Blood Brothers (25 page)

“Such language. Why, if your mother heard you
speak like that, she’d probably be washing your mouth out with a
bar of soap for a week.”

“I wouldn’t talk about my mom if I were you,
man.” Michael failed to see how the remark was in any way a slight
against Jerry’s mother, but then again, Jerry wasn’t the sharpest
tool in the shed when it came to dialogue.

“Talk about her,” Jerry said. He passed so
coolly by Cliff and came shoulder to shoulder with Michael that he
could have been an ghostly spirit floating instead of walking, “I
wouldn’t dare say anything bad about her. She might not give up
that pretty little snatch of hers next time, if I did.”

It was awesome to watch. Purely awesome. It
was like an H-Bomb went off inside Jerry’s head. His eyes filled
with fire, his cheeks reddened to crimson bags. When he swung on
Jerry, it was like watching a movie in slow motion. As the
ham-sized fist sailed towards him, Jerry, almost carelessly,
sidestepped. Grabbing the arm by the wrist with one hand as it
whizzed past, he raised it up over his head and stepped in towards
Jerry, twisting the wrist as he did so. Jerry went down, hard.

“STAY BACK!” Jerry shouted. It was like the
growl of an angry beast, and it echoed throughout the hall. “Take
one more step and I break his arm.” Jerry gave his victim one more
twist to emphasize the fact. Jerry, big, bad, King Bully himself,
cried out in pain. And there was something else besides pain: fear.
It was possible. It was possible for this mean, cruel boy to know
fear of his own, to wear it close to him like an undershirt, so
close that the stench of it filled his nose, filled his brain.

For a moment, Cliff and Dale looked like they
didn’t care at all whether or not Jerry’s arm was broken like a
stick. The idea of that big, hefty arm snapping like a skinny piece
of dried wood didn’t matter much to Mike, but he thought Jerry’s
cronies would have been a little more concerned. Then Jerry saw the
other two inching closer in his direction, and he did exactly what
he had to do. Instead of letting go and turning tail—which, Michael
hated to admit, was probably what he would do—Jerry grabbed hold of
that arm, his face contorted in exertion, and completed a full turn
of Jerry’s wrist. The snap sounded just like Michael thought it
should and would. Like a very dry twig snapping into.

And then the screaming started. Jerry
bellowed like a stick of dynamite had been shoved up his butt-hole
and exploded. Scared that a teacher or old man Crowley, the head
janitor, might show up, the two no-longer-bullying bullies took off
like a shot.

“I think we’d better follow their cue,” Jerry
said, stepping over the pained Jerry without even bothering to look
down. Grabbing Michael by the hand, they made a quick getaway out
the doors to the recess yard and then took off running. There was
little fear of running into Cliff and Dale. The two dimwits,
instead of fleeing to the safety of woods, they ran deeper into the
bowels of the grammar school.

Boy, could Jerry run. The speed that he was
capable of reminded Michael of the comic book hero The Flash.
Falling behind from the word go, Michael was lightheaded and
feeling really faint as he reached the chain-link fence at the
outer limits of the yard. As Michael stooped over trying to scoop
air into his lungs, Jerry merely leaned back on a heavy oak that
now shielded them from the schoolhouse.

“You’re gonna get in a whole heap of trouble
for that,” Michael said.

Jerry looked at him for a moment. “You’re
welcome.”

“Thanks.”

“Not a problem,” Jerry said, his trademark
grin in full evidence. “You do know, however, they’ll be back on
you pretty soon.”

“Yeah, like white on rice.”

Jerry nodded. “You’re going to have to—”

“Stand up to them?” Michael asked, trying his
best to sound like that wasn’t the craziest thing he’d ever heard,
but failing miserably.

“Yeah. That, in there,” he pointed towards
the building at the other end of the yard, “Was…a temporary
reprieve. When they come next, it will be brutal.”

“I can take brutal.”

“I know that, Mike. I know you can. You have
to. But the question is: Can you dish it out, too?”

“What do you mean?”

Jerry leaned up against the fence, checked
his watch. He nodded his head towards school, indicating it was
time to head in. Michael supposed he was right. The school would be
filling up now. For the last few minutes they’d been hearing the
screech of bus brakes and the murmur from beyond the building, the
sound of kids dreading another day of class. “What I mean, Mike,”
Jerry said when they’d started on their way, “is that the time for
running and hiding is over with.”

