Sunday You Learn How to Box

by Bil Wright

  The Tabernacle Choir was singing about what a joy it was to save and be saved. How sweet, how sweet, they sang. To save and be saved. I pictured Ray Anthony out in the courtyard in his undershirt daring Bubba Graves to kick me again. Ray Anthony had saved me that day. Just like the song the Tabernacle Choir was singing. I didn’t know how he felt about it, but he’d certainly come when I least expected. And saved me. Oh, how sweet, how sweet, to save and be saved.

  12

  Ed MacMillan wasn’t on the platform when we pulled into the station. No one seemed to be in the waiting room and the ticket booth was closed. I had twenty minutes before the next bus.

  He might have forgotten he ever told me I could see his office, I thought. Maybe, even if I saw him again and brought it up, he’d laugh and say he was only kidding. He hadn’t acted all that friendly the last time. I’d decided it was probably better to forget about Ed MacMillan’s invitation to see the world from the twenty-third floor, when I saw the cream-colored station wagon pull into the parking lot.

  The closer I got to the car, the more I knew there was something different about him. His whole face was red and blotchy, like he’d been stung or had a high fever. When I got right up to the window, I was pretty sure what it was. He’d been drinking. I felt a little disappointed, but I figured it wasn’t really any of my business whether he drank or not. He was smiling now, the smile from the first time.

  “Nobody coming to pick you up?”

  “No. I take the bus. But it doesn’t matter which one. Long as I get home before midnight.” I was trying to make a joke, but I couldn’t tell whether he got it or not, because his smile didn’t change.

  “Get in.”

  I threw my suitcase on the backseat and jumped in front beside him. He had on his navy blue windbreaker. I wanted to tell him, “You look like a kid in that jacket.” But he didn’t really look like any kid I knew. He’d probably think I was saying he looked shrimpy.

  The radio was on. “Soul Man” was playing. “Soul Man” was the kind of song that made nearly every part of my body want to move to it. Especially the horns. Ed MacMillan was beating his fingers against the steering wheel to the horns. I didn’t say anything for a while. Then I did, because I thought I shouldn’t just sit there like I was stupid or being rude to him. “Where’re we going?”

  He didn’t answer right away. He put his thumb up to his mouth and chewed on it for a second. I thought I’d done something dumb after all by asking. Then he said, “Just driving.” He looked over at me. “That okay with you?”

  “Sure,” I said, relieved. I also felt better that even if he had been drinking, he wasn’t in a bad mood or depressed. As far as I could tell, he was driving pretty decently. He’d gone right onto the highway instead of driving into town. I liked that because it felt like neither one of us had any ties to Stratfield. What was better was that he was driving toward New York. Maybe, even though it was Sunday, I was on my way back to the city. I’d get to see what he was calling half the world from his office window on the twenty-third floor.

  I opened my mouth and started breathing in and out in time to the horns. I didn’t think he could hear me. Huhhuh-huh-huhhh. Huh-huh. Huh-huh-huh-huhhh. Huhhuh.

  “I know you’re going to be mad at me for this,” he said, “but I guess I should admit it sooner rather than later.”

  “What’s the matter?” Don’t let anything spoil it, I thought. No, nothing could. Whatever it was, I was still probably on my way to 49th Street in New York. With the radio on a station that played the perfect music for traveling.

  “I don’t remember your name. I know it begins with a C.”

  “No. It doesn’t. L. It’s Louis.” It didn’t make sense that he wouldn’t remember. It was because he’d been drinking. That was the reason. He probably forgot things when he drank. Even important things.

  “Shit. That’s right. Louis.” He hit the steering wheel and honked the horn by mistake. “Oh c’mon. Don’t look like that. I bet you don’t remember mine either.”

  “MacMillan,” I said quietly. “Ed MacMillan. Where are we going?” This time I didn’t care what he thought about me asking. It was the only thing I could think of to get back at him. He reached over and grabbed my thigh, pulling me toward him.

  “Move over.”

  I didn’t. I held on to the car seat, looking straight ahead at the two white lines on the highway.

