OBLIGATION

by Donald Stilwell

  “How old are you again, boy?”

  My grandfather knew how old I was; he said it to be funny.

  “I’m eleven.”

  “I suppose that’s about the right age.”

  My grandfather handed me an oversized pair of boxing gloves. They smelled like dry leather. The insides were stained from prior years of sweat soak. I put them on.

  "These were your father’s. Did he ever teach you anything about fighting?”

  "Yes sir.”

  "Show me what you know kid, punch the bag”

  My grandfather stood behind the bag. He was holding it with his upper body leaned out just enough to watch me punch. I pulled back my right hand and let the bag have it. I followed that with a couple lefts and more rights. I was spent a minute later, my breaths coming in short ragged gasps. My grandfather let go of the bag and stepped around to stand in front of me.

  “Take off the gloves.”

  I did as he asked.

  “Put your hands up like this, left in front, right cocked back. Blade your stance so your left foot is up front.”

  I followed his example.

  “Now tuck your chin. Your chin is the sun in your fighting universe, Kevin. Someone hits you on the chin, it’s lights out, understand?”

  I didn’t, but I said I did.

  “Good. Now breathe. When you throw a punch, breathe out tightening your stomach.”

  He extended the word breathe as he said it. I remember it calmed me the way he spoke when talking about the fighting arts. He enjoyed this and it showed.

  My grandfather threw quick short punches in front of him. He moved to an internal rhythm, his body swaying left or right depending upon the punch he threw. He did this with what appeared to be very little effort. He spoke to me as he went, explaining the nuances of each blow delivered.

  Though I wouldn’t know the word to describe it at the time, I would say later that my grandfather looked formidable.

  I went to put on the gloves again; he stopped me.

  “Put your hands up like I showed you.”

  I did. I even remembered to put my left foot up further than my right.

  “Good, that looks good. Now hit me.”

  My grandfather put his hands up in front of his chest, palms out toward me, open so they were flat.

  “Go ahead, boy, hit my hands. Start slow; remember to breathe out when you punch, left first, then right, left, right. Nice. Move a little now, follow me around the room.”

  It was the first time I thought of something other than my guilt. For the next hour or so I followed him around the room. In the end I was more tired than I could ever remember being, hungrier too.

  He looked at me differently now, and that felt good as well. I felt something resembling pride.

  Over dinner that night we discussed boxing as a whole. He explained things he knew, pointing out the similarities between boxing and certain punches and movements from Karate. He qualified his knowledge and the extent to which he was providing me with by always detailing the defensive nature of acquiring such a skill.

  “Most men fight out of anger. Most know very little about what it takes to be a good fighter and more about a simple ignorant need to hurt something. Any idiot can hurt somebody, it takes no skill. If you take anything from me take this, the man out of control reacts, the man in control acts. No matter what you learn, you’re only as good as your mind will allow you to be.”

  It was a lot for an eleven year old, but it was necessary. He was teaching me as he had taught my father. I remember him, so calm, so in control. I never once saw him get mad. He disciplined Matty and I. He was disciplined himself, but he never reacted out of anger, not one time.

  In the weeks that followed, I insisted on training every day. It closed the door to things less tolerable and gave me something to look forward to.

  Sundays were for my mom.

  My grandfather would drive me to the care home every Sunday afternoon. He would park, tell me to take all the time I needed, and wait in the truck. He had come in the first time. Since then, he waited for me.

  She was sitting there, near a window, her shape small, covered by a macramé throw. Grandfather made sure I had flowers for her every time I visited.

  It had been three months since the incident. Three months since our lives had changed. I stepped through the doorway, called out to her. She didn’t respond. She never did.

  There was a chair next to where she was seated. I sat down and placed the flowers down next to her on the ledge underneath the window. She didn’t look at me, didn’t shift in her seat. She stared, looking through a window at what I wasn’t sure. The first few times I came, I just sat next to her and cried. After that I would just look at her, try to figure out where she was inside her own head. She was more as Matty had been now. Maybe that was it. Maybe she had found a way to be with him. I wanted to be there too.

  Lately I talked to her. I told her of the things Grandfather had taught me - was teaching me. I was sad. I was still only eleven, twelve in another month. You couldn’t look at the person who used to hold you, kiss you, tell you how much they loved you, see them now as a shell of the former, and not be sad. I prayed so hard for her, prayed every single night that she would just wake up. The prayers were not unlike those I use to say for Matty. All I ever wanted was for him to talk to me, for him to tell me how he felt about stuff. He was gone now, and in a way, so was my mom. So I did what anyone would do in the same circumstance. I hugged her, talked to her, and pretended she was alright, pretended any day now she would leave behind her new world and return to mine.

  My grandfather was reading a sports magazine when I returned to the truck. He stopped asking how she was doing. I guess he knew my face would be different if she had spoken. He drove with the radio playing country music, the windows down, and with no expectations.

  School would be starting in less than a week.

