by Dave King
In my wallet I keep a sheaf of business cards explaining my situation, but I rarely use them. I don’t like the wording: the term “mute” is embarrassing, and at the bottom of each card a line reads, Please remember: I am of normal intelligence! I don’t blame Laurel for this: I know she sweated the best way to put it, and I’ve never come up with better phrasing myself, though it’s one thing I think about on nights I can’t sleep. And if I did somehow devise the perfect text, what difference would it make? If I could describe my changes, I wouldn’t need the cards at all.
But tonight my little cards would be useless, even if I bothered to dig one out. The woman behind the counter is separating hot dog buns, and she calls out, “Next,” without looking up. There’s a Plexiglas grease shield at the front of the booth, and I rap on it with my knuckles to get her attention, but suddenly the hall is deafeningly loud. On a shelf behind the woman, a radio is tuned to tinny country music, and other booths have music, too. Overhead, a speaker is making an announcement about a car with lights on, and the guy behind me is saying, “Hey, buddy. Next!”
I press the Plexi, and the structure shifts. I could slam it forward and send the frankfurters flying. I rap again to catch the woman’s ear, then the guy behind suddenly sidles in front. I move roughly to shoulder him aside, and in my haste it’s not “Back” that I manage to bark out, but “Beg!”
The woman looks up. I aim two fingers at the rotating franks and knit my lips; I’ve lost my composure, and my neck’s hot. I wonder what my scar looks like. Beside me, the other guy’s figuring his reaction, and I remember this is, after all, a boxing crowd. I glare foully at him, wondering if I could deck him, and he steps back, giving the crowd a look: he’s not about to fuck with the fucked-up guy. Then Ryan’s at my side. With a mouth full of pizza he says, “He wants two hot dogs. You like mustard, Howie?” I nod. “With mustard, please. Coke?”
“Condiments to your left,” the woman says, jerking her chin as she slides the dogs over the counter. She glances with dull curiosity from Ryan to me.
“Some people ought to . . . keep their mind on their job,” Ryan ventures as we step off. It’s his first voluntary remark in an hour, and something his mom might say—though Sylvia would make damn sure the woman overheard. He catches my smile and throws a few air punches, then looks sheepishly away.
We return to our seats, and the bantams enter down corner aisles. They climb through the ropes and tap gloves before the white-shirted official, and in the pause before the bell I wonder how much they’re just playing at fighting, how much they’re overwhelmed by their trainers and robes and this big-time setting. Boys in over their heads, again. Then the bell sounds, and the two tiptoe forward. It’s more than a minute before they clinch, and they seem to be bargaining to keep the damage light. I watch, but I think of army brawls. I think of rage and recklessness, of flailing fists and ripped clothing and the howls that set torches alight and summon stoned, half-dressed compadres from their tents and barracks; I think of that feeling of being bigger than your skin, of going crazy in full knowledge and in public, of going crazy enough to fight dirty, of continuing to rave while you cast about for an axe handle or a tent peg or a fat piece of wood.
I look at Ryan. He’s following each punch as he wipes his greasy fingers on his pants. I’m surprised to see him so engaged, and for once it’s good not to be able to speak; I wouldn’t know what to say. I glance again at the impervious boxers and see that a dribble of blood has appeared beneath one fighter’s nose, and I picture tents bordered by darkness. It’s not really a particular site I’m recalling, nor even any particular fight, but a composite of pieces from my two weeks’ tour, plus boot camp before that and maybe a childhood fistfight or two, cobbled together like a ball of trash. It was never me, anyway, with clenched fists in the clearing, parading my irrationality; it was never me. I was usually still stumbling toward the circle when the first punch was thrown. Pulling an olive tank top down my gut, skipping around the fracas’s edge, sometimes holding someone back if I could reach him, but trying not to get hurt; always trying not to get hurt.
The bantams battle to a draw. A fleet, narrow-chested black boy wins the next fight, and a taller kid the one after that. The fourth contest is the middleweight, and from the rising energy in the room I think this will be good. The lights that come up between fights have dimmed, and as a spotlight skitters over the crowd I see a figure in the archway that leads to the changing rooms. The boy wears a black robe with white lining under the hood; as he brushes the hood back, light falls on his upturned face. The crowd cheers. Ryan climbs on his chair to get a better view, then stands on tippy-toes, balancing against my arm. On impulse, I pick him up and settle him on my shoulders.
