Sunday You Learn How to Box

by Bil Wright

  “Get the hell off him! You hear me, you little bastard! Get off him now!” My mother’s voice cut through.

  Instead, he kicked me harder and faster. Each time Mom screamed, it got worse. If she doesn’t stop, I thought, he’ll kick a hole in my side.

  But he stopped suddenly, and someone grabbed me under my arms and pulled me up from behind. I whirled around to try to free myself. It wasn’t Bubba or Rat or The Smell who’d lifted me. It was Ray Anthony Robinson. He was in his undershirt. The first thing I saw was how much hair he had under his arm and how it was reddish colored too. Then, I saw my mother standing behind him.

  I was dizzy, spitting snow, my head dropped toward the ground again. There was a bloody silhouette in the snow in the shape of a small rabbit.

  “Why you gotta jump in for him?” The Smell shouted at Ray Anthony. “The faggot cursed me. Don’t nobody curse me. I’m gonna kick his butt good.”

  “If you gonna kick somebody’s butt, kick mine.” I looked up to see Ray Anthony step toward him slowly with his legs spread wide, his thick arms swinging free. He was taller than any of us. He looked different to me now, like he was prepared to do whatever he had to to win. It wasn’t the same as when he’d been behind the bushes. I realized for the first time that he probably hadn’t even thought about hurting me that day. He’d just taken what he wanted, because he knew he could. I was ashamed to think he’d probably seen me get pushed around before. Why was he helping me now?

  “Why you wanna front for a faggot, man? Let him fight for himself.”

  My body tensed with a new fear. Would The Smell convince Ray Anthony to leave me alone with them again? Please God, don’t let Ray Anthony back down. I knew Mom would probably try to help me, but that would make it worse. They wouldn’t fight her, but I’d get beat up again later on because she’d already called them some pretty rough names.

  “Come on, you so bad.” Ray Anthony stepped in closer to the kid. “Come on and kick my butt.”

  The Smell did step in closer to Ray Anthony, but my bike was between them. The Smell jumped on the bike so hard, he dented the back fender.

  “You good-for-nothing little pig!” my mother shouted and grabbed a fallen tree branch near where she was standing. But The Smell was running backwards yelling, “You wait, faggot. You wait till your big red nigger ain’t around.”

  Bubba and Rat backed off slowly, not even in the same direction as The Smell. The fear hadn’t left me, though. I knew as far as Mom was concerned, there was still Ray Anthony to deal with. Saving me from getting my ribs kicked in didn’t erase the fact that he’d taken a turn on my bike himself, the bike she said she’d cleaned behind white men to buy me.

  “Well, looks like everybody in the projects is gonna ride that damn thing, or kill you trying.”

  She was talking to me, but glaring at Ray Anthony. He walked past her slowly, back toward his building. I stared at his arms hanging at his sides, wondering if he was cold with only his undershirt on. Maybe arms that looked like Ray Anthony’s didn’t get cold.

  Mom was asking me, “You gonna pick up the bike or just leave it there so they can come back and get it?”

  I stooped to pick it up, but I kept my eyes on Ray Anthony to see if he’d turn around before he went inside.

  • • •

  A few days after the bicycle fight, Mom looked out the window and saw Ray Anthony going across the courtyard. His mother was calling out the window to him, “Yeah, you go ahead and keep going! I don’t want you back in here no way!”

  Mom snapped the shade up higher and said to me without turning from the window, “You see him, don’t you? You see him? That woman ought to call the army and tell them to come get his behind. That’s just what she ought to do. I betcha Vietnam would straighten his hoodlum self out real good!”

  Before, she’d only talked about what the army would do to me. I’d watch the seven o’clock news, seeing myself in the middle of all the shooting and fire. I’d never thought about anybody I knew being there, too.

  I kept watching to see if Ray Anthony would come home that night, but I wasn’t sure he had until the next day when I saw him coming out of 4B again. I put on my jacket and ran out, heading in the same direction he was, a little behind him, not saying anything though, not looking at him. When he got to the parking lot, he started walking faster. I couldn’t keep up without him knowing I was following him.

  “Ray Anthony!” I yelled. He didn’t stop, but he slowed down and turned back to me. He was poking out his lips with a toothpick between them.

