Breaker (4 page)

When the fighting starts, I retreat inside myself and regress to a more primitive form of life. All I can hear and feel is my body, the way my weight carries, each step forward and backward, each thigh muscle tightening and then relaxing, finding my center, my balance. Tonight it's different—no hands, and no fists. I feel top heavy, as if I might tip forward, my arms bent back, my hands clenched together—my face and chest exposed.

What was I thinking?

Brassard closes the distance fast, he's eager to start hitting something, his lackeys pounding the canvas, their mouths open as their eyes bulge, and the darkness creeps in closer.

I can't avoid contact, there's nowhere to go—so I wait until the last minute and lunge to the left, his right fist glancing off my stomach, his left following closely, and missing entirely. He stumbles forward and I circle away from him.

“You're faster than you look,” he mumbles through the mouth guard.

Circling left and left and left and he comes at me again, fakes a punch, pulling it back, as I go left then right, and he's got me. Right, left, right, the fists land in my gut, and I'm tightening the muscles best I can; it's nothing I can't handle. He backs off a step and goes for my face, overconfident after landing a few light blows. I lean to the right this time and he misses, and as I step away, I put my foot in his ass and push him to the canvas. He splays out on the ground, grunts, and turns his head toward me, pissed off.

I see Edson at the edge of the canvas, both arms on the edge of the ring, grinning. The boys in Brassard's corner pound the mat again and again.

He's up quick, and coming in fast, angry now, embarrassed, his face flushed. He's trying to back me into a corner, darting left then right, as I try to outmaneuver him. He's got a lot of energy, I'll give him that much. He pushes in, and once he's close, my legs are taken out of the equation, not enough room to extend, nowhere to go. He's on me, left, right, left, his fists rattling my stomach, my chest, pushing me back, and then he shoots an uppercut soaring skyward into my jaw, and my head snaps up. His first good punch, landed with authority. I bull-rush him forward trying to push him backward, and he trips over his own feet as I knock him on his ass again. I stomp my right foot toward his ankle, his shin, and it glances off his sweaty leg.

So close to ending the fight.

He rolls over and bounces back up. He knows that I could have finished him off right there, a solid kick and his leg would have snapped. His face is slick now, sweat dripping down from his forehead to his chin, his chest shiny, his arms glistening.

He's slowed down a bit, a little out of breath, and I move in, the aggressor now. I bounce forward and then back, trying to corner him now, leaning back and then kicking forward, my long leg extending, turning sideways, landing in the middle of his chest, glancing off his slow fists and arms, ribs cracking, sending him flying into the ropes.

“Fuck,” he moans.

“Mouth, Father, your mouth.” I chuckle to myself.

He's lost some wind, slowed down a bit, uncertain how to come at me now. He lunges in and then backs out, lunges in and then backs out, trying to remember how quick my legs are, my kick; how much time does he need, he wonders, how close does he need to get in order to avoid another kick.

But I know what's coming next, what I need to do, so I slow my dance and stay in the center, letting him come to me, eager to end this fight. And he obliges.

In fast, he's right, left, right to my gut and then back out. In fast, and then right, left, right. But those blows to my midsection won't do him any good. He sees that, and now he's aiming for my head. In fast and then a right jab to my jaw, a left to my head, and then right, right, right. I take it, all of it, wanting him to get cocky, to relax, and he does just that. When he takes a breath, arms dipping down a bit, still in close, I make my move.

My neck pulls back and I slam my forehead down into his face, head-butting him, crushing his nose, the cartilage cracking, his high-pitched scream filling my ears, blood spraying my face, a spritz of warmth, and then he's falling backward, arms wide, his eyes rolling up into his head. I drift over to finish it, to shove my heel through his paper skull, but I feel hands on me suddenly, Edson in the ring, grabbing me and pulling me away, the two boys on their knees, tears in their eyes, towels to the twitching priest's face, his body jerking, urine pooling under him as blood seeps over the sides of his skull.

“Ray, Ray, Ray…stop, it's over, it's done!” he yells, pulling me back, my body cold and slick, marble covered in olive oil, as I spit my mouthpiece onto the ground.

I can breathe now.

Wasn't this always the outcome?

“Boys,” Edson gasps, “get him to the hospital down the street, to Resurrection. This didn't happen here. You know the deal.”

They drag the fallen priest off the mat, still unconscious, their eyes back to me now and then, empty and cold. They hold a towel to his face, trying to get him dressed, his coat on, and then they're across the concrete, pulling him, sobbing, yelling at each other, and then they're out the door, and gone.

Edson shoves a key in the lock and springs the handcuffs open. I rub my wrists, circles leaking sticky blood, these rings that run around my swollen fists. He hands me a bottle of water and I drink it down in several large gulps, spitting some blood on the canvas, wrinkling my nose.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Peachy,” I say.

