Underdogs: Three Novels

by Markus Zusak

  Sometimes I wish I had better fists on me. Faster ones, with faster arms and stronger shoulders. Usually I’m in bed when I think of that kind of thing, although today, I’m in the dressing room waiting for the call. I don’t know. I just wish to be formidable. I wish I could walk through the crowd and climb into the ring to win, not just to fight.

  “Cameron.”

  I wish I could look my opponent in the eye and tell him I’m going to kill him.

  “Cameron.”

  I wish I could stand above him and tell him to get to his feet. “Cameron!”

  Finally, Rube has made it into my thoughts. He has hit me on the shoulder to burst through my mind. I still sit there, in my spray jacket, shivering. My glovesang from my hands like dead weight, and I feel like falling to pieces.

  “Are you fighting or what?” Rube shakes me.

  She’s out there, I think, and for once, I actually say it. To my brother. Quietly. “She’s out there, Rube.”

  He looks at me closer, wondering who I’m talking about. “She is,” I go on.

  “Who?”

  “That Steph, y’ know the one?” “Who?”

  Oh, what’s the point! I exclaim inside me.

  Yet, I still speak softly. “Steph from the track.”

  “So what?” He’s frustrated now, and close to picking me up and throwing me out into the crowd.

  “So everything,” I keep talking. I’m still vacant. Exhausted. “I saw her just a few minutes ago when I took a peek out the door.”

  Rube walks away. “Oh God almighty.” He walks away and comes back. He’s calm now. “Just get out there.”

  “Okay.” But no movement.

  Still calm. “Get out.”

  “All right,” and I know that I must.

  I stand up, the doors are kicked open, and I walk into the crowd. It’s a crowd in which every person has the same face. It’s her. Stephanie.

  All is blur.

  All confusion.

  Perry, shouting.

  The ref.

  Keep it clean, fellas. Fair fight.

  Okay.

  Do it.

  Don’t go down.

  If you do go down, get up.

  The bell, the fists, the fight. It begins, and the first round is death. The second round is the coffin. The third is the funeral.

  My opponent is not such a great fighter, but I’m not on today. I’m not up. I’m so scared of failing that I have accepted it. I’ve given in to it, almost as if I won’t try because it will only make things worse.

  “Get up!” screams Rube’s distorted voice the first time I’m down. Somehow, I do it.

  The second time, it’s just the look in his eyes that makes me find my feet again. My legs ache and I stagger, over to the ropes. Hanging on. Hanging on.

  The third time, I see her. I see her and it’s only her. The rest of the crowd has disappeared and only Stephanie stands there, watching. The whole place is empty but for her. Her eyes are swimming with beauty and her stance makes me lunge for her, in an attempt for her to help me up.

  “I only go because the dogs are beautiful,” I hear her say.

  What a strange thing to say, I think, then realize it’s yesterday’s voice that I hear. Today, she stands in silence, staring at me with solemn lips, closed up, as I struggle to my feet.

  In the fourth round, I fight back. I rise up.

  I navigate my head away from the other guy’s fists and get in a few shots of my own. Blood has flooded my chest and stomach. It eats into my shorts.

  Dog’s blood. A beautiful dog?

  Who knows, because in the fifth round, I get knocked out, and it isn’t just one where I can’t get up. It’s a knockout where I’m knocked cold, unconscious.

  When I’m out, she fills me.

  I see her and we’re at the track, just us in the grandstand, and she kisses me. She comes close and she tastes so nice. It’s unbearable. Me, with one gentle hand on her face and the other nervously gripping the collar of her shirt. Her with her lips on mine, and her hands gliding up my rib cage, bit by bit. Just gentle, so gentle.

  Her lips.

  Her hips.

  Her pulse, inside mine. So gentle, so gentle.

  So “Gentle,” I hear Rube’s voice. “Be gentle with him.” Damn, I’m awake. Awake and ashamed.

  After a while, I’m on my feet again, but I’m slumped between Rube and Bumper, who has kindly jumped into the ring to help us out. “You right, little fella?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I lie. “I’m right,” and Rube and Bumper help me out of the ring.