  I had to know before I lost him, before he disappeared into the parking lot, with his hunched, muscly shoulders and his high-water pants. I needed to know if he’d be coming back.

  “Are you going to Vietnam?”

  This time he stopped. He looked at me like he didn’t recognize who it was asking the question. It was too late to take it back.

  “What you think?” He took the toothpick from between his lips and flicked it into the air as he turned away. “Am I goin’ to somebody’s Vietnam!”

  As soon as I’d asked him, I knew how stupid it sounded. I’d seen those guys on the special live reports. In the helmets with the grass covering them, mud all over their faces. Ray Anthony would never look like that. It was hard enough to picture myself in those holes in the ground or running through fields beating the grass with a gun.

  Besides, they didn’t show that many black men in Vietnam on the news. Maybe the army wouldn’t take me or Ray Anthony. Even if Ray Anthony’s mother called the army like Mom said, if she could do such a thing, the army wasn’t going to take Ray Anthony Robinson. And he knew it. That’s why he looked at me like that. Because he knew. Right?

  7

  By eighth grade, Mom had come up with a plan that she said would keep me from getting murdered when I left our apartment. One night at dinner she announced, “Louis, Ben is going to teach you how to box.” I looked up in protest, but she said, “It’s already decided. We’re going to start with an hour every Sunday after church.”

  I looked to the head of the table, hoping Ben would say he didn’t want any part of this, but he was staring down at his plate as usual like a paying customer who’d stopped in to eat alone at a roadside diner.

  “Every Sunday after church,” Lorelle mimicked gaily. At four and a half, she amused herself by repeating pieces of conversations. Sometimes it was funny, sometimes I left the room so I wouldn’t have to hear whatever she was repeating a second time.

  “Ben’s going to figure out how many rounds we’ll have and how long each round will be.”

  “How long, how long each round will be,” Lorelle sang. I excused myself from the table.

  “Where’re you going, Louis? There are still dishes to be washed.”

  “To the bathroom, ma’am. I’ll do the dishes as soon as I get back.”

  Upstairs, I closed the door and sat on the side of the tub, sweating. It was only Wednesday, and the two of them had already figured out a way to ruin Sunday.

  • • •

  When we got home from church, before we were even inside the apartment, Mom said, “Don’t take all day changing your clothes. Come down just as fast as you do to read those silly comic strips.”

  “What should I put on?” What was more to the point was, what do you want me to wear to let Ben knock the crap out of me in?

  “Play clothes, of course. It’s boxing, Louis. Use your head.”

  When I came back down, Mom had pushed the couch against one wall and the coffee table against the other. Lorelle was running around in circles, like she knew the living room was now Madison Square Garden.

  Mom went to the foot of the stairs and yelled, “Ben? Are you ready? We’re ready down here.”

  I’d seen their closed bedroom door when I was up there. I was hoping he’d sneaked out while we were at church. Maybe he wouldn’t be back until it was so late they’d have to drag me out of bed for him to knock me around. At least then I’d have
the excuse, I couldn’t go to school exhausted from having to get up at midnight to box my stepfather.

  When she saw that I’d put on jeans and an undershirt, Mom said, “You should have put on shorts like real boxers wear. Take off your T-shirt, at least. You’ve never seen a boxer in his undershirt, have you?”

  Of course, Ben came downstairs in his undershirt and the pants he wore to fix things around the house. Why was it only me who had to be half naked for this circus?

  Mom shrugged. “Suit yourself, then.” She went into the kitchen and came back with a pitcher of water, two glasses and a couple of towels over her shoulder.

  “Now Lorelle, you stay over here in this corner with Louis.” Lorelle looked like she was being punished and didn’t understand why. “Give him a glass of water when he’s thirsty.” Mom had planned out every detail. Ben probably didn’t want to have anything more to do with Sunday boxing than I did.

  “Louis, maybe you should do a few push-ups before you start. Get your energy up.”

  Maybe you should do a few push-ups, Mom. Why are you doing this?

