Underdogs: Three Novels

by Markus Zusak

  She loves him.

  Watching it, I see the handful of fights that Rube and I have had inside the warehouses and factories. They’re pale, I decide. Pale in comparison. There’s a vision also of Sarah, putting overtime in (as she’s been known to do lately), or even just watching TV or reading. There’s even a vision of Steve, out there on his own, living. Mainly though, it’s Mum and Dad. Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe.

  I think about Fighting Ruben Wolfe.

  I think about fighting Ruben Wolfe.

  From the inside.

  I think about finding Ruben Wolfe….

  I think about fights you know you’ll win, fights you know you’ll lose, and the fights you just don’t know about. I think about the ones in between.

  It’s me now who looks at the road.

  I speak.

  Talk.

  Say it.

  I say, “Don’t lose your heart, Rube.” And very clearly, without moving, my brother answers me.

  He says, “I’m not tryin’ to lose it, Cam. I’m tryin’ to find it.”

  Tonight, there’s nothing.

  There’s no “Hey Rube, are you awake?”

  No “Of course I bloody am!”

  There’s just silence.

  Silence, Rube and me.

  A the darkness.

  He’s awake, though. I can sense it. I can feel it, just out of reach from my vision.

  There are no voices from the kitchen.

  There’s no world but this one.

  This room.

  This air.

  This awake-ness.

  CHAPTER 12

  In the half-consciousness of Saturday morning, I’m dreaming of women, flesh, and fights.

  The first fills me with fear.

  The second fills me with thrill.

  The third fills me with more fear.

  My blanket covers me. Only my human snout sticks out the top, allowing me to breathe.

  “We goin’ for a run?” I ask across to Rube.

  Is he still asleep?

  “Rube?”

  An answer. “Nah, not today.”

  Good, I think. This blanket might be full of fear, but it’s still pretty warm under here. Besides, I reckon we could use a rest.

  “I wanna do a bit of work later though,” Rube continues. “Gotta work on my jab. Can we do some One Punch later in the backyard?”

  “I thought we were finished with that. Like you said to Mum.”

  “Well, we’re not. I’ve changed my mind.” He rolls over but still talks. “You could use some work on your own jab too, y’ know.” He’s right.

  “Okay.”

  “So stop whingein’.”

  “I don’t mind.” It’s the truth. “It’ll be fun anyway. Like the old days.” “Damn right.” “Good.”

  We return to sleep. For me, it’s back to the flesh, fighting, and women. What’s it back to for Rube? I wonder.

  Once we’re up and the day progresses, Mum, Dad, and Sarah go to Steve’s place, to see how he’s going. It’s our golden opportunity to train. We take it.

  As we always do now, we go over and get Miffy.

  From our back step, the pooch looks up at us. He licks his lips.

  We circle the

  Rube hits me, but I hit back. He gets more in than me, but about every second punch Rube gets in, I get one back. He becomes a little frustrated.

  When we have a break, he says, “I’ve gotta be quicker. Quicker once the jab goes out. Quicker to block.”

  “Yeah, but what happens in your fights,” I tell him, “is that you throw a jab or two and follow it with your left. Your left’s always quicker than the counterpunch.”

  “I know, but what if I come up against a real good counterpuncher? Then I’m in trouble.”

  “I doubt it.” “Do y’?”

  From there, we practice more and then swap gloves for a bit of fun. Back to the old days all right. One glove each, circling the backyard, each throwing punches. Smiling at hitting. Smiling at being hit. We don’t go all out, because we both have to fight tomorrow, so there are no bruises and no blood. It’s funny, I think, as we crouch and I watch Rube, who also crouches with that look on his face. Just content. It’s funny when we fight one-handed in our backyard, that’s when I feel closest to my brother. That’s when it feels strongest that we’re brothers and always will be. I feel it, watching him, and when he gives me a slight Ruben Wolfe grin, Miffy flings himself at him, and Rube mock-fights him, letting Miffy curl around his solitary glove.

  “Bloody Miffy,” he smirks. There are glimpses.

