When I Found You (11 page)

They took the boxing gloves from him, cuffed his hands behind his back. Led him in the direction of a squad car parked on the adjacent street.

“So,” the other cop said. “Any new thoughts on who you are?”

“I guess I’m Nathan Bates,” he said.

“It’s a wonderful moment when these kids find themselves. Don’t you think so, Ralph?”

2 October 1974   

Nat woke on a hard wooden bench in a small, cold holding cell.

The door of the cell was open, and the two cops were standing in the open doorway, talking to each other in loudly exaggerated voices.

“So, tell me, Ralph … have you ever seen a kid rotten enough to assault his own grandmother and give her a concussion?”

His grandmother had a concussion? Was that true? He’d had no idea.

“No. I’ve seen some pretty rotten ones. But that takes the prize.”

“What would you do to your own kid if he did a thing like that?”

“No kid of mine ever would. I’d raise him up better than that. And he wouldn’t dare.”

“Just theoretically, though. What would you do?”

“Well, if the grandmother would press charges, I’d lock his ass up in Juvenile Hall for a few years and that would teach him a lesson.”

“And if she wouldn’t?”

“Then I’d have to teach him myself, I guess.”

Nathan pressed his eyes shut again. Waiting for it.

A few seconds later he felt himself lifted by the armpits. Pulled to his feet. His arms held tightly behind his back. He opened his eyes and looked into the face of one of them. Ralph. Betraying as little fear as possible. His shoulder joints were being painfully twisted, but he was careful not to complain or even let on.

“So, how does it feel to be helpless? Huh, boy? When somebody bigger and stronger is holding you like that, does it make you feel as helpless as, say … a little old lady?”

In truth, to be completely helpless — and then taunted about it — triggered a frightening burst of rage in Nat. It exploded up from his gut and overwhelmed him. But there wasn’t much he could do about it.

He almost spit in the cop’s face. He had begun to gather enough saliva to do so.

But no. He wouldn’t. He would do nothing.

Let it be all them, he thought. All their fault. Don’t even give them a good excuse.

Instead Nat shut down the inside of himself like a store at quitting time. Locked the door and hung out the sign. They could do whatever they wanted to him, and, other than physical pain, they could not make him feel anything about it at all.

•  •  •

“Oh, dear,” the old woman said when she looked up and saw his face.

She was standing at the desk arguing with an officer Nat hadn’t seen yet. It seemed to take her a moment to get back to what they’d been arguing about. As if the sight of his face had knocked all other thoughts out of her head.

“Here’s a question, then,” the officer behind the counter said. “If you don’t want to press charges, why’d you have us pick him up in the first place?”

“Well, I couldn’t just let him run away,” she said.

“We’re not your baby-sitters, ma’am.”

“No, I didn’t mean it that way. You misunderstood me. I didn’t mean that was the only reason. I just mean … Well, I was considering pressing charges, but I don’t think it’s the best thing for his situation in the long run.”

“It’d teach him a lesson.”

“Oh, would it? So then, the boys you let out of Juvenile Hall every day? You’re saying they’ve learned their lessons, and they never get into any more trouble after that?”

Silence.

“Of course not,” the long-winded old bag continued. “It just teaches them to be even more hardened criminals. Now, if you don’t mind, my grandson and I are going to go home.”

“Fine. Good luck with him, ma’am. I’m sure you’ll need it.”

She turned toward the door and walked quickly for a few steps, then stopped to look over her shoulder at Nat. “Coming? Or do you like it here?”

Nat looked at the officer behind the desk. “Do I get my boxing gloves back?” he asked. Quietly.

The officer pulled himself up straight and tall. “In accordance with the laws regarding an inmate’s property … the personal effects we confiscated when you were arrested have been turned over to your legal guardian. That is, as many of them as she chose to reclaim.”

Nat squeezed his eyes closed for a moment.

Then he turned and gingerly followed the old woman out to the car.

The light of morning violently assaulted his headache and made him wince. He wondered if he might vomit. Trying to control the impulse, he eased himself down in the passenger seat of the old woman’s car.

Bending in the middle hurt more than he had anticipated.

She got into the driver’s seat and started up the engine.

Nat was aware that the bad side of his face — the left side — was facing her.

Say something about my face, he thought.

She raised her hand to shift the car into gear, then stopped and put her hands in her lap again. Turned toward him and sat staring.

Say something about my face.

A long silence.

Then, “Did you start a fight with those policemen?”

Nat said nothing.

More than halfway home, Nat finally opened his mouth. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said.

The old lady never answered.

4 October 1974   

Nat arrived at the gym about ten thirty in the morning. The little man was nowhere to be seen. Jack was in the ring, sparring with some guy who looked too old to be there. They didn’t look up, probably didn’t dare, so Nat just watched.