  When he turned off, we were outside Stratfield. There was a string of flat-looking motels on either side of the road. He pulled up at the end of a horseshoe path outside one of them with a sign that said “Friends and Travellers.”

  Ed MacMillan leaned toward me.

  When he walked up the path to the Friends and Traveller’s office I thought, This was pretty dumb, Louis. You’re not on your way to New York and if you think you and Ed MacMillan are stopping at a motel to watch TV, you’re out of your mind.

  • • •

  I checked the clock on the dashboard. Almost six-thirty. If I didn’t call Mom soon she’d have called the police by the time I did.

  Ed MacMillan came back to the car a few minutes later. “Put your head down on the seat. I’m going to drive around to the other side.” He sounded like we were robbing a bank, as if we’d planned it and I should know what to do.

  “I want to go back,” I told him.

  “We will.” He sounded out of breath. “I just want to stop here for a minute. Please.”

  I stared at him, trying to figure out the easiest way back to Stratfield. I pulled myself into a ball on my side, the top of my head against his leg. When he pulled around to park, I got dizzy. He turned off the engine and I felt his clammy palm on my cheek.

  “Stay here. I’m going to open the door. Wait for a minute and then come in quickly.”

  Reaching across my body, he pressed the button on the glove compartment. The door fell open and he took out a small brown paper bag I figured had a bottle of whiskey in it. He patted me lightly on the back. I heard the door open and slam again.

  “I have to call my mother,” I said as soon as I got inside. “Then I want to go back.”

  Ed MacMillan pointed to the phone on his way into the bathroom. I waited for him to close the door, but he didn’t. He didn’t even turn on the light. I stood by the side of the bed and dialed the number.

  I’d never been in a motel before. The room we were in had fake wood paneling on the walls. Somebody’d carved a whole letter in it, with a knife or a can opener, maybe. The letter was addressed to “Dear Sofia” and signed “Alan.” It said, “You should know how much I love and need you, but if you ever have any doubt, this is prof. No one will ever mean as much to me as you have been.” Obviously, Alan didn’t believe in proofreading. And where was Sofia when he wrote it? Was she coming later when he wouldn’t be there?

  The dresser was cheap looking, white with gold sparkles like a kitchen countertop, and there wasn’t any TV. All the motels in movies had TVs. The bed took up most of the room. It had one of those bedspreads with the little nubs all over it, like tassels except really short ones. There were more than a few cigarette burns up near the pillows.

  “Mom, it’s me. I’m still downtown. I had to use the men’s room when I got to the station and when I came out, I’d missed the bus.”

  Mom asked me how many times she’d asked me not to use the men’s room at the train station.

  “I know, Mom. I couldn’t help it. Anyway, I met this kid from school who was on the train with his mother and they’re going to give me a ride home but we have to stop at their house first. They want to know if I can eat dinner with them.”

  Mom wanted to know who the kid was. I hadn’t asked to eat at anyone’s house since kindergarten.

  “Michael Epstein.” Michael Epstein was the kid who’d asked me in kindergarten. His family had moved since then, but I didn’t know whether she’d remember or not.

  Where did they live, Mom wanted to know. I had no idea where Michael Epstein lived. I
made sure I told her somewhere in the school zone.

  Was his mother there? Mom wanted to speak to her.

  “No Mom, they’re in the car.” I was doing well enough to fake sounding anxious, like I was keeping Mrs. Epstein waiting out in the parking lot.

  Don’t stay there too late, Mom warned me. It had worked. If Ed MacMillan got back in the car and drove me back to the Stratfield station right now, I could get on the next bus and be home to tell Mom dinner at Michael Epstein’s had been fine and I had to go right upstairs to work on my book report.

  I went to the bathroom door. Ed MacMillan was sitting on the side of the tub in the dark with his bottle in the paper bag. The air around him smelled like whiskey and apricot candy. He was biting his nails.

  “Is it alright if we go back now?”

  He reached out, grabbed under my jacket for my belt buckle and pulled me toward him. He pushed his face into my stomach, his fists holding me from behind.