  Later, the tempo changes back to what has become normal.

  We’re sitting in our room, and Rube pulls open the wretched corner of carpet next to my bed. In one envelope is his money. In the other is mine. Rube’s envelope holds three hundred and fifty dollars. Mine holds about one sixty. Rube has won seven fights from seven starts. My own money comes from two wins and the rest of it is tips.

  Rube sits on his bed and counts his money.

  “All there?” I inquire.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I was only bloody askin’!”

  He looks at me.

  Thinking about it, it’s actually the first time in a while that either of us has raised his voice in real anger at the other. We used to do it all the time. It was normal. Almost fun. A regular occurrence. Today, however, it’s like a bullet, buried deep into the flesh of our brotherhood. It’s a bullet of doubt, a bullet of not knowing.

  Outside the window, the city counts the seconds, as we sit there in silence.

  One — two — three — four —

  More words get to their feet.

  They belon

  He says, “Are the dogs on today?”

  “I think so, yeah. Saturday the eighth. Yep, that’s today.”

  “You wanna go down?”

  “Yeah, why not?” I smile. “We might see those cops again and have a laugh.”

  “Yeah, they’re all right, those two.”

  I take a handful of my tip change and chuck some of it Rube’s way.

  “Thanks.”

  I put ten bucks in my jacket pocket. “No worries.”

  We put our shoes on and leave the house. We write a note saying we’ll be back before dark, and place it on the kitchen table. It goes next to the Herald. That paper — it sits there, open at the employment section. It sits there like a war, and each small advertisement is another trench for a person to dive into. To hope and fight in.

  We stare at it.

  We pause.

  We know.

  Rube drinks some milk out of the carton, puts it back in the fridge, and we walk out, leaving the war on the table, with the note.

  Outside, we walk.

  Out the front door and beyond the gate.

  We’re in our usual gear. We’re jeaned, flanno-ed, gymmied, and jacketed. Rube’s jacket is corduroy. It’s brown and old and ridiculous, but typically, he looks downright brilliant in it. Mine’s my black spray jacket, and I’d say I look about okay. Or at least, I hope. Somewhere on the border of it anyway.

  We walk, and the smell of street is raucous. It shoots through me and I enjoy it. The city buildings in the distance are holding up the sky, it seems. The sky is blue and bright, and the strides of Rube and I walk toward it. We used to languish when we walked, or sidle down the street like dogs that have just done something wrong. Now Rube walks upright, because he’s on the attack.

  We get to the track and it’s about one o’clock.

  “Look,” I point. “It’s Mrs. Craddock.”

  As expected, she’s sitting in the stand, holding a hot dog in one hand and balancing a coldie and a cigarette in the other. The smoke smothers her and divides either side.

  “Hi fellas,” she calls to us, moving the cigarette to her lips. Or is she taking a chug on the beer? She has brown-gray hair, purple lipstick, a scrunched nose, and wears an old dress and thongs. She’s big. A big woman.

 
“Hey Mrs. Craddock,” we greet her. (It was the beer she was after, then a quick inhalation“How y’ goin’?”

  “Beautifully, thanks. Nothin’ better than a day with the dogs.”

  “That’s for sure.” But I’m thinking, Whatever y’ say, love. “Who do y’ like in the next one?” She grins.

  Oh man. It’s not pretty. Those falsies …

  “Number two,” she advises. “Peach Sunday.”

  Peach Sunday. Peach Sunday? What sort of person calls a greyhound Peach Sunday? They should get together with whoever called that other dog You Bastard.

  “Can she gallop?” I ask.

  “That’s horses, love,” Craddock answers. See how infuriating she is? Can she really think that I think I’m at the horse track? “And it’s a he.”

  “Well?” Rube asks. “Is he a certainty?”

  “Sure as I’m sittin’ here.”

  “Well, she’s sittin’ here all right.” Rube nudges me on our way. “All three hundred pounds of her.”

  We turn and bid her good-bye.

  Me: “Bye, Mrs. Craddock.”

  Rube: “Yeah, see y’ later. Thanks for the tip.”

