Bruiser (3 page)

Our parents never spanked us. They come from the brave new world of time-out and positive reinforcement.

I've always been a very physical kid, though, always using my fists or my body as a battering ram. I can't tell you how many times I've been hauled into the principal's office for fighting. I've given my share of black eyes and bloody noses and gotten my share of them as well—and playing lacrosse, well, there's never a time when I don't have some bruise on my body, somewhere.

But the kind of things I saw on the Bruiser made his nickname hit home for me. None of those marks could be explained away innocently. He didn't get that way from fighting, or from sports. He got that way from being the human receptacle of someone else's brutality.

Mom teaches a class on nineteenth-century realism on Monday nights, so that's Dad's night to not cook. He orders fast food just as skillfully as Mom does. The three of us sit at the dinner table eating KFC on flimsy paper plates with plastic sporks. Whoever invented the spork should be killed. Dad peels the breading from his chicken and gives it to Brontë, allowing her to savor all eleven herbs and spices that make it so finger-lickin' good.

“I saw the Bruiser today,” I tell Brontë as we eat. “Brewster, I mean.”

“And how did you torment him?” she snaps.

I don't take the bait. Instead I say, “It was in the locker room. He had his shirt off.” I take a bite of my chicken, chew, and swallow. “Have you ever seen him with his shirt off?”

Dad looks up from his skinless chicken and talks with his
mouth full. “Exactly why would she have seen him with his shirt off?”

“Oh, puh-lease!” she says to him. “Let's not get out the heart paddles, Dad; he's never been bare chested in my presence.” Now Brontë turns her attention to me, studying me, trying to figure out what sinister maneuver I'm working here. The truth is, I'm just curious as to what she knows, or at least what she suspects.

“Why would you ask that question?” she says; but since I don't know any more than what I saw, I don't want to tell her.

“Never mind,” I say, “it's not important.” I try unsuccessfully to scrape the last of the mashed potatoes from the bottom of the Styrofoam cup with my spork.

“You are so obtuse!” Brontë says, exasperated.

I am calm in my response. “Do you mean stupid, or angular? You need to be more specific with your insults.”

“Jerk!”

“No thanks,” I tell her. “I much prefer the Colonel's seasonings to Jamaican spice.”

It probably would be in my best interests to leave Brontë alone for the rest of the night and not push things, but I can't do that. After dinner I go up to Brontë's room. Her door is open, but still I knock timidly. I'm never timid, but tonight I am.

Brontë must notice because she looks up at me from
her homework, and her standard expression of annoyance changes. Now she looks curious, maybe even a little concerned, because she asks, “What's wrong?”

I shrug. “Nothing. I just wanted to talk to you about Brewster.”

“I don't want to talk to you,” Brontë says.

“I know,” I say to her, “but I think you should listen.”

She crosses her arms, clearly ready to dismiss anything I say.

“You know where he lives, right?” I ask.

“He lives in a house,” Brontë says, “just like we do.”

“And have you met his family? His uncle, I mean, the one he lives with?”

“Where are you going with this?” Brontë asks.

“Does he talk about his uncle?”

“No,” says Brontë.

“Maybe you should ask him.” Then I leave it in her hands and turn to go; but when I glance back, I can see her staring at her homework, pencil in hand but doing no work. Good. She's thinking about it. I don't know what she'll do, but she's thinking about it. I don't even know what I want her to do.

Our neighborhood has the distinction of being one of the fastest-growing planned communities in the state. Look at an empty field, now blink; and when you open your eyes, there's a whole housing development there. Blink again; this time there's a new mall right next to it. I can imagine farmers staring, bewildered, at a jungle of pink stucco and red-tile roofs, wondering how their cornfield became a subdivision while they weren't looking. In reality those farmers sold their plots of land for ridiculous prices and made out like bandits, so I can't feel sorry for them. But then there are whole plots of land where the owners held out for more money and missed the boat.

