Underdogs (14 page)

On our way through the front gate back home, Rube pats me on the shoulder, twice. His previous anger has calmed, probably on account of his own great victory. We brace ourselves for the questions of why we’re so late for dinner. It doesn’t happen, as Mum’s doing an evening shift at the hospital, and Dad’s out walking. The first thing Rube does is hose the blood off his gloves in the backyard.

When he comes into our room, he says, “We’ll have dinner and then walk Miffy, right?”

“Yeah.”

My own gloves go straight back under my bed. They’re spotless. Squeaky clean.

“
Rube?
”

“
Yeah?
”

“
You’ve gotta tell me how it felt. Y’ gotta tell me how it felt to win.”

Quiet.

All quiet
.

Voices of Mum and Dad wander down at us from the kitchen. They’re talking to Steve, because I hear my brother’s voice as well. Sarah sleeps in her own room, I guess
.

“
How’d it feel?” Rube asks himself. “I don’t know exactly, but it made me wanna howl.
”

“Grab that bag there,” Steve tells me. Just like said he would, he’s moving out. All his stuff is cleared from the basement as he prepares to leave home, get a flat with his girl. He will rent for a while, I’d say, and then he’ll probably buy something. He’s been working a long while now. Good job, just started part-time university. Nice suits. Not bad for a few years out of school. He just says it’s time to leave, with Mum and Dad struggling to pay bills, and Dad refusing the dole.

He isn’t dramatic.

He doesn’t look
down into his room with a last nostalgic gaze.

He just smiles, gives Mum a hug, shakes Dad’s hand, and walks out.

On the porch, Mum cries. Dad holds up his hand in good-bye. Sarah holds the last remnants of a hug in her arms. A son and brother is gone. Rube and I travel with him, to help him unpack what’s left of his stuff. The flat he will live in is only about a kilometer away, but he says he wants to move south.

“Down near the National Park.”

“Good idea.”

“Fresh air and beaches.”

“Sounds good.”

We drive off and it’s only me who turns around to see the rest of the Wolfe pack on the front porch. They will watch the car till it disappears. Then, one by one, they will go back inside. Behind the flyscreen. Behind the wooden door. Behind the walls. Into the world within the world.

“Bye Steve,” we say, when all is unpacked.

“I’m only up the street for now,” he says, and I reach for a semblance of recognition in his voice. Anything that sounds like
It’s okay, lads. We’ll be right. We all will be
. Steve’s voice sounds nothing like it though. We all know that Steve will be okay. There’s no irony in the word for him. Steven will always be okay. That’s just how things are.

None of us embrace.

Steve and Rube shake hands.

Steve and I shake hands.

His last words are, “Make sure Mum’s okay, right?”

“Right.”

We run home, together, in the nearly-dark of Tuesday evening. Rube is waiting for me as we run. He pushes me. The next fight loiters around, like a thief, waiting to thieve. It’s five days away.

Each night, I dream about it.

I nightmare.

I sweat.

In my dreams, I fight Perry. I fight Steve and Rube. Even my mother steps up and beats the hell out of me. The weirdest thing is that every time, my father is in
the crowd, just watching. He says nothing. Does nothing. He simply watches everything go by, or reads the classifi looking for that elusive job.

On Saturday night, I hardly sleep at all.

All through Sunday, I mope around. I barely eat.

Like last week, Perry picks us up, but he takes us to Glebe this time, way down the end.

All is the same.

Same type of crowd.

Same guys, same blondes, same smell.

Same fear.

The warehouse is old and creaky, and the room we sit in is nearly falling apart.

Before the doors kick open, Rube reminds me.

“Remember. Either the other guy kills you, or Perry does. If I was you, I know who I’d prefer it to be.”

I nod.

The doors.

They’re open.

Perry shouts again and after a last deep breath, I enter the crowd. My opponent awaits me, but tonight, I don’t even look at him. Not at the start. Not at the prematch talk by the referee. Not ever.

The first time I see him is when he’s in my face.

He’s taller.

He has a small goatee. He throws punches that are slow but hard. I duck and swerve and get out of the way. No suspense now.

No wondering.

I take one on my shoulder and counterpunch him. I get inside and throw a jab into his face. It misses. I throw another. It misses.

His giant hand seems to shake me first, then land on my chin. I hit him back, in the ribs.