He helps me out of the ring and onto risers that line one wall. He towels me off, quiet, as I try to catch my breath.

“Never had a doubt,” he says.

I picture the fire in the priest's eyes, the rabid kids leering from his corner, and my face throbs, remembering each punch that he landed.

“Me either.”

A wad of bills in my coat pocket, I hide behind my sunglasses and in the depths of my sweatshirt, face bruised and swollen, the rings around my wrists stinging and pulsing. I'm back on the Blue Line el now, headed south, the walk to the bus, the ride to the train a blur. I wonder if the priest will live, and if he does, how he'll explain the money disappearing, if anyone notices, or the bruised and broken face he'll display. I imagine there will be a story, corroborated by the twins that accompany him—robbed by a young black man, I imagine, or beaten by Hispanic thugs on his way to the bank, or on the way to heal and comfort somebody—a single, divorced, or widowed young woman, if I believe the story I'm knitting here.

The lights flicker on the train and go out for a moment, so I relax, bathing in the darkness. I feel no guilt for what I've done—better to do it in the ring than out on the streets. He asked for the opportunity, and it was granted to him. He came for me, not the other way around. So at the end of the day, I can live with it—my actions, the violence, the imagery that fills my head, the sounds and smells and pain. I close my eyes and slip away for a moment. It's always the same scene, the same moment.

You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Raymond.

That's my uncle Tully speaking here. He's rubbing my shoulders and giving me advice. I'm ten years old. I'd just gotten in a fight with a guy at school. There were certain rules in class, and at recess, and this kid, Stephen—man, he just didn't seem to care. For some reason it was my job, my moral obligation, to keep him in line, to remind him to put his books away, to not go down the hill and around the corner from the jungle gym—out of bounds for recess. He never listened. Tully would scold me for being a tattle-tale, tell me I'd never make friends like that, and maybe I should try to get to know this boy, to understand where he was coming from. Things might not be good at home, or maybe he was jealous of my good grades.

All I remember is Tully trying to calm me down, still pissed off from the fight at recess, the bruises on my hands, my skinned knees still oozing, as my uncle rubbed my shoulders and gave me a hug and pressed his face up against my cheek, telling me everything would be okay.

My eyes shoot open as the train continues south, the car nearly empty. A girl with blond hair sits alone at the other end of the car, her long gray coat buttoned up, black leggings and knee-high boots tap, tap, tapping on the floor of the train. She has large, hot-pink headphones on and is hiding behind her sunglasses, just like me. Her skin is pale, and I feel a strange camaraderie with her, my long lost sister of the night. Her lips are red, her gloves fuzzy and pink, to match her headphones. A large scarf wraps around her neck and shoulders, geometric shapes in black over white fabric, with rough trim framing it all. She looks happy. I wonder where she's going.

The door at the other end of the train clicks open, and a young man in a red flannel jacket and blue jeans saunters in. He looks high as a kite, eyes bloodshot, a tall-boy Schlitz in his hand lifted to his stubbled face, head tilting back, finishing it off with a flourish, belching, and crushing the can in his fingers, flinging it to the ground.

“Long live the new flesh,” he says, raising his arms over his head and stopping at the girl.

“Hey, mama, you look good.”

She's covered from head to toe, hardly lying around in a bikini, but the man stops anyway, nothing better to do. I watch him.

“You headed out, babe, party or something?”

He leans over her and she continues to ignore him.
Good girl.
I clear my throat but he doesn't hear me, laughing and rubbing his mouth with his hand.

“What, you too good to talk wif me? What's up with that?”

She doesn't move, just sits there, her music going.

“Come on, don't be like that, give a guy a break, yeah?”

“Fuck off,” she says.

“Oh, I get it. You don't like cock,” he laughs. “I'm a big fan of pussy myself—I get it, I get it.”

This is Logan Square.

My stop anyway, so I get up and head for the doors.

This is a Blue Line train to Forest Park.

“I like cock—wanna party with me?” I ask, as I grab the kid in a headlock and drag him out of the train. I can't hear anything he says, as his face is tucked into my armpit, the smell and shock of it all sending him into a fit of rage and spasms.

I keep walking toward a tall blue metal box and run his head straight into it. He falls to the concrete below, unconscious. I look around and the station is empty. I keep walking.

I turn to check on the girl.

Doors are closing. Next stop, California.

The girl smiles and wiggles her fingers at me, mouthing the word, “Thanks.”

I'm sure she could have handled the asshole, but what the hell, hard to sit by and do nothing, and I could use the extra karma.

I give her a smile and a head nod and keep walking. Cameras. They're everywhere. I stand out enough as it is.

