits on the small, hard stool and breathes out his nose then smells his own sweat and the sweat of others still working out. Behind him, the lash and crack of hard, fast skipping. To his left, the smack and gasp of hit heavy bags. And in his mouth, the tire-like taste of the lime-green guard on which the boy bites down and—he cannot help it—gags. He works his jaw. Dislodges the guard. Sucks back spit. Swallows hard. Looks at Billy Sims, who is over in the red and probably the only sparring partner in the same age group—twelve to fifteen—the boy can easily beat.
But Billy’s dad is here. Wearing just an undershirt—his arms all tattoo—even though it’s March. Used to be a boxer. Now he’s just a brawler. Real name’s Terry. People call him Four Ball. That’s how he did the guy who was living with Billy’s mom. With a four ball. At the Legion. In a sock. Gets out on weekend leave now. And he’s looking across the ring. Looking across the ring and listening to Dale Turner, one of his friends from the old pool hall, who’s talking into his ear. Four Ball nods and laughs through the space in his teeth and keeps looking at the boy.
And the boy bows his head. Eyes the fraying laces on his left boot then watches the sleet—so fat and hard it’s almost hail—smack and splotch and then slide down the old and dingy windows. And he feels behind him now the absence of his father. Hands in the pockets of his well-pressed trousers. Sucking on a mint or a Fisherman’s Friend. And shouting out instructions—That’s it, lad, interrogate!—that make other people laugh and jackdaw his accent. He pays them no attention. Used to be a boxer—a passable one, he said—in the British army. But now he teaches math and has a bad hip and is still installing—three days on—the Stanley automatic garage door opener that the boy’s mother gave him for his forty-third birthday. It is hard to square the man who limps and mutters in the cold garage with the man inside the photo albums. The man in khaki. Or in the snow-white trunks and singlet. When the rose on his shoulder didn’t look like a bruise. When his legs looked like Greek statues. It is hard to square. And the boy has told his mother he does not want to box. But when he thinks of his father, he does not want to quit. Shoves in his mouthguard. Clears his throat.
Over in the red, the club’s old coach and owner, Mutley Wells, is taping Billy’s gloves and giving him the talk. Billy squints against the smoke and nods a lot, and when he jumps on the spot, his blubber jiggles. He’s maybe five two. Weighs one fifty. Throws bazooka combos. But can barely see three feet. Sits in the front row at school and still has to squint. The boy tells himself to stay outside. Where he’ll be nothing but a blur.
Mutley grabs hold of Billy’s wrists and brings his gloves together and then turns and walks across the ring like it’s the end of a very long road. The boy looks at the old humped back and at the wrecked face. The stubby Player’s Special pinched between long wax-yellow teeth. Mutley is always smoking. Rattles when he breathes. But was middleweight champ of Scotland before the Korean War. In the pictures and clippings from his fights—they’re on every wall—his busted face looks almost like the Elephant Man. And when he kneels and takes out his tape, the boy looks at the mangled ear and the veiny, bloated nose. You could probably fit a pencil lead in one of the wide black pores.
Once he’s laced and taped the cuff of each glove, Mutley buckles up the boy’s headgear and around the fag end says, Remember what ah telt you.
The boy nods once like boxers on the telly.
Use that jab ae yours.
He nods again.
But keep this one up, says Mutley, and he grabs hold of the boy’s right wrist. Lifts the glove chin high. And the boy holds it there and nods. And Mutley says, Throw it as well, yeah?
The boy blinks. Thinks of times he could have—thrown the right bang—but didn’t.
Mind me, says Mutley.
Around his mouthguard, the boy says, Sorry.
Combinations, says Mutley. Like ah’ve showed you. But don’t stand still. You know what that wan’s like—Mutley jerks his sausagey thumb at Billy Sims—in he’ll come like a herd ae fuck’n elephants.
The boy nods and looks over at Billy, who is watching his dad show him vicious crosses. The thing with Billy is don’t hit him too hard or too much or he flips. Caught Pete Marshall—a pretty good boxer—with a Hail Mary hook last month, and laid him flat out cold.
Mind me, says Mutley, who makes a V with his fingers and points it at his gunky eyes.
The boy gives his head a shake. Looks steady at his coach.
