The Brave Page 7

  No pain.

  There was no pain this morning. That was the difference. He lay back and closed his eyes and listened to his body from his toes to the roots of his hair. He felt strong.

  I can do this thing. Get in shape. Won’t be long now before I’m ready for Stonebird. Ready to climb to the top of the highest mountain of Moscondaga with a hundred pounds of stones on my back, and stay there alone with the snakes and the wolves and the mountain lions, and the scariest creatures of all, the dark shapes of the future that lurk in the corners of my mind. I will think about my life, and I will come down the mountain, ready to go back to the city, to Donatelli’s Gym. To be a fighter.

  Brooks will be there.

  And Doll.

  “How you feel?” asked Jake, startling him. He hadn’t heard him come into the room.

  “Good.”

  Jake cackled. “Take care of that real quick.”

  That morning he began running with a stone in each hand. A new circuit of pain began across the tops of his shoulders. But the pain was different now, it was welcome. Bring it, I can handle it. Soon it would be gone, too, and the muscles would be stronger.

  As he felt better, the monster stirred, an echo, a shadow, a faraway whisper. He pushed it away. But it was there and it made him uneasy. Would he become strong enough to keep the monster in its place?

  They were hiking along a fire trail one afternoon, Sonny huffing under fifty pounds of stones in a pack on his back, Jake widening the trail with a rusted, chipped machete he whipped back and forth as if it were an extension of his bony arm, when the old man suddenly stopped and pointed the chipped blade toward the concrete high rises of Sparta.

  “Far’s your eye, once was Moscondaga,” said Jake. “Now look.”

  Sonny followed the machete tip down the mountain. The Reservation looked so small from here, a pathetic huddle of shabby buildings in a clearing—the elders’ Long House, the Christian church, community center, general store. Most of the houses were cabins or mobile homes scattered around the graveyard and the quarry lake. Jake’s house was a yellow box in a field of glinting metal and glass. The deep, dark woods he had loved were only a sparse cluster of balding trees.

  “All’s left,” said Jake. “Figure what happened?”

  “White man stole it.” Sonny was startled at the anger in his voice. The Indian side.

  “Some chiefs sold us out, too. White man couldn’t done it by himself. Not if we were strong together.”

  “You think the Braves would’ve made a difference?”

  Jake turned. “The Braves come out of the People.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If the People want to be strong, there’ll be Braves to help them be what they want.” He raised his right hand. “Look.”

  Very slowly, he pushed his thumb between his third and fourth fingers and curled his hand into a fist. “The Brave is of the People. Part of the People. He gets his strength from the People, he gives strength to the People. This is the sign of the Running Braves. It’s a secret.”

  “So why are you showing me…” Sonny stopped. He felt suddenly chilled under the hot afternoon sun.

  “There’s gonna be big troubles here someday,” said Jake. His eyes were bright. “White man’s gonna figure out he can use this raggedy place. For gambling maybe, or to dump garbage. Laws are different on the Res. Gonna wave big money around. Moscondagas gonna be set against each other. Chiefs ain’t strong enough to hold the Nation together. The People gonna need a Brave.”

  “Jake, don’t start—”

  But the old man was already striding back down the fire trail, whipping the machete, humming tunelessly. Sonny hitched the pack of stones high on his back and hurried after him. They were almost back at the junkyard before Sonny caught up.

  There was a gray stretch limo outside Jake’s house. As they approached, a chauffeur jumped out to open a back door for Sonny’s mother.

  13

  HE WAS SURPRISED, as usual, by the loveliness of her face, round and dark and soft, framed by the thick black braids that fell over her bare shoulders. Her blouse was embroidered with an ancient Onondaga design, but it was cut too low in front for any Indian woman to wear in a ceremony. Her brown leather pants were tight on her slim hips.

  He was embarrassed when she hugged him and kissed him on the lips. She squeezed his biceps and said, “Wow,” then pushed him out to arm’s length.

  “You look…harder.” Her brow furrowed, but then she smiled and hugged him again. “Oh, Sonny, I’ve got such wonderful news. I’ve found our special place. In Phoenix. You’ll have your own room, we can blow this dump today.”