The fighter waves a gloved fist and breaks into a smile. He’s got a politician’s poise and one of those very pretty Hispanic faces: olive skin, plump, russetty lips and short, bright teeth. It’s clear he’s a crowd favorite, and he moves toward the spotlit ring as flashbulbs pop and spectators reach out for high fives. Far off in the shadows, a whole section of audience is in black-and-white hoods, just like his, and when the boy spots them and raises a glove I figure he’s got a fan club. Then I, too, feel swept up by the enthusiasm. I add a pulsing “ha-a-hah” to the crowd’s cheers and hope the kid’s as good as he looks.
Ryan squirms on my shoulders. He doesn’t quite kick his legs, but he readjusts his butt so I know he’s too big for this. I place him back on his chair, and he cranes self-consciously, as though absorbed in the scene he can no longer see. There’s a dent in his face where he’s sucking on his cheek, and inside my head I think the word sorry. I’d pat his shoulder if I knew he wouldn’t shrug it off.
The other fighter’s a big block-headed kid with hair so short I can see his scalp. He enters quickly, before the spotlight can find him, and the cheers are nothing like the Spanish boy’s ovation. Each boy raises his arms as the loudspeaker announces the names—Perez and Nagy—and unlike the other teenagers, Nagy’s as hairy as a bear. There’s a line of shaving demarcation around his neck, and he even seems bearlike, grumpily throwing punches as he waits in his corner. Perez looks more amiable, bouncing on his toes. Then the bell, and in an instant Nagy makes contact. He’s across the ring before we know how he got there, and a punch catches Perez under a nipple. At the flash of movement, I pull in my chin.
I watch Perez maneuver Nagy toward the center, his gloved fists constantly re-establishing the fight zone. I suppose he’s chagrined at having taken that first punch, and I watch him deflect a swing from the left, then, with a shoulder blow, force Nagy back. He connects again, hitting Nagy’s helmet, but Nagy scores a mean blow to the gut, then they’re locked in an embrace. This is tougher than what we’ve seen so far, and though I don’t want to take my eyes from the ring, I glance at Ryan and see him wince. The ref moves in, prying at the intertwined arms, and behind me a voice calls, “Work him over, baby!”
And suddenly I’m rooting for Nagy. He’s fast but not jumpy, neither butterfly nor bee. I think of his entrance: the halfhearted applause, the fire-hydrant head, now upturned by a blow from Perez. The crowd cheers Perez’s rally, and Nagy lands another blunt, chopping punch. Maybe he likes it when the room’s against him. I’ve felt that way myself, on occasion: just one more reason to give the bear the cup.
I watch Perez. Bing! He connects. His lips, monkeyish over his mouth protector, have lost their brightness, and I want him beaten to a charismatic pulp. Nagy lunges, fist across, and Perez dances. The crowd roars with elation. I think of the hot dog vendor and the guy behind me and the terrible look he gave the crowd. May every last one of them go home disappointed.
We leave before it’s over. Both boys are covered in sweat, Perez shiny, Nagy matted. I’m feeling pretty overheated myself, sitting here wishing for a bloodletting. Ryan nods, struggling to remain wakeful, and I like the feel of his head on my arm. But at last I nudge him, and he struggles to his feet, peering around without recognition. We pick ou
r way out of our row and start toward the exit, and when I turn for a last glance I see Perez knock Nagy down.
On the way home, I stop at a minimart for milk and eggs. Ryan’s awake now, blinking out at the light rain, but he says nothing, and I remember it’s a school night. I leave the motor running when I step into the store, and from inside I can see him silhouetted behind the windshield wipers. It looks like he’s fooling with the cigarette lighter or the ignition, and I hurry to the truck. But when I get there, he’s back in the shotgun seat. We’re on the road before I realize what he’s done.
What he’s done: he’s changed the radio from the oldies station I’ve always listened to to the one he and Sylvia prefer. The song that’s on has jangly guitars and a singer with a hoarse, youthful voice, and it’s hardly different from the music I customarily play; but the unfamiliar melody feels fresh, and beside me, I can hear Ryan singing along.
13
HE’S SLEEPY THE NEXT MORNING. It takes him forever to get his shoes on his feet, and Laurel says, “No more late nights for you, buster.” I offer a wink, but even now he doesn’t look at me much.