He leaned gingerly on a heavy bag, which swayed over and leaned against the dirty gym wall. And he watched Jack’s footwork. And the way he held his hands, so that wherever the old guy tried to jab he just got Jack’s gloves instead.

He watched for maybe five minutes, aching with admiration. The old guy never laid a glove on him.

When the old guy wore down and got tired, he made a mistake. And Nat saw it. Saw it before the guy even finished paying for it, which Nat thought was a good sign. He actually spotted what the guy did wrong. Where he left his opening.

Jack’s right plowed through it like a freight train. Nat heard the two solid blows from across the room. The impact of Jack’s gloved fist. And the older man’s back hitting the mat.

“OK,
Time
! Go clean up, Fred. I went easy on you.”

“Don’t patronize
me
, you son of a bitch.” Said with no genuine rancor as far as Nat could tell.

Jack offered a bent arm down to help the guy to his feet. Then he ducked through the ropes and headed in Nat’s direction, removing his gloves as he walked. He had known Nat was there all along, Nat realized. He was just doing things one at a time.

He was wearing trunks only, no shirt. Nat glanced at the definition of his chest muscles. And his abs. Like a washboard, each section distinct and angular, as if he had been carved from clay. Nat knew he wanted that for himself. Wanted that body. That way of carrying himself in the world. Wanted Jack’s life, if such a thing had been possible.

“Told you come back in a week. Wasn’t that more like four or five days?” He caught sight of Nat’s face and whistled softly. “Man. Did you get the shit kicked out of you or what?” He grabbed hold of Nat’s chin. Turned his face sideways for a better look. “No wonder you wanna learn to fight. You should never let nobody do some shit like that to you.”

“What if it’s a cop?”

“Oh. Well, that does get a little dicey, then. Doesn’t it? Hey. Isn’t this a school day?”

“I guess so.”

“Come to think, wasn’t it a school day last time you were here?”

“I guess.”

“You just don’t bother with school?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Well. I guess I’m no truant officer. Where’re your gloves, kid?”

“Don’t have ’em.”

“You didn’t bring ’em?”

“Don’t have ’em. Period. At all.”

“They get ripped off or something?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“Man. Those sweet gloves. They were really primo. That sucks, kid.”

“Yeah. It really does. I don’t have a bag any more, either.” A long pause. “How much you think a pair of gloves like that costs?”

“More than you got, I bet. How much you got?”

“Nothing.” He had been living with a revoked allowance for nearly a year.

“Then I’d say they cost more than you got.”

“You got any work I could do around here?”

Jack laughed, a snort that sent a rush of air between his nearly closed lips. “Like what?”

“Like someone to clean up or something? Mop the sweat off the floor?”

“That’s Little Manny’s job. Nope. Sorry, kid. Can’t help you with the gloves.” Jack sighed. Worked his jaw as if chewing something tough between his molars. “Tell you what, though. You may
not
take them home. Ever. I don’t
ever
want to see any glove of mine walk out that door. But if you wanna practice here … you can take down a pair of them.” He pointed with a flip of his chin to the far wall, where half a dozen pairs of old gloves hung on hooks.

Nathan walked over to check them out.

He tried to find a pair that were in better condition than the others. But they were all the same. All horrible. Nathan guessed they must be twenty years old at least. Most of the brown color had been worn or scraped off the contact surfaces. Then they had been wrapped in duct tape to keep them from flying apart where the stitching had come unsewn at their seams.

He took down a pair at random, literally unable to see how any pair was better than any other.

“I know, I know.” Jack’s voice from just behind his right shoulder. “It’s like having your Ferrari stole and then having to ride a mule. But if you wanna practice …”

“I do.”

He pulled on the gloves. Held out his hands so Jack could lace them for him.

Nat stepped up to the heavy bag and gave it one good clean shot with his right. Pain exploded through his body. His jolted gut. The muscles all through his rib cage, his abdomen. The shock of the blow even made his head hurt.

He held still a minute, eyes pressed closed, forehead resting against the bag. Still holding it in both gloved fists.

He felt Jack’s hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe in a couple days. When you get to feeling better.”

“I feel fine.”

He straightened up and hit the bag again.

And again. And again. And again. And again.

Jack was watching. So he could do anything.

17 January 1975   

Nat’s miserable little city boasted only one mall. It was a good twenty-five minutes out into the suburbs. Nat had only been there once. When he was nine, and the old lady had dragged him along to go Christmas shopping. It was the year her sister died, and left her a pittance in extra cash. Since then, Christmas shopping had been less of a production.

Nat hitchhiked out there on a Friday morning. There was a sporting goods store out at the mall, or so he had heard. And Nat wanted to have a look at their boxing gloves.