  I had jumped a grade when I was younger. I would be entering junior high now, 7th grade.

  My grandfather had made a special trip to the school, completed the forms, and made sure I had my schedule.

  The kids I knew from the old neighborhood wouldn’t be attending my new school. That was good and bad. Memories are strange things. Some make you laugh, others make you cry; I had too many of the latter.

  I had been smallish for most of my life.

  That had passed with the last few months.

  I was thicker now. My grandfather had purchased me all new clothes. I felt strong. I wanted to stay with him. I wanted to work on the farm, split logs, which I was now capable of, train in the barn, and just be around him. I didn’t want to meet new kids, didn’t want to answer anyone’s questions. Matty’s death had made the paper. People would know, and people would say things.

  I was young, but I knew a few things about a few things - an expression I borrowed from my grandfather.

  I understood the way of school, the society formed there and its pecking order. I would be looked upon as something different, a bad kid who let his brother die. I didn’t want to be anyone’s target.

  My grandfather had cautioned me about using my new learned skills. He wanted no trouble from me and made me promise not to fight.

  “Words, Kevin, they’re only words. Let them roll off of you like water off a duck’s back. Fight when given no other option.”

  I asked to stay home. I explained to him that I really didn’t mind solitude. I had him; I had my books.

  Grandfather would have none of it.

  The school year began and I found myself walking alone. I had never had to think of the things I now had to think about. I had always been fairly popular, at least in my own mind. I felt strange now, out of place. I found my first classroom and chose a seat near the back.

  The others arrived. Ten girls, fifteen boys, most of them laughing and playing grabass, at least that’s what my Grandfather called it when kids were screwing around. The teacher called the students’ names one by one, w
aiting for the customary “here” or “present.” I felt anxious awaiting the sound of my name.

  I answered “here” as quickly as I could.

  The day had elapsed without incident.

  The last class of the day was P.E.

  Before Matty died, I loved sports, loved to play them, loved to organize them, and now they seemed irrelevant and unnecessary.

  The gym teacher was a barrel-chested man clad in navy blue gym shorts, white polo shirt, and black cord- slung whistle. He was busy lining up the boys and girls according to size.

  The gym teacher spoke. “What you see ahead of you is my very own obstacle course. I designed it, I helped build it, and I will help you master it.” The coach walked everyone through it. I had barely paid attention as the man went on about the course. It seemed ridiculous to me how much importance he placed on the students’ ability to record a good time. He must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm, for he selected me to go first.

  He looked to his clipboard. “What’s your name son?”

  “Kevin.”

  “Kevin what?”

  "Kevin Anderson, sir.”

  Something flicked in his eyes, or did it? He must have known, must have read about Matty and Meadows Creek.

  He walked me to the start line, whispered something about this is what happens when you screw around in his class.

  I felt myself growing hot.

  He blew his whistle and I began.

  As I took off at the six foot wall, I heard the teacher yell to another kid. In an instant another boy, Stone, he had called him, pulled up alongside me and jumped the wall.

  I got over it, but not as the other kid had. Next were a series of monkey bars. The kid was through them as I hit the first one. It was like this till the end. He waited for me. The last obstacle was a solid steel pole which we were supposed to climb twenty feet into the air.

  There were two poles side by side. The kid looked at me, his hands already finding their place on the pole high above his head. I grabbed on and started pulling. We were going at about the same pace. The only difference was, the kid, Stone, was not using his legs. He was making his way up the pole using nothing but his arms. He reached the top, slid down fast, and ran to the finish. I was well behind him.

  The coach spoke so everyone could hear.

  “When you can run the course like Stone, perhaps then you can let your attention wander. Until that day, stay focused.”

  Great, first day, and I had already made a teacher’s list of screw-ups. I walked at the rear of the class back to the locker room. The kid who had been sent out to defeat me waited. He held out his hand, said his name was Peter.

  I walked past him, not slowing or acknowledging his attempt at niceties.

  “C’mon, man, I wrestle for the guy. If I would have shit on his order he would have killed me.”

  I stopped then. The kid had a goofy smile; he reminded me of someone. He put the hand up again, and this time I shook it.

  “I’m Kevin.”

  “I know,” he said still smiling, and added, “everyone does.”

  “I guess the teacher had made that pretty clear, didn’t he?”

  "No, man, your brother’s story was all over the news. Everyone knew you were coming here.”

  I felt my hands start to clench, my face growing hotter.

  "Shitty thing man, I’m sorry.”

  There it was. Everyone knew. I looked at the kid, Peter. I waited for some stupid remark, something to flash across his face. I would end that for him in a hurry. I could knock a kid out now, I was sure of it.

  Peter didn’t say anymore, didn’t look any way. He just turned and walked away.

  Grandfather was waiting for me outside the school.

  “How was the first day?” He spoke as he pulled from the curb.

  “Fine.”

  “Sounds fine, make any friends?”

  He was looking for reaction, watching me in between watching the road ahead.