  We look around. Our cop mates aren’t here, so we have to hunt for someone else to put the bet on for us. It won’t be hard. A voice finds us.

  “Hey Wolves!”

  It’s Perry Cole, holding his customary beer, as well as a grin. “What are a couple of respectable young lads such as yourselves doin’ down here?”

  “Just puttin’ a few on,” Rube replies. “Can y’ slap a bet on for us?”

  “Of course.”

  “Race three, number two.”

  “Right.”

  He puts it on for us and we go down to the sunny part of the grandstand, where Perry sits in a big group. He introduces us, tells everyone what gunfighters we are (or Rube, at least), and we watch. There are some ugly guys and girls there, but some nice girls too. One of them is our age and pretty. Dark hair, cut short. Eyes of sky. She’s skinny and she smiles at us, polite and shy.

  “That’s Stephanie,” Perry tells us as he rattles through the names. Her face is tanned and sweet. Her neck and throat are smooth, and she wears a pale blue shirt, a bracelet, and old jeans. She’s got gymmies on, like us. I notice her arms and her wrists and her hands and fingers. They’re finine and beautiful and delicate. No rings. Just the bracelet.

  All the other people talk, behind us.

  So where do y’ live? I ask, inside. No words come out.

  “So, where do y’ live?” Rube asks her, but his voice is so different from the voice that I would have used. His is said to be said. Not said to be nice.

  “Glebe.”

  “Nice area.”

  Me, I say nothing.

  I only look at her and her lips and her straight white teeth when she speaks. I watch the breeze run its fingers through her hair. I watch it breathe onto her neck. I even watch the air go into her mouth. Into her lungs, and back out …

  She and Rube talk about regular things. School. Home. Friends. What bands they’ve seen lately of which Rube has seen none. He just makes it up.

  Me?

  I would never lie to her.

  I promise.

  “Go!”

  It’s everyone yelling as the dogs get let out and take off around the track. “Go Peach Sunday!”

  Rube stands and yells with the rest of the people. “Go Peaches! Go son!”

  As he does so, I look at Stephanie. Peach Sunday doesn’t concern me anymore, even when he wins by two lengths and Rube slaps me on the back, and Perry slaps us both on the back.

  “Old Craddock’s all right then, ay!” Rube shouts at me, and faintly, I smile. Stephanie smiles also, at both of us. We’ve just made sixty-five dollars. Our first real win at the track. Perry collects it for us.

  We decide to stay ahead from there and we just hang around and watch for the rest of the afternoon, till the shadows grow long and lean. When the crowd disperses after the last race, Perry invites us to his place for what he calls, “Food, drinks, and anything else you might need.”

  “No thanks.” It’s Rube. “We’ve gotta get home.”

  At that moment, Steph talks to an older girl I assume is her sister. They talk, then separate, and Steph is on her own.

  Walking out the gate, I see her and say to Rube, “Shouldn’t we walk with her or somethin’? You know, to make sure she doesn’t get clocked on the way home. There are some good weirdos around here.”

  “We gotta be home before dark.”

  “Yeah, but —”

  “Well, go if y’ want,” he urges me. “I’ll tell Mumll be in a bit later. You just stopped by a mate’s place.” I stop.

  “Come on,” he says, “make up y’ mind.”

  I pause, go one way, then the other. I decide.

  I run across the road, and once I turn to see where Rube is, he’s gone. I can’t find him anywhere. Steph’s walking up ahead. I catch up.

  “Hey.” Words. More words, I tell myself. Gotta say more words. “Hey Steph, can I walk with you?” To make sure you get home all right, I think, but I don’t say it. It’s just not something I would say. I can only hope she knows what I mean.

  “Okay,” she replies. “But isn’t this out of your way?”

  “Ah, not really.”

  It grows darker and there are no more words. It’s just, I have no idea what to say, or what to talk about. The only thing that makes a sound is my heartbeat, stumbling through my body as we keep going. Our walk is slow. I look at her. She looks at me a few times too. Damn, she’s beautiful. I see it under the streetlights — a world of sky in each eye, and the dark, short waves of hair and tanned skin.