“That’s the way, Cam!” I hear Rube call out, and when the round is over, he smiles at me. “Even round,” he tells me. “You can drop this clown easy.” He even begins to laugh. “Just imagine you’re fighting me.”

“Good idea.”

“You afraid of me?”

“A bit.”

“Well, beat him anyway.”

He gives me a last drink and I go out for the second.

This time it’s the crowd that swerves. Their voices climb through the ropes and wrap around me. When I’m on the canvas, they fall over me like a stream, making me get up.

The third is a nonevent. We both get tangled up and throw punches into the ribs. I hurt him once but he laughs at me.

In the fouth, he tells me something at the start. He says, “Hey, I had y’ mother last night. She’s pretty lousy, ay. Pretty dirty.” That’s when I decide that I have to win. There’s a picture in my mind of Mum, Mrs. Wolfe, working. Tired to the bone, but still working. For us. I don’t lose my mind or go crazy, but I get more intense.

I’m more patient, and when I get my chance, I land three good punches in his face. When the bell rings for the end of the round, I don’t stop punching him.

“What the hell happened to you?” Rube laughs in our corner.

I answer, “Got hungry.”

“Good.”

In the fifth, I go down twice and the guy they call Thunder Joe Ross goes down once. Each time I hit the canvas, the crowd urges me to my feet, and when the bell rings and the decision is announced, they clap, and coins are thrown into my corner. Perry collects them.

I’ve lost the fight, but I have fought well.

I’ve risen to my feet.

That’s all I had to do.

“There.” Perry gives me every cent when we reach the dressing room. “Twenty-two bucks eighty. That’s a good tip. Most losers are happy with fifteen or twenty.”

“He ain’t a loser.”

The voice belongs to Rube, who is standing behind me.

“Whatever you say,” Perry agrees (not caring if it’s true or not), and he’s gone.

When it comes to Rube’s fight, the crowd is extra sharp. Their eyes are glued to him, watching his every move, every mannerism, every everything that might indicate what they’ve heard about him. Word has traveled fast that Perry Cole’s got a hot new fighter, and everyone wants to see him. They don’t see much.

His fight begins with a massive left hook.

The guy hits the ropes and Rube keeps going. He rinses the guy out. Whales him. His hands launch into his ribs. Uppercuts, one after the other. Midway through the round, it’s all over.

“Get up!” people shout, but this guy just can’t. He can barely move.

Rube stands there.

Above him.

He doesn’t smile.

The crowd sees the blood, and they smell it. They look into Rube’s fire-stomped eyes. Fighting Ruben Wolfe. It’s a name they will come to see here now for a long time.

Again, when he climbs out of the ring, they smother him. Drunk men. Horny women.

They all rub up against him. They all try to touch him, and Rube remains as he is. He walks straight through them, smiling out of obligation and thanking them, but never losing the concentration on his face.

Sitting in the room, he says to me, “We did good today, Cam.”

“Yeah, we did.”

Perry gives him his fifty. “No tip for the winner,” he says. “He gets his fifty anyway.” “No worries.”

When Rube stands and goes to the toilet, Perry and I have words together.

“They love him,” he explains. “Just like I thought.” A pause. “You know why?”

“Yep.” I nod.

He tells me anyway. “It’s because he’s tall and he’s got looks and he can fight. And he’s hungry. That’s what they like most.” He grins. “The women out there are begging me to tell ‘em where I found him. They love fellas like Rube.”

“It’s to be expected.”

Outside, when we leave, there’s a blonde thing hanging round.

“Hey Ruben.” She tiptoes over. “I like the way you fight.”

We walk on and she follows and her arm touches slightly with his. Meanwhile, I look at her. All of her.

Eyes, legs, hair, neck, breath, eyebrows, breasts, ankles, front zipper, shirt, buttons, earrings, arms, fingers, hands, heart, mouth, teeth, and lips.

She’s great.

Great, dumb, and stupid. Next, I’m shocked.

Shocked, because my brother stops and they look at each other. Next thing she has him in her mouth. She’s swallowing his lips. They’re against the wall. Girl, Rube, wall. Pushed up against each other. Merging. He kisses her hard for a fair while. Open tongue, hands everywhere.

Then he stops and walks away. Rube walks on and says, “Thanks, love.”

“
Hey Rube. Y’ awake again
?”