  “We’re going back. In a minute.”

  He pulled me in tighter, then lifted me, carried me out of the bathroom. When he dropped me onto the bed and fell on top of me, I bit my lip.

  I opened my eyes to see his own lips were shiny with spit, his plaid shirt bunched and wrinkled under his wind-breaker. He pushed me over onto my stomach, pinning me down by my shoulders, his stubbly chin scratching the side of my neck.

  He stopped moving suddenly like a machine that had been cut off. When I looked behind me, he was on his knees between my legs, quickly undoing his pants. His thighs were small and pale like his face and hands.

  “No,” I told him. “I thought we were going to—” When he jerked his underpants down, a swollen, purplish thumb of a dick with wiry hair around it pointed up toward the ceiling. Ed MacMillan fell over on me, his hands went up to my neck holding my head so that my face was crushed into the bed.

  I yelled into the burned nubs on the spread. The bed shook and sank lower under me like I was being swallowed by a wave. I froze for a moment, but when Ed MacMillan pulled back, I bucked so hard against him he lost his grip. Turning under him, I tried to sit up. He came back down over me with his hands anchored around my neck again. I couldn’t breathe. I punched up at his head, into his face. Ed MacMillan looked surprised now, and angry. He hadn’t looked angry till now.

  He drew one of his fists back above my face, the other hand pushing down on my throat. I kept punching at him, aiming my knuckles at his eyes.

  “Dammit! Sonofabitch!” he shouted. But he let go. Slowly, he crawled backwards off the bed, his belly low like he’d been shot.

  “Why’d ya wanna fight me?” he whispered. “I thought we were friends. I thought you wanted . . . to be with me.”

  I sat up immediately, staring at him, daring him to come back. I looked through him, picturing myself on the train to New York, staring out the window at Stratfield going by. Then I heard Ed MacMillan’s voice in the distance, like he was speaking to me from outside, in the parking lot.

  “Well, c’mon then. We have to go.”

  Go on, edfuckingmacmillan. I just want to sit here. I want to sit here on the train, looking out the window, watching Stratfield disappear.

  Ed MacMillan was whining like a six-year-old child. “Louis, c’mon now. Pleeeze.” He wandered into the bathroom. “I must be crazy,” he said. “I must be crazy.” Coming back to the bed he told me, “If you don’t get up, I’m going to have to leave you here. You don’t want me to leave you here, do you?”

  I stood up and slowly, carefully pushed my shirt back into my pants. Ed MacMillan watched me from the corner of the room. He took a swig from his bag and opened the door. “That’s a good boy. C’mon now.”

  He told me he’d take me back to the train station. “I’ll give you some money so you can take a cab home.”

  I wouldn’t get back in his car. He sat there for a few minutes trying to bargain with me, but eventually he took one long, last drink and drove off. I was glad not to have to look at him anymore. Walking the side of the highway, I passed two exits until I saw the sign that said “Exit 34, Stratfield Railroad Station.” A train was just moving off toward New York.

  I hoped I’d gotten in at least one good punch, something that would show up on his head or his face for a few days at least. I hoped I’d hurt him.

  There was no bus in either direction. Who knew when the next one would be. Should’ve taken his fucking cab money.

  I put my hand up to my neck remembering how I couldn’t breathe and he wouldn’t let go. I’d told myself, you have to make him stop, Louis, you have to make him take his hands away.

  I could hear Mom the first time she’d snatched me by the shirt collar and pulled me face to face with her after watching me fight in the courtyard.

  “Why the hell didn’t you kill him, Louis?” she’d demanded and actually waited for an answer. “Can you give me one good reason why you didn’t kill him?”

  • • •

  Sunday night. Have to get home fast. Book report due tomorrow. Have to get home.

