Felix's mother knelt at the top of the basement steps. She wore a pair of novelty glasses: red plastic shaped in the year 2006, eyeballs set like boozy marbles in the middle of each zero.
"How's everything down here? Need more grape sodas—Cheez-Its?"
"We're fine," Felix said. "Go a-way."
Rob took another pull. He was a lightweight when it came to drinking, plus his body was worn out from the fight; the basement took on a warped convex, as though he was viewing things through a busted telescope. At some point Kate was standing next to him. She wore a red sweater: a spray of pale freckles, the dovelike sweep of her collarbones. Rob wasn't sure if she smelled of vanilla or if, in the stark basement light, he only imagined that smell.
"Tully," she said, "you look a bit greased."
"And so what? Not like there's a law against it."
Kate tsk-tsked. "Golden Boy, drunk as a sailor. Taking that draw pretty hard, aren't you?"
"I couldn't care less. A few more draws, a loss, get knocked out, and I can hang it up for good."
"Or you can hang it up before all that."
Rob gave her a look that said they both knew better. "And don't call me that, either."
"What?"
"Golden Boy."
"Touchy, touchy."
Rob was still rankled at seeing Kate and Darren together, and Comrade Popov did his mood a further disservice: level-headed and warm-hearted while sober, it appeared that Rob could be a nasty jealous drunk.
"What were you and Shakespeare talking about?" he couldn't help asking.
"Schools," Kate told him. "Darren applied to UC Santa Cruz, me to Santa Barbara. I'll need a scholarship, but Darren's got a plan to make ends meet."
She detailed Darren's can't-miss moneymaking scheme: he planned to scour the sands of Monterey Bay with a metal detector, cleaning the beaches of debris and paying his tuition at the same time. It struck Rob as a childish plan, even by a teenager's standards. What did he expect to uncover—antique bottle caps? A trove of Nazi gold?
Kate said, "Darren's so eco-conscious."
If Rob had been a little drunker he might have remarked that if "eco-conscious" were a synonym for "corduroy-wearing wiener," then by all means, Darren Gregory was as eco-conscious as they came. Rob saw Kate and Darren on a beach, barefoot on the sand. A beach so far removed from the weed-strewn lots, tumbledown row houses, and terminal bleakness of Niagara Falls it might as well be another planet. They bent together over an object glinting at the rim of a tide pool, touching and smiling and laughing.
Darren Gregory materialized, bony and stoop-shouldered with hair like a bear pelt. "Robert, my fine friend," he said. "You're looking worse for wear."
Darren wore his artsy-fartsy heart on his corduroy sleeve; to him, boxing and cockfighting were distinguishable only in that one involved animals who didn't know any better.
"Any job comes with its lumps. And you know what they say— women dig scars."
Darren placed his hand on Rob's wrist as though they were sharing a close personal confidence. "And here I was thinking they dug sophistication and intelligence. And as for a job—I didn't know amateur boxers got paid."
Rob figured amateurs could at least pawn their trophies, earning them more than most beachcombers. "How much did you make for that sonnet in the Gazette?"
"I do it for the love of words." He slipped his hand off Rob's wrist and set it on Kate's. "She and I were just talking about that, as a matter of fact. We're going to collaborate on a brace of poems."
Rob saw the two of them on the beach again, except now Darren was composing poetry for her, dipping a quill pen in a pot of ink. Rob jammed his hands in his pockets, afraid of what they might do.
"You're lucky, then. Kate's a great poet. She helped me with that haiku assignment."
Darren chuckled—indulgently, Rob thought. "Yes, and what did you come up with?"
Rob was certain his own poem would be met with derision; with an apologetic look at Kate, he recited hers instead. "It went, Though there will always / Be those things out of your reach / Never stop reaching."
"It's admirable, Robert; an admirable effort. Quite good for a fledgling attempt."
Kate crossed her arms. "What would you say marks it as a fledgling attempt?"
"The meter's sloppy, for one. And the sentiment is, should I say..." He gave Rob a sorry-to-be-the-bearer-of-bad-news look. "... a tad juvenile."
"You're right," Rob said. "Juvenile, through and through."
"Buck up, chum." Darren clapped Rob's shoulder. "Not everyone's made for the world of letters. Some of us are better off ..." he shrugged,"... on another of life's paths."