“
As usual. Do you ever shut up of a night?”

“Not lately.
”

“
Well, I guess you’ve got an excuse this time — you fought real well.
”

“
Where’s the next one on at?”

“Ashfield, I think, then Helensburgh.
”

“
Rube
?”

“
What now
?”

“
Why haven’t y’ moved into Steve’s room?”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Why hasn’t Sarah
?”

“
I think Mum wants to turn it into like an office, for doin’ paperwork and that kind of thing. That’s what she said, anyway.
”

I say, “And it wouldn’t feel right, I don’t reckon.
”

The basement is Steve’s room and it always will be. He’s moved on but the rest of the Wolfe family stay as they are. They need to. I feel it in the dusty night air, and I taste it
.

I also have another question
.

I don’t ask it
.

I can’t bring myself
.

It’s that girl
.

I think about it but I don’t ask it.

There are some things you just don’t ask
.

We train and fight and keep training, and I get my first win up. It’s down in Helensburgh, against some lowlife yobbo who keeps calling me cowboy.

“That all y’ got, cowboy, huh?”

“You hit like my mother, cowboy.”

All that kind of thing.

I put him down once in the third and twice in the fifth. I win it on points. Fifty dollars, but more importantly, a win. A sniff of victory for the Underdog. It feels gr
eat, especially at the end, when Rube smiles at me and I smile back.

“I’m proud a’ you.”

That’s what he says afterward, in the dressing room, before concentrating again. Later, he worries me. He … I don’t know.

I notice a deliberate change in my brother. He’s harder. He has a switch, and once a fight comes near, he flicks it and he is no longer my brother Rube. He’s a machine. He’s a Steve, but different. More violent. Steve’s a winner because he’s always been a winner. Rube’s a winner because he wants to beat the loser out of himself. Steve
knows
he’s a winner, but I think Rube’s still
trying to prove it to himself. He’s fiercer, more fiery, ready to beat all loss from his vision.

He’s Fighting Ruben Wolfe.

Or is he actually
fighting
Ruben Wolfe?

Insid

Proving himself.

To himself.

I don’t know.

It’s in each eye.

The question.

Each breath.

Who’s fighting who?

Each hope.

In the ring tonight, he leaves his opponent in pieces. The other guy is barely there, from the very beginning. Rube has something over all of them. His desire is severe, and his fists are fast. Every time the guy goes down, Rube stands over him tonight, and he tells him.

“Get up.”

Again.

“Get up.”

By the third one, he can’t. This time, Rube screams at him. “Get up, boy!”

He lays into the padding in the corner and kicks it before climbing back out.

In the dressing room Rube doesn’t look at me. He speaks words that are not directed at anyone. He
says, “Another one, ay. Two rounds and he’s on the deck.”

More women like him.

I see them watching him.

They’re young and trashy and good-looking. They like tough fellas, even though guys like that are likely to treat them poorly. I guess women are only human too. They’re as stupid as us sometimes. They seem to like the bad ones a bit.

But is Rube bad
? I ask myself.

It’s a good question.

He’s my brother.

Maybe that’s all I know.

As weeks edge past us, he fights and wins and he doesn’t bother shaving. He turns up and wins. Turns up and wins. He only smiles when
I
fight well.

At school, there’s a new air about him. People know him. They recognize him. They know he’s tough, and people have heard. They know he does fight nights, though none of them know that I do. It’s for the best, I s’pose. If they saw me fight, it would only make them laugh. I would be Rube’s sidekick. They’d say,
Go watch them Wolfes fight, ay. The younger one, what’s his name, he’s a joke, but Ruben can fight like there’s no tomorrow
.

“It’s all rumors,” is what Rube tells people. “I don’t fight anywhere except in my backyard.” He lies well. “Look at the bruises on my brother. We fight all the time at home, but that’s it. No more than that.”

O morning, a colder one than normal, but clear, we go out for a run. The sun’s barely coming up, and as we run, we see some fellas just coming home. They’ve been out all night.

“Hey Rubey!” one yells.

It’s an old mate of Rube’s named Cheese. (Well, at least, his nickname’s Cheese, anyway. I don’t think anyone knows his real name.) He’s standing on the walkway up to Central Station with a giant pumpkin under his arm.

“Hey Cheeser.” Rube raises his head. We walk up toward him. “What y’ been doin’ lately?”

