by Markus Zusak
As I walked back toward him, my arms throbbed, and my spine climbed my back. When I picked him up again, we nearly fell together into the wall.
On the way through the house, I managed to jam one of Rube's knees into a door frame, and by the time I got us into our room, Sarah was standing there, sleepy-eyed until terror strangled her face.
"What the hell --"
"Quiet," I said. "Just help me."
She stripped the blanket off Rube's bed and I placed him down on it. My arms were on fire as I took his jacket and flanno off, leaving him in his jeans and boots.
He was cut up and badly bruised. A few ribs were swollen and one of his eyes was pitch-black. Even his knuckles were bleeding. He got a few good ones in, I thought, but all of that meant nothing now.
We stood there. Sarah looked from Rube to me, recognizing his blood on the arms of my jacket. She cried.
The light was off now but the hall light was on.
We could feel someone else arrive and I knew it was Mrs. Wolfe. Without even looking, I could picture the hurt expression on her face.
"He'll be okay," I managed to say, but she didn't leave. She came toward us as Rube's voice fought its way next to me.
His hand came out from under the blanket and held on to mine.
"Thanks," he said. "Thanks, brother."
The pale light hit me from the window. My heart howled.
THE EYES HAVE IT
I see myself standing on a city street, where a flood of people crowds toward me. Somehow, I manage to stay still, and I soon realize that all of these people are faceless. A blankness shrouds their eyes and they have no expression at all.
It's only when I begin to walk, through the gaps, against the flow, that I notice that some of the faces have actually kept their form.
At one point, I see Sarah, finding her own way through, and at another, I see my father, and Mrs. Wolfe, walking together, holding hands.
A long way off, I see Octavia.
I don't see her face, because she's going in the same direction as me. I see only her hair, and her neck and shoulders through the crowd.
Of course, like before, my first instinct is to go after her -- but immediately, I stop. I stop and look to my right and see my reflection, even though there's no mirror or glass to speak of. There's only a concrete wall, but I'm able to see myself.
I see my eyes.
They're eyes of hunger and desire. They tell me:
Don't move from here -- not yet.
They ask me:
Are you okay, Cameron?
I think about it and take a good look at me. I look at my boyish arms, my dirty fingers, and wanting face. I look at the eyes, and I see the hunger and desire, growing and feeding, determined to make me worthwhile, to be somebody, on my own.
And I nod.
I can move on now, because here, at this moment, no matter how fragile it might be, I can feel okayness growing inside me.
The funny thing is that okayness is not a real word. It's not in the dictionary.
But it's in me.
CHAPTER 19
I'll give it to him.
Rube actually got up the next morning and went to work with Dad and me. He was bruised and still prone to constant bleeding, but he still showed up and worked as hard as he could. I don't think there are many people who could take a beating like that and get up the next day and work.
That was Rube.
There isn't anything else I can say to explain it.
Everyone woke up in the morning when he and Dad argued, but once it was over, that was it. Mrs. Wolfe asked, or actually, begged Rube to stay in at night more often, and there was no way he'd be arguing with that. He agreed completely and we filed out to the car and left. In the car, I could smell him -- there was disinfectant on all his cuts.
It was mid-afternoon when Rube finally asked about some of the hazier details of the previous night.
"So how far was it, Cam?" His words came and stood in front of me. They wanted the truth.
I stopped work. "How far what?"
"You know." He caught himself in my eyes. "How far did you carry me last night?"
"A fair way."
"All the way?"
I nodded.
"I'm sorry," he went to say, but we both knew it wasn't needed.
"Forget about it," I said.
The rest of the afternoon passed by pretty quickly. I watched Rube work at times and knew that somehow he'd be all right. He was just that type. If he was alive, he'd be all right.
"What are y' lookin' at?" he asked me later, when he saw me watching him and wondering about it.
"Nothin'."
