by Bill Rowe
“So you keep insisting,” I said. “But the last I remember, you and I were about the same very average dimensions.”
“When we were kids, yes, but a lot happened size-wise as I grew up. And hey, I never got on the steroids either, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No? But I do have to wonder why it is that your big manly hardware comes with such a fragile childish ego.” Oh, oh, this could be bad.
Brent looked at me with a twisted smile. He raised his large hands from his bulging thighs to the top of the table and tightened them into fists. “That’s a keeper, Tommy,” he said, chortling in appreciation. “This is like the old days. You would have been great on our bus. Mind if I use that one myself sometime?”
“Oh no,” said a voice nearby, “don’t tell me my idol has got a fragile ego to go with that eggshell skull.” A young man was sauntering up to us.
“Oh Christ, it’s Moose,” said Brent. I recognized Cory “Moose” Mercer from the sports page. He’d gone up to the mainland for hockey school with Brent and had been his roommate for a while in the residence. He hadn’t been asked back the next year. The only remark the coach would make to the demanding media was, “That boy has issues he needs help to deal with.” Judging by his pale and puffy face and huge pupils in bloodshot whites, he hadn’t received the help he needed. After he asked who I was—not before, I noticed—Brent introduced me to him.
“Well, lookee here,” said Moose. “Tom the Bomb.” He turned back to Brent. “Hey, Antsy Anstey, what the hell’re you doing drinking with this guy? I thought you said you couldn’t stand the prick ever since you were in high school together. I thought you had a knife out for him ever since he started making it with the chick no one else seems to have any trouble getting into except you.”
“You thought wrong, Cory,” said Brent in a soft voice. “Stop fabricating shit. And stop using that nickname ‘Antsy.’ I told you I don’t—”
“Well, fuck me, I can’t believe my good luck. The famous Tom Sharpe, star of—no, the late lamented Dr. Rothesay was the star—bit player, yeah, Tom, the bit player in the porno saga featuring the lovely and versatile Miss Rosie O’Dell. I’m in the company of greatness here, two celebrities and archrivals for Newfoundland’s most famous pussy. Hey, Tom, my new superstar buddy, put her there, big guy, I mean little guy. Right—Dr. Rothesay had the big guy.”
Moose started to slide into the booth next to Brent. I looked at Brent. He was chuckling and shaking his head as if he’d paid top dollar for this performance and was getting his money’s worth. I went to slip off my bench to the floor.
Brent reached out and placed his hand on my shoulder and murmured: “Take it easy, old buddy.” He then said loudly, “Don’t sit there, Cory. Just shag off out of here. You’re high as a kite.”
“I’m not high, Brent. I know when I’m high, because I get mean, and I say to you, my hockey idol with feet of clay—or is it brain of mush?—tonight I am as happy as a pig in… no, happy as a brain surgeon looking for overtime work with the famous Bulldogs. So relax, Brent, you should be stress-free these days, what with your brilliant future now behind you. I won’t be long. I just wanted to ask Tom the Bomb here something. You sit down and relax, too, Tom. Jesus, I’ve never seen two jumpier clowns than you two. Is that what comes from fighting over slimy seconds in the same recycled twat? Tombo. Listen, now. Help me out here. I’ve got a bet on with my mother about this: What turns you on most? When Rosie is blowing you and she pukes all over your balls or when you’re fudge packing her and she shits all over your legs?”
That Moose had five inches and seventy pounds on me did not enter my mind. Nor did the contrast between Moose’s many fights on the ice and my own lack of even one serious fight anywhere in my life. I only knew that I had to shut this guy up—forever, if attainable. And the precise moves required to achieve that coveted end were rolling through my mind as if I were watching them unfold on a video.
Cory was pulling his legs under the table, his smirking eyes on mine but with a dawning awareness of menace when I stepped towards him and grabbed him behind the ears, visualizing now what I’d earlier thought of doing to Brent. Aiming for Cory’s forehead, I butted him as hard as I could, but because Cory still had the reflexes to draw his head back, I missed and made hard contact with the bridge of his nose. He struggled to get to his feet, blood streaming from his nostrils, but fell to his knees where, as he wobbled to get up, the blood flew in arcs about him like a loose garden hose on full blast. An unintended bonus had occurred, I noticed. Cory’s right ear had given way under my vicious tug and was hanging as floppy as a retriever’s from the side of his head.
