Chapter 11
I only know that I’m a new kind of afraid.
You know how dogs whine when they’re afraid, like when a storm’s coming? Well, I feel like doing it right now. I feel like asking questions, in desperation.
When did this happen?
How did it happen?
Why did he change so quickly?
Why aren’t I happy for himWhy does it scare me?
And why can’t I put my finger on exactly what it is?
All of those questions swing through me, eroding me a little each time. They swing through me during my brother’s next few fights. All knockouts. They swing through me each time he stands over his man, telling him to get up, and when the people touch him to grab a little piece of his greatness. I ask the same questions in the dressing room, among the smell of liniment and gloves and sweat. I ask them the next time I see Rube get it off with a nineteen-year-old uni student behind the Maroubra factory, before he walks away from her (without looking back). Then the next time a different girl. Then the next. I ask the questions at home when we eat our dinner with Mum pouring out the soup, and Sarah eating it politely, and Dad eating more failure with his meal. Putting it in his mouth. Chewing it. Tasting it. Swallowing it. Digesting it. Getting used to it. I ask them when Sarah and I wrestle some washing off the line. (“Damn it!” she yells. “It’s raining! Hey Cam! Come help us get the washing off!” Just lovely, the two of us sprinting out back and ripping it all off the line, not caring if it’s in shreds, just as long as it’s bloody dry.) I even ask the questions when I smell my socks to see if they can go one more day or if I should wash them next shower. I ask them when I go and visit Steve at his new place and he gives me a cup of black coffee and a silent, friendly conversation.
Finally, someone else arrives to help me out a bit.
It’s Mrs. Wolfe, who, thankfully, has some questions of her own. The best thing about this is that maybe she can get something out of Rube to help me understand him better. Also, she has chosen a night and a week in which I’ve won my last fight, so I don’t have any bruises on me.
It’s a Wednesday night, and Rube and I sit on our front porch with Miffy, patting him after his walk. The little wonder dog laps up the attention on the old lounge. He rolls on his stomach as Rube and I pat him and laugh at his ridiculous little fangs and claws.
“Oh Miffy!” Rube breathes out, and it’s the shadow of his former callings for the dog when we used to pick him up. He only laughs now with something inside the voice of his throat.
What is it?
Regret?
Remorse?
Anger?
I don’t know, but Mrs. Wolfe, she can sense it as well, and she has joined us now on the front porch, in the cold, dim light.
I love Mrs. Wolfe.
I’ve gotta tell you that right now.
I love Mrs. Wolfe because she’s brilliant and she’s a genius even though her cooking’s downright oppressive. I love her because she fights like hell. She fights better than Rube. Even Rube will tell you that — though her fight has nothing to do with fists. But it has plenty to do with blood….
Her words tonight are these:
“What’s up boys? Why are you always coming home so late on Sundays?” She smiles, alone. “I know that you were going down to the dog track not so long ago. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?”
I look at her. “How’d y’ find that out?”
“Mrs. Craddock,” she confesses.
“Bloody Craddock!” I yelp. Mrs. Craddock, a neighbor of ours, was always at the dogs, chewing a hot dog with her false teeth, and sinking Carlton Cold beer like there was no tomorrow. Not to mention smoking Long Beach 25s till the cows came home.
“Forget the dogs,” Mum sighs.
She talks.
We listen.
We have to.
When you love and respect someone, you listen.
“Now, I know things are rough at the moment, fellas, but just do me a favor and come home at a decent hour. Try to get here before dark.”
I break.
“Okay Mum.”
Rube doesn’t.
He says, straight and hard, “We’ve been goin’ down to the gym. Sunday afternoons it’s cheaper, and you can learn boxing.”
Boxing.
Nice one, Rube.
We know how Mum feels about boxing.
“Is that what you want to do?” she asks, and her mild tone is surprising. I think she knows she can’t stop us. She knows the only way is to let us find out. She continues and ends with two words. “Boxing? Really?”
“It’s safe. All supervised and taken care of. Not like we used to do in the backyard. None of the one-handed rubbish.”
Which isn’t a lie. Yes, the fights are supervised and taken care of, but by whom? It’s funny how truth and lies can come in the same clothes. They wear flanno shirts, gym boots, jeans, and Ruben Wolfe’s lips.
“Just look after each other.”
“We will,” and I smile at Mrs. Wolfe because I want her to think that everything’s all right. I want her going to work without worrying about us. She deserves at least that.
Rube gives her an “Okay.”
“Good.”
“We’ll try to get back quicker,” he goes on, before Mum returns inside. First she pats Miffy for a while, running her dry fingers through our friend’s softfluffy fur.
“Look at this dog,” I say once she’s gone. Just to say something. Anything. “What about him?”
I’m lost, and unsure what to say. “I guess, we’ve got to liking him, ay.”
“But what does liking do?” Rube looks at the road. “It doesn’t do anything.”
“Does hating?”
“What have we got to hate?” He’s laughing now. The truth is, there’s a lot to hate, and a lot to love. Love.
The people. Hate.
The situation.
Behind us we hear Mum cleaning up the kitchen. We turn and see the silhouette of our dad helping her. We see him kiss her on the cheek.
He is unemployed.
He still loves her.
She loves him.
Watching it, I see the handful of fights that Rube and I have had inside the warehouses and factories. They’re pale, I decide. Pale in comparison. There’s a vision also of Sarah, putting overtime in (as she’s been known to do lately), or even just watching TV or reading. There’s even a vision of Steve, out there on his own, living. Mainly though, it’s Mum and Dad. Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe.
I think about Fighting Ruben Wolfe.
I think about fighting Ruben Wolfe.
From the inside.
I think about finding Ruben Wolfe….
I think about fights you know you’ll win, fights you know you’ll lose, and the fights you just don’t know about. I think about the ones in between.
It’s me now who looks at the road.
I speak.
Talk.
Say it.
I say, “Don’t lose your heart, Rube.” And very clearly, without moving, my brother answers me.
He says, “I’m not tryin’ to lose it, Cam. I’m tryin’ to find it.”
Tonight, there’s nothing.
There’s no “Hey Rube, are you awake?”
No “Of course I bloody am!”
There’s just silence.
Silence, Rube and me.
A the darkness.
He’s awake, though. I can sense it. I can feel it, just out of reach from my vision.
There are no voices from the kitchen.
There’s no world but this one.
This room.
This air.
This awake-ness.