a ringing sensation that deafened him.
Brad followed with a right that Arty was too stunned to notice. The balled fist felt like his father’s as it split his lip, only his dad never hit him any place that would show. This would show big time.
“ Arty,” Carolina screamed as the heavy boy faltered and stumbled backwards, but he stayed up and stood his ground the best he could.
“ Give up,” Brad said.
Dazed, Arty put his hand to his mouth and felt the sticky blood. He ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip and tasted it. He clenched his fists, glared at Brad, and said, “No.”
Brad hit him again, harder than before, landing the punch square on his right eye. This time Arty fell, landing on his back. The fight was over.
“ You meanie,” Carolina said, but Brad ignored her.
“ You gotta show a little respect,” Brad said.
“ Great fight, Brad,” Steve Kerr said, patting his hero on the back, but Ray Harpine was silent, offering no congratulations, and he looked at Arty differently than he did before.
“ See ya tomorrow.” Brad turned and walked away with Steve and Ray following.
Carolina fell to her knees and put her left hand under Arty’s head, propping him up. She wiped some blood off his lip, then wiped it on the grass.
“ Are you okay, Arty?”
“ I’m bleeding.” He held the tip of his tongue against the cut on the inside of his lip to stop the flow of blood.
“ I wish I could do something.”
“ I think I got a big mouth.” His lip was already starting to swell.
Carolina used the bottom of her dress to wipe the blood off his chin and asked, “Can I see the cut?”
“ No. It hurts.”
“ I just wanna see for a second.” She gently pulled his lip back with her soft little girl fingers that felt oh-so- good on Arty’s bruised lip.
“ Wanna get up,” he said.
“ No, you can’t get up now. You have to rest a second, in case something’s broken. I saw it on a doctor program on TV,” she said, and Arty thought she watched a lot of television.
She moved around and put his head in her lap. She seemed fascinated with his damaged face, softly tracing his swollen lip with a gentle finger, then moving it to his right eye and tracing the puffiness there. “I’m gonna be a doctor when I grow up. I just decided. That way when we’re bigger and you get beat up, I’ll know just what to do.”
“ Help me up,” he begged. It was bad enough that she was seeing him like this, but he didn’t want any other kids to come along and find him flat on his back with his head in her lap. He would never be able to live it down.
“ Okay.” She scooted out from under him and stood up. Then she offered him her hand and helped pull him up from the sidewalk.
“ Jeez, Arty, you’re heavy. Did you ever think about going on a diet?” If anybody else had said it he would have been ashamed. But the way she said it, she wasn’t putting him down or making fun of him. She was just stating a fact. He was fat and he should do something about it. Still, for a second, he felt like he wanted to be somewhere else, like alone in his room.
Then she added, “But you’re awfully brave.” He might be the fattest kid in school, but he’d stood up to the toughest. He might have gotten his ass kicked, but he’d stood up and she thought he was brave. He felt like he’d just walked on the moon.
“ I’ll be coming by tonight,” he said.
“ I don’t know if my mom’s going to be home, so I’ll put a milk crate outside my bedroom window. That way it’ll be easier for you to get in.”
Thirty minutes later his dad was waiting for him on the front porch, a beer in his hand. He was wearing the kind of look a rat has when it’s torn into the food bin and it knows you can’t catch it, because it’s too fast and the other side of the kitchen is too far away.
“ Where ya been? Your mom’s got chores for you to do.” Translated that meant his mother had to work late and there was no one to clean up after him or to make his dinner.
“ Mom working late?” Arty said, without thinking.
“ Don’t back talk me.” Bill Gibson lashed out, catching Arty on the right cheek with the back of his hand. He’d never hit him in the face before. The busted lip and black eye must have given him the idea.
“ Got in a fight on the way home from school.” Arty backed away from his father.
“ I can see that. Someone whipped you good.”
“ I got my licks in.”
“ Sure ya did, kid, and the Pope’s stopping by for dinner.”
Arty wanted to say something smart, but for once he kept his flapping lips under control. His face was beat up bad enough. He didn’t need to give his father any encouragement. But he didn’t want to sound like he was just a punching bag, so he said, “I got him a good one, right in the mouth.”
“ Who won?”
“ He did, but I least I went down fighting.”
“ Good for you, kid. Now why don’t you straighten up the living room, do the lunch dishes and then see what you can make us for dinner.”
He looked in the mirror and winced. His lip looked like a fat worm sitting sideways on his chin. He reached up to touch it and shivered. It felt like he was being stabbed with a needle. He moved his hand to his forehead, pushing his bangs out of his eyes and looked at the shiner. He’d never had a black eye before. It was like a badge of courage.
He tapped the new bruise on his right cheek and vowed that someday he’d get even with his father. It wasn’t fair. He comes home with a battle scarred face, ’cuz a bigger boy had used it for a punching bag, then his father lights into him.
He reached into his back pocket, brought his comb out and ran it through his wet hair. He’d just come out of the shower, but he wasn’t in his pajamas and he wasn’t going to bed. He turned away from the mirror and went out the window like he’d done the night before. It was eight-fifteen and his parents were at their separate ends of the house, his mother in the kitchen, his father in the living room playing cards with a friend. Arty thought that was strange, because he didn’t think his father had any friends.
He felt a glow of excitement run through his body. Once again he was sneaking off into the dark. Only tonight he felt good, unafraid, steady and brave. He walked with a saunter and a slight spring in his step, but he knew sneaking out two nights in a row was tempting fate. It was dangerous, but he was looking forward to seeing Carolina. So much so, that he didn’t bother to look behind. He didn’t see the two men hanging back in the fog, following him.
He was halfway down her street when he was struck by the silence. He stopped walking and listened. He was used to the noises of the night. The silence was out of place, and so was he. Instinctively he knew the middle of the sidewalk was a bad place to be, so he moved to the curb and hunched down between two parked cars, straining his ears, searching for familiar sounds, a cricket, the cry of a cat, the bark of a dog. Something. Anything. Nothing.
He poked his head out from his sanctuary and looked down the block, toward Carolina’s and he saw it, a large dog. He’d never been afraid of dogs. In fact, he’d kind of had a way with them ever since he could remember, especially big ones, like Condor, the Bingham’s super big Doberman Pincer. But something told him to keep still and not alert this one.
The dog was walking slowly up the sidewalk, like it owned it, coming toward him, but it stopped at Carolina’s and moved into the bushes between her house and the house next door. He thought of the red eyes looking in the window and knew it wasn’t a peeping Tom. Somehow that big dog had gotten up on its hind legs and was peering
