The Boxer and the Spy (11 page)

“Is somebody who’s gone through this program ready to work when he graduates?” Abby said.

She was leaning forward, her eyes wide, giving every evidence of being totally fascinated.

“Absolutely,” Mr. Malcolm said. “They’ve had hands-on training from experts. Incidentally it’s not just
he
anymore. It could be
she,
you know.”

“And do you help them get jobs?” Abby said.

“In cooperation with the guidance office,” Mr. Malcolm said. “Plus, I have so many contacts in the building business that I can be quite helpful in a more informal way.”

Abby appeared entranced.

“Fabulous,” she said. “What a fabulous program.”

Mr. Malcolm smiled at her enthusiasm.

“It’s been a dream project of mine for many years,” he said. “And now that I don’t have to devote so much time to my own business, I have the chance to see the dream come true.”

“That’s really great,” Abby said. “What do you do with the house when it’s finished?”

“Finished?” Malcolm said.

“Yes, it’s so great ... really fabulous.... Do you do something special?”

“We ... ah ... You’ll have talk to Mr. Bullard about that.”

“Mr. Bullard?”

“Yes,” Mr. Malcolm said. “He would be the one to ask.”

Abby frowned in a cute way and looked puzzled.

“Don’t you know?” Abby said.

“Mr. Bullard would be the one to ask about that,” Mr. Malcolm said, and looked at his watch.

Abby considered that option.

Y
ou going into a fight,” George said. ”You know what you trying to do. You got a plan. You need to stay with the plan. Worst thing you can do is get one on the nose and get mad and go crazy and can the plan.”

Terry had the big gloves off and was finishing up on the speed bag, which, as George said, was mostly for show. It was somewhat useful for hand-eye coordination, Terry knew, and it was kind of an aerobic workout.

“What if the plan isn’t working?” he asked.

“Then you come up with another one. What you don’t do is just get mad and start whaling away,” George said. “That ain’t no plan and it will get you hurt.”

“Didn’t you ever get mad?”

“You get mad, you use it for energy,” George said. “You control it and channel it. Otherwise you lose your technique, and you don’t stay over your feet, and you let yourself get off balance and overextended and you get your clock cleaned and your ticket punched pretty quick.”

“What if the other guy is mad too?” Terry said.

“Then the control is gone,” George said. “Then it just a brawl and a lucky punch win it.”

Terry finished up on the speed bag.

“Now deck him,” George said.

Terry got the bag moving again and then hit it as hard as he could with a right overhand punch.

“A devastating punch,” George said. “Now take a seat and breathe.”

Terry sat on the folding chair and began to peel the self-stick trainer’s tape off his hands.

“It’s all about control, isn’t it, George?” Terry said.

“It is,” George said.

He pushed the wastebasket closer so Terry could drop the used tape in it and took the big sixteen-ounce boxing gloves to the shelf.

“Hard for a kid,” Terry said, “to control stuff.”

“It is,” George said. “Most of the time people controlling you.”

“Was that the way it was for you?”

“When I was a kid,” George said, “there was no control. Kid needs some. I didn’t get none ‘til the priest started me boxing.”

“Then you could control things, ‘cause you could fight,” Terry said.

“I could control myself,” George said. “So can you. It’s the only control matters.”

“Self-control.”

“Sure,” George said. “You maybe want to fight Golden Gloves, fine. You maybe want to go on and fight pro, fine. I’ll stay with you far as you want. But I ain’t teaching you to box so you’ll be a good boxer.”

“Then what the hell are you teaching me for?” Terry said.

“So you be a good man.”

“Not a good man because I can box,” Terry said.

“That’s correct,” George said.

“A good man because I can control myself,” Terry said.

“That’s correct,” George said.

“‘Cause I can stick with my plan.”

“First you learn to have a plan. Then you learn to stick to it until it proves to be wrong. Then you get a new plan.”

“You’re talking about life,” Terry said.

“You need to have the smarts to know your best interest,” George said. “And you need to have the control to stay with it.”

“So,” Terry said slowly, “everything won’t be a brawl that’s decided by a lucky punch.”

George smiled and hit the speed bag, his hands so fast that Terry could barely see them. The movement of the bag was pyrotechnic and entirely rhythmic.

“Badda bing,” George said.

O
n her way home from school Friday, Abby passed the dirt road that led to the construction project. She stopped for a moment and listened. She didn’t hear anything. It was after school hours, so there was probably nobody working on the project. Sometimes when you looked at a thing, Abby thought, and tried to keep your mind empty, you would think of something. She turned into the quiet dirt road and walked to the site. It was empty. She stood looking at it, listening to the bird sounds in the empty woods. The house was a big one, and fancy.

She heard a footstep behind her and turned and it was Kip Carter. She felt the little jag of fear flash through the center of her stomach.

“Little Abby Hall,” he said. “Out in the woods all alone.”

Abby stared at him. He was like a grown man, big, with muscles. He looked like he shaved every day. And he was handsome in a pouty self-satisfied kind of way that Abby hated. She also hated that she was afraid of him.

“What do you want?” she said.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Kip Carter said.

“I don’t want anything,” Abby said.

“Maybe I do,” Kip Carter said.

“I don’t care if you do or not,” Abby said.

He moved closer to her. She felt the fear. But she felt anger too. She started to walk around him. He stepped in front of her.

“Where you going?” he said.

“I’m going home,” Abby said, and started to move past him again.