“Ah, nothin’ much. Just livin’ in a drunken haze, ay. Since I left school, all I do is work and drink.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s good, mate.”

“Enjoyin’ it?”

“Lovin’ every minute.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” But really, my brother doesn’t care. He scratches his two-day growth. “So what’s the go with the pumpkin?”

“Been hearin’ you’re a bit of a gunfighter these days.”

“Nah, just in the backyard.” Rube recalls something. “You of all people should know that.”

“Yeah mate, certainly,” because Cheese used to be in our yard sometimes when we got the gloves out. He remembers the pumpkin he’s holding. He lifts it back into the conversation. “Found this in an alley, so we’re
gonna play football with it.” His mates arrive, around the three of us.

“About here, Cheese?” they ask.

“Why, certainly,” and he gives the pumpkin a good kick down the walkway. Someone chases it then and comes running back with it.

“Belt him!” someone else yells, and it’s on. Teams divide quickly, the fella gets belted, and pieces of pumpkin go flying all over the place.

“Rube!” I call for it.

He passes.

I drop it.

“Ah, y’ useless bloody turkey!” Cheese laughs. Do people still use that word? It’s a word people’s grandfathers use. In any case, I erase my disappointment by tackling the next guy into the concrete.

A bag lady walks past, checking things out for breakfast.

Then a few couples get out of the way.

The pumpkin’s in half. We continue with one of them, and the other half is squashed against the wall under the money mach

Rube gets belted.

I get belted.

Everyone does, and all around us, there’s the stench of sweat, raw pumpkin, and beer.

“You blokes stink,” Rube tells Cheese. “Why thank you,” Cheese responds.

We keep going, until the pumpkin’s the size of a golf ball. That’s when the cops show up.

They walk up, a man and a woman, smiling.

“Boys,” the bloke cop opens with. “How’s it going?”

“Tosser Gary!” Rube calls out. “What are
you
doin’ here?”

Yes, you’ve guessed right. The cops are our mates from the dog track. Gary, the corrupt, bet-placing male cop, and Cassy, the brilliant brunette gorgeous cop.

“Ahh, you!” the cop laughs. “Been down the track lately?”

“Nah,” Rube answers. “Been a bit busy.”

Cassy nudges Gary.

He pauses.

Remembers.

His job.

“Now fellas,” he begins, and we all know what he’ll say. “You know this kind of thing isn’t on. There’s pumpkin all over the place and when the sun hits it, it’s gonna stink like my old man’s work boots.”

Silence.

Then a few yeahs.

Yeah this, yeah that, and a yeah you’re right I s’pose. But no one understands, not really. No one cares. I’m wrong.

I’m wrong because I find myself stepping forward, saying, “Okay Gary, I know what y’ mean,” and start
picking up pieces of pumpkin. Silently, Rube follows. The others, drunk, only watch. Cheese helps a bit, but none of the others do anything. They’re too shocked. Too drunk. Too out of breath. Too stoned.

“Thanks a lot,” Gary and Cassy say when we’re done and our drunken friends are on their way.

“I think I’d love to beat the hell out of some of those fellas,” Rube mentions. His words are offhand, but fierce. Like he’d do it if the cops would turn their backs for a minute.

Gary looks at him.

A few times.

He notices.

He says it.

“You’ve changed mate happened?”

All Rube says is, “I don’t know.”

Neither do I.

It’s a conversation with myself at Central Station. It goes on inside my head as Rube and Gary talk a little further
.

It goes like this:

“
Hey Cameron
?”

“
What
?”

“
Why does he scare you all of a sudden?”

“He’s fierce now, and even when he smiles and laughs, he stops it real fast and concentrates again.”

“Maybe he just wants to
be
somebody.”

“Maybe he wants to
kill
somebody.”

“Now you’re bein’ stupid.
”

“
All right.
”

“
Maybe he’s just sick of losin’ and never wants to feel it again.
”

“
Or maybe he’s the one that’s afraid.”

“Maybe.
”

“
But afraid of what
?”

“
I don’t know. What can a winner be afraid of?”

“Losing
?”

“
No, it’s more than just that. I can tell….
”

“
All the same, though, Cassy looks great, doesn’t she
?”

“
She sure does….
”

“
But afraid of what
?”

“
I told you. I don’t know.
”