He does perk up, though. Turning in his chair, he describes the entrance of the fighters, then the blow-by-blow. “The one guy made the other guy’s nose bleed,” he announces. But Laurel’s chopping kale and tending to something in a pot, and after a while he says, “You’re not a boxing fan, are you?”
“I’m not much of a sports fan, hon. Except for equestrian.”
“Neither’s my mom.” He pauses, and she turns expectantly. “I am, though. That fight was bad!”
The staircase creaks, and Nat appears in the doorway, dressed in T-shirt and pajama bottoms. He gestures grandly, as though acknowledging the paparazzi, and says, “Carry on, carry on. Stevie and I got a early morning client.” As if on cue, Nit steps up behind him, his hair on end. Nat says, “Guys got coffee? Excellent!”
I could do without this element, and I’d love to pretend they’re not here at all. But Laurel’s rule is “Pitch in and share, pardner, or watch your ass,” and I don’t dare oppose her on something so basic. And in roughly a minute they’ve taken over the kitchen. They’re yawning and slurping coffee and rearranging their balls as they flop down at the table, and Ryan’s edging the newspaper in their direction. I dribble more pancake batter onto the griddle, and when I set the platter on the table Nit and Nat say I’m the greatest.
Laurel squats by Ryan’s chair. “You oughta call her,” she says as he reaches for pancakes. “You know, your mom. Don’t you want to tell her ’bout your big night at the fights?” Ryan shakes his head and goes for the syrup.
Laurel says, “Howard—” and I look at her. The oval face, the pink mouth puckered in consternation. I want to say yes and of course and I’m sure you’re right. But I’ve tried, in my way, and I’m invisible here. Can’t you see that? Maybe I’m overtired, too, but I miss my old lonely life, with doughnuts and Dr Pepper for breakfast, the housemates indifferent, and no baffling child in my sights. I’m a chauffeur and cook, I want to tell Laurel, and as dutiful as a soldier. But what I get in response . . .
I watch Laurel calculating how to handle me, and at last she laughs. “Where’d you find this kid, Howard? Pretty hard nut to crack.” She taps her fingers on the Indians cap and takes her plate to the counter.
Ryan’s silent again, but Nit and Nat can commandeer any subject, and when I sit down, the talk is roundhouse versus uppercut. Idle chitchat gives me a headache, so I stare at the unfathomable front page of the paper, only peeking up to watch Ryan gawk at the two loud know-it-alls. When I point to his plate, he scoops in a mouthful.
The definition kids agree to disagree, then one of the boys begins to whistle. The other takes more pancakes, and I think it’s time they were on their way. But Nit says, “So, Ryan, you a champeen of the fisticuffs, man? Let’s see your muscle.”
Ryan hesitates, then stands and rolls his T-shirt to the shoulder. He flexes his biceps, chin jutting at the effort, and a nice little bulge forms under his brown skin. He smiles tautly, glancing at Laurel. I clap my hands, and Nit says, “Not bad, man. Not too shabby.” But Laurel’s chopping again and doesn’t turn around.
Nat looks slyly at Ryan. “Pretty buff, man. You work out?” The notion that Ryan’s one more prowling bachelor is Nat’s small, tired witticism, which he seems determined to run into the ground. “Have a lot of luck with the ladies?”
“Hey!” Laurel turns around, still holding the large knife. “Don’t make him the butt of your jokes.”
Nat’s face reddens. “What?” he says. “I’m not, I’m not. It’s my li’l buddy, right? I’m saying he’s a chick magnet.” He looks at me, but I stare at his red face, and for a moment he looks helpless. “So, listen, Ryan. What about, uh . . . Oh, I know, hey. How ’bout your teacher? She nice or a old bag?”
Ryan stares a minute, then smiles wickedly. “Ms. Monetti? She’s a fox.” The boys hoot.
Nit shakes the hair out of his eyes. “Hey, Ryan. Ryan, lookit.” Sloughing out of his bathrobe, he, too, flexes a biceps, ringed by an idiotic Celtic tattoo. For a runty guy, he’s got some muscle. Laurel nods appraisingly this time, and I suppose Ryan digs the tattoo.
I’m rolling up my own sleeve when Nat guffaws. “Wow,” he says, and swats Nit with the newspaper. “Very nice, big fella, that’s so impressive. Going one on one with a little bitty kid!” Nit flushes, and I pretend to scratch my shoulder.