Kip Carter stepped in front of her again.

“We need a little talk,” he said.

Abby moved to go around him in the other direction. He stayed in her way. It was almost like a dance step.

“About what?” Abby said.

“About why you’re snooping around this construction site. About why you’re asking nosy questions about what happens when it’s done. About what you and your creepy boyfriend are up to in general.”

“Terry’s not my boyfriend and he’s not creepy.”

“Yeah? I say he is.”

“Gordon didn’t think so,” Abby said.

“Gordon.” Kip Carter laughed. “Your creep boyfriend gets in a lucky punch and now people think he’s tough. He’s a kid. He annoys me and I’ll step on him like he’s a cockroach.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Abby said.

She moved again. He stepped in her way again.

“What are you two little nerds up to?” he said.

“We’re not nerds,” Abby said. “And we’re not up to anything. Now get out of my way.”

Kip Carter laughed.

“Who you telling to get out of your way?” he said.

They danced the little dance again. Kip Carter seemed to be liking it. Abby felt equal parts fear and anger and both were growing.

“You ain’t going no place,” Kip Carter said. “Until you tell me why you’re asking about this property.”

She tried to dodge around him again and he put a hand against her chest and shoved her. She staggered back and a branch scratched across her face. The pain made her madder. She tried to run past him. He pushed her again and she fell down.

He said, “Bad things can happen to little girls in the woods, you know.”

She scrambled to her feet. Her face felt hot. He put a hand on each side of her face and put his face close. He shook her head slightly.

“Now,” he said, “what’s going on?”

She hit him in the mouth with her right fist. It cut his lip and the blood spurted. He swore and let go of her face and she dodged around him and ran for the street. He stood for a moment, stunned that she had hit him, looking at the blood on his hands as if he couldn’t believe it.

“You cut my lip,” he said.

Then he started after her. He was faster than she was. But the stunned moment cost him and she reached the street before he could catch her.

He screamed at her.

“This isn’t over. I’ll get you. I’m gonna get you.”

There were people on the street. A woman, seeing the boy emerge bleeding from the woods, stopped and spoke to him.

“Are you all right?” she said. “Do you need help?”

Kip Carter shook his head, looking after Abby.

Abby kept going.

A
fter school on Monday she walked down to the Wall to meet Terry. She had covered the long scratch on her cheek as best she could, with makeup. She wouldn’t tell him, she decided. It would upset him. It might even cause trouble. Kip Carter was three years older than Terry and much bigger. What if Terry felt obliged to fight with him? Plus she didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t even like to think about it. Thinking about it made her want to cry.

Terry was on the Wall when she got there. She sat beside him.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“What happened to your face?” he said.

“Nothing,” she said.

“You got a scratch right across your whole cheek,” he said.

“It’s just a scratch,” she said.

“I can see that,” Terry said. “How’d you get it?”

She felt it coming. She tried to stop it. She couldn’t. She turned her head away and started to cry.

“What?” Terry said.

She cried harder. He felt something like panic.

“Why are you crying?” Terry said.

She shook her head.

He slid off the Wall and walked around so he could look at her.

“Why are you crying?” he said.

She put her hands over her face.

“Don’t look at me,” she said.

“Why?”

He didn’t know what to do. He put his hand on her shoulder. She felt how red her eyes must be, and puffy. Her nose had started to run. She wiped it with her sleeve.

“Don’t look,” she said again.

He went back and sat where he’d been and she cried with her back to him. After a time she fished a packet of tissues from her backpack and tried to clean up her face. Then she got out some makeup and a little mirror and did some damage control. Finally she got her breathing back under control and turned to Terry.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What happened?” Terry said.

She shook her head.

“Oh for god’s sake, Abby,” Terry said. “You can’t do that. You can’t have a major meltdown in front of me and not tell me why.”

She clasped her hands and looked down at her thumbs for a time. Then she looked up at Terry and nodded.

“No,” she said. “I can’t.”

He waited. She took in some breath and let it out slowly.

Then she told him.

He listened in absolute silence. His body motionless. His gaze fixed on her face. He felt himself slowly getting colder inside, as if he were turning to ice. He thought,
I’m going to have to do something about this.
He felt threading through the cold a small wiggle of uncertainty. He wasn’t sure what he should do about it ... or could.

When Abby got through, they sat in silence, until Abby said, “What do you think of that?”

Terry thought about his answer.

“I ... I can’t let it go.”

“Why?”

“I can‘t,” Terry said. “I can’t just let him treat you like that.”

“I don’t ... I would hate it if you got into trouble with him. I would feel awful, because I told you.”

“But I can’t let him do that,” Terry said again.

“It’s about me,” Abby said. “Not you.”

“It’s about us,” Terry said.

Abby started to speak and stopped. They were quiet again.

“Everything is about us,” Terry said.

Abby nodded.

“What are you going to do?” Abby said.

“I don’t know,” Terry said. “But I gotta do something.”

“We’re doing something,” Abby said. “We’ll keep doing it.”

“I can’t let him bother you again,” Terry said.

“What do you think George would say?”

“George?” Terry said.

“Yeah, George,” she said. “What would George tell you to do?”

“He’d say I needed to make sure you were safe.”

“How would he say to do that?”

Terry thought about George.

Terry nodded slowly.

“I know what to do,” Terry said.

T
hey went across the common to the town library and sat at the farthest table back and worked softly on their plan. They stayed until suppertime.