The Bruiser lives in such a place. It had once been a small farm, but it hadn't been cultivated for a long time. Crops had long ago given way to a wild field of weedy brush,
a deteriorating eyesore amid the perfectly manicured lawns of our little neighborhood.

There's a bull on the property, old and a little too tired to be cranky. It seems to serve no purpose, not even to itself. Occasionally kids will torment it on the way to school. It'll snort, make like it's going to charge the fence, and then give up, realizing that it's not worth the effort. I imagine the Bruiser is somewhat like that bull.

The day I follow the Bruiser home is the day the bull dies.

I'm not exactly what you would call stealthy, but the Bruiser isn't all that observant either, so I'm able to follow him all the way home. I don't know what I expect to find, but curiosity is rarely rational. Besides, it's easy to tell myself that it's more than just curiosity. It's what lawyers call “due diligence”—necessary research—and I'm not even doing it for myself; it's for Brontë's sake, although if she knew I was tailing her boyfriend, she'd rip me a new digestive tract.

Even though I know where he lives, I want to observe what he does. Are there other kids he meets up with on the way home? A drug dealer, maybe? I promise myself I won't jump to any conclusions, but I keep my eyes open for anything out of the ordinary.

He makes no contact with anyone today. He's a true loner, deep in his own thoughts, whatever they might be. He glances
behind him once; but we're separated by a few groups of other kids, keeping me camouflaged. Although I have my lacrosse stick with me, I keep it low, because if he spots that, it'll draw his attention and he'll see that I'm the one holding it.

His property—about an acre—is surrounded by a tall chain-link fence, and an alley runs beside the fence like a concrete moat separating modern suburbia from the weedy little patch of uncultivated farmland. Across the alley is a strip mall, complete with a supermarket, an ice-cream shop, a Hallmark, and a place called Happi Nails, where I assume women go to make their nails happy. Dumpsters stand in the alley up against the Bruiser's property fence like dark green barricades erected to keep out his world.

The Bruiser opens a rusted gate that bears a
NO TRESPASSING
sign and latches it behind him, then crosses through the weeds toward his house. I follow along in the adjacent alley and peer between two of the Dumpsters. Looking through that rusted chain-link fence is like looking into a whole other time and place. The old one-story farmhouse is more like a shack. There's a big, rusted propane tank, and the farmhouse roof is shedding shingles. The building seems to list, as if it has shifted off its foundation. The place is painted a color that I think was once green but has since faded to various shades that have no specific name on the color spectrum. And the smell of the place…well, it smells like bull and the stuff a bull leaves behind. I pity the neighbors downwind.

Today, however, the lone bull on the farm isn't very active. In fact, it doesn't look right at all. I don't know much about livestock, but if a large animal is lying on its side with its head at a funny angle and its eyes open, chances are it's not taking a nap.

I watch it for a long time waiting for it to move, but it doesn't; and now I know something's wrong, because the Bruiser's just standing there staring at it with the same dumb expression I must have on my own face. That's when his brother comes out onto the porch.

Snapshot of kid brother:

Bare feet, torn jeans, and a striped shirt that's as faded as the wood slats of the old farmhouse. He's got a runny nose I can see glistening all the way from here, and dirty blond hair where the “dirty” actually means dirty. Flocks of birds could make their nest in there and no one would know, and I'm only slightly exaggerating. This kid is the definition of “feral child.”

So the kid comes out onto the porch, all snot nosed and teary eyed, and says to the Bruiser, “Tri-tip is sick, Brew. You can help him, right?”

The Bruiser just stands there looking at the bull and finally, slowly, turns to his brother. “Nothing's gonna help him, Cody.”

“No!” says Cody. “No! Don't say that; he's just sick is all. You can fix it; you always fix it!”

“I'm sorry, Cody,” says the Bruiser; and then, all tears and drama, Cody races to the deceased bull, throws himself on it, and tries to give it a weird, awkward hug, but his arms can't reach around the thing.