  13

  Mom finally won. Or at least she knew where she stood. Ben told her he wouldn’t look for a house himself for us to move to, but if she found one and was willing to pay half the rent on it, he’d move in. Mom pretended it was the answer she’d been waiting for, but I knew better. I kept waiting for her to ask him, “If I can find a house myself, what do I need you for?” Instead, when he was around she’d act almost grateful. It seemed to me she was angrier with him than she’d ever been. She stopped waiting for nighttime or Saturdays to have a drink. I’d come home from school, one of her Billie Holiday records would be playing, and she’d be standing in the middle of the kitchen floor with this look in her eyes that said maybe I was home but she wasn’t.

  She put an ad in the Stratfield Journal. To make extra money without having to leave Lorelle, she decided she’d iron people’s clothes. White people outside our neighborhood, even a couple from the other side of the city, brought baskets spilling over with shirts, sheets, underwear. Some of them clean, some not so clean. Clean or not, Mom worked on them for hours. When she was exhausted, she’d prop the iron up, forget it was there, lean against it and burn herself. She’d take ice cubes from her drink to run back and forth over her wrist, then she’d pound the ironing board with the iron and yell, “Shit.” Pretty soon there’d be no more ice. Then she’d just hold the glass against the burn for a minute, close her eyes and whisper, “Jesus.”

  Because she was trying to save money for the house, she stopped sending me to New York on the weekends. I didn’t know which was worse, boxing with Ben or worrying about running into Ed MacMillan.

  I was catching hell at school. Not paying attention. Not doing homework. Most of the time I felt exhausted and wanted to go to sleep. School. Home. Everywhere. I daydreamed a lot. Mostly about Ed MacMillan. The motel. I started with the motel, then I’d go back to the beginning, then the motel again.

  Every time I went back, it was different. I’d pick one sound or smell or the way something felt and go over it twenty or thirty times before I let myself move on to something else. The car door slamming. My face mashed against the bedspread nubs. Ed MacMillan’s fist on my neck. Me sitting on the motel bed, imagining an express train running through his chest.

  And then I’d get tired and want to stop remembering. I’d only want to sleep. But it was too late. The pictures and the sounds came whether I wanted them to or not. Then I’d get called on.

  “Louis.” Sometimes when I heard the teacher call my name, I didn’t realize she was talking to me. For a couple of seconds, I couldn’t remember where I was, what class I was in.

  I had warning notices in every subject except English. In English, I had a C average. There was only a month left to the term. If I didn’t pull my grades up by the end of June, I’d probably have to repeat eighth grade.

  By the time Dr. Shapiro, the school psychologist, called Mom, she was popping me around for not paying attention at home either a
nd acting what she called sullen and dogwitted.

  Dr. Shapiro told Mom he wanted to do what he called “an assessment” on me, but he wanted to see her first. Mom acted like I’d been caught stealing out of teachers’ pocketbooks. She told me, “Now you’ve got those people ready to call you a mental case. Because you’re willful. Because you’ve decided this is a good way to keep from doing whatever I ask you to do. Well, you let them call you whatever they decide to at that school. I’ll straighten you out my own way when you get home.”

  After her appointment, Mom told me Dr. Shapiro said he thought I was depressed and asked her what could be making a kid as bright as I was do so badly all of a sudden?

  “Depressed? You’re depressed?” Mom asked, slapping me in the face with the word. “Here I am trying to move four people into a respectable place to live without anybody’s help. And now you’ve decided to be some kind of mentally ill juvenile delinquent. Let me tell you something, Louis. I just wish I had the time to be mentally ill. I wish I could afford to take a few years off and be a raving lunatic!

  “You were supposed to help me,” she sighed. “We were supposed to be a team.” She was right, I thought. My job was easy. And something in me, either criminal or crazy, I didn’t know which, was making me mess it up.

  Whatever it was she thought I deserved, I was really fed up with the beatings. Every time she got near me, I’d brace myself. If she reached for something, I’d duck but when she saw me she said, “You think I’m going to hit you? What for? What good would it do? It hasn’t done me any good so far.” I wanted to ask her why, if she figured that out, she hadn’t stopped a long time ago. To her, I guessed, I was probably worse now than I’d ever been and if she really let herself go on me, she’d probably kill me.