Dan Versus Nature

by Don Calame

  I take a weak punch at Hank. He lifts his left forearm, blocking my strike.

  “Right here,” Hank says, extending his right arm and giving me a light tap on the chin with his fist. “You’ve got your opening. If you do it correctly, you should only have to do it once. A bully will generally back down if he gets hit, because he’s not expecting it. He — or she, it can be a she, I guess — usually only preys on the weak.”

  “Are you saying it’s OK to hit a girl, Mr. Langston?” Charlie asks.

  “Well, no.” Hank blinks uncomfortably. “You shouldn’t ever hit a girl — unless, you know, your life is in danger. Then, I suppose, all bets are off.” He laughs. “But, really, come on, when was the last time you were bullied by a girl?”

  Charlie and I avoid each other’s gazes.

  Hank clears his throat. “OK, let me take a shot, and you try to block it.”

  He swings at me in super-slow-motion. I lift my forearm and block his punch, countering with one of my own, stopping well before I come in contact with his head.

  “Perfect,” Hank says, nodding. “There you go. That’s all you need.”

  “Yeah, but,” I say, “if I’m ever actually attacked, I seriously doubt we’ll be fighting in slow-mo. Can we speed it up a little? I’ll take a more realistic punch at you, and you block it, then you take one at me, so I can see the block-return-punch thing at a more true-to-life speed.”

  “Right,” Hank says. “Sure. OK. Just tell me when it’s coming so I’m ready.” He laughs. “The last thing I want is a broken nose here.”

  “Fight, fight, fight!” Penelope chants, waving a squirrel skewer in the air. She looks over at Charlie. “Come on, Charlie. Where’s your spirit? Cheer them on. Fight, fight, fight!”

  But Charlie is glued to his camera like he’s about to capture a shot of the rare and elusive Philippine warty pig.

  I take a deep breath and get into my boxer stance, my heart racing.

  This is it. Time to put up or shut up.

  “OK,” I say, swallowing. “Get ready. It’s going to be fast. Here it comes.”

  I leap at him, taking a powerful swing, putting all my weight behind it.

  Hank isn’t expecting such a forceful punch, and he jacks up his hairy arm instinctively, blocking my heavy blow expertly, just like I knew he would.

  Then, he automatically comes at me with a hard right, firing it out like a piston.

  That’s when I close my eyes and lunge forward.

  Throwing my face toward his fist.

  First there’s a crunching sound, like someone stepping on a bag of cornflakes. Then a flash of light as my head snaps back, then screaming pain that shoots up my nose and straight into my brain.

  “Ahhhhh!” I cry, stumbling back, my hands grabbing my face.

  “Holy-crap-what-the-hell-just-happened?” Hank shouts. “You . . . you leaned into it ! Why-did-you-do-that-you-weren’t-supposed-to-do-that!”

  “Jesus Christ!” Penelope says, leaping to her feet. “I was just kidding about wanting to see carnage, guys!”

  The blood streams from my nostrils like a faucet turned on full blast. My hands are gloved in red.

  “That does not look promising,” Charlie says.

  Click, click, click.

  I stare at Hank. “I thick you broke by dose,” I say, all nasal.

  “Hemorrhaging like that would certainly suggest so,” Charlie offers.

  Hank snatches up his water filtering sock and gently holds it against my face. “I’m so sorry, Dan, I — you came at me so fast, and I . . .” He’s shaking his head, his eyes wide. “I don’t know what — I can’t believe . . .”

  “Why’d you hit be so hard?” I say, my voice muffled by his sock.

  “I wasn’t trying to! I — I just . . .” Hank stammers. “You came forward and . . . Did you trip or something?”

  “You thick it’s by fault that you hit be?” I say, knowing full well that it was. That this is what I’d intended all along — what Charlie and I had discussed. Though, not exactly this. Not the horrible pain or the busted, bleeding nose. More like a crack on the cheek or a smack to the ear.

  At least, that’s how Charlie had charted it out in the pugilism-planning phase.

  “No, of course not!” Hank splutters, still holding his blood-soaked sock to my nose. “I’m not . . . blaming anyone . . . It was an accident, obviously. I’m just . . . trying to figure out how it happened.”