We even afforded a laugh, especially me, because I decided I had to stop being caught when I was watching people. Watching people isn't really a bad habit in my opinion. It's the getting caught I need to cut out.
When we got home, there was a present waiting for me, on my desk in Rube's and my room. It was an old gray typewriter with black keys. I stopped and looked at it from a few steps away.
"You like it?" came a voice from behind. "I saw it in a secondhand shop and had to buy it." She smiled and touched the back of my arm. "It's yours, Cam."
I walked to it and touched it. My fingers ran along the keys and I felt it under me.
"Thank you." I turned around and faced her. "Thanks, Sarah. It's beautiful."
Later on, Sarah was on the phone for a while, talking to Steve. His semifinal was on the next day and everyone decided on going. What I didn't count on was Steve coming down to our place later that night.
I was on the front porch when his car pulled up and he walked toward me. He stood there.
"Hi Cam."
"Hi Steve."
I stood up and we both watched each other. I remembered the last time we'd spoken down here. Tonight, though, Steve's face was shattered, like it was at the oval, way back at the start of winter.
"I heard what happened last night," he began. "Sarah told me on the phone."
"You came to see Rube?" I asked. "He's in bed, but I'd say he's still awake." I went to open the door, but Steve didn't go in.
He stayed in front of me and didn't move.
"What?" I asked. "What?"
His voice was abrupt, but quiet. "I didn't come here to see Rube -- I came to see you." He adjusted his eyes slightly. More respectful. "Sarah told me you carried him home from the old train yard...."
"It wasn't anything --"
"No. Don't lie, Cam. It was something." He stood above me, but it was only a physical thing now. A matter of height. "It was something, all right?"
I agreed with him. "All right."
Steve stood there.
I stood there.
The silence collected between us, and we smiled at each other.
He went inside a bit later but didn't stay long. He came and said good-bye not long after I went in to write on the typewriter. No words came.
In truth, I think the typewriter scared me, because I wanted to write perfectly on it. I was still staring at it just after ten o'clock.
Soon, I thought. The words will come soon
The weeks traveled and winter was drawing to a close. Steve won his grand final. Rube and I were brothers again, though things had changed now forever. He healed up nicely and was still far too handsome for his own good. If anything, his scars would make him even more desirable.
Dad didn't need us at work too much, and one Saturday afternoon, I was curious about Octavia Ash. I still wanted her badly, and on many occasions I'd imagined us being together. I hoped she felt the same. There were no days or nights without her, and on the last Saturday of winter, I went down to the harbor to see if she was there. I hoped she was, mainly because I didn't want her to still be hiding from me. I wanted her to stay as she was, whether she wanted me or not. The harbor belonged to her, and I would have hated myself if I took that away from her.
I boarded a train at Central and made it in quick time to Circular Quay.
> From the platform, I saw the people.
They were crowded around the girl with the harmonica, and a familiar feeling showed its face in me again. Octavia Ash, I thought, and I went down there, to watch from far away, and maybe hear just a few musical glimpses that came from her mouth. One more chance, I thought.
I caught a bus to Bronte in the afternoon and looked for another shell. I didn't find one like the first one. I didn't even try. The one I found was slightly broken, but it was beautiful nonetheless. It had soft ripples and a tanned color that was worn into it. That night, I told Rube what I'd be doing with it the next day. He didn't object. In fact, I think he was glad. He wanted it.
"Y' don't mind?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No -- I'll even come with you if y' want."
It didn't matter anymore. There was no animosity. Not even any thought that Octavia and Rube had ever been together. That felt so long ago now. We were different people. Octavia never had been with Rube -- not in this life. Not in the life that began the night I carried my brother home.
"So do you mind?" he asked again.
"What?"
"If I come with y'?"
I thought about it and it felt right.
"No worries," I said.
The next day arrived and we caught the train. On the platform at Circular Quay, I took the shell from my pocket and we made our way down.
"Good luck," said Rube. He stayed back and waited.
