Dogfight (15 page)

One time, before military school, Win had snuck out on a school night, come home ugly drunk, and been confronted by our father. Dad asked him who he thought he was, drifting in so late, so tipsy—that's exactly what he said—worrying his mother half to death. Win thought “tipsy” was hilarious. He cocked his wrists, circled his fists, and did a little shuffle with his feet, Marquis of Queensbury style. He went from room to room breaking dishes, lamps, whatever he could find that would shatter, stopping now and then to shadowbox, his breath huffing through his nose, his fists clenched white, his arms working the air like pistons. He pitched an end table through a plate glass window, jagged shards littering the patio like falling stars. Win pumped his fists in the air, did a victory dance at the sight. He kept yelling this line from Muhammad Ali over and over. “I'm a bad man,” he was shouting. “I'm so pretty.”

Win was big enough that our father couldn't stop him physically, so Dad quit bellowing, stormed outside, found the axe, and hacked apart the dining room table, the wood splintering with a sickening sound like breaking bone. Win was shocked silent. I hid on the stairs and listened. I could hear my mother crying, her sobs making my stomach edgy, but I didn't think there was anything I could do for her. She said, “I'm calling Dr. Heller.”

“You're not calling anybody,” Dad said. “I've spent enough money for nothing to discredit every practicing shrink within a hundred miles of here. This isn't about our son wanting attention. This is
about our son being an asshole. Look at Jack. When was the last time you saw Jack break a goddamn window.”

I tensed at the sound of my name. Mom didn't answer. Dad said, “Jack, I know you're awake, boy. Come on down here. Right now.”

I stayed where I was. I hated seeing my father like that, his features distorted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. And I couldn't bear to see my brother cowed. Dad called my name again, and this time I went slinking down the stairs. He said, “Jack, you ever broken a window? In your life, I'm talking about now. Tell the truth.”

“No, sir.”

I glanced at Win. I wanted him to understand that I didn't have a choice. He was squatting beside the wreckage, a broken table leg across his knees, watching us. The chandelier above the table swung side to side, throwing light around the room, like maybe Dad had caught it on a backswing. Win looked each of us over, one at a time, an odd smile on his lips, like we were strangers, surprising him with an impromptu dramatic performance.

“You're sure?” Dad said.

“Yes, sir.”

“That's it, then,” he said, raising his arms, the axe in one hand.

The next day, he did a careful accounting of the damages, excluding the dining room table, and made Win do hard labor around the yard, every day after school and every weekend from nine to five, working him for a dollar an hour, until he earned enough to make restitution. Win had no memory of the incident, but he did the work without complaint. After things had finally gotten quiet that night and my parents were in bed, he staggered back to my room and told me that our father was a good man. I would do myself a favor, he said, if I paid attention and didn't follow Win's example, He then proceeded to pass out on the floor beside my bed and wet his pants in his sleep.

I waited until Win had started home on foot before coming out from behind the tree. The parking lot cleared in a hurry. No one
wanted to be around if an authority figure showed up asking questions. I found Win a mile or two from school and eased over to the curb so he could get in. When he saw me, he grinned, and I could see the broken edge of his front tooth like a tiny, crumbling tombstone.

“You get that tooth today?” I said.

“You saw the fight? Where the hell were you?” He dug around in the pocket of his sweatshirt and came out with a wrinkled joint. He pressed in the car lighter and waited, dangling the joint between his lips. “Naw, I got this yesterday. I can't believe you didn't notice before now. You're the watcher, man, you notice everything.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Some Mexican guy. I wanted to see if he could take me, that's all. He turned out to be a serious disappointment.”

I said, “You think that's a good idea? Fighting Mexicans?” I couldn't tell if he was serious.

“I'll fight anybody,” he said.

“Of course you will,” I said.

Right then, this dog—half Lab, half something else—came charging at the car, barking wildly, snapping at the tires, and I hit the brakes, slamming Win against the dashboard. The dog was obsessed with cars. He'd been run over half a dozen times and his durability was a sort of neighborhood legend. His bones, people said, regenerated like a lizard's tail. Win and I used to sit on the curb, wait for Dad to come home from work, and wager chores on whether or not the dog would get hit. Usually, I was ready for him, speeding by before he had a chance to build blitz momentum but today, I was distracted. I wanted to put some distance between me and my brother.

