The Fight
by Douglas Cole
[this is the fifth in a six part series–
read Evening of Earth from the beginning]
The Fight
My father drove through the dark. The headlights lit up a tunnel down the black road. One way was forest, and my mind saw me lost in there, slow slogging through fallen trees and the uneven wicker of branches. The other way was the lake, a deeper darkness. I couldn’t actually see the lake, but I knew it was there.
I was just a kid about to hit double digits. Bewildered. My father was a stranger who had left and was now back haunting me. He reappeared once in a while, saying, hey buddy let’s go to the driving range or see a movie, and it was like he had never left. Then he would disappear again for months, a year. This time, when he appeared, he said, “You want to go with me out to Jerry’s?”
“Sure,” I said.
And off we went down the road to the lake.
The cabin rose up in the headlights. A grass field sloped down to the water behind it. Summertime, ending of summer. Jerry’s son, Sam, stood on the back porch looking at us. The retinas in his eyes flashed red as we pulled up.
We went in, and Jerry cuffed me on the side of the head with his bear paw. Then he and my father went to the den to start some drinking. I went with Sam out to the back yard and took up opposing stations at the ping pong table. Fireflies flew along the ground, little green tracers. The ping pong ball came at me. I hit it back. The table tilted on the lawn. Light from the screened-in porch came down, illuminating our space. Out there, the black lake. I heard an owl.
“Your parents are getting divorced?” Sam said.
“No.” I said. It wasn’t a lie. Not like telling people that my father was dead, killed in a plane crash.
“My dad said they were,” he said.
We went back and forth a few more rounds. He won the point. Smug, fat kid with his face lit up in the light. I wanted to annihilate him. He won three points in a row.
We went up the lawn to the house. The grass felt like a saturated mattress. Black screen-meshed windows surrounded the back porch. Moths and mosquitos were looking for a way in.
My father was smiling. Smoking and smiling, a beer in his hand, a whiskey bottle on the table, two shot glasses next to that. He and Jerry were throwing down cards in a friendly, shit-talking rummy match.
“Take that, ya cock sucker!” Jerry said.
A grin, a pluck of a card, and…“There! Up yer ass, mother fucker!” My father said.
“Hey, boys,” Jerry said, “and you—kid—how’s your summer going?”
“Good,” I said.
“Well, good, good…good to have you here. You stay as long as you like.” And he exhaled a blue stream of smoke that plumed in the blue cloud of smoke already hanging in the room. Then he laughed a big gusty laugh with a cough at the end of it. Jerry was a fraternity buddy, the hazing one with a bit of the sadist in him who says afterwards, all in good fun, eh? I knew you could handle it! And this was his kingdom: wood paneling, dartboard, wet bar, big screen, sports jerseys and photographs of him with big fish. No woman around.
“Here—there—” sloshing another shot of whiskey for my father and himself. “And here—” yanking two beers out and tossing one each to Sam and me.
I looked at my father.
He nodded his head.
It wasn’t the first beer I’d been given.
“Hey, now! Why don’t you two boys put on the gloves?” Jerry said.
Two pairs of red boxing gloves hung by a nail next to the back door. It’s true. Sam went and got the gloves and tossed a pair at me. His father’s son, you didn’t have to ask him twice.
Vulture-hunched, sitting on a stool by the bar, I pulled the gloves on and glanced at my father. His eyes were narrow, impenetrable. He seemed like he wanted to say something, like his mouth was about to open and some saving words come out of it, but no. Nothing. “A friendly little match,” Jerry said.
I stepped into the space between the bar and the back door. Sam was waiting for me. I put my hands up like I’d seen on TV. Sam stood back. He was bigger than me. He was smiling. I got the feeling that he wanted me to throw the first punch, so I did. I hit him in the shoulder. He threw a few jabs. His weight came through, jarring. He caught me in the gut and I lost my breath for a moment. Fear swinging, I threw a few more hits out there and by pure luck caught the side of his face. He shifted a bit, anger flaring, and came at me, hitting harder. I protected my face, his blows hitting my shoulders, my head, my sides.
I was breathing hard. So was he. I went into a fury of fast blows, throwing them out there. He curled and took them. Didn’t seem to faze him. He came back, hitting harder. At this point, it was pretty clear I was getting beat up. I staggered a bit. I felt dizzy and out of breath. But I didn’t fall down.
“Okay, there…hold up!” Jerry said, hitting his beer bottle with a spoon, and Sam stepped back like he was yanked by a rope.
I lowered my arms. I was hot and sweating. The room was full of smoke like a real boxing ring.
“Take a break, there, killers!”
I hunched back on the stool.
“Nice job,” my father said. I couldn’t tell what he was looking at. His eyes looked crossed. Jerry poured them another drink.
“You kids got heart,” Jerry said. “I give you that!”
He and my father drank their shots.
Then Jerry rang the beer bottle, and I was back in, swinging, landing a few shots but taking more hits to the stomach, more hits to the head. The outlines were fuzzy. But the buzz of the mosquitoes was loud. The screens in the windows were full of their tiny, hungry faces. I felt sick.
Jerry rang the bottle again. “Ah!” he said, slapping the shot glass down and looking at me. “That’s good for one night, don’t ya think?”
I sat down on the stool and peeled off the boxing gloves.
“Isn’t this fun?” Jerry said, waving his cigar at the world.
Sam went out the back door. I grabbed my beer and got up to follow and pushed open the screen door and stood there a moment. I couldn’t see anything. I knew the lake was straight ahead. I turned back.
“Don’t let the bugs in,” Jerry said.
I looked at my father. He smiled nodding his head and winked.
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