  “You struck him in the face with your fist,” Charlie explains. “There’s little mystery to it. We all witnessed the blow.”

  Hank shoots Charlie a look. “Thank you, Charlie. Yes. I know what happened. I’m just trying to discern how it happened.”

  “Baybe it was an unconscious thing,” I snuffle. “Baybe you wanted to get be back for accidentally shooting you with an arrow.”

  “No!” Hank insists, shaking his head. “Not a chance. That’s ridiculous. I did not consciously or unconsciously attempt to hurt you. I would never do that.”

  I don’t respond. To do so would acknowledge Hank’s innocence and accept his apology, which Charlie explained would lessen Hank’s remorse. I feel like sort of a dick for leaving him hanging, but I’m not about to throw all of my hard work down the drain.

  It’s all for the greater good. For Mom. To save her from the avalanche of emotional pain that will come when Hank inevitably disappoints her.

  Let’s just hope Erin finds guys with crooked noses sexy.

  It’s difficult to draw when you’re rocked by bouts of shivering. The graphite tip of my pencil skitters across the page, the smooth, curved line I’m attempting to make becoming a long, jagged stroke. My skin is all gooseflesh, and my shoulders are scrunched up tight to my neck. I erase the line, shake out my hand, and try again.

  I probably should have stayed inside the shelter this morning, warm and protected in our debris bed. But I woke up with what felt like a bayonet in my skull, my nose throbbing, sending pain pulsing across my face.

  Also, my ass started burning again. So I was getting it from both ends.

  I got up, applied the last dregs of the Calamine lotion to my itchy nether regions, and got to drawing to try to keep my mind occupied.

  I shift on my rock, my butt bone sore, my nose a thrumming ache. I touch the bulge on my face. It feels like I’ve grown a small piece of fruit above my lips.

  It took a long time to get the bleeding to stop last night. Once it finally did, I washed up in the brook, using Hank’s other sock to dab cold water on the wound in an effort to keep the swelling down. It did not work.

  I try to breathe through my nostrils, clogged and wheezy.

  The one good thing about having a broken nose is that it’s made the poison ivy rash in my ass seem like a feather tickle.

  I return to my work. Between the pink-stained sky and the blanket of ground fog acting as a reflector, there is just enough light to allow me to see what I’m drawing.

  On the page, a giant Werebear emerges from the Dark Forest, sent by the injured Night Goblin to hunt down Sir Stan and Princess Erilin. The beast silently approaches our sleeping lovers, twisted up in a blanket on the ground, their limbs entwined —

  “That’s damn good, bud.”

  I jerk my head up and see Hank looking over my shoulder.

  “That’s the kind of thing I thought you drew.” He nods at my drawing. “Comics and stuff.”

  Ah, crap. He wasn’t supposed to see this.

  “This stuff is stupid,” I say. “It’s just to blow off steam. It’s so cliché.”

  “I don’t know,” Hank says. “I like it. I see that you’re incorporating some of our misadventures into your story. Is that Penelope sleeping there?”

  “Penelope?” I look down at my sketchbook, at the picture I’ve drawn of Princess Erilin and Stan. “That’s not . . . Penelope.”

  But it so clearly is.

  Hank laughs. “If you say so.”

  I blink at the dead-accurate image of Penel
ope, the Desert Princess interloper.

  Oh my God, what have I done?

  Hank limps over to the log beside me and gestures at it. “Mind if I have a seat?”

  “No,” I lie, slapping my sketchbook shut. “Go ahead.”

  Hank settles down with a groan. He glances up at the clear sky.

  “Looks like we’re in for a nice day,” he says. “Once this fog burns off.”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “It’s peaceful,” Hank says. “So early in the morning. Like the whole forest is still asleep. The animals. The trees. The fog on the ground . . .”

  “Baby Robbie’s dead,” I say abruptly. “I watched his heart flatline yesterday.” I hold up my wrist, flash him my gone-black ID bracelet.

  “Jesus, they show you that?” He grimaces.

  “I don’t know why I’m saving this.” I tug the tiny baby sweater from my pocket. “I guess he can wear it in his casket if we have a funeral for him at school.”