  It’s darker in here now and my sight is paralyzed. Tonight it’s shame that flows down my side, as the fluorescent lights hit me. They scratch my eyes out. They blind me.

  Once out of the ring, I stop. I have to.

  “What?” Rube questions me. “What’s up? C’mon, we gotta get you back in the room.”

  “No,” I say. “I’ve gotta walk on my own.”

  Rube’s eyes search inside me then and something happens. His hands drop and he nods at me with such intensity that I nod ever so slightly back. Feeling grabs me, turns through me, and I walk.

  We all do

  I walk with Rube and Bumper on either side of me, and the crowd is silent. The blood is drying onto my skin. My legs move forward. Once more. Once more. Just keep walking, I tell myself. Head up. Head up, I chant, but still concentrate on y’ feet. Don’t fall down.

  There is no applause.

  Just people, watching.

  Just Stephanie, out there somewhere, watching.

  Just Rube’s proud eyes, as he walks next to me …

  “The door,” he says to Perry, and Perry opens it, when we get there. On the other side, I fall down again, swallowing my blood and turning over to grin at the ceiling. It drops and squashes me, then rises up and does it again.

  “Rube,” I call out, but he’s miles away. “Rube …” A shout now. “Rube, are y’ there?”

  “I’m here brother.”

  Brother.

  It makes me smile.

  I say, “Thanks Rube. Thanks.” “It’s all right brother.” Again with the brother. Another smile on my lips.

  “Did I win?” I ask, because now, I can’t feel anything. I’m one with the floor.

  “Nah mate.” He won’t lie. “You got hurt pretty bad, ay.”

  “Did I?”

  “You did.”

  Slowly, I regain edges of composure. I clean myself up and watch Rube’s fight through a gap in the door. Bumper’s in his corner in my absence, even though my brother doesn’t need him. I see Stephanie, swaying with the rest of the crowd, just watching when Rube knocks down his man in the second. I see her smile and it’s a beautiful smile. But it’s not a grandstand smile. It’s not a smile for me. I have drowned in those eyes. I have vanished in the sky. And there I am, remembering that she doesn’t really like fights….

  The bout ends later in the round.

  The girl ends two minutes after it.

  She ends when Rube goes past and she says something to him. Rube nods. It makes me wonder. Has she asked if Cameron’s okay? Does she want to see me?

  The thing is, though, that I can tell. Her eyes cannot be for me.

  Or can they?

  Soon we’ll know, because during the next fight, Rube goes out the back door, and listening, I can tell he’s talking to her. He’s talking to Stephanie.

  I’m close. Too close, but I c’t help it. I have to listen. It starts with Rube’s voice.

  “You wanna see if my brother’s okay, do you?”

  Silence.

  “Well, do y’?”

  “Is he all right?”

  I’m in her voice for a brief moment, letting it cover me, smother me, until Rube sees things clearly. He says it hard.

  “Y’ don’t care, isn’t that right?” “Of course I do!”

  “Y’ don’t.” Rube’s made up his mind. “Y’ came for me, didn’t you?” A gap. “Didn’t you?�
��

  “No, I —”

  “See, there are smart girls out there somewhere, and they’re not here. They’re never round the back here with me, getting’ it off against the wall because they think I’m tough and good and hard!” He’s angry. “No way. They’re at home, dreamin’ of a Cameron! They’re dreamin’ of my brother!”

  Her voice bruises me.

  “Cameron’s a loser.”

  Bruises me hard.

  “Yeah, but,” Rube goes on, “you know somethin’? He’s a loser who walked you home yesterday when I couldn’t have cared less. Hell, you could have been beat up or raped for all I cared.” His voice batters her, I can feel it. “And there’s Cameron, my brother, dyin’ like hell to please you and treat you right.” He moves her into a corner. “He would too, y’ know. He’d bleed for you, and fight for you, without his fists. He’d take care of you and have respect for you and he’d love the hell out of you. You know that?” It’s quiet.

  Rube, Steph, door, me.

  “So if you wanna do it here with me,” Rube jabs her again, “let’s go. You’re about worth me, but you’re not worth him. You’re not worth my brother….”