These aren’t, says Mutley, bloody stilts you’re on. He whaps the boy’s left leg and his right leg, and the boy blinks and nods again. Use them, says Mutley, right? Stick and move. You’ve got tae stick and move.
The boy breathes deep—gags on his guard—and nods.
Right, says Mutley, and then he drags his right leg up and braces himself and slowly stands then looks over the boy’s shoulder and shouts, Angus!
Aye!
We’re waitin on ye!
Right!
Behind him, the boy hears Angus—Angus Wells, Mutley’s youngest son—give the speed bag one last bash then run toward the ring. Angus is sixteen and always fuckin furious. Face like a fist with freckles and toilet-brush red hair and probably the best boxer for his weight and age group in all of Ontario. Biceps like halves of a five-pin bowling ball shoved beneath his skin. Mutley makes him ref the junior sparring. It’s the only time Angus ever laughs. But he helps his old dad down out of the ring. Then takes off his bag gloves and scoots beneath the ropes. Rolls and stands and points at each corner.
The boy stands—his galloping heart—and behind him Mutley removes the little stool.
In the middle of the ring, the boy stands as tall as he can and reminds himself to stay outside and be a blur. He looks at Angus. Then at his boots. Then at Billy—his spidery mustache and the taut purple pimples on his shoulders and chin.
Angus says, Right. And he pinches a nostril. Blows out the other. And says, I don’t want to see any shite, hear me?
The boy nods. Billy nods.
Good clean fightin an’ all.
The boys nod together.
Right, touch gloves.
They touch gloves, and Angus pushes them farther apart and takes a step back. Flicks his hand and then says Box like it rhymes with hoax.
The boy gets up on his toes. Billy squints. Comes plodding on.
Sims, says Mutley, chin!
Billy tucks his chin.
And Angus looks at his father. Points at the boy and says, Look at the dancin on this one. Then he laughs.
And Mutley says, Mind the fight or ah’ll brain you.
Angus screws up his face and looks disgustedly at the space between the boys. Ah said box.
The boy moves in.
Billy knows—because Mutley’s told him—about the boy’s jab. Keeps his gloves up. But his arms are so short that his belly may as well have a target painted on it. The boy glances at Mutley whose face says, What in fuck are you waitin on?
And then, beyond Mutley, the boy sees his father, standing tall but round in the shoulders and watching the fight like theorems.
Then he looks back and—boof—Billy tags him. Right in the nose. Four Ball yells, Yeah! The boy’s eyes water. And Billy starts swinging like the boy is a cloud of blackflies. Move! says Mutley. And his father says, Lateral, protect! The boy covers up and ducks and dances to the left. Pick your punches, Billy, says Four Ball Sims. Be patient, now, be patient!
But Billy’s breathing hard.
The boy blinks and sets himself. Three hard jabs into Billy’s gloves and Billy keeps them up so the boy sticks one into Billy’s belly and when his gloves come down he jabs him hard in the face. Mutley says, Combos! And the boy’s father says, Muck in, lad, muck in! Over Billy’s shoulder, the
boy sees Dale and Four Ball sneering. He brings up Billy’s guard again and—does not know where it comes from—lands a right hook on Billy’s jiggly belly. Billy makes a sound like a cat hacking hairballs. Doesn’t counter. But the boy backs off, and Mutley says Ach and Billy just keeps coming on his stumpy legs and taking jabs and getting redder and redder. His eyes water and Four Ball says, Slip his jab and hook him! Slip his jab and hook him! But the boy dances and stays outside until Angus stares daggers and says, Try a little boxin.
The boy moves in and jabs and jabs, and Billy tries to counter but he doesn’t have the reach then the boy lands a right on Billy’s nose. Backs off. Sees the blood. Morris, says Matley, the kid’s found his right! But the boy’s father just looks on and says nothing. Billy sniffs hard. Swings wild. The boy says, Easy. But Billy barrels in. The boy jabs. Billy’s head rebounds. Four Ball yells, Slip it! But the face on Billy. The boy knows it. Has felt it on himself when he was sparring tougher guys. You feel paralyzed. Babyish. Like you were born just to stand there and take it. The boy jabs softer. Connects and says, Sorry. And scowls at Angus when he laughs. Billy starts squealing like a garbage bag of kittens. And in he comes with the Hail Mary bombers.