Kate looked embarrassed at Darren's preening, and Rob had had enough. He'd drag the flapping loose-lipped bastard out into the snow and smash him. That blown-glass chin would shatter in one shot.
"Why not say what you mean; let's not sit here attacking each other on the sly."
"You recited your poem," Darren said flatly. "I told you what I thought. If that's attacking—"
"You know what you're doing and so do I. You're not half so clever as you think. You want to talk about juvenile sentiments—" He flicked the sleeve of Darren's corduroy jacket. "How about a guy from around here wearing this shit? Professor Plum in the study with the candlestick."
Overhearing this, a few partyers voiced their drunken approval.
"Your ma's a toll-taker," Rob went on. "Your pops works a wrecking crane. Look in your fridge and I'll find a pack of Helmbolds bologna, same as in mine."
"Rob, come on—"
He cut Kate off. "You're the same Darren Gregory who took a shit on the floor in first grade. Remember that? Mrs. Frieberger stepped out and you couldn't wait for her to get back with the hall pass so you squatted next to the goldfish bowl. So go on wearing your jacket and writing sonnets—you'll always be the kid who shit on the floor."
Darren jerked a glare of solid malevolence at Rob, then gave Kate a you-see-how-it-is look. "When was that?" he said quietly. "Ten years ago? It's okay. One day I'll leave here and end up someplace where people have no memory of what I did as a six-year-old; I can start over, fresh. But you'll never leave, because your best and only hope is right here." He reached over Rob's head, pantomiming, like his hand was hitting something solid. "Feel that? It's a glass ceiling, and you're about to slam into it."
Rob was jolted. "Who cares? I'm not ashamed of where I come from—"
"And it's not just a ceiling—it's a box with glass walls, and you're never going to grow out of it because you never tried to when you had the chance. And the rest of your life you're going to wonder, Robert."
It was the Robert that did it. Blinding rage. "I swear, for a nickel I'd smash you—"
Darren rummaged through his pocket. "Here's a dime." He bounced it off Rob's chest and jutted his chin out. "If you leave a scar I can lie and say it isn't from some Love Canal bully, because I'll be someplace where nobody knows any better."
Bile rolled up Rob's stomach and spread into his mouth. He'd never been called a bully before, and was proud of the fact. But next his hands were wrapped up in Darren's jacket and he was shaking him so hard his teeth rattled. He yanked Darren's jacket until their noses touched.
"You don't know anything," he growled. "You're not getting out of here. You're not—"
Felix Guitterez jammed his body between them. "Take it outside, guys."
The rage drained out of Rob; in its wake only regret at the hollow- ness of his actions. He smoothed Darren's jacket. "Sorry," he mumbled. "No, no going outside. Sorry, sorry."
Kate grabbed his hand. As she dragged him up the basement steps, Rob caught Darren looking at him, giving him the most sympathetic smile he'd ever seen.
Outside, Kate dropped his hand and marched down the sidewalk toward her home.
"Idiotic, Tully," she called over her shoulder. "Grade-A asshole material."
The night sky was salted with stars. Rob walked down the street on snow packed ha
rd from car tires. Revelers headed to their cars—wives supported drunken husbands; husbands cradled drunken wives. He felt awful for what he'd said about Darren. He shouldn't have recited Kate's poem, either.
Tommy sat on the porch steps; he raised a hand and shook his head, a wry, guilty gesture.
"Your dad's still up. Don't think I can face him right now."
Rob said, "You lose at cards?"
"Yuh."
"The whole Christmas bonus?"
"Yuh. So what happened this afternoon?"
"I wasn't on."
Tommy scratched his neck, winced. "I don't know... looked to me you had the guy."
"Don't know what else to tell you."
"It's just, y'know, boxing is rough business, Rob. If you're not very, very good, you can get killed or made over into a vegetable or what have you. Anyone who doesn't have his heart in it can get himself hurt." His memory twigged. "I ever tell you about Garth Briscoe? He was this light-heavy used to train at the club. Good fella; a give-you- the-shirt-off-his-back kind of guy..."
Fritzie Zivic's bulldog rounded the corner at 22nd Street, followed by Zivic himself.
"Put that hell-hound on a leash," Tommy called. "Damn thing nipped my toes tonight."
"Were your toes under the table? Under the table is a dog's domain."