  It’s cold.

  God, she must be cold, and I take my jacket off and offer it to her. Still no words. Just my face, begging her to accept it. She does and she says, “Thanks.”

  At her gate, she asks, “You wanna come in? You can have something to drink.”

  “Oh nah,” I explain. Quiet. Too quiet! “I have to get home. I wish I could though.”

  She smiles.

  She smiles and takes the jacket off. When she hands it to me, I wish I could touch her fingers. I wish I could kiss her hand. I wish I could feel her lips.

  “Thanks,” she says again, and when she turns and walks toward her front door, I only stand and look at her. I take all of her in. Her hair, neck, shoulders. Her back. Her jeans and her legs, walking. Her hands again, the bracelet and her fingers. Then her last smile, when she says, “Hey Cameron.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I might see y’ tomorrow. I think I’ll come down and have a look in the warehouse, even though I hate fights.” She pauses a moment. “I hate betting at the dog track as well. I only go because the dogs are beautiful.”

  I stand there.

  Still.

  I wonder, Can a Wolfe be beautiful? However, “That’s nice,” is what I say. We connect. Her eyes pull mine into hers.

  “So yeah,” she says. “I’ll try there.” “Okay.”

  Then, “Hey, just out of interest,” she asks. She considers something. “Is Rube as good a fighter as everyone says?”

  I nod.

  Just honestly.

  “Yeah,” I say. “He is.”

  “How ‘bout you?”

  “Me? I’m not much really….”

  There’s one more smile and she says, “Might see you tomorrow then.”

  “All right,” I reply. “I hope so.”

  There’s a final turn and she’s gone inside.

  Once I’m alone, I stand a few more seconds and take off for home. I start running, from the adrenaline juice I taste in my throat.

  Can a Wolfe be beautiful?

  Can a Wolfe be beautiful?

  I ask it as I run, with her image gathered in my mind. I think Rube can be, I answer, when he’s in the ring. He’s handsome, yet ferocious, yet devastating, yet beautiful and handsome all over again.

  At home, I
make it in time for dinner.

  She’s there, at the table with me. Stephanie. Steph. Eyes of sky. Sweet wrists and fingers, and waves of dark hair, and her love for the beautiful dogs at the track.

  She might be there tomorrow.

  She might be there.

  She might be.

  She might.

  She.

  I’m kidding, aren’t I? Cameron Wolfe.

  Cameron Wolfe, and another girl who has shown just the slightest interest. And he loves her already. He’s already prepared to fall all over her and beg her and vow to treat her right and do anything she wants. He’s ready to give all of himself.

  He’s one boy, and surely, it is pain that looms, not bliss.

  Or will this be different?

  Can it be?

  Will it be?

  I don’t know.

  I anticipate and hope. I think about it all night. Even in bed, she’s under my blanket with me.

  Across the room, Rube’s counting his money again.

  Holding it out before him stares at it, like he’s convincing himself of something.

  I stare now as well, curious about what he sees.

  “See this money,” he says. “It’s not three hundred and fifty dollars.” He stares harder. “It’s seven wins.”

  “Hey Rube?”

  Nothing.

  “Hey Rube? Rube?”

  Tonight it’s just her and me, under my blanket.

  Visions echo.

  They’re played out on the ceiling, as hope grows inside me.

  There are gold snippets of future in the darkness of the dark.

  One last try:

  “Hey Rube? Rube?”

  Nothing.

  All I have is the hope that I will fight well tomorrow and that she’ll be there.

  But she hates fights, I tell myself. So why would she come? More questions. Would she really come just to see me?

  The visions are everywhere.

  The answers are nowhere.

  Yet, in the dead of night, in the listening dark, Rube says a very strange thing. Something I won’t really understand until later.

  He says, “Y’ know, Cam, I’ve thought about it, and I think I like your money better than mine.”

  And I’m left lying there, in bed, thinking but not speaking. Just thinking.

  CHAPTER 13