  “Dump, Answedaywe?” There was sarcasm in the way Jake said her Moscondaga name.

  “Oh, Uncle Jake.” She threw her arms around his neck. “You know what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Jake.

  A tall white man, elegantly wrapped in a pale-gray suit that matched the limo, put a large hand on her bare shoulder. She patted it.

  “This is my…friend. Roger.”

  “How are ya?” He waved at Jake, who had sidled out of handshake range. Roger gave Sonny’s hand a brisk pump. “Sonny, you always got a place at Sweet Bear’s Kiva.”

  “Sweet Bear’s what?” asked Jake.

  “That’s what we’re calling the boutiques,” said Sonny’s mother quickly. “Roger operates luxury hotels in Chicago, Minneapolis and Phoenix. We’re going to open authentic Indian shops in the lobbies.”

  “Authentic.” Jake rolled his eyes. “Kiva is not in our language.”

  “For your foreign tourist,” said Roger, “Indian is Indian. Just so long as they get native goods. They don’t want Hong Kong wampum, if you get my drift.” He had a booming voice that reminded Sonny of TV car salesmen.

  “Come on in,” said Jake. “Hot out here.”

  Roger glanced at a heavy gold wristwatch. “Wheels up in an hour.”

  “Roger’s corporate jet,” said Sonny’s mother proudly. “We’ve got a marketing meeting in Chicago tonight.”

  “Come for some native goods?” asked Jake.

  “I’ve come for Sonny.”

  “How long this time?” The old man’s voice was steelier than Sonny had ever heard it.

  “For good,” she said.

  “Heard that before,” said Jake.

  “Sonny, go pack,” said Roger. “Take what you need for a week. Jake can ship the rest.”

  She smiled at Sonny. “You’ll love Phoenix.”

  “I want to stay here.”

  “We’ll be together. You can work in the shops.”

  “I want to stay with Jake.”

  “There’s nothing for you here.”

  Sonny took a deep breath. “I’m in training to be a fighter.”

  “Jake!” The softness was gone from her face and voice. Her bird eyes pecked at the old man. “Sonny’s got a chance to be somebody now. I’m not going to let you spoil it.”

  “Chop chop,” said Roger, tapping his watch. “Gotta go.”

  “You go,” said Sonny. His hands curled into fists.

  Roger backed toward the limo. “Work it out, Sweet.” He climbed back inside and slammed the door, disappearing behind the dark tinted window.

  “Let him stay,” said Jake. “He’s doing real good.”

  “Don’t get in my way, Jake. I’m not leaving without him. And if that means the sheriff, I’ll call him.”

  Sonny looked at Jake, who nodded. “She can do it, boy. Come on, I’ll help you pack.” He grabbed Sonny’s elbow and roughly steered him into the house. “No trouble. Get him on his way. Sweet.”

  “Make it snappy, Jake. No tricks.”

  Inside, Jake said, “Time to go to Donatelli’s Gym.”

  “What about Stonebird?”

  “Stonebird ain’t the only mountain.”

  Sonny’s mouth went dry. “Am I ready?”

  “Find out.” Jake rummaged in a drawer. “Here.” He pressed money in
to Sonny’s hand. “Keys in the truck. Stay on back roads to Syracuse, then use the Thruway. Call me from New York.”

  “I don’t know the way to Donatelli’s Gym.”

  “Hundred-twenty-fifth Street and Seventh Avenue. Harlem.” Jake raised his right hand, thumb tucked between the third and fourth fingers. “Don’t forget, you of the People.”

  “I’m not a Running Brave, Jake.”

  “Not yet.”

  14

  IT WAS NEARLY midnight before he found the Harlem street. The Korean grocery on the corner was bright with fresh fruits and vegetables and bustling with customers. The second-floor law offices were dark. A single light on the third floor glowed behind the letters on the dusty window—DONATELLI’S GYM. Sonny double-parked the tow truck.

  A Korean man shelling peas on the sidewalk shouted, “No park,” but Sonny strode past him, through the wooden door and onto the dark steps.