  He has swung his last verbal punch now and I feel them standing there. I picture it — Rube looking at her and Stephanie looking somewhere else. Anywhere but at Rube. Soon, I hear her footsteps. The last one sounds like something shattering.

  Rube’s alone.

  He’s on one side of the door. I’m on the other.

  To himself, he says, “Always for me.” Some silence. “And for what? I’m not really even a …” He fades off.

  I open the door. I see him.

  I walk out and lean back against the wall with him.

  I realize that I could have hated him or been jealous that Steph wanted him instead of me. I could have looked back on her question from last night with bitterness.

  Is Rube as good a fighter as everyone says? she’d asked. Yet, I don’t feel anything awful. All I can feel is a wish that I’d had the presence of mind to answer something different to her. I should have said, A good fighter? I don’t know — but he’s good at being my brother.

  That’s what I should have said.

  “Hi Rube.”

  “Hi Cameron.”

  We lean against the wall and the sun is screaming out in pain on the horizon. The horizon swallows it slowly, eating it up whole. All the city faces it, including my brother and me.

  Conversation.

  I speak.

  I ask, “Y’ reckon there really is a girl out there like the one y’ mentioned? Waiting for me?” “Maybe.”

  Fire and blood are smeared across the distant sky. I watch it.

  “Really, Rube?” I ask. “Y’ reckon?”

  “There has to be…. You might be dirty and down low, and not much of a winner, but …”

  He doesn’t finish his sentence. He just looks into the evening, and I can only speculate on what he might say, I hope it’s something like “but you’re big-hearted,” or “but you’re a gentleman.”

  Nothing, however, is said.

  Maybe the words are the silence.

  CHAPTER 14

  When you lean against a wall and the sun’s setting, sometimes you just stand there and watch. You taste blood but you don’t move. Like I said, you let the silence speak. Then you go back inside.

  “Twenty bucks tip money,” Perry informs me, handing me a bag when everything’s over.

  “Huh,” I retort. “Pity money.”

  “No,” Perry warns me. He always looks like he’s warning you. This time he’s telling me to shut up and take the compliment.

  “It’s pride money,” says Bumper. “Walkin’ through the c

  rowd like that. They appreciate that more than my win, more than Rube’s win, more than all of ‘em put together.”

  I take the money. “Perry.”

  “You’ve got four more fights,” he tells me. “Then your season’s over, right? You deserve the break, I reckon.” He shows Rube and me a sheet of paper that’s a competition ladder. In his other hand he holds the draw. On the ladder, he points out where Rube is. “See, you came in three fights late, but you’re still on top. You’re the only one who hasn’t lost a fight.”

  Rube points at the name sitting on second. “Who’s Hitman Harry Jones?”

  “You’re fightin’ him next week.” “He good?”

  “You’ll drop him easy.” “Oh.”

  “Look there, he’s had two losses. One of ‘em was against the bloke you fought tonight.” “Really?”

  “Would I say it otherwise?” “No.”

  “Well, shut up then.” Perry grins. “The semifinals are comin’ up in four more weeks.” The grin leaves him. Immediately. Now he’s serious. “However …”

  “What?” Rube asks. “What?”

  Perry pulls us both aside. He speaks slow and genuine. I’ve never heard him speak like this. “There’s only one slight problem — it’s in the last week of the regular comp.”

  Rube and I both look at the draw closely. “See it?” Perry sticks a finger on Week Fourteen. “I’ve decided to be a bit of a bastard.” I see it. So does Rube.

  “Oh man,” I say, because right there on the page of Week Fourteen in the lightweight division, it says WOLFE vs. WOLFE.

  Perry tells us, “Sorry fellas, but I couldn’t help it. There’s just something about brothers fighting, and I wanted the last week before the semifinals to be memorable.” He’s still genuine. Just talking business.

  “Remember, I said there was a slight chance this might happen. You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “You can’t rig somethin’?” Rube asks. “You can’t change it?”

  “No, and I don’t want to either. The only good thing is that it’s gonna be here, at home.”

