Craig Davidson - Rust and Bone - Stories

There are other ways. I know that. You think I don’t know that?

This is the only way that feels right.

Nicodemus rises to one knee. He looks like something risen from its crypt, shattered jaw hanging lopsidedly, bloodshot eyes albino-red. Pain sings in my broken hand and I vaguely remember a song my mother used to sing when I was very young, sitting on her lap as she rocked me to sleep, beautiful foreign words sung softly into my hair.

He makes his way across the ring and I dutifully step forward to meet him. We stand facing each other, swaying slightly. My eyes swelled to slits and he moves in a womb of mellow amber light.

And I see this:

A pair of young-old eyes opening, the clear blue of them. A hand breaking up from sucking black water, fist smashed through the ice sheet and a body dragging itself to the surface. A boy lying on the ice in the ashy evening light, lungs drawing clean winter air, eyes oriented on a sky where even the palest stars burn intensely after such lasting darkness. I see a man walking across the lake from the west, body casting a lean shadow. He offers his hand: twisted and rheumatoid, a talon. The boy’s face smooth and unlined, preserved beneath the ice; the man’s face a roadmap of knots and scar tissue and poorly knitted bones. For a long moment, the boy does not move. Then he reaches up, takes that hand. The man clasps tightly; the boy gasps at the fierceness of his grip. I see them walking towards a distant house. Squares of light burning in odd windows, a crackling fire, blankets, hot chocolate. The man leans down and whispers something. The boy laughs— a beautiful, snorting laugh, fine droplets of water spraying from his nose. They walk together. Neither leads or follows. I see this happening. I still hold a belief in this possibility.

We circle in a dimming ring of light, feet spread, fists balled, knees flexed. The crowd recedes, as do the noises they are making. The only sound is a distant subterranean pound, the beat of a giant’s heart. Shivering silver mist falls through the holes in the roof and that coldness feels good on my skin.

Nicodemus steps forward on his lead foot, left hand sweeping in a tight downwards orbit, flecks of blood flying off his brow as his head snaps with the punch. I come forward on my right foot, stepping inside his lead and angling my head away from his fist but not fast enough, tensing for it while my right hand splits his guard, barely passing through the narrowing gap and I’m torquing my shoulder, throwing everything I’ve got into it, kitchen-sinking the bastard, and, for a brilliant split second in the center of that darkening ring, we meet.

LET ME TELL YOU, the pure shooter’s a dying breed. We’re talking pretty much extinct: think snow leopard, Komodo dragon, manatee. The dunk shot more or less killed the pure shooter: nowadays everyone wants to be a rim-rocker, shatter the backboard to make the nightly highlight reel. You got kids with pogo-stick legs leaping clear out the gym but these same kids cannot hit a jumpshot to save their life. Blame Dominique Wilkens, Michael Jordan, Dr. J. A few shooters still haunt the league, scrawny white riflemen hefting daggers from beyond the three-point arc; most Euros have a deft touch, skills honed in some backwater -vakia or -garia with no ESPN on the dial. A damn shame, because few things in life are as sweet as the sound a basketball makes passing through an iron hoop: we’re talking dead through the heart of the net, no rim, no glass. Called a swish, that sound, but truly it exists somewhere beyond human description—if heaven has a soundtrack, man, that is it .

My son’s going to change all that. Jason’ll make it cool to be a pure shooter again; once he’s chewing up the NBA you’ll see kids practicing spot-up j’s instead of windmill dunks. I take credit for that silkysmooth jumper of his: feet set in a wide stance, knees bent and elbows cocked at eye level, smooth follow-through with the wrist. We drilled for hours on the driveway net until the mechanics imprinted themselves at a cellular level. Read in the newspaper he went off for thirty-seven against Laura Secord High; those numbers’ll attract scouts from Div I programs, believe-you-me. Jason’s a Prime Time Player—a PTP’er, Dick Vitale would say, ole Dicky V with his zany catchphrases and kisser like a pickled testicle. My boy can tickle the twine for two, baby!

The Mikado’s the only bar open on Saturday mornings. The TRW skeleton crew usually heads down after the shift whistle blows to knock the foam off a few barley pops. While I’m not technically employed there anymore I still like to hit the Mik for a Saturday morning pick-me-up, shake off the cobwebs and start the weekend on a cheery note. This particular Saturday it’s about noon when they kick me out. I say “they” though in truth there’s but a single bartender, a joyless moonfaced hag named Lola. I say “kicked out” but in point of fact I’d run dry and Lola isn’t known to serve on the house. Once you reach a critical impasse like that, you’d best pack up shop.

The day bright and warm in a courtyard hemmed by the office buildings of downtown St. Catharines, the squat trollish skyline aspiring to mediocrity and falling well short. A warm June breeze pushes greasy fast food wrappers and pigeon feathers over the cracked concrete of an empty pay-n-park lot between a tattoo parlor and a discount rug store. Sunlight reflects off office windows with such intensity I’m forced to squint. Got to assume I’m drunk: downed eight beers at the Mik and polished off twenty ounces of gin watching infomercials last night. Haven’t slept in days but in high spirits nonetheless, though I must admit somewhat alarmed by what appear to be tongues of green, gold, and magenta flickering off the tips of my spread fingers.

A trash-strewn alleyway to my left empties onto King Street. Catching human movement and the echo of up-tempo music, I wander off in that direction.

KING IS CLOSED OFF for a two-block stretch to host a 3-on-3 basketball tournament. Ball courts staggered down the road, three-point arc and foul stripes etched in sidewalk chalk. Mammoth speakers pump out rap music: guttural growls and howls overlaid with occasional gunshots and the clinkety-clink sound slot machines make paying off. Players sit along the curb in knee-length shorts, sleeveless mesh tops, and space-age sneakers, checking out the competition or waiting to be subbed in. The staccato rhythm of ball chatter underlies all other sound: D-up! Get a hand in his face! My bad, my bad. You got that guy, man; you own him! Give you that shot—you can’t stick that shit! All day, son, all damn day. And one! And ONE!

Weave through duffel bags and water bottles and teams talking strategy, stop at a long corkboard to scan the tournament brackets. No names, just teams: Hoopsters, Basket-Maulers, Santa’s Little Helpers, Highlight Reelers, Dunks Inc. If Jason was playing, he’d’ve given his old man a call, right? I went to every one of his high-school games, didn’t I? I say “went,” past tense, due to the incident occurring at a preseason game out in Beamsville. I say “incident,” but I suppose I might as well say “brawl,” that broke out when a few Beamsvilleians—and when I say “Beamsville-ian,” I mean, more accurately, “inbred hillpeople”—took offense at my distinctive style of encouragement. I guess some punches were thrown. Well, the whole truth of the matter is that punches were thrown, first by me, then at me. Let me tell you, those bumpkins pack a mean punch—even the bitches! Thankfully, when you’re three sheets to the wind you don’t feel a whole lot of anything. Coach Auerbach politely insisted I curtail my attendance.