  Ben got down on his knees so that now he was only about a head taller than me. That was supposed to make us even, make the whole thing fair. He still may as well have been Rat or Bubba Graves or any of the baboons who knocked me around out in the courtyard. The only advantage, if you could call it that, was that Ben would get to punch me without anybody but Mom and Lorelle watching. Mom told me she’d seen me get beat up from every window in the apartment, front and back. The difference was, she’d never set it up before so she’d be guaranteed a good seat when it happened.

  “Each round is going to be three minutes. Okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” My legs felt like they were melting down into my sneakers. Ben took off his watch. Jesus, he’s going to kill me, I thought. He’s going to kill me and he doesn’t want to hurt his precious watch.

  “Put your dukes up, Louis.” Mom lit a cigarette and left it hanging from one side of her mouth. She raised a glass above her head and clinked a spoon against it hard and fast and for so long, I was sure it would shatter and rain down onto her face. “Round one!” she shouted.

  At first, I just stood there in front of him. I knew enough to hold my fists in front of my face in case he threw a punch, but I wasn’t going to try to hit him. Mom called to me, “Get a punch in, Louis. At least try to get a punch in.”

  I started bobbing around like fighters I’d seen on television, thinking maybe I could stall until the three minutes were up.

  Even on his knees, Ben blocked me no matter what direction I went toward him from. I couldn’t have hit him even if I’d wanted to, but I thought the dance I was doing made me look like I wasn’t afraid of him. When she clanked for round two, Mom said, “Louis, don’t let Lorelle see you being such a coward. Don’t make her ashamed of her big brother.”

  Lorelle was holding the glass Mom had given her toward me with her chubby hands wrapped around it. “Here, Louis. Drink your water. Don’t fight Daddy. You’re gonna make him beat you up.”

  By the time Mom called round three, Ben must’ve decided he was bored kneeling there in front of me. He hadn’t had much to do except keep his fists up in the air in case I ever got the guts to hit him. Now, he decided he wasn’t waiting anymore. He reached out and slapped me so hard the whole side of my head from temple to jaw felt like he’d knocked it off my face. My mouth went bone dry. The room seemed to tilt so it felt like I was climbing the floor. Either I’d been knocked deaf or there wasn’t a sound in the room for what felt like a very long time.

  Finally Mom said, “God, Ben, Wha’d you do that for? Look at his face. Look what you did to his face.”

  Ben reached for me. I ducked away from him, but Mom grabbed my jaw from the other side.

  “He’s bleeding, Ben. For god’s sake, what did you do to him?!”

  She swung my head around and Ben took hold of my face, his hand a leathery catcher’s mitt, pulling me toward him.

  “It’s just a scratch. Probably from my ring.” He let go of me and stared down at his high school ring. Why had the big gorilla taken off his watch and not his ring?

  Mom ran upstairs and brought down the bottle of witch hazel. She poured some onto a washcloth. “Here. Hold this on your face.” She went to the kitchen to get ice.

  “You must’ve hit him pretty damn hard, Ben. It’s starting to swell.”

  “It wasn’t hard at all. If I’d hit him hard, he’d be unconscious.” Ben rolled his eyes at me. He stood up, brushed off his knees and went toward the stairs. Mom ran after him. I was sure she’d continue to yell at him for hitting me so hard in the face. I wanted to hear her say she must’ve been crazy to let it happen in the first place.

  “Ben,” she called hoarsely. “Ben, where are you going? I’m going to put dinner on the table now. Right now. Do you hear me?”

  Ben didn’t answer. Mom went into the kitchen and started serving plates loudly until we were all sitting around the table staring down at them in front of us mumbling, “Let us thank Him for this food.” The only plate she left empty was her own. She stood at the stove smoking cigarettes one after the other. I could smell from where I was sitting at the table, there was whiskey in her teacup.

  When I looked up at her to ask if I could be excused from the table, her eyes were red with black makeup smudges around them, her face shiny with sweat. There were tiny bits of white tissue across her forehead and under her bottom lip, a trail from the crumbling paper napkin she kept wiping herself with. She sat with me in the kitchen as I washed and dried the dishes, but we didn’t say anything to each other. For several nights afterward, I fell asleep picturing her like that, trying to guess what she’d been thinking.