  “Again, I’m really sorry about that. And about . . .” He nods at my face, suppressing a wince. “So, uh, how’s it feeling?”

  “Hurts like a bitch,” I say. “And it’s hard to breathe through.” I struggle to snuffle in some air for emphasis.

  “I really screwed things up,” Hank says, running his hand through his bed head. “I just . . . I feel horrible about this, Dan. About this whole trip. I feel like I’ve made a mess of everything.”

  I shrug and stare at my dad’s busted Timex, loose on my wrist.

  “I really wanted this to be a good thing for us,” Hank continues. “A bonding thing, like your mom intended. Boy, did that go south, huh?” He laughs bitterly.

  I fake a laugh, too, just to fill the awkward silence.

  “When I met your mom,” Hank says, “I remember thinking: Here is this amazing woman. Smart, kind, attractive. Someone I felt so lucky to be with. And she had a son. And I thought . . . I thought, ‘If this all works out, if this thing clicks and you actually get the chance to be a part of this family, don’t you mess it up. Be present. Be involved. Be the kind of dad you wished you had.’ That’s what I told myself.” He shakes his head. “Not exactly going according to plan.”

  My chest tightens, the back of my throat going thick. I wish it were easier for me to be an asshole — wish it came naturally to me, like it seems to for the Rick Chuffs of the world. Then I wouldn’t be sitting here feeling so guilty. So squirmy and greasy. Like I need to bathe in the brook.

  “So,” I hear myself saying, “you, uh, didn’t get along with your dad?”

  Hank gives a half smile. “I’ll tell you a story.” He reaches down and picks up a stick and pokes at last night’s ashes. “So, I’m not usually up this early, right? Not a morning person, for sure. I’m more of a night owl. The Tonight Show, The Late Late Show, and all that.”

  “Me, too,” I say, and immediately regret it.

  “Well, not my dad. He was an early riser. Up at four thirty every single morning. Didn’t matter what time he went to bed, four thirty came and he was bounding out of bed — putting on his running shorts, his cross-trainers, so he could go for his morning jog. Rain, snow, windstorm. Didn’t matter. Four thirty and he was up and on the road.”

  “That’s pretty dedicated,” I say. “Though it sounds like my idea of hell.”

  Hank chuckles. “Tell me about it. So, anyway, there was this time, when I was about your age. A little younger, actually. Thirteen or fourteen. I can’t remember. All I know is that I was desperate to try to connect with him. Show my dad that we had something in common. So, for a few weeks, I joined him in his morning routine. Dragged myself out of bed at four thirty. Did the run with him, nearly throwing up every time. Then we’d have cereal together at the kitchen table: All-Bran and skim milk. No sugar. Tasted like little cardboard rabbit pellets.” He laughs weakly. “We’d drink black coffee and read different sections of the paper — all of this in silence. If I’d comment on something I’d read, he might grunt, but that was about it. Eventually, the sun would come up and blink through the window, and my dad would fold his portion of the paper, put his dirty dishes in the sink, and head off to take a shower.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Good times.”

  “It was depressing,” Hank says, flatly. “It was like I was a ghost. Just sort of lingering around him. He never stopped me from coming on the jogs. But he didn’t encourage it, either — or even acknowledge it, really. It was just sort of . . . I don’t know . . . like I wasn’t there. That’s about the best I can describe it. I kept at it for almost a month. I figured he’d have to talk to me eventually, right? Ask me how I’m doing? Discuss an interesting news item? But no. Not a word.” He looks at me, a bruising in his eyes. “Kind of pathetic, huh?”

  “I probably would have given up after the first day,” I answer.

  “I probably should have.”

  “Maybe he just liked being alone,” I say. “Maybe he liked the quiet before the day started, like you said — the peacefulness, when everyone else was asleep.”

  Hank pulls his lips in and nods. “I guess I never thought of it like that. And you might have a point, I suppose.” He laughs. “Though that doesn’t explain why he was so mean and withdrawn the rest of the day.”

  An uncomfortable silence settles around us as thick as the fog.

  “So,” Hank finally says. “Your turn now.”