Now I put into effect step two from the instruction video rolling in my head. Thinking or muttering, “I’ve fucking killed better than you,” I picked up my beer glass from the table and struck the top inch sharply on the metal edge. Liquid and small shards flew off, leaving a glass cylinder with jagged ends pointing outwards from my hand. Cory was woozily regaining one knee, with his other foot in front of him and his hands balancing himself on the floor, trying to get a bead on me to lunge. I skipped sideways around him and grabbed him by the hair on the top of his head. Simultaneously, with all my strength, I thrust the jagged glass at the side of Cory’s neck just below the dangling ear where I judged the jugular to be. My idea was to sever that vessel and watch Cory die on the grimy floor amid gushes of his heart’s blood.
A constraint on my arm from behind, nearly equal to my own force, threw me off my target, and I succeeded only in gouging gobs of flesh off Cory’s cheek. A most horrible frustration at failing to finish Moose off seized me, and I lunged ahead against the arms around my chest pulling me back and kicked Cory hard and square in the mouth, sprawling his torso backwards till his head touched the floor between his heels. As I strained to get at him again, Cory rolled over and scrambled, whimpering and cursing on all fours, to the exit. Now I started to comprehend the sounds in my ear: “It’s okay, champ. That’s good. You did good. You got the bastard real good.” It was Brent’s voice. And these were Brent’s arms around my shoulders and chest. I stopped struggling and Brent loosened his hold and pried the beer glass with gouts of blood on its spears out of my hand,
“I called the cops, Brent,” the guy behind the bar said, putting down the telephone receiver. “That looked like it was going to be real nasty. Pass me those beer bottles and your glass. You guys want to stay or go?”
“We’ll stay,” said Brent. “I want to file charges against that idiot. You saw what happened. He would have got me right in the side of the head with that sucker punch if Tom hadn’t been here to stop him. It probably would have finished me after what happened on the ice.”
“Tried to sucker punch you, did he? I wouldn’t doubt it. He’s a mean one.”
Within three minutes a police officer came in the door. “I’m Constable Blundon,” he said to the bartender. “Moose Mercer is out in the cruiser heading for hospital in rough shape. He says a Tom Sharpe tried to kill him with a broken glass or the like. Is that person here?”
Brent said, “No one tried to kill anyone except that idiot in your cruiser, Officer.”
“Hey-y-y, Brent Anstey. Welcome home, guy. How’s the old noggin? You going back?”
Brent shrugged. “We’ll see. I dunno. But if Tom here hadn’t gotten between me and that asshole’s sucker punch to my temple, I wouldn’t be going anywhere except on life support.”
“Why would he try to sucker punch you, Brent? He says he’s a friend of yours.”
“Used to be. You ever play hockey, Officer? Some players are not satisfied to restrict to the ice certain animosities that may arise during a game.”
“You’re the Tom Sharpe in that sex trial, right?” said Constable Blundon. “And linked to the death of the perp, that doctor. Are you trained in the martial arts?” When I shook my head, he went on. “You sure you didn’t learn a few lethal techniques in order to finish the job the law couldn’t do on Roth
esay? Can I see you guys’ hands?” We showed our hands, fore and aft, and he said, “See, the problem I got, there’s an individual, a big man, in the cruiser with a broken nose and a cheek on him like a piece of raw meat and cracked teeth and the man’s ear is hanging by a thread and we’re bringing him to the hospital for some serious patching up, and I’m looking at two guys here with not a scratch on them. Wait now. That bump on your forehead there, Tom, is that where you butted the guy in the snozz?”
Brent said, “I think I did see their heads inadvertently connect as Tom was stopping Moose from vegetablizing me. I want to lay charges against Cory ‘Moose’ Mercer, Officer. Can we do that now?”