Move! says Mutley.
And the boy does move. Right into Angus. Stumbles. Rights himself but—bang—catches one on the ear. The world goes like the space between two channels. He steps back—is on the ropes—and as though from a distance his dad says, Protect. He covers up as best he can and hopes for Time. But Angus doesn’t call Time. And Billy keeps squealing and bashing and Four Ball cheers and says, Dig his fuckin heart out! Between his gloves the boy sees Mutley point at Four Ball and shout. And then he takes a right in the ribs. Feels his whole frame shudder. Drops to one knee. Billy keeps bashing. Angus darts in. And the boy drives a right—boof—into the cup of Billy’s groin protector.
Billy folds and falls and flops around bawling like a devastated walrus, and his dad comes charging round the ring. Points at the boy as though he’s an assassin on a balcony and yells, Low fuckin blow! Low fuckin blow! Angus kneels by Billy, and then looks at the boy. See you, he says, out.
The boy stands and cradles his side, though it doesn’t hurt so much, and eases himself between the ropes. Four Ball Sims is a few feet away and glaring at him around Mutley, who has a hold of his shoulders. The boy’s father walks around the opposite corner and light gleams in the strands of spit as the boy lets his mouthguard drop into his gloves. He is about to say he didn’t mean to. It just happened. But his father nods toward the locker room and just says, Change.
The boy jumps down and walks past guys who have been watching, and all of them stare as though he stole money from their jeans. At the door leading to the hallway and locker room, the boy looks back. Sees Angus and Mutley kneeling either side of Billy, who is sitting up now, and they are rubbing his back and patting his shoulders and saying things to make him laugh. Four Ball has one hand on the edge of the ring as he looks between the ropes at Billy. Then he looks at the boy’s father, who is over by the windows. Hands in pockets. Head down.
In the locker room, the boy drops his mouthguard in the garbage bin. Tears at the tape on his gloves with his teeth and then at the laces. Shakes off the gloves and unwraps his hands then drops the wraps in the trash as well. Unbuckles his headgear. Punts it.
Pete Marshall sticks his head in and says, Why’d you do that?
The boy sits on a bench and says nothing.
Four Ball, says Pete, is pretty pissed off.
The boy looks at Pete and says, Shut your mouth.
But when Pete goes, he stands at the sink and looks in the mirror at the twitching of his jaw. Grinds his molars. Peels off his singlet and tries to tear it in two but can’t. Just bends over the sink and sloshes water through his hair. Hears Billy’s dad yelling in the hallway. Then Mutley. Then—softer and calmer—the voice of his father. The three of them pass by the locker room. The boy opens the door a bit and leans out and looks down the hall. In front of the trophy case, Mutley is standing between the two men. Look pal, I’ll no tell you again. G’wan outside and cool off, or I’ll ban you.
Ban me? What about fuckin—
Watch the language. Ah’ve telt ye. We’ll sort it.
As Mutley talks, the boy watches his father—his taut face and the little bobbings of his Adam’s apple—then Angus sees him and crooks his finger and points at the floor by his feet.
Eyes down, the boy walks into the foyer.
Right, says Mutley, you’ll be speakin with Billy in a moment, but you can start with Mr. Sims. Then Mutley looks at Billy’s dad and says, Ah’ll see how wee William’s doon. Then he leaves.
Above them, the fluorescent lights hum. The boy looks at his father. His father nods once.
Sorry, Mr. Sims.
Look at the man, says his father, not the floor.
The boy looks briefly at Terry Sims’s face—his gargoyle face—and at his hideous arms. And says, Sorry. Sorry I hit Billy. Then, under his breath, as Sims snorts and starts to walk away, the boy says, Bastard.
His father says, What.
And Four Ball stops. Turns. Makes a fist. And cocks it.
And the boy says, Dad! Hears the awful bone-to-bone crack. And sees his father’s head rebound. His forelock lift. And his arms spread wide as he falls—falls hard—to the wet, filthy floor.