"So where you want they should go?" Tommy wanted to know. "Maybe you nail boots to the ceiling and let us all hang."
Zivic came up the walk. "Your uncle, uh?" he said to Rob. "Always the bitch and moan. And to think, I come bearing gifts."
He produced a few sawbucks from his navy peacoat and shoved them at Tommy.
"What's this?"
"Yours, dummy. Dropped them under the card table."
Tommy, skeptical: "Another guy could've dropped 'em."
Fritzie cut a glance at Rob, like he wished he wasn't here to see this. "They were under your seat, okay?"
Tommy's big hand reached out and covered Zivic's; when they came apart, the bills were gone. "Thanks, Fritzie. Ought to be more careful."
"Tell me something I don't know. Ah jeez ... I'm sorry, fellas."
Fritzie apologized on behalf of Murdoch, who had chosen to bestow his nightly movement on the Tullys' lawn.
Tommy said, "Looks like he's enjoying himself. Bring a bag with you?"
"Ah, come on, Tommy. It's nature's way. Whaddayacallit— biodegradable."
"Yeah, and so are corpses. Doesn't mean I want one—"
"—on your front lawn, yeah, yeah." Fritzie kicked snow over the load. "Did I hear you talking about Garth Briscoe? Sad story, was Garth."
"What happened?" said Rob. "He get hurt in the ring?"
"That was his problem," Fritzie said. "He couldn't get hurt enough."
"Let me tell it," Tommy cut in. "Fritzie tells it, we'll be here come next New Year. Briscoe was a good guy; he taught English composition down at St. Mary's of the Sacred Heart—"
"The Professor, is what the guys around the gym called him," said Fritzie. "And in the beginning, he did have that professor-like air about him."
"But he had a problem," Tommy said. "He was one of those whaddayacallems—like to hurt themselves?"
"Punch pugs," Fritzie supplied.
Rob said, "A masochist?"
"Right," Tommy continued, "so a masochist. Briscoe took punishment the likes of which I'd never seen. He'd hardly protect himself. His ribs were always bruised, face always bristly with catgut."
"His old lady left him," Fritzie said. "Took the kids. Briscoe kept on fighting."
Tommy said, "Don't get me wrong—I respect a man who sucks it up and can give as good as he gets for a few rounds and, when it comes down to it, takes his beating like a man—"
"You should," Fritzie cut in. "Made a career of it."
"People in glass houses, Fritzie ..."
Fritzie gave Rob a pointed look. "Some of us, that was the only way to go. We didn't have such talent."
"I asked Briscoe one time," Tommy said." What exactly is the point? He told me his aim was to get hit so hard and so often that, y' know, not getting hit became its own pleasure."
"Euphoric pleasure," Fritzie said, pleased with himself. "Thought if he dealt with pain on a nonstop basis, when that pain was taken away, his body would exist in this state of constant bliss. Crazy, but..." He shrugged.
"God, it was awful watching him fight after hearing that. And the problem was he never reached that state of grace, so after a while the pain became an end in itself. A guy can get addicted to pain, just like anything. Get so his body craves it."
Rob pictured a man taking that sort of punishment—eating leather, the gym bums called it: That poor palooka ate leather till his face was full.
Murdoch was now chewing on the wooden steps. Gnawing with rotten yellow teeth, a meringue of foam slathering his chops.
"Can you stop him doing that, Fritzie? First he turds in the yard, now he's like a beaver on the steps. You'd think he was sent by the realtors' board to drive house values down."
"Yawh!" Fritzie prodded the dog's haunches. "Scit!" Murdoch wheeled and nipped Fritzie's boot. "Miserable devil. He'll be dead soon." Feeling poorly for having wished his sole companion dead, Fritzie picked the old dog up and kneaded its ears.
"Briscoe ..." Tommy went on,"... ended up not entirely human. Your dad booted him out of the club: guys felt ill staring at his bashed-in mug. I saw him a few years ago, walking down Ferry Street. His face was so scarred I barely recognized him. And this nothinglook in his eyes—like he was dead and hadn't quite figured it out yet. Boxing's a wonderful thing, Robbie, but it's not the only thing. It wasn't the thing for Garth Briscoe. It isn't for everyone."
Murdoch squirmed and whined. "Fine, you loveless brute," said Fritzie, setting him on the ground. The dog's hips gave out; his rear legs crumpled under his haunches.
