Neal Shusterman: Bruiser

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.

I follow the Bruiser in. I have to say, I’m a little disappointed at what I find. It’s just a house. Sure, it’s kind of run-down and sparsely decorated, but it’s still just a house. The one thing about it, though, is that all the colors are off, just like on the outside. The wallpaper is faded, the sofa has stains on the cushions, the blue carpet is mottled purple and brown in spots. A bruise , I think, the entire house is like one big bruise .

I can hear a TV playing somewhere deeper in the house. Beyond the kitchen is an arched doorway, dark except for the flickering light of the TV. There must be a family room back there, but somehow I suspect family has little to do with it. I’m sure it’s Uncle Hoyt’s lair, complete with a deteriorating recliner, a TV with color issues, and empty beer cans multiplying like dust bunnies.

The Bruiser pours me some lemonade. “I promise it’s not poisoned,” he says.

I don’t want to touch anything. Not because it’s dirty but because it feels unclean. I can’t quite explain the difference, although I suspect it has something to do with my own snob factor. Conflicted, I force myself to sit in a chair at the kitchen table. There are dirty dishes in the sink. He notices me noticing.

“Sorry,” he says, “the dishes are my job. I usually take care of them when I get home.”

“What does your uncle do?” I asked him.

“Road construction,” Brewster says. “He works nights, driving a steamroller for the Transportation Authority.”

Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. I get this image of a maniacal Uncle Hoyt rolling over defenseless wildlife caught in the unset asphalt.

I pick up my glass, and he looks at my knuckles. Four out of five knuckles on my right hand have scabs in various states of healing. “Where’d you get those,” he asks, “beating on band geeks?”

He’s trying to push my buttons. I don’t let him. “Lacrosse,” I tell him.

“Right,” he says. “Must be a rough sport.”

I shrug. “Good for getting out your aggression.”

He nods. “What do you do in the off-season?”

“I use the stick to smash mailboxes.” He looks at me like I’m serious.

“I’m kidding,” I tell him, but he doesn’t seem entirely convinced. I’m uncomfortable with the conversation being all about me, so I flip it back on him.

“So, your uncle’s got a government job; he must pull in a decent salary.”