  He knew he should take a deep breath, wait for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, move cautiously up the narrow, twisting stairs, but all he had thought about on the long drive from the Res was getting to the top of the stairs, into the gym and on with his journey.

  He took the steps two at a time, feeling them sag under his pounding weight. Wood screeched, his boots slipped on the worn-smooth steps, he fell to one knee, could be a guard dog up there, but he couldn’t slow himself down, a guy with a bat up there, a gun, too late to stop he scraped his shoulder against the wall, light leaked through the crack under the door marked GYM, he took a breath and threw open the door and plunged into the murky room.

  “What took you so long, young gentleman?”

  Brooks was sitting on a wooden folding chair under the only light in the room, a naked bulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling. He was dressed for a workout, high-topped black boxing shoes, trunks. His tee-shirt was dark with sweat. Punching-bag mitts were on the floor beside him.

  “Jake called me.” Brooks took a long pull on a bottle of water. He pointed to a chair facing him and waited for Sonny to sit.

  “Life is funny. I came up those stairs the same way you did, alone, at night, running scared. Twenty years ago. Mr. Donatelli sat in this chair and looked right inside me and figured I’d never be much of a boxer, but if he gave me a chance to train here, I might be able to beat the streets, be a contender.”

  The softness of his voice drew Sonny forward, straining to hear. Sonny felt his heart beating.

  “You know what a contender is?” Brooks didn’t wait for an answer. “A guy coming up, willing to bust his tail and take his lumps to find out just how far he can go. Mr. Donatelli said it’s the climbing that makes the man, that getting to the top is an extra reward. You believe that?”

  Sonny shrugged.

  “You got to make a commitment to yourself before you make one to anything else. You got to decide to have pride, to act smart, to take control of your life. Control. You know what I mean?”

  Sonny nodded.

  “That thing inside you. What Jake calls the spirit. The Hawk. Mr. Donatelli believed there was a fire inside. He used to say a fire can keep you warm and cook your food, or it can burn you to death. Fire’s not good or bad, it’s just something you’ve got to control. Fear is that fire. Most people either let fear control them or spend all their energy keeping that fear bottled up. The great champions use that fear—they turn it into fury when they need it. You learn to do that, you can beat anything, anywhere.”

  Brooks stood up and pulled a dangling string. Sonny blinked at the sudden dazzling light of a dozen or more naked bulbs. Brooks leaned against the ring ropes.

  “From now on, this is your life. Run every morning, train every afternoon, go to fights, watch fight movies, read about fights. And Rocky. You got to put in your rounds with Rocky.”

  Brooks pointed across the room at a life-sized stuffed dummy hanging from the ceiling by a thick chain. The dummy’s canvas skin was divided into squares from forehead to waist, each with a number. “Mr. Donatelli invented the system, after my time, and Henry perfected it when he took over the gym. Sharpens your reflexes, gets you thinking about combinations.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Anybody can do it. Rocky doesn’t have arms to hit you back. And training’s the easy part. There are rules here. Henry has his rules and I have mine. You’re going to sleep here, and you’re gonna keep this place clean. That’s how you pay for your training. Every night, you sweep the gym and mop it and scrub the blood off the canvas, and wash the bathrooms and showers and whatever else Henry tells you. Got that?”

  Sonny nodded. He felt excited. This was for real.

  “The only time you leave this place alone is to run in the morning. Don’t want you wandering around the neighborhood. Don’t want you spotted by X-Men. And I’m only going to say this once.” Brooks’ voice dropped. “Stick and Doll are out of your life. If you go down to The Deuce, don’t come back. Got that?”

  He nodded.

  “You got talent. You could go all the way. But before you beat anybody else, you got to beat yourself. And this is sink-or-swim territory. Henry’ll tell you right off it’s no therapy group. I’ll help you all I can, but it’s like a fight—you got to do this by yourself.”

  There was a hammering knock on the door.

  Sonny froze. His mom must have called the sheriff in Sparta, who called New York. It was over before it had begun.

  The Korean man stuck his head in. “Truck block way.”

  “Be right down, Kim,” said Brooks. “Want you to meet Sonny. He’s going to take care of this place.”

