Роберт Паркер - The Boxer and the Spy

“You can’t know that, Terry. There’s lots you don’t know about people. Everybody. You know? I mean Jason never said he was gay.”

“But we all were pretty sure he was,” Terry said.

“Yes.”

“Well, he never said he was on ’roids either,” Terry said. “But I’m pretty sure he wasn’t.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“There was a note,” Abby said.

“Yeah.”

“They found steroids in his system.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe steroids do stuff we don’t know about.”

Terry was silent looking at the blank sand, where the waves washed in and hesitated and slid back leaving the tracings of foam behind them.

“We don’t really know much about steroids, do we?” he said after a while.

“Not really,” Abby said.

She was so pretty, he thought. And her dark hair always smelled so nice when he was close to her, and she always listened to him and looked at him as if what he said, and what he was, were the most important things possible.

“Maybe it was a gay thing,” Abby said.

“Taking steroids?”

“Yes.”

“I never heard that,” he said.

“Me either,” Abby said. “You think maybe somebody did something to him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe because he was gay,” Abby said.

“Oh hell,” Terry said. “Who around here cares about that anymore?”

“Some of the football players used to tease him.”

“They tease everybody,” Terry said.

“They don’t tease you,” Abby said.

“That’s because they think I’m a boxer,” Terry said.

“Well, you are.”

“Not yet,” Terry said.

“You do all that training.”

“I’m learning,” Terry said.

“I’d like to see you box sometime,” Abby said.

“You can come to my next lesson, if you want.”

“I’d love that,” Abby said.

“Maybe George knows about steroids,” Terry said.

William Dawes Regional was a four-year high school. Grades nine through twelve were gathered, this Friday morning, in the assembly hall to hear about Jason Green’s death. Mr. Bullard was at the podium. He was important. Not only was he the principal of the high school, he was also the superintendent of the district. To his right in a folding chair sat Mrs. Trent, the head of the Board of Selectmen.

“This past week,” Mr. Bullard said, “one of our students, Jason Green, died tragically, an apparent suicide, induced by anabolic steroids. He was a fine student, and a fine boy. I’m sure many of you knew him. All of us mourn his loss. And all of us hope that his death will not be entirely in vain if it dissuades just one other young person from experimenting with a dangerous drug.”

Mr. Bullard had very short graying hair. He was not so tall, but he was really wide. His suits never fit him right. They were always tight around his chest and upper arms, and it made the lapels sort of stick out. Everybody knew he had played football. And everyone knew he lifted weights. He was often in the weight room at school. Terry knew Mr. Bullard could bench-press more than four hundred pounds.

“We know that this will trouble many of you,” Mr. Bullard said. “We have, therefore, arranged that Mr. Helmsley and several other counselors will be available to you, here in the auditorium, starting this afternoon and continuing until there is no further need.”

While Bullard was talking, Terry watched Mrs. Trent. She had on a gray suit, and pearls around her neck, and a knee-length skirt. She was sort of famous in town. Her picture was always in the paper with some politician. Looking straight at Mr. Bullard, she sat with her legs crossed and her hands folded quietly in her lap.

Not bad for an old broad, Terry thought.

“With the cooperation of Mrs. Trent, the chairman of the Cabot Board of Selectmen, those needing further counseling will be referred to an approved therapist at no expense to the student.”

Terry leaned over and whispered to Abby. “I wonder how you get to be an approved therapist,” he said.

Abby giggled and whispered to Terry. “You probably have to tell Mr. Bullard how big and strong he looks.”

“The tragic death of a fine young man is always troublesome,” Mr. Bullard said. “But the fact that the death may have been self-inflicted makes it even more troublesome. For each of us must ask himself, ‘How did I fail him? What could I have done to help him?’ ”

Mr. Bullard’s voice had that big empty sound that so many people had when they gave speeches, Terry thought.

The speeches went on for a while and then the students were dismissed for the day.

As they walked out of the auditorium, Abby said, “Were you looking at Mrs. Trent?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s too old for you,” Abby said.

“I know,” Terry said, “but she’s got pretty nice legs.”

“So do I,” Abby said.

“How would I know,” Terry said. “You wear jeans all the time, I never get to see them.”

“Take my word,” Abby said.

Terry grinned at her.

“For the moment,” he said.

When Terry brought Abby into the boxing room, George smiled at her and said, “Fight fan?”

“More a Terry fan,” she said. “Is it okay if I watch?”

“Sure,” George said.

He nodded at one of the two folding chairs in the room. Abby sat. Terry went through his warm-ups with the medicine ball, then taped his hands and held them out while George slid the big sixteen-ounce gloves onto them and tightened the Velcro closures.

“Okay, Novak,” George said. “Let’s see what you got.”

They stood. Terry took his stance.

“We’re going to shadowbox a little,” George said to Abby. “Just let him get loose.”

Abby smiled. George smiled back.

She’s so amazing, Terry thought. It’s like she’s not even a kid. Fifteen years old and charms everybody’s butt off.

“Two lefts and a right to the body,” George said.

Terry did it.

“Two lefts to the head, right to the body,” George said.

Terry did it.

“See how he keep his feet under him,” George said. “Always got the left foot forward, always keep the spacing when he moving around?”

Abby nodded.

“Left to the body, right to the head,” George said.

Terry did it.

“Keep it close in to the body,” George said. “Turn your hip in. You’re all torqued up after the left, let the right cross come out of that.”

George showed him. It was always amazing to Terry how smooth and precise George’s boxing moves were. And how awkward his own felt by comparison. George put on the punch mitts.

“Don’t hit anybody with these,” George said to Abby. “Just give him a chance to punch a moving target.”

With the big padded mitts for targets, George moved around Terry, telling him combinations. Sometimes when Terry landed a good punch, it would make a satisfying pop.

“You hear that pop,” George told Abby. “You know he land a good punch.”

They moved around the small room, Terry’s punches popping into the mitt.

“Now some bobbing,” George said. “Stick with the left, bob under my punch, right to the body.”

Terry jabbed George’s left mitt with his own left, ducked under the half-circle sweep of George’s left punch mitt, and turned a right hook into George’s right mitt, held at body level.

“Again,” George said.

They did it again. And again. Terry was breathing hard and he could feel the sweat soaking through his gray T-shirt.

“Okay,” George said. “Left jab, bob, right to the head.”

Terry did it. The jab slid off the edge of George’s mitt. Terry stepped back in disgust.