14
NIT AND NAT SHOW UP the next day for breakfast, then they just keep showing up. At first they’re up early to get to a job, but soon it seems they’re just here for the meal. Suddenly, it’s as though we’ve been rendezvousing in the kitchen since the dawn of time, and though I’m glad to be free of those subdued mornings when no one spoke, I can’t help wishing Ryan enjoyed this a little less. And I hate seeing those donkeys get a free ride. Still, it’s only breakfast. In the evenings, our housemates come and go less predictably, and Ryan and I are often the only ones home. We have dinner by the TV or occasionally out, always where a game’s being broadcast, and I allow time for homework and a good night’s sleep. Three times I offer the telephone, which he continues to decline, but we no longer struggle over it, and in this way the school week passes. In the wake of our quarrel at Sylvia’s, we’ve fallen into a dutiful, formulaic existence, and I don’t blame Ryan if he thinks I’m not fun. Our boxing night notwithstanding, each of us treads lightly, and in the meantime we make compromises. We give conversation, for example, a wide berth.
Laurel decides Nit and Nat are responsible for KP, in return for my cooking, and she also decides they will give Ryan a lunch box. I know this because I go back one rainy morning to find him an umbrella, and as I come through the hall I hear her say, “I just think you boys should do something for Ran,” in her funny Texas drawl. “Heck, y’all barely speak to him except to make jokes.” I peek into the kitchen and see her standing with her hands in the rear pockets of her black jeans, and the two boys nod blankly while Nit lets soapsuds dribble down his bathrobe. Laurel says, “A nice little lunch box, okay? Get one with a thermos so I can give him some soup. I think he’ll be pleasantly surprised.” She stoops balletically to scratch Ruby’s back, and I wish I’d thought of this myself.
They produce the lunch box Friday as we’re finishing our eggs. The morning is bright and hot, and half a dozen goldfinches are arabesquing around the thistle feeder. The boys have wrapped their gift in laundered paint rags, with a big, jagged bow made of blue tape, and placed on the breakfast table it makes an unconventional present. Ryan murmurs, “You shouldn’t have,” which sounds like something he’s picked up from the TV, and as the tape breaks he says, “Oh!” and folds down the cloths.
The gift is a silver ingot, with an arched lid and a ridged, black handle. It’s a genuine workingman’s lunch box, shiny, masculine, and no-nonsense, but so large that it looks like a pirate chest in front of a nine-year-old. Ryan says, “Whoa,” and picks it up in both hands,
then carefully sets it back down on the table. He flips the snap that holds the lid, and a satisfying click rings from the latch. Inside, the nesting thermos is held by a flange of metal, and the surfaces gleam with the patina of stainless steel. In every respect it’s an incredibly cool object, and Ryan says, “Whoa!” again, a little higher, with more emphasis.
Looking up, I catch my reflection in the window above the sink. I’m floored that such triumph should spring from the junky consciousnesses of Nit and Nat, and as I gaze at my dour countenance I realize I was privately prepared to sweep in and save the day. Nit says, “We drove over hell’s half acre, man, to get the right one,” and I dislike him more than I’ve ever disliked him before.
Laurel leans over Ryan and brushes a strand of black hair from her face. “Well, isn’t that nice,” she says quietly. He looks up and meets her gaze, and she runs a hand down his narrow back. “I just hated the idea of your sandwich getting all squashed up before lunchtime.” Reaching for the thermos, she adds, “And now you can have soup for lunch. Chicken orzo or black bean?”
One of the boys reaches for Ryan’s paper lunch sack, which sits on the counter near Laurel’s work area. It’s become the first thing she attends to each day. He hands the sack to Ryan, and Ryan draws out a sandwich and places it carefully in the lunch box, then adds a packet of cookies and a bag of carrot strips. He puts the carrots on the sandwich, then moves them so they lie at its side. Laurel fills the thermos with soup and wipes the mouth before tightening the cap; she hands the thermos to Nat, who says, “Glad you like it, man,” and presents it to Ryan. He snaps the thermos in place.
I go upstairs. In a bowl on my dresser is a squishy oval change purse with the name of a garage printed on it in white. I drop in the sixty cents for Ryan’s milk, and when I come down I find everybody laughing. Ryan flips the lunch box lid absently between his small brown hands, and the inside of the box is as snug as a kit.