  “Hard job,” said Kim.

  “Great job,” said Brooks. “Could be worth millions.”

  15

  “THIS IS NO THERAPY group,” said Henry Johnson, “no training program for minorities, no rehab-detox-support center. This is a pro-fessional boxing gymnasium. You got it?”

  Sonny nodded.

  Johnson pulled at his little beard and frowned as if he wasn’t so sure Sonny got it. “I seen this before. Kid watches a Rocky movie and comes in here looking to be champ. Hate those Rocky movies. That’s why I call him Rocky.” He tapped the life-sized dummy swinging from the ceiling. “I’m going to show you this just once.”

  He squared off in front of Rocky. Johnson was tall and thin. He walked with a slight limp. He wore a white shirt and a tie. “Your partner calls the punches. Like so. Jab…one.”

  He didn’t look like a fighter, but the punch Johnson threw at Rocky’s head was brisk and precise. It landed on the point of Rocky’s canvas chin, in the square marked 1.

  “In the beginning you just practice your punches, how you throw them, where they land. Right…eight.”

  A straight right landed on the numbered square on Rocky’s left eye.

  “After a while you’ll go for combinations. Jab…five. Right…six. Hook…seven. Right…nineteen.” He grunted as his right uppercut thumped into Rocky’s belly. “You got it?”

  “Yeah,” said Sonny.

  “Your partner’ll be Martin Witherspoon. He comes by every day after school. You can take two hours off to train. That’s your time.” Johnson surveyed the empty gym, dusty in the early-morning sunlight. “Rest of the time is mine. Hot plate in my office, cook your meals there, make sure you pull the plug when you’re done. Wash your dishes. Anything you leave in the fridge, you mark your name on it. Use the TV if you like. No visitors overnight, no smoking, no drugs. Any questions?”

  “No.”

  “Start mopping.”

  “Jab…five…five.”

  Martin Witherspoon was a big fat black kid with round glasses that made him look like an owl. His voice was low and bored. For three minutes he droned out the commands. When the bell rang to end the round, he turned away and picked his nose or pulled at the wedgie in the seat of his tight black pants. He looked as though he wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  “Right…sixteen.”

  Every other training partner in the gym
snapped out the punches like bingo numbers, urgent and sharp. Why had Johnson stuck him with Martin? Didn’t care? Just looking for a free janitor? Sonny began to imagine Martin’s face divided into numbered squares.

  “Right…two. Jab…seven.”

  Martin’s monotone hung heavy on Sonny’s arm, slowed his reflexes, dulled his brain. He was pushing at Rocky instead of hitting him. He was tired anyway. At four o’clock in the afternoon he needed a cheerleader, not a sleep talker. By four he had already put in a full day.

  An old-fashioned alarm clock jangled him awake at five o’clock on mornings he hadn’t already been jerked out of sleep by screams or gunshots or police sirens. From the cot he could watch a grotesque parade of shapes across the ceiling, shadows thrown up by passing cars and trucks.

  They reminded him of his junkyard drawings. He thought about the sketchbook in the deerskin pack. The Deuce. Doll. Would he ever see her again? Brooks said, If you go down to The Deuce, don’t come back. But someday, when I’m somebody, with some money, a pro boxer, I’ll go find her, take her off The Deuce.

  He never got too far with that scenario. If it came to him at night, he would usually fall asleep in the middle of it. There was never any time to dream in daylight. Up at dawn, fold the cot, roll it into the utility closet where the mops and pails waited for him to scrub and wipe the bathroom, to sweep and swab the gym floor, the locker room, the shower room, and Johnson’s private office.

  While the floors dried, he stretched and bent and twisted, then kicked a pencil from foot to foot until he did it without a miss for three minutes. Then out to run. It was the best part of the day.

  The fifteen blocks to Central Park was his warm-up, an easy three quarters of a mile over concrete, broken glass, crack vials, pools of wine and vomit, banana peels, chicken bones, oil smears. He hurdled the cardboard homes and the ragged lumps wheezing in sleep. When he hit the park, he shifted his body into overdrive.