Here Lies a Father. Mckenzie Cassidy
boxing ring, four feet high with three wooden steps, fit snug in the far corner. Beside the ring was a rickety card table full of musty gear: gloves, headgear, jump ropes, and pads that you put on like underwear to protect your groin. Some of the gear was decades old.
We started stretching and warming up. I saw my breath as I did jumping jacks. Bud could tell I was nervous and he smiled encouragingly. I wore a ratty San Francisco 49ers T-shirt, even though I didn’t watch football, and hoped he wouldn’t ask me if they were my favorite team because I’d have to lie. Below the waist I sported a pair of baggy, worn-out sweatpants that looked like pantaloons. My clothes had been graciously donated secondhand from my cousins in Fairfall Valley, including a pair of old soccer sneakers to cushion my feet. Mom insisted everything was as good as new and that we didn’t have the money to purchase new anyway.
Bud asked me whether I had hand wraps or a mouth guard. I shook my head.
“I didn’