  Friday, when I came home from school she told me, “Ben and I have decided the Sunday boxing matches are a good idea. You know he’s sorry about scratching you with his ring, don’t you? God knows I’ve seen you lay down for worse out there. This Sunday, try to make me proud of you. You give him a few good licks this time. Alright?”

  Sunday after Sunday, I tried. Sometimes for Mom. Sometimes for Lorelle. Sometimes for anybody I could make up in my mind, smiling over in the corner, cheering me on. Just so I could get to the end of the round.

  8

  It wasn’t what you’d call an invitation. Ernestine Buggman told Mom about her daughter Delilah having a party for her sixteenth birthday and Mom assured Mrs. Buggman, “Louis will be there. Just tell me what time.”

  She wasn’t concerned that Delilah Buggman hardly knew I was alive—actually, Delilah did know I was alive—she and two of her girlfriends had watched the bicycle episode with Bubba and the others trying to bury me under the snow. The important thing to Mom, though, was that this party was another step toward Manhood. And if not Manhood, “At least,” she told me, “it’s a chance for you to get a couple of those damn criminals out there on your side.”

  Mom made me take a bath for the party and laid out on my bed what she wanted me to wear. White shirt, navy blue dress pants, and a red sweater vest with two reindeer on the front that I’d rolled up and hidden in the back of my drawer. None of this would have been my choice if I’d had one. I wasn’t invited to parties, but I’d watched enough guys from my window on Friday and Saturday nights to know that no one would be wearing anything close to to what Mom had decided on for me.

  She bought a pink blouse from Saks for me to give to Delilah. I knew Delilah wouldn’t like it, because it was neither orange nor purple, the only two colors I’d ever seen her wear.

  Mrs. Buggman told Mom the party was at eight. I was sure no one would get there on time, so when Mom shoved me out the door at 7:45, I walked around for an hour until I got too cold to do anything but go ahead to Delilah’s. Luckily, I got there at the same time as three older kids I didn’t know. Delilah opened the door and said hi to the girl in front of me and the two boys behind as though there was no one in between. Well, not exactly. She did snatch the present Mom had wra
pped in pink foil paper from me. I wanted to tell her I knew she’d hate it, but I didn’t say anything to her either. I especially didn’t thank her for inviting me to her party like Mom said to make sure I remembered to. I went over to a corner where I could watch the clock on the wall. Mom told me I had to stay an hour. I wanted to make sure I knew when my hour was up.

  The only other person in the room was a guy in the corner playing records. Delilah and the kids who’d come the same time I had started dancing immediately. What was Delilah doing before we got there, I wondered, with her own personal disc jockey playing records in an empty living room? I made a job for myself handing the guy whatever record he called for next. When that wasn’t enough to keep me busy, I pulled my sweater out of my coat sleeve where I’d stuffed it and used it to dust off the records that looked like they needed it.

  About a dozen records later, the room was filled with a few older kids from outside the projects. To my relief, I didn’t know most of them at all. The guys who knew me looked like they couldn’t believe Delilah had invited me. I kept dusting records with this expression that was supposed to say, “I’m getting paid to be here. I’m with the dj. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be caught dead at this stinkin’ party.”

  I heard Delilah say her mother had gone out and I thought about how Mom was so sure Mrs. Buggman would be there. The room was hot, the air heavy with the smells of hair oil and deodorant. Beer was being passed around in paper cups, but nobody’d given me any. Delilah brought the disc jockey two tumblers full and told him, “Time to play something slow, Cee-Cee.”

  She turned all the lamps off, except for one with a blue bulb. Cee-Cee put on this song called “In a Trance” and the kids started to slow-dance. If you could call it that. Nothing much was moving on anybody except their butts. Pushing into each other, barely moving, hip to hip making figure eights. Push, push. Push, push. The guys had their fingers clamped over the tops of the girls’ behinds. Push, push. Push, push. And everybody was sweating. A lot. Delilah was dancing with some guy who looked older than anyone else in the room. He had on a tight shirt, shiny pants and a little hat that were all the same color green. He wore the hat with the brim pulled down over one eye. Delilah had both of her eyes closed. Push. Push. Shiny Pants put his hand up under her sweater and I looked away.