The crowd was there.
The girl was there, and today, I didn't hesitate.
I walked through the crowd and stood before her, then crouched down. When the music, I kissed the shell and gently placed it in the jacket, stood back, and looked into her. "I'm Cameron Wolfe," I said. My eyes blurred but I kept talking. "And I miss you...."
The words registered and for a moment, Octavia and I stood there, silent, along with the crowd.
"Well?" some old lady asked, just as I noticed that Octavia was still wearing the necklace she'd made out of the previous shell. Maybe there was some hope....
I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted her to say that she already had a shell like that but that she'd take it anyway. And I wanted to see her smile -- the straight line of teeth that crowded at the edges.
None of that came, though.
We only stood.
"I'll wait by the water," I spoke quietly. "If you want to come over when you're finished, I'll be there. If not, it's all right," and I walked away, back through the crowd. A silence stretched itself out until the music arrived like a knot. When I crouched at the water, I could still hear it, and I knew I'd done enough, whether she came to me later or not. I'd done enough.
I'd forgotten all about Rube, but it wasn't long until he was behind me. "Cam?" "Hey Rube." "It went okay?" "I think so."
As he crouched down, his hands played with his pockets. We both stared at the water, and I could tell Rube was falling apart, just slightly. He looked on and said, "I'll go in a second, but first I have to tell you somethin'...." He looked at me now. We were in each other's eyes.
"Rube?" I asked.
The water of the harbor rose up and dived down.
"See," he said. "All my life I sort of expected you to look up to me, y' know?" The expression on his face only just held on.
I nodded.
"But now I know," he went on. "Now I know."
I waited but nothing came. I asked. "Know what?"
He stared into me and his voice shook as he said, "That I look up to you...."
His words circled me and went in. They got beneath my skin and I knew there was no way back out. They were in there for always, and so was this moment, between Ruben Wolfe and me.
We crouched there, and when we finally stood up and turned to face the world, I could feel something climbing through me. I could feel it on its hands and knees inside me, rising up, rising up -- and I smiled.
I smiled, thinking, the hunger, because I knew it all too well.
The hunger. The desi
Then, slowly, as we walked on, I felt the beauty of it, and I could taste it, like words inside my mouth.
THE EDGES OF WORDS
I sit here by the water, writing only in my mind.
At home, the typewriter waits.
At my side, a girl sits silently, and I'm thankful, because, in the end, I realize I didn't get this girl, in every way that that means--
I found her.
And I want to keep finding her, for as long as we allow.
... The water looks at us, and I think now, of the edges of words, the loyalty of blood and the music of girls. I think of the hands of brothers, and of hungry dogs that howl through the night.
There are so many moments to remember, and sometimes I think that maybe we're not really people at all. Maybe moments are what we are.
Moments of weakness, of strength.
Moments of rescue, of everything.
I see people walking through the city and wonder where they've been, and what the moments of their lives have done to them. If they're anything like me, their moments have held them up and shot them down.
Sometimes I just survive.
But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more. That's when the stories show up in me. They find me all the time.
They're made of footsteps not only to the girl, but to me. They're made of hunger and desire and trying to live decent.
The only trouble is, I don't know which of those stories comes first.
Maybe they all just merge into one.
We'll see, I guess.
I'll let you know when I decide.
ALSO BY MARKUS ZUSAK
Fighting Ruben Wolfe
Getting the Girl
I Am the Messenger
The Book Thief
Copyright
The Underdog, copyright (c) 1999 by Markus Zusak
Fighting Ruben Wolfe, copyright (c) 2000 by Markus Zusak
Getting the Girl, copyright (c) 2001 by Markus Zusak
Additional text copyright (c) 2011 by Markus Zusak
Cover image (c) 2011 by Michael Frost
Backgroundge: Dave Nagel/Getty
Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi and Steve Scott
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First omnibus edition, August 2011
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eISBN: 978-0-545-38835-1
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