“No, no, no!” Cody cries.

Maybe I should be feeling something here—some sort of sadness—because, after all, this is clearly a beloved pet; but it's all so weird. It's like I'm watching the psychotic version of
Old Yeller
, where the dead dog has been digitally replaced by this sorry old bull with lonely eyes that stare at me from across the field. Eyes that seem to be asking, “Do I really need this?”

That's when the third and final family member comes out onto the porch.

Portrait of the Bruiser's uncle:

Well-worn pointy boots, a tarnished belt buckle about half the size of a hubcap, tentaclelike tattoos that disappear up into his shirtsleeves, gray wispy hair, and bristly beard stubble. By the way he holds on to the doorframe as he steps out, I can tell he's either drunk or hungover. I want to scream at him, “Don't you know you're a walking stereotype?” The bitter, aging redneck. I'm sure his name is something like Wyatt or Clem: a wannabe cowboy whose cow just dropped dead.

As if to acknowledge my assessment, the man flicks a cigarette butt and says, “I shoulda sold that bull for dog food years ago.”

“Don't say that, Uncle Hoyt!” wails Cody.

“You see what I've gotta put up with?” Uncle Hoyt says to the Bruiser. “You see?” As if it's all the Bruiser's fault. “Where you been? How come you're not home on time?”

“I
am
home on time.” Then the Bruiser asks his uncle, “When did it happen?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Over by the bull, Cody continues to wail. “It's not true…. It's not true….”

“Will you shut him up?” demands Uncle Hoyt.

The Bruiser moves to his brother and pries him away from the dead bull; but the kid goes ballistic, screaming and cursing and fighting and kicking, limbs flailing like a spider monkey.

“Cody, stop it!” the Bruiser yells; but the kid's gone into demonic possession mode, scratching and biting until it's all the Bruiser can do just to peel him off himself. And the second he does, Cody jumps back on the bull, clinging to it like cellophane and bawling even more loudly than before.

That's when Uncle Hoyt reaches down, undoes his belt buckle, and in a single move pulls his belt out of his pants, wrapping the end of it around his palm like it's something he does on a regular basis. He storms toward the boy, buckle end dangling. “IT'S DEAD!” the man screams. “GET YOUR SNIVELIN' ASS AWAY FROM IT OR I SWEAR I'LL WAIL ON YOUR HIDE TWELVE WAYS TILL DOOMSDAY.”
He brings his arm back, threatening to swing the buckle—and the Bruiser doesn't do a thing. He just stands there watching, like he's helpless to stop it.

“No!”

That's my voice. I don't even realize I'm going to shout it until the word's already out of my mouth. I never meant to intercede, but I can't help it. Someone has to stop this.

Suddenly they all turn to me, and now I'm part of the cast of this twisted old Western. I have no choice but to take my place in the scene. I drop my backpack but keep hold of my lacrosse stick. Then I quickly climb the Dumpster and jump over the fence, racing toward the three of them. The moment I'm close enough, I raise my lacrosse stick as a weapon, perhaps the way it was done back in the days when the game was warfare. Then I stare the man in his hateful, rheumy eyes and say, “If you hit that kid, I will take you down!”

And everything freezes like a snow globe. I half expect little flakes to start swimming all around us. Then the Bruiser steps in front of me. He grabs me with his heavy hands, and he whispers angrily into my ear, “Stay out of this!”

I try to pull free from the Bruiser's grasp, but he's just too big. As I struggle, my lacrosse stick falls to the ground.

“Who the hell are you?” Uncle Hoyt finally says now that he's not in imminent danger of having his head bashed in.

The Bruiser pushes me back. “Stay out of this!” he says again. “This isn't any of your business.”

“Please, Uncle Hoyt,” pleads Cody, “leave Tri-tip alone.”

