Craig Davidson - The Fighter

And was that same pragmatism at work now? Paul thought of how lizards will sever their own tails when attacked, forfeiting some vital part of themselves in order to survive.

“You know, I have to laugh,” Jack said, “because in a lot of ways you’re a better man than you were. I’m sitting here looking at you all… mulched, and still I think that. Not that you were ever a bad kid. Ineffective, I’d say. But then I looked at your buddies, sons of guys I did business with, and you all sort of came off that way. You weren’t ahead of the curve, or behind it. You were just…”

“One of the pack.”

“I guess as much as you want your kid to distinguish himself, you’re happy enough to see he’s the same as everyone else.”

Jack poured another scotch. Paul noted the sunken bags under his father’s eyes and a three-day beard furring his jowls. “I don’t guess you realize how…” Jack searched for the right word.“… how insulting all of this is, do you?”

“Insulting to who?”

“To me. To every man who goes down the traditional path.”

“That’s not the point at all—”

Jack cut him short. “You’re saying the only way to be a man is your way. Throw yourself into a meat grinder and claw your way out. You’re saying my way of being a man — work a steady job, support a wife, a kid, try to carve out a life for all of us — you’re saying it’s useless and proves nothing.”

“I’m not saying that. I’m only saying it doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Suffering for the sake of suffering — we didn’t raise you Catholic, did we? And you could have gone your own way at any time, but you were scared to. Like you said.”

“That’s true.”

“Scared of what, Paul?”

“Of everything.”

“And after all this what’s really changed?”

“Everything else.”

“Has it?” Jack slid the money across the desk; he pushed down on the stack with his fingertips, forcing Paul to pull it from under them. “Strikes me as a pretty familiar dynamic.”

“This is the last time. And I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t worry about it. This isn’t a loan.”

Jack had the air of a man who’d come to an awful realization: that nothing he might do for his son, here and now or tomorrow or the next day, would really matter.

The realization that a man could spend his whole life climbing onto crosses to save people from themselves, but nothing would ever change. And finally, the understanding that all human beings — even fathers, even sons — were each as alone as dead stars and no amount of toil or love or litany could alter by one inch the terrible precision of their journeys.

“I’ll need my passport,” said Paul. “And something to wear.”

“Your mother holds on to passports. In her files upstairs.”

“I don’t want to wake her.”

“Your mom,” he said, “isn’t living with me right now. This… what’s been happening… hasn’t been easy on her.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be done for it now. She’ll be fine — your mom’s a strong woman.”

Jack led Paul upstairs. Signs of neglect abounded: a collection of neckties looped around the banister, a stack of dirty dishes at the top of the stairs.

“Maid’s got the week off,” he joked.

The bedroom was a pigsty. Heaps of soiled clothes. Greasy Chinese takeout boxes.

Jack hunted through Barb’s dresser, found Paul’s passport, and flipped it to him. He snapped on a light in the walk-in closet and found something to fit Paul.

“Might be the first suit I ever bought.” Jack held it up: cream-toned polyester with wide, winglike lapels, a black open-throated shirt, white vest, white pants. The sort of thing John Travolta wore in Saturday Night Fever.

“I think it’s what they call vintage.” Jack ran his finger down a lapel, yanked it back as though cut. “Get a load of those flares — sharp.”

“It’s spiffy,” Paul said. “I’ve got to go, Dad.”

“Places to go, people to see, uh? Can I ask you something, Paul? Was I… your mom and me…. were we…?”

“Whatever you may think, none of it is your fault. I don’t blame you for any of this, and I don’t think there’s anything you could have done to stop it. I am what I am because I made myself so. You did the best you could with me and that’s all I could have ever asked. I have no excuses for what I am or what I’ve done or what I’ve put you through.”

“Need to borrow a car?”

“That would help.”

“You know where the keys are. Can’t promise I won’t call the cops the second you’re gone to report it stolen.”

“You can’t save me, Dad.”

“And I know that, son.”

Reuben Tully paced his brother’s hospital room, acridly awake. Tommy had been moved to a room with oatmeal-colored walls; he shared it with five — five ! — other patients. The ringing splash of urine in bedpans so loud it sounded like someone pissing directly in your ear. Even the meals were crappier. Discount Jell-O. No Name tater tots. Next thing you knew, they’d wheel Tommy’s bed out into the hallway.

Reuben sorted the day’s mail. Bills, bills, bills. Tommy’s employer wasn’t kicking in a cent to cover hospital costs: the accident occurred off-premises, so they weren’t liable.

Kate arrived with coffees. “Thanks,” Reuben said, taking his cup.

“Any idea where my unreliable lug of a son is tonight?”

Kate went over to Tommy; gently, she smoothed the lank hair across his forehead.

“It’s strange,” she said, “he looks so restful.”

“Robbie?” Reuben said.

“I talked to him this morning.”

“Oh, he still talks? News to me. I can’t get two words out of him.” He took note of the look Kate was giving him and said, “What?”

“This isn’t easy for anyone, Reuben.” Reuben bristled. “How am I supposed to make it any easier, he doesn’t talk to me?”

“That’s Rob’s problem. He doesn’t say what he feels.”

“So, what — he’s telling you how he feels?” Her noncommittal shrug made Reuben’s hackles rise. “You’ve been here less than a minute and already you’re getting on my nerves. And what’s with this ‘Reuben’ stuff? What happened to Uncle Ruby?”

Kate flipped him a look: spare, flat. “You know, Rob would never say this, so I guess it falls to me—”

“And what’s that, Kate?” Reuben challenged. “What is it he’d never say?”

Then Fritzie Zivic was saying, “I brought him here directly,” and both Kate and Reuben saw Rob in the doorway, Fritzie standing over his shoulder.

Rob’s hands, Reuben thought. Something’s the matter with my son’s hands.

Zivic held his hat to his chest like a policeman come to deliver grim tidings.

“I didn’t know what he was doing till it was a done thing.”

Rob’s hands were bundled in a grimy towel. The towel was dark. The towel was red.

“What’s happened, Robbie?” Reuben struggled against a rising tide of dread.

“What have you done?”

Rob seemed to have aged dramatically in the hours since Reuben had last seen him.

The skin ringing his eyes was of such shocking whiteness Reuben felt as though he were staring into the headlights of an approaching vehicle.

The towel was drenched. The towel was… dripping.

“Rob…” Reuben touched his son’s shoulder. “What…?”

Except he knew. From the moment he glanced up and saw his son in the doorway — k new. Where he’d gone, what he’d done, and why. For Tommy’s sake, yes, but more than just Tommy.

And how long had Reuben known — really known ? For years. The evidence had been everywhere: in his son’s every forced acceptance and grudging nod of consent, every time he’d pulled a punch to spare an opponent or took a punch where he could have given, the forlorn and defeated air with which he laced his boxing shoes. Of course he’d known. Why else would he have been so unrelenting?