  A shrug. “Well, fair enough then.” My brother looks at me. “You got a problem with it Cam?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good,” Perry finishes. “I knew I could count on y’s.”

  When everything’s packed up, Perry offers us our usual lift home. His voice hammers my mind, as I’m still in pretty bad shabeating I copped.

  “Nah,” Rube tells him. “Not tonight, ay. I reckon we might walk tonight.” He goes for my opinion. “Cam?”

  “Yeah, why not,” even though I’m thinking, Are you bloody crazy? My head looks like it’s gone through a blender. However, I say nothing more. I think I’ll be happy to walk home with Rube tonight.

  “No worries.” Perry states his position. “Next week boys?”

  “Certainly.”

  We walk out the back door with our gear and tonight there is no one waiting. There’s no more Steph, no more anyone. There’s only city and sky, and clouds that twirl in the growing darkness.

  At home, I hide my battle-bruised face. I have a black eye, swollen cheekbone, and a torn, blood-rusted lip. I eat the pea soup in the sheltered corner of the lounge room.

  The next few days fight their way past.

  Rube lets his gruff grow a little.

  Dad is on the employment trail, as usual.

  Sarah goes to work and only goes around to her friend Kelly’s place once or twice. She comes home sober and, on Wednesday, with overtime money jammed in her pocket.

  Steve comes in once, to iron some shirts.

  “Don’t you have an iron?” Rube asks him.

  “What does it look like?”

  “It looks like you don’t have an iron.”

  “Well, guess what, I don’t.”

  “Well, maybe you should go and buy one, y’ tighty.”

  “Who y’ callin’ tight, boy? How ‘bout you go and have a shave….”

  “Can’t y’ afford an iron? This movin’ out thing can’t be too easy then.”

  “Damn right. It’s not.”

  The thing is, though, that as they argue, both Steve and Rube are pretty much laughing. Sarah laughs from the kitchen and I smirk in my own juvenile way. This is
the sort of thing we specialize in.

  Mrs. Wolfe has actually taken the day off work.

  What this means is that she has time to notice that there are cuts and bruises healing on my face. As I eat some cornflakes that afternoon, she corners me in the kitchen. I watch her watching me.

  She calls out. One word. It’s this: “Rube!”

  Not too loud. Not panicked. Just a confident strain ofexpects nothing less than his quick arrival. She asks, “Is it the boxing training?” Rube sits down. “No.”

  “Or have you boys been fighting in the backyard again?”

  He confesses a lie.

  “Yeah.” He’s pretty quiet. “We have.”

  She only sighs and believes us, which is the worst thing. It’s always bad when someone believes you when you know they shouldn’t. You feel like screaming at them, telling them to stop, so you can live with yourself a little easier.

  But you don’t.

  You don’t want to disappoint them.

  You can’t face your own gutless self and explain that you’re not worthy of their trust.

  You can’t accept that you’re that low.

  The thing is that we have been fighting in the yard, even if it’s only practice for the real thing. I guess Rube hasn’t exactly lied, but he hasn’t told the truth either.

  It’s close.

  I feel it.

  I come so close to telling her all about it. Perry, the boxing, the money. Everything. The only thing stopping me now is the bowed head of my brother. Looking at him, I know he’s heading somewhere. He’s at the edge of something and I can’t bring myself to snatch it from under his feet.

  “Sorry Mum.”

  “Sorry Mum.”

  Sorry Mrs. Wolfe.

  For everything.

  We’ll make you proud another day. We have to. We must.

  “You know,” she begins, “you fellas ought to be looking after each other.” Her comment makes me realize that through the lies, the greatest irony is that we are looking out for each other. It’s just that in the end, we’re letting her down. That’s what injures us.

  “Any luck with work?” Steve asks Dad. I can hear it. They’re in the lounge room.

  “Nah, not really.”

  I expect them to begin the usual argument about getting the dole, but they don’t. Steve leaves it alone, because he doesn’t live here anymore. He only gets a fixed look on his face and says his good-byes. I can tell by his expression that he’s thinking, It’ll never happen to me. I won’t let it.