“Damn dog,” Win said, getting himself straight in the seat. “I forgot about that fucker.” He checked the joint for damage, saw that it was intact, and resituated it in the corner of his mouth. He hung himself out the window and shouted, “Go on, now. Beat it, dog. Don't make me get out of the car.”

I crept along until the dog gave up, pretty houses sliding by in slow motion. I could feel the tires turning beneath us. Win said,
“That dog needs to get himself laid. One of these days his luck's going to run out. Pow, man.” He smacked a forearm into his palm.

I turned right on Featherbed Road, our house at the end of the street. We grew up in this neighborhood and nothing much had changed. Same bricks, same people. I could see Mrs. Caldwell watering her lawn, silvery water arcing from the hose. In an hour or so, driveways would begin to fill with men returning from work, street-lamps would blink alive, one after another, gentling the twilight.

“You ever been with a girl?” he said.

I knew what he meant, and the answer was a resounding no. The closest I'd come to sex was a grudging spin-the-bottle kiss, which had been over before I could make my lips stop shaking. I wanted to conjure up a string of sexual exploits for him, to invent women of stunning beauty and refinement who'd given themselves up to me by the dozens, but I didn't. I sensed that he would know whether or not I was telling the truth. I shook my head.

“Yeah,” he said. “It's a pain in the ass.”

He was looking at his hands, turning them over, pale, fragile-looking palms to ragged knuckles. You would have thought he'd never seen them before, the way he was staring, or that he had, suddenly and without a single lesson, discovered them capable of playing the piano.

“What do you care?”

“You're my brother,” he said. “I was thinking I could give you a hand.” He paused, his words settling like ash. “You know, Camille might be convinced to help you out. She likes you, Jack.”

My wrists thumped. I felt like I was being offered a bribe.

“I couldn't do that,” I said. “She's your girlfriend.”

“It would only be the one night. It wouldn't have to be charity or anything.” The car lighter popped out and Win touched it to the tip of his joint, paper crackling backward. “You could fight me for her, if that's what you want.” He gave me a smile, then, smoke curling over his lip, his tongue working rapturously over the place where the rest of his tooth had been.

* * *

That night, my father caught me masturbating. Camille called for Win and when I answered, she said, “Rescue me, baby. I'm going crazy all alone.” I was in bed, supposedly reading my American history assignment, but really I was watching the ceiling fan turn above me, waiting for the mandatory two hours my parents had set aside for homework to be over. The textbook was in my lap and at the sound of her voice I felt an erection pressing up from beneath the book.

“Camille? It's me, Jack,” I said. “I'll get Win.”

“Oh hey, Jack,” she said. “You've got your brother's voice. Wait a minute, listen to this.”

I heard rustling, then nothing, and I imagined her holding the phone up so I could listen to the quiet. She said, “What'd you hear?”

“Nothing.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Put my man on the phone.”

I yelled for Win and waited, listening to Camille's steady breathing, until he came on the line. I hung up, unzipped my pants and closed my eyes, working hard, trying to picture myself giving it to Camille, but something wasn't right. I kept seeing Win in my place, his chipped tooth gleaming in the light of my imagination. I'd forgotten to lock up and, right in the middle of things, the door swung open and there was my father, his mouth slack in surprise, the glare from my bedside lamp reflected on his glasses. I was stunned with humiliation. The hair on my neck quivered like insect legs.

He said, “Sorry, pal,” and closed the door. I heard his loafers tapping down the stairs, then stop and, after a moment, I heard him coming back. I hustled my pants together and this time he rapped on the door and waited until I said, “What?” before coming in and taking a seat at the foot of the bed. He didn't look at me. He said, “I just wanted to make sure there wasn't anything we needed to talk about.”

“Nope,” I said. “I'm sixteen, Dad.”

“I figured,” he said.