Natalie has the ability to become invisible. She can disappear anytime she wants to, in any situation. It is an acquired skill, one she has developed over the years, culled from a magical combination of being ignored, remaining quiet, and blending into the woodwork. And while she can still see herself in mirrors—she isn't really disappearing after all, she can still see her breath when it's cold outside—she feels as if she's gone transparent.

For example, when Ray comes home tonight from his boxing match at three in the morning, Natalie is standing in the stairwell, having heard a strange noise outside, a cat wailing, in the middle of its death throes. She has crept out from her bedroom dressed only in her nightgown and opened the apartment door, walking down a flight of stairs, listening for the cries, feeling there is something she might be able to do, to comfort or help the dying cat. When she hears the front door open and sees Ray walk in, she pushes back into the shadows, into the corner, and watches. She sees him lurch in, layers of gray on a stairwell filled with darkness, a form hardly there at all, moving with a quiet grace. When Ray notices the cat lying on its back, crying out, blood seeping out of its nose, the foyer reeking of urine, the poor beast twitching and growling, he leans over and grabs it by the neck, twisting its head in one movement. Snap, and the beast is finally quiet. She wants to believe it is mercy, but it's horrible nonetheless. She pushes back against the wall, willing herself into the paint and plaster, and he glides past her without even glancing her way. He smells of sweat and death, of musk and rot, but buried underneath it all something sweet, like vanilla. In this moment, she stops breathing, her vision swimming in the night.

Tomorrow, she will disappear in plain sight at the breakfast table, sitting down to a bowl of corn flakes, a glass of orange juice, and a piece of toast with butter and strawberry jelly. Her father will wander in, pour a cup of coffee, and stand there, looking out the window. He will scratch his ass and sigh, setting the mug down for a moment to rub his temples before turning and leaving with the coffee back in his hand. Natalie will exhale. Her mother will likewise enter the room, open the refrigerator, and pull out a nearly empty bottle of white wine. She will pop the cork and suck it down, tossing the glass container into the garbage. She will moan, rub her back, and reach back inside the fridge for a vanilla yogurt, turn toward the living room, and exit the kitchen, leaving a mist of floral perfume, and the slight scent of spoiling blood. Again, Natalie will exhale. When the door opens and shuts, opens and shuts again, they will have disappeared out into the world, the day, stumbling toward work, tamping down addiction, praying for whatever lost hope might still exist in the world for them. Not that they deserve it.

And Natalie? She'll breathe in again, and exhale, washing her bowl out in the sink (with soap), rinsing off the spoon, and setting them in the dish rack. She will go get dressed, wearing her favorite sweater, the fuzzy green one with the yellow flower in the center, oblivious to the fact that the boys in her grade know this outfit all too well. They wager quarters on whether it's the green or yellow socks to match. She'll put her hair up in a fuzzy tie, lime green with yellow plastic beads, having worn the same faded underwear for a week now, the same soft pink shirt underneath it all, the one with the “S” framed large in the middle of the fabric. She is a clean girl—she showers daily, brushes her teeth twice a day, dabs after she pees, and wipes from front to back, never the reverse. She uses deodorant and a spritz of her coveted Justice perfume, BeYOUtiful Pink Justice—which works for her on a number of levels. The black cherry, peach, and berry remind her of how sweet she is, still innocent; and the vanilla, freesia, and amber make her think of distant lands—what might come next, what might still be out there for her. She hasn't given up hope yet.

Yet.

She disappears on her walk to school, blending in with the crowds of older girls, sidling up to them quietly and latching on like a remora, peeling off when it's time to head to her school, letting them walk on to theirs. She is used to men saying things to her on her walk, shouting out of car windows, making crude gestures, licking their lips. Sometimes they are teens in vintage Trans Ams or Chevy Novas, sometimes they slide past her quietly in white vans with tinted windows. She listens to the girls talk, and gossip, words she does not understand or know, creating images that confuse and excite her. Her face flushes at random words—
tongue,
for example. She disappears in the hallways at school, knowing what paths to take in order to avoid certain gangs, or malicious girls that are often just as dangerous. She knows what bathrooms to avoid, never going alone before or after school, and which teachers and classrooms are safe havens, those adults willing to look up and help instead of looking away while remaining seated, uninvolved.

And then like magic, she appears in her classroom, suddenly alive and full of color and voice, friends all around her, the boys eager and willing to tease, checking her socks for sure, but still enamored with her, still hopeful that she'll notice them and say something nice, send a smile their way, or maybe a laugh. One boy, Jacob, wears a green and yellow set of plastic bands around his left wrist, charities he hardly knows, a secret he keeps entirely to himself. The teacher appears and Natalie is heard, she is seen.

She's not stupid—not at all.