  “Hmm?” I look at him. “My turn for what?”

  He smiles. “This is it, right?” He waggles the stick back and forth between the two of us. “What your mom wanted us to do: get to know each other. We haven’t really had the chance to talk up until now.”

  “I, uh . . .” I blink at him, casting about for an excuse to cut this chat short. How did I let myself get suckered into bonding with Hank?

  “Look, Dan, I don’t want us to be like me and my dad, just sharing the same space, never really talking to each other. I want us to have a real relationship, you know?” He looks at me, his brown eyes open and encouraging. “So, how about it, bud? What’s on your mind? Anything at all: A hope. A dream. A worry.”

  Do not allow him to manipulate you, I hear Charlie whisper in my mind. He’s trying to use the “we’re just pals” play here, the “we’ve got so much in common” card. Trying to get you to lower your guard so he can smack you in the face again.

  I can’t believe that I’m now having to listen to Charlie when Charlie isn’t even around.

  It’s kind of frightening.

  And hopefully not permanent.

  Still, what “Charlie” is saying makes sense. Hank’s trying to smooth everything over — most likely to get me to underplay his horrific parental bumblings to Mom when we get home.

  Fat chance, bud. I’m not biting.

  That’s the spirit, Dan, I hear Charlie say. I think it’s time to break out a little disillusionment.

  “A worry?” I say. “OK, well, if you really want to know, I guess what I’m most worried about is . . .” I look up at him with big Bambi eyes. “Being let down by another dad.” I blink and force my chin to wobble, like I’m on the verge of tears. “You wouldn’t ever do that, right, Hank? You’ll always be one hundred percent truthful with Mom and me. And you’ll stick with us through thick and thin, good times and bad, like the vow says?”

  “Of course —”

  “I’m serious.” I talk to the baby sweater to keep my focus. “I don’t think I could stand the disappointment. Not again. And I don’t even want to think of what it would do to Mom if you guys got married and then you left us like my real dad. It would be the end of her.”

  I don’t know if he’s buying any of this. I can’t look at him or I might lose my resolve.

  “I love your mom very much, Dan,” Hank says. “And the last thing in the world I would want to do is disappoint either of you.”

  Now, Charlie says. Do it now.

  I look up and stare him dead in the eyes. “I need to hear the words, Hank. Promise me. If you’re going t
o be a part of our family, you’ll never lie to us and never let us down.”

  He nods and gives me a small smile. “OK, Dan. I promise.”

  And just like that, Hank seals his fate.

  We are plodding along like a platoon of soldiers retreating from battle: Hank dragging his injured leg behind him; me with my itchy ass and swollen nose; and Charlie with PTSD, jumping at every swish and crunch in the bushes.

  Penelope seems to be the only one who has come this far unscathed — although, technically, she has lost her mother. But she doesn’t seem too fazed by it.

  Just as Hank suspected, the small brook has turned into a stream. That’s the good news. The bad news is that dark storm clouds have been slowly gathering overhead, and we only have a couple of days before Clint is due to meet us at the lake. The last thing we need is a nasty downpour to slow us down further.

  Just as I’m thinking this, the wind starts to kick up in a big way, whipping leaves and dirt into our faces.

  “I don’t like the looks of this!” Hank shouts, his first words in hours.

  Ever since our little share-time chat this morning, Hank has been noticeably quiet and pensive. Which bodes well for me and my plan, I think.

  Suddenly, there is a flash of light to our left. We spin around just in time to see the huge bolt of lightning fracturing the dark sky. A second later, the booming sound of God bowling a strike echoes through the entire forest.

  “Don’t like the sounds of it, either!” Hank says.

  The rain comes instantly, fast and ferocious, the drops swollen and cold.

  My clothes are soaked almost immediately. They cling to my body, my shirtsleeves hanging heavy off my arms.

  I shove my sketchbook up my shirt, trying to protect it as best I can. Charlie does the same with his camera.

  “Come on!” Hank shouts over the sizzle of rain. “We need to find shelter.” He starts to stump off as another flash of lightning lights up the sky. “Right now!” A crack of thunder explodes, drowning him out.