  “One kid, Peter I think his name was, he’s okay.”

  “Anybody give you any problems?”

  “No.”

  I would keep the gym teacher thing to myself, no sense opening that issue up for discussion. In the end he would find out it was my lack of respect that earned me the class screw up prize. I didn’t think my grandfather had much use for people without respect.

  I already had homework. One of my new teachers had assigned an essay. The topic was “Who I Am.” I didn’t know what to say. My life to this point was a series of hurting and failing the ones I loved. I didn’t want to do the assignment. So I didn’t. Instead, I changed clothes and ran out to the barn. My grandfather was working on his truck. He asked if I’d done my homework. I lied, said I didn’t have any.

  He walked in as I was jumping rope.

  "You’re getting pretty good at that.”

  I put the rope away, asked him if he’d hold the bag for me.

  We had fallen into a comfortable state of being. He taught me things, all kinds of things. I watched him all the time - watched the way he worked, fixed things that needed fixing, looked after me without making a big deal about it. And I told him things about my life. I felt bad for lying to him earlier. While I hit the bag, I made amends.

  “Grandpa, I kinda do have some homework.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, it’s a paper I gotta write, except, well I don’t know what to say.”

  “Well, what’s it about?”

  “It’s about me.”

  “An autobiography, huh? Tough one.”

  I stopped punching. “I don’t know what to write. Up till now, everything has been, well, you know.”

  “Look, Kevin, times are going to present themselves when you will be faced with hard decisions, tough circumstances - God knows you’ve already faced enough of them. When those times come, you gotta ask yourself.”

  “Ask myself what?”

  “What kind of person you are.”

  “I don’t know what kind of person I am.”

  “You know what a survivor is, Kevin?”

  I thought about it, “Somebody who has an accident and comes out alright?” I hoped that was right.

  He smiled. “That’s a good example. You’re a survivor Kevin, cause no matter what life throws at you, you keep coming. You get knocked down, yet you stand up every time.”

  I didn’t feel like a survivor; I felt small and insignificant.

  “I’ll make you a deal, Kevin. You run inside, get that paper done, then we’ll finish up here and go out for dinner.”

  “I still don’t know what to write.”

  “Write about who you are Kevin, about the people who made you that way, you’ll be all right.”

  I walked inside dreading what awaited me.

  An hour later I was finished. I wrote of my mom, my dad, my grandpa, and Matty. I filled the page with memories of the people I loved and what had happened to them. I cried in the middle of it and had to stop to wipe my eyes dry.

  In the end I felt sad and tired. I wasn’t sure if this was what the teacher was looking for; I didn’t care. I wouldn’t be doing it again.

  When it was finished, I walked out of my room to find my grandfather showered and dressed. His usual flannel shirt and jeans were swapped for a pair of slacks and a sport coat.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  My grandfather handed me a pair of pants similar to his and a new sweater.

  “We’re going someplace special, Kevin. Change out and meet me at the truck.”

  My grandfather drove into the heart of downtown. He pulled up in front of a restaurant where you could see flames raising high from a series of different places inside.

  When I got out of the truck, I noticed him give his key to a man in a black suit. I didn’t know what to think. Once inside we were led through a maze of tables. I believe my grandfather knew the people who worked there because they were all very friendly and quickly brought drinks to our table. M
y grandfather said he knew the owner of the place from his time in the Marines. He said he had served with the man. It wasn’t long before a short thick man with a black moustache stood before our table. He smiled when he spoke and looked at my grandfather approvingly.

  “You clean up real nice you old war horse.” The words held nothing but good intention. He smiled wider and turned to me, “And this must be Kevin?”

  I shook the man’s hand and returned his smile. It was impossible not to.

  “We have everything here young Kevin. Anything you want, you got; it’s on me.”

  My grandfather didn’t raise a hand, didn’t attempt to overturn the man, who I found out later was named “Gino,” on his generous offer. He just watched me as I watched Gino.

  “So what do you like Kevin?”

  I said the first thing that popped into my head. “I like steak.”

  “Ahhh, just like your grandfather huh? Well, alright my friend, I’ll have my chef fix you up a steak you won’t ever forget. You want some French fries with that or a baked potato?”

  “French fries would be great.” I felt a little embarrassed; he was treating me as if I were his best paying customer instead of a penniless kid.

  “Marty!” Gino screamed to a man in chef’s attire. On the second attempt the man looked up.

  “Yes, boss?”

  “You throw on a porterhouse and some fries for my new friend Kevin here.”

  The man smiled. “You got it boss.”

  Gino returned his gaze to my grandfather, exchanged pleasantries, shook his hand a second time, and then left.

  Twenty minutes later I was treated to the best meal thus far in my life. The steak on my plate was roughly the size of a dictionary, not an abridged edition mind you, the kind you find in college. Next to it sat a mound of hot fresh French fries. A second drink was brought to me when my first expired. It was hard for me to take it all end - the food, the treatment, the atmosphere.