Uncle Hoyt looks at me, sizing me up. “This a friend of yours?” he asks the Bruiser.

“No!” says the Bruiser quickly. “Just some kid from school.”

Uncle Hoyt spits on the ground, giving me a dirty look. Then he turns and saunters inside, dragging the belt like that buckle's his pet on a leash. The screen door closes and I can't see him anymore, but I hear him calling from inside: “You dispose of that bull, Brewster. I don't wanna know about it.”

The Bruiser stares at me with anger that ought to be directed at his uncle, and now the only sounds are clanking shopping carts from the market beyond the fence and the wails of a little boy clinging to a dead beast that's already collecting flies.

With Uncle Hoyt gone, the Bruiser holds my gaze only a moment more before he decides I'm not worth the effort. Then he goes over to his brother…but instead of comforting him, he kneels beside him, puts his hands on the bull just like his brother, and just like his brother he begins to grieve. It starts with mild weeping but soon crescendos into the same tortured sobs as his little brother, both of them wailing in a strange harmony of misery.

I'm embarrassed to be watching—it's as if I'm witnessing something too personal to view—but I can't look away. I want to leave, but it would be like walking out in the middle of a funeral.

A few moments more and Cody's sobbing begins to resolve into whimpers; but the Bruiser is still doubled over in his sorrow, the sobs so intense I can almost feel the ground shake as his chest heaves. In a moment Cody has fully recovered, as if all he needed was someone else to share in his grief.

The Bruiser's anguished sobs go on for at least another minute while Cody waits, patient and untroubled, playing tic-tac-toe in the dirt.

Finally the Bruiser's sobs begin to trail off. He gets control of himself. Then he stands and picks up Cody, who wraps his spidery arms around his big brother's neck. Brewster carries his brother inside without even looking at me once.

I stand there for a while, more than ready to leave yet feeling like there's something left undone. Finally I pick up my lacrosse stick and try to wipe off the mud—at least I hope it's mud. I turn to go, deciding that this was all just one big mistake, when I hear the screen door creak open behind me. I turn to see the Bruiser coming outside again.

“Mind telling me what you're doing here?” he asks.

I'm beyond making up excuses now, beyond caring what comes out of my mouth. And when you don't care what you say, the truth comes with amazing ease. “I was spying on you to find out what's wrong with you and your family.”

I expect him to spew something nasty at me, but instead he just sits on the porch steps and says, “Find out all that you wanted to know?”

“Enough,” I answer him. “Were you just gonna let your uncle beat on your brother?”

He looks me dead in the eyes. “What makes you so sure he would do it?”

“You don't pull out your belt like that unless you plan to use it.”

The Bruiser just shrugs. “How do you know? Do you think you know my uncle better than I do? Maybe he just likes to hear himself yell—did you ever think of that?”

I can't quite figure all of this out, but he's put enough doubt in my mind now so that I can't answer him, which I'm sure is what he wants. But then I remember something.

“I saw your back,” I remind him. “I think I can put two and two together.”

Now his gaze looks a little angry again. A little scared. “Two and two doesn't always equal four.” There's something about his tone of voice—something that says that maybe he's right. Maybe it's not what I think. But there is also something in his voice that says it's worse.

“Anyway,” he says, “it was gutsy of you to stand up to Uncle Hoyt like that.”

“Yeah, well…”

“You wanna come in?” he asks. This I was not expecting.

“Why would I want to do that?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe to see that we don't live with rats. To see that I'm not building pipe bombs in my basement.”

“I never said you were.”

“But I bet you thought it.”

I look away from him at that. The truth is, from the moment I found out he was dating Brontë, I thought every possible bad thing my imagination could muster up about him. Pipe bombs in the basement were on the milder end of the spectrum.

“C'mon,” he said, “I'll get you something to drink.”

Maybe it did take guts to stand up to his crazy, belt-wielding uncle, but I think it took more guts for the Bruiser to invite me inside.