“You’ll have to go up to the station to do that, Brent. The wound on buddy’s face in the cruiser, that does look like the handiwork of a broken glass, like he said. Is that what you did it with, Tom?”
My training under Leonard Barry, Q. C. was holding. I said nothing.
“No beer bottle here, Officer,” said Brent. “We’re too young to drink. That abrasion on his face could have been caused by anything, the side of the bar, the side of the stool, the floor. He was acting like a total madman when Tom tried to subdue him. Look at the blood on his shoe. He had to fend off Moose with his foot.”
“What’s all that glass on the floor down there?”
“That’s where Cory’s glass broke when he slipped and fell.”
“There’s two of you and one of him and you’re a hockey player, Brent, with a big rep, so fearing for your very lives may not ring all that true on the witness stand.” The policeman turned to the bartender. “What’d you see?”
“Not a lot. After Moose fell down, I saw him getting up to come back at this guy, and I called the cops. I know what a mean bastard he can be. He’s been barred here a couple of times.”
Constable Blundon called out to the table of three men drinking. “What’d you guys see?”
One man said, “Shag all.”
Another said, “The Moose falling flat on his arse again. You’d swear he was out on the ice.” The third said nothing.
“Anyone see a sucker punch?”
“If he didn’t throw a sucker punch, it’d be the first time for the Moose,” said one.
“Nobody seems to have seen the famous sucker punch you spoke of, Brent, except you. Tom, listen. I don’t know where this is going. You could be fighting a charge of aggravated assault, or worse, if buddy out there pushes it. I’ll put in a report after we investigate fully and we’ll see what happens. This, on top of what I still hear about that doctor thing, you’re possibly looking at time. Now, Moose may be an asshole downtown, but I wouldn’t like to tell you what your asshole will look like if you end up in the big house, a clean-cut young fella like you. Now. I’m going to release you into the custody of your parents. What are their names and address?” I told him. “Tom, I want you to inform your mom and dad of everything that happened here tonight, okay? They might want to talk to a lawyer.”
“Yeah, and tell that nuisance Moose Mercer in your cruiser to watch his ass, too,” said Brent, “because if he ever comes within a mile of me again, next time I’ll kill him.”
“See, Brent, that’s okay out on the ice. Only right and proper. But in here sitting down, having a meal in a restaurant, that could very easily be construed as a breach of the Criminal Code in and of itself, big guy, uttering threats to kill someone.”
“Okay, tell you what. You tell Moose that I’m going to the station right now to lay charges against him for attempted murder plus brain damage, but I will consider not doing that if he will shut his mouth about anyone trying to kill him. Tell him we’ll call it a tie this time. Next time all options are open, and I mean all.”
“Now, Brent. Now, Brent. Tom, you wait here. I’m calling for another cruiser to drop you off at your house. I’ll be in touch with you and your parents after I get a full statement from the alleged survivor. Now, boys, try to be good.” He went out the door.
Brent muttered, “What he said about prison is true, man. A guy on one of the hockey teams had a brother in Dorchester a couple of years ago. He hasn’t been able to sit down since.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Brent, that could have been bad.”
“Hey. You would have done the same. What do you think God created the buddy system for?”
“Where’s my glass?”
“What glass?” Brent put his hand around to his belt under the back of his jacket. “Nobody saw a glass, not even the bartender. My biggest worry now is not eviscerating a kidney before I find a garbage can. I never figured you for that good on your feet, Tommy. Moose is a fast bastard, and strong. Took me to the mat once when we were just having a bit of fun wrestling.”
“I would have killed that prick…” I began, but I couldn’t sustain the bravado. I had come down from the adrenalin high, and the enormity of it all was closing in on me. “Oh Jesus. I’m in deep shit.”
“Yeah, Cory’ll have a knife out for you for sure. I’ll try to get him to back off, otherwise you can start making your will.”
“Thanks. And what do you think he’ll do about laying charges?”