My history book was beside us, still open to the page, and my
father picked it up. He gave it a look and said, “Bastogne. Nuts.” He chuckled to himself. I didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about; I just wanted him gone. You would've thought that he'd already forgotten about catching me with my dick in my hand.

“Anything else, Dad?”

“As a matter of fact, there is something I'd like you to help me with.” He tossed the book to the floor and pushed his fingertips beneath his glasses. He was still in his bank getup, his tie loosened, thrown back over his shoulder.

I said, “Right now?” but he ignored me.

“I was hoping you could tell me what's going on with your brother,” he said, still not looking at me. He smoothed his tie between two fingers. “Your mother's worried sick over Win. She doesn't sleep at night.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I feel like I owe someone an apology.”

“Who, Dad?”

“I don't know,” he said. “Somebody.”

He rubbed his eyes again and, just for a second, I thought he was going to cry. I prayed silently that he wouldn't. I felt sorry for him, not knowing anything, not knowing what to do about his son. It was awful to see him like that. What he wanted, I thought, was to talk to me for a while, the good son. He wanted to be reassured that he hadn't made a complete hash of fatherhood, but I couldn't think of anything to say. I considered telling him what I knew, which wasn't much. Win had been fighting. I didn't know why. He was still smoking dope, but that would come as no surprise. The thing was, I couldn't figure out how it would help anybody for him to know. I could guess what would happen. There would be a blowup, serious shouting, and threats of violence with my mother's tears all mixed in. But, when it was over, we would all be just as unhappy.

“Sorry,” I said. “I can't help you.”

“That's too bad,” he said, remotely. He patted me on the ankle and drifted down the hall, sort of dreamily, like he'd forgotten why he'd come. When he was gone, Win stuck his head in my room and
said, “He asking about me?” I nodded, feeling like I was betraying a secret. He thumbed his chipped tooth and said, “Okay then.”

When I was seven years old, Win convinced me that if I stripped naked, clutched my penis, and whispered, “Youbaby, youbaby, youbaby, you,” over and over, I would become invisible. I wasn't a complete sucker, but I was a kid, and my brother had an answer for every question. I was already the pride of the family, reading and writing and monkeying around with simple division, things that would make any mother proud. And Win was already Win. When my parents' friends came over to visit, they asked about me first. It came as quite a shock to my mother and the bridge ladies, when I cruised into the room without a stitch on, my little kid balls tight with apprehension, chanting my perverted mantra. They scattered cards, kept the table between me and them. My mother was flattened. Her eyes glazed over, and her face went pale. She didn't say a word.

I found Win in the backyard—he'd been watching through the window—lying in the grass, crippled with laughter. I wasn't mad at him. I just couldn't figure out what had gone wrong. How had they been able to see me? Win got himself together, made me sit beside him and explained that he had only been kidding. There was no way to turn yourself invisible. I was more disappointed than anything else. The yard had been recently cut and grass clippings were caught in his hair and stuck to his shirt where he'd been rolling around, laughing at me. I was glad to make him laugh.

“You're right,” Win said. “It'd be nice if nobody could see you.”

I plucked the clippings from his hair and shoulders. I said, “Yeah.”

“That's the trouble,” he said. “They can.”

It was Leo who told me Win was dealing. Sweet, fat, guileless Leo sat beside me in the cafeteria, where I was working on a ham and cheese sandwich, and said, “I saw your brother down in the parking lot selling marijuana this morning. I think that's what he was doing.
I thought that only happened at public school, but I saw him. Hey, are you coming over tomorrow night?” He touched the lenses of his glasses with two greasy fingertips, smudging them. Leo didn't care that Win was my brother, and I didn't think he was intending to do anything with his information, both of which I was grateful for. Leo had been unliked and unnoticed for so long, he'd gotten used to being ineffectual. The world went gladly on without him. Sometimes, I hated being his friend. He had given up, resigned himself to being unnecessary. I felt implicated by his complacency. But at that moment, the cafeteria ablaze with voices, Leo telling me, “There's good movies on cable tomorrow,” if I'd been called upon to choose between him and my brother, I would have taken Leo in a heartbeat.