“Hold up,” he said a bit too aggressively. He
liked Jerry, but he couldn’t swallow what he was accusing him of.
“You make it sound as if I like doing those things. That I like
being a chicken.”

“I never said that, amigo. But enough is
enough. And there’s always a time to stop running. Here, right
now—this should be your time.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“It very well may be. But that doesn’t change
a thing. Remember, Mike, whoever told you life was fair, well, he
was full of shit. Regardless of how easy or hard it may be, it’s
something you’ve got to do. When they see someone besides you stand
up for Michael Cole, you think that’s gonna help? Not even a
little.”

“Then why did you do it?” They were halfway
across the playground, but Michael slowed a bit. He was and he
wasn’t ready for this conversation to be over. He needed to hear
Jerry’s words, but they were hard on the ears, too.

“Because I like you, Mike. And you’re my
friend. That’s what friends do. They stand for each other, no
matter what.”

Michael nodded understanding, but feared what
would come next. He took a deep breath, wishing they were already
inside the hallway of the school instead of thirty feet away.

“Wouldn’t you have done it for me?” And there
it was, he knew it would come.

“I-if I could.”

“Uh-huh.” Michael didn’t like the sound of
that.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jerry grabbed him by an arm stopping him dead
in his tracks. “You can.”

“Can what?”

“Do it. All you have to do is want to.”

“Not this again, I already told you—”

“Stop it with that shit. If I did it for you,
then you have to do it for me. Before I know you can do it for me,
though, you have to stand up for yourself.” Jerry was talking
nonsense, but something in his words, in his very voice thrilled
him. Whether it was the prospect of freeing himself from the
never-ending wrath of his tormentors, or just the electric sizzle
in the other boy’s voice, Michael was hooked. If Jerry believed in
him…

“Okay,” Michael said, “I will.”

Jerry studied his face, right there on the
stoop of the school. Then, after a heartbeat that stretched into
forever, “That simple?”

It wasn’t that simple, of course, but there
was no way he was going to let Jerry down. He was sure of that.
Somehow, he would make him proud. Why this boy’s respect meant so
much, was so very important, was a feeling that Michael couldn’t
put his finger on. But it did mean so much, was so very
important.

“Yeah, that simple.” Somehow, Michael would
come through.

From that moment, when they stepped into the
hallway together, Michael carried himself a bit taller, his
shoulders a little broader. It wasn’t like the night he’d talked
back to his father. That had been a fleeting feeling of pride. This
was the real thing.

They walked side by side, shoulder to
shoulder, Michael and Jerry, brothers-in-arms.

As Michael stepped into the doorway of Mrs.
Strite’s classroom, he found that he and Jerry were trying to pass
inside at the same time.

“Where you going?”

“Oh, I must have forgotten to tell you. I had
my dad call the principal. I’ve had my schedule changed.”

“To what?”

“Uh…the same as yours.”

Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter
Bunny were real, and they had all come to visit Michael this
morning. “Really?”

“Yeah, man. I’ve been bored out of my gourd
since the first day. Now, I have someone to hang with.”

“Cool,” was all that Michael could say. The
grin on his face was as large as the Pacific.

Then

Later came sooner. Much too soon for Mike’s
liking.

Oh, it was a couple days after the events at
school the morning, the incident concerning the snapping of a
certain cretin’s wrist. But it was way before Michael had hoped it
would be.

He was alone. Isn’t that how it always
happened? It was a Saturday, and he and Jerry had been planning all
week on heading to the park to play a game of baseball. Sports were
another thing, among many, that Michael just had no talent for. But
to hang out with Jerry, he’d go cliff diving in Acapulco.

Unfortunately, just yesterday Jerry had come
down with a high fever and had to leave school early. He didn’t
think he’d be showing up at the park today, and he was right.

But instead of heading home, Michael decided
to stay and practice a little—God knew he needed it—before trying
to compete with Jerry. If you’ve never played baseball by yourself,
it’s a frustrating activity. You either toss the ball up and swing
your bat at it, or you toss the ball up and catch it with your
glove. Since Michael didn’t own a glove, only a worn wooden bat and
a scuffed ball, he chose the hitting. The bad thing about knocking
the ball with the bat, when he was lucky enough to actually hit the
darned thing, was that you had to chase the ball down—not a very
fast-paced exercise, but exercise just the same, something he got
pitifully little of.