“Well, I’m sticking to my story. But if I keep Moose from turning you into hamburger, he might push the charges angle. He’s like that. Needs to get backatcha all the time. Jesus, you must really love Rosie O’Dell to do what you did just then, man. I envy you. I wish I had someone to love like that. Did you kill Dr. Rothesay?”
I looked at Brent. If that was a joke, it was a bizarre one to make in these circumstances. But Brent’s gaze back into my eyes was entirely sombre as he waited for an answer to his question. “Killing Rothesay was not on my agenda, Brent. That would be like risking going to jail for killing a maggot.”
“Good answer for the official record, Tommy. But you know and I know you wanted to. And why wouldn’t you, possessing those skills you just used on Moose? If I was in your place I would, too. Man, I would have loved to have that chance.”
Looking at Brent wagging his head with utter conviction, I realized something for the first time that had been obscured by our best-buddy friendship and the later glare of his celebrity status as an athlete. I could see clearly in his opaque, dark blue eyes—so like his father’s—and the earnest, handsome features before me, that my saviour, the kid I had to rely on after tonight to preserve me from physical and legal disaster, was just as certifiably insane as I was.
“THIS CHAIN OF CALAMITIES, Tom, each link more catastrophic than the last?” asked my father in a forced mild tone after I had been deposited on his doorstep by two officers of the Royal Newfoundland Constabulary and recounted my night’s adventure. “When do you intend to bring it to an end?”
I glanced at my mother. Her eyes were fixed on the middle distance and there was no sympathy in them for me. I looked down at the floor and mumbled, “It’s all over now, Dad. There won’t be any more—”
“That’s probably him,” Dad interrupted, standing up and walking out on the first ring of the phone in his study. The moment I had mentioned the possibility of charges, he had called lawyer Barry’s home and left a message.
Mom drew in a deep breath and eased it out very slowly, as if she was afraid of breaking something inside her. Then she said, “Do you feel any dizziness or nausea?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Well, keep that ice pack on the bump. And don’t go to bed or fall asleep until we’re sure you don’t have a concussion.”
Dad came back. “Okay, that was lawyer Barry. He’s got a full schedule tomorrow, but he’s going to fit you in first thing in the morning at his office at quarter to eight, before his regular day starts. And he wants to speak to you now, just in case there’s something he should do tonight to anticipate and forestall action by the police.”
After I finished giving the lawyer a sketch of my evening out dining, I returned to the living room door and told my parents I was going up to my room to call Rosie.
“Sit down for a moment first,�
� said Dad, “we need to talk over a few things.” I hesitated. Chastened and contrite though I felt, the last thing I could tolerate tonight was my father doing his Polonius act.
Mom said, “The sooner we talk the better, to my mind, unless you don’t feel up to it right now, in which case we’re going straight to the hospital to have that head checked out.”
“I’m fine,” I said, with more assurance than I felt. I sat down again and Dad took a big breath to begin.
“Let me, Joe,” said Mom quietly. “Tom, now listen, after I’m finished this, honest to my God, I will never pain you or amuse you with unsolicited advice ever again for the rest of my life.” She was speaking in a low, fast monotone, almost a murmur, but full of fervour. “Tonight I’m going to tell you the brutal, unvarnished truth as I see it. I don’t want to. I wish I could avoid it, but I can’t. I may make you hate me, but I can’t help it. As your mother, I have to.”
The hair rose along my neck and I put my arms around my chest to stop the shivering. Mom asked, “Are you and Rosie still absolutely serious about each other after everything that’s happened?”
“Yes.”
“Rosie is a wonderful young woman. Just to come through what she experienced is proof of that. But you wouldn’t be entirely normal if everything she and you have been through didn’t affect you both in a traumatic way. In the future, when you and she have serious disagreements, or serious problems of any kind, financial, physical, emotional, some of that is sure to rear its ugly head and make everything worse, make you say or do things better not said or done. Look how you reacted tonight when some lout needled you. I believe you need to pause and reflect on these points yourself. Give yourself some distance in time and space. Now, your father has mentioned to you an idea for your summer and fall. I want you to consider it in this light.”