“The thing is,” I said, “anybody can beat anybody in a regular fight, a fight without rules. It matters only what you’re willing to do. I got a gun and Walcott doesn’t and poof. No contest. It doesn’t make too much sense worrying about who can beat who. Too much depends on other factors.”
“I mean a fair fight,” Paul said.
“In a ring with gloves and rules, my fight with Walcott wasn’t fair. He was much better. He had to carry me a few rounds to keep the customers from feeling cheated.”
“You know what I mean,” Paul said.
“Yes, but I’m trying to point out that the concept of a fair fight is meaningless. To make the match fair between me and Walcott I should have had a baseball bat. In a regular fight you do what you have to to win. If you’re not willing to, you probably shouldn’t fight”
Paul finished his beer. I finished mine.
“Let’s start on the framing,” I said.
“You can turn on the ball game if you want,” Paul said.
CHAPTER 22
“You want the studs to be sixteen inches on center,” I said, “so that four-by-eight sheating and stuff will fall right. You’ll see when we get the walls up.”
We were building the wall frames on the ground. “When we get them built we’ll set them up on the platform and tie them together,” I said.
“How do you know they’ll fit right?” Paul said.
“I measured.”
“How can you be sure your measurement is right?”
“It usually is. You learn to trust it, why wouldn’t it be right?”
Paul shrugged; a gesture from the past. He began to drive a nail into one of the two-by-four studs. He held the hammer midway up the middle. His index finger was pointed along the handle toward the head. He took small strokes.
“Don’t choke up on the handle,” I said. “Hold it at the end. Don’t stick your finger out. Take a full swing.”
“I can’t hit the nail that way,” he said.
“You’ll learn. Just like you did with the speed bag. But you won’t learn if you do it that way.”
He took a full swing and missed the nail altogether.
“See,” he said.
“Doesn’t matter. Keep at it. In a while it’ll be easy. That way you let the hammer do the work.”
By midafternoon we had three walls studded in. I showed Paul how to cut a length of two-by-four the proper size for a sixteen-inch on-center spacing so he didn’t have to measure each time.
“What about windows?” he said as we started on the fourth wall.
“When we get the walls up, we’ll frame them in, and the doors.”
We were finishing up the fourth wall and getting ready to raise them when Patty Giacomin’s Audi bumped in from the road and parked beside the Bronco.
When Paul saw her he stopped and stared at the car. He was wearing a hammer holster on his belt and a nailing apron tied around his waist His bare upper body was sweaty and speckled with sawdust. There was sawdust in his hair too. As his mother got out of the car he put the hammer in its holster.
Patty Giacomin walked from her car toward us. She was awkward walking in slingback high-heeled shoes over the uncivilized ground.
“Paul,” she said. “It’s time to come home.”
Paul looked at me. There was no expression on his face.
“Hello,” she said to me. “I’ve come to take Paul home.” To Paul she said, “Boy, don’t you look grown-up with your hammer and everything.”
I said, “Things straightened out between you and your husband, are they?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, we’ve worked out a good compromise, I think.”
Paul took his hammer out of the holster, turned, knelt beside the wall we were studding, and began to drive a nail into the next stud.
“Paul,” his mother said, “get your things. I want to get back. Spenser, if you’ll bill me, I’ll send you a check.”
I said, “What kind of arrangement have you worked out?”
“With Mel? Oh, I’ve agreed to let Paul stay with him for a while.”
I raised my eyebrows. She smiled. “I know, it seems like such an about-face, doesn’t it?” she said. “But a boy needs a father. If it were a daughter, well, that’s different.”
Paul hammered at the studs, holding four or five nails in his teeth, apparently concentrating entirely on the job.