Things actually went well for quite a while.
The chill of morning gave way to the warmth of mid-day and then
noon. Michael hadn’t brought any snacks and only took water from a
nearby fountain. By one in the afternoon he was hitting the ball
more times than not and got a good thrill out of doing so. If he
kept up this degree of improvement, he’d be going out for the
junior high team, he kidded himself.

Alas, as always happens, the glory of a rose
gives way to the prick of thorns. The ball was high, lost in the
faded blue canopy of a late September day. He had the handle of the
bat choked. He tucked down his lead shoulder and a split second
before he was to snap the bat outwards, a hard, blunt object
attacked his middle back. Careening forward, he tried his best not
to fall face-first into the grass. And naturally he managed to do
just that, but then rolled over quickly.

Cliff and Dale peered down at him with their
faces all scrunched up, and laughing like hyenas sharing a joke
between themselves. Personally, he saw nothing the least bit funny.
Then again, they hadn’t asked his opinion.

“Hey faggot,” Clint sneered. “Playing with
your balls?”

“Are stroking your pole?” Both laughed as if
they’d been smoking wacky weed.

“Go away,” Michael told them. He might as
well have been speaking to the man on the moon for all the good it
did.

Even in Cliff, the renowned class clown,
there was no humor. “No. I don’t think so. You see that boyfriend
of yours put a bad hurting on our friend. We thought it was high
time we return the favor.”

Then Dale added, “Yeah, I mean, what kind of
buddies would we be if we let something like that go
unanswered?”

“The kind that get to walk away.” Michael
almost turned to see who’d spoken those words. Hell, Cliff and Dale
almost did the same thing. It took his saying the same words again
before Michael realized that it was he who had spoken so brazenly.
And then he swallowed hard, his throat constricting. He just wrote
a check that he didn’t have a chance of cashing.

Or did he?

“Oh, now you’re a comedian. Is that it?”

“Dale, I think our buddy here only thinks
he’s a comedian.”

“Seems like the thing we oughta do, is show
him something really funny. Agree?”

“Yep. I truly do, my friend.”

They started towards him. He raised the bat.
He’d already written one check he had to pay up for, why stop now,
he reasoned.

“What you gonna do with that bat, fatso?”
Dale challenged.

“Take one more step and find out.” The
afternoon was beautiful and because of that, people were in the
park. Lots of them. But, as always, none seemed very interested in
Michael’s plight. They sauntered on by, perhaps thinking the trio
of boys was involved in play. Maybe it was play for Dale and Cliff,
but nothing close to that for Mike.

Thinking that Michael was only fooling, Dale
stepped forward. Michael swung the bat with all his might. The end
of the bat connected with Dale’s shoulder. It wasn’t a snap, but a
deep sickening thud. Michael felt the vibrations wobble down the
solid wood into the palms of his hands. But even as Dale’s eyes
widened with first surprise, then pain, Cliff’s widened in
anger.

Michael moved before either of the other two
boys, anticipating pursuit. He was right. The bat forgotten,
Michael broke into an all out run. The mantra of no running, no
hiding that he’d practiced over the last several days, lay
forgotten at the bottom of his mind like discarded trash in the
gutter of a dirty street.

Now the park-goers noticed the boys, gawked
at them actually, but Michael saw not one friendly face among them.
So he did the only thing he could; he ran as fast as his legs would
carry him.

The city park, named only recently the Sam
Checkett Park, after one founding father or another, was not known
for its humongous size. Only about twenty acres, it was rather
small by most city park standards. However, Benedict was quite
small itself and that being taken into consideration, Checkett Park
was relatively large. Bisected by two thru-roads, the east section
was the playground area with swings, monkey bars, slides and small
climb-ons for the younger kids. The west side was set up with the
tennis court and basketball courts. The far north end was where the
two large baseball/softball fields were constructed, which left the
middle section for the walking trails and the open meadow in which
Michael had been whiling away the day. Beyond the north section,
past the baseball diamond and even the outfield, laid the pond.
Unnamed, the small body of water was of an insufficient size to
warrant a name, which meant, as Michael soon discovered, that it
was basically an overgrown mud puddle.