"It's why he's so mean all the time." Fritzie's eyes glassed over; Rob was worried he might start sobbing. "A dog gets old, it doesn't understand why it can't do the things it used to. Makes a creature ornery." "That thing was ornery as a pup," said Tommy. "Poor Murdoch..." Fritzie went on,"... doubt he'll see another year." Inside the house: a crash, a drunken roar. Tommy said, "Reuben's pissed as a jar of hornets." Fritzie said, "Sounds like he's just plain old pissed, too." Tommy nodded. "Yuh."
"Come on, Murdoch." Fritzie slapped his thigh. "I'll leave you men to it."
Reuben Tully's forehead lay on the table like it had been glued there. The bottle of Jim Beam was empty. At some point in the evening he'd taken Rob's boxing trophies out of their display case and arrayed them across the tabletop.
The sound of Tommy's and Rob's feet squeaking on the linoleum jerked him from his stupor. "If it isn't my two favorite people in the whole ... wide ... world."
"You look like shit, Ruby. The drunkard style doesn't suit you." Reuben's eyes were red-rimmed. "You're not wearing a rain barrel. You win, Tommy?"
"I did not."
Reuben nodded, as though expecting it. "And you," he said to Rob. "The great white hope." He gulped air and slurred, "The pacifishht."
"Head on up to bed, Robbie. I'll get him squared away."
"Uh-uh-uh." Reuben held his hand out like a traffic cop—halt. "I wanna talk. Discuss the..." His head bobbed."... happened today."
Rob said he only wanted to go to bed.
"Well, I want things, too. I want to know ..." Reuben's hand cinched around the golden boxer on top of a trophy, his finger tapping its little golden head."... why you tanked the goddamn match today."
"I didn't tank it, Da—"
Tommy cut in. "Don't answer him. He's loaded and talking nonsense."
"I wasn't loaded this afternoon! And I been around long enough to spot a piss-tank!"
Tommy guided Rob toward the stairs. "Okay, you're off to bed."
Reuben jerked up, knocking the table with his knees. Trophies bucked off and hit the linoleum, their cheap metal heads and arms busting off. The bottle shattered, spraying shards. He lo
st his balance and collapsed onto his chair; a metal leg buckled, spilling him onto the floor.
Tommy grabbed his brother's sweater and yanked him up. "Goddamnit, get your hands off me!" Tommy shoved his brother up against the fridge. Reuben swatted Tommy's face, a glancing shot that drew blood above his eye. The fridge rocked on its casters; the jar of quarters Tommy collected for the laundromat tipped off and smashed. Rob was surprised at how easily Tommy was able to manhandle his father. "Let go, you prick!"
But Tommy pinned Reuben's wrists and jammed his head into Reuben's shoulder. "You're in sock feet and there's busted glass all over. Damned if I'll let go."
Reuben closed his eyes; he couldn't seem to catch his breath. When he opened them they were focused, with calm intensity, on his son.
"In the ring," he said, "you hit a man, you earn his respect. Other places—the office, the boardroom, wherever—that man does not have to respect you. But in the ring, it's the law. And sure, it's rough. And no, I can't say you won't ever get hurt. But that pain is temporary, Robbie, and better than the pain of a wasted life, the same faces and places and heartbreak for seventy, eighty years."
"I don't care about getting hurt, Dad. What worries me is that this"—he nodded to the broken trophies—"... is all there'll ever be."
"It won't be. Listen, we want the same thing—for you to get out of this town." He shoved against Tommy, who didn't budge. "Boxing is your ticket. You see the ring as a trap, but it's not: it's a doorway. You got to step through." He sighed. "I'm done, Tom. You can let go a me."
Tommy kicked stray bits of glass away so that Reuben could make the stairs without slicing his feet. Supported by the railing, Reuben ventured into the unlit darkness of the second floor.
Tommy wiped at the trickle of blood rounding his eye. "That went about as good as you could expect."
"He doesn't listen. Never has."
"What'd you say?" Tommy threw an arm around his nephew's shoulders, hugged him close, kissed the top of his head. "I'm kidding. Listen, the sauce turns your pops into a comic book villain—the Asshole from the Black Lagoon. Let's hit the sack; the Asshole can clean this mess up tomorrow morning."
The Fighter Page 13