Everything thrumming like amperage in wire, and the boy looks at his father lift his head and shake it. And then he looks at Four Ball. Looks at Four Ball and backs up a step. But puts up his fists. His shaking fists. And Four Ball laughs. And then the boy’s father is up, and Four Ball says, Want it again? But his father walks by as if he doesn’t hear. As if Four Ball isn’t even there. He walks and he stares straight ahead like a clockwork man, and as he reaches for the door says, Son, come.
The boy, bare-chested, thinks for a moment about his bag and his coat and his clothes, but he runs past Sims and out the doors where sleet hits him like a spitting mob. Fists either side of his chin, arms in an X across his chest, the boy leaps puddles in the parking lot. His father opens the tailgate. Leans in. Takes out the plaid blanket. Drapes it round the boy and says, Get in.
And the boy sees blood—like fine red thread strung along his father’s bottom gum and in between his teeth. He opens the car door and gets in and starts to shiver.
His father starts the car and cranks up the heat. Then he says, Belt.
The boy buckles up, and his father turns on the wipers and the lights and then he backs out.
Looking for Sims, the boy sees only Angus and Mutley. At the club’s front door. Holding the boy’s jacket and his gym bag and watching the car drive by as though it’s a hearse.
A pickup truck passes, and the driver leans on his horn and gives the finger, but the boy’s father doesn’t blink or flinch or speed up at all. Just stares straight ahead and drives like he does when they visit strange cities in Quebec. When the boy’s mother sighs behind maps. At the corner of the highway and County Road 7, the light goes red, and the boy yells out. His father brakes hard. They slide to a stop. The boy breathes out. Looks at his father. Sees that his chin is discoloured and trembling.
Dad.
Be quiet.
The boy holds his breath. Stares at the curling letters on the fake wood glovebox—Cutlass Supreme—for the rest of the way. At the end of their drive—the big evergreens in heavy grey light—the boy’s father reaches for the remote that is clipped to the visor. The garage door lifts. Then shudders and goes down.
His father stops the car and again tries the button.
The door does the same.
His father unclips the remote from the visor. Gets out of the car. Hurls the remote right over the trees. Tries to lift the door—it only budges—then holds his hip. Limps back to the car. Reaches in and turns it off and takes his keys. Slams the door.
The boy
gets out and steps in a puddle and grinds his teeth and runs through the sleet. Leaps up the stoop. Watches his father poke the key at the lock. Reaches for his wrist and says, Let me. His father whacks his hand. Drops the keys and kneels for them. But stays there.
In the front hall, the light goes on. Footfalls—his mother—in her knee-high boots. She opens the door and smells of Chanel and Aqua Net and looks very angry—they must be late for dinner or Bridge—then sees the boy in the blanket and gasps.
What’s happened?
The boy tries to answer but when he looks at his dad—at the hunched and shuddering back—it’s like a mouthguard turned the wrong way was shoved past his teeth and he’s choking.
Mid-Flight
The boy in 11A could easily be Slav, but his Gogol is in English.
Pardon me.
Yes.
You are Russian?
No.
United States.
Canada.
Do you know Kingston?
Where I went to grad school.
Queen’s University.
Yes. That’s right.
Last week I lectured there, in the department of Russian Studies. It was very nice, I say, when in fact I found the students dull, and the city even duller, but kindness pays when travelling. The young man in any case seems unimpressed. You are in Korea why? I ask.
He says, I live there.
Teaching?
ESL. Yonsei University.
This is remarkable. I was there yesterday.
Lecturing?
The last. Two months of travel. Tokyo. Bologna. Now, home.
For a moment, his mouth relaxes, and I sense in him a need to talk, but he only nods then sets upon his Gogol. Maybe I unnerve him. God knows I unnerve myself. This dewlapped stranger when I shave, staring dully back at me: the bloated nose and yellowing teeth; thin white hair and man-tits; slathering my lower back with analgesic ointment, and the rest of me with spray-on scent, masking leaks and seepage. In younger days I slept on flights. Now my guts begrudge me a rubbery slab of chicken, and I watch without sound the ending of a film about alien invasion. Flushed Korean men, meanwhile, bark for beer and soju, and whiny brats are doted on by their harried mothers. Mine bore thirteen of us and could arm wrestle farmhands. Now, she drools and soils herself, and after my long absence, will struggle (I am told) to remember who I am through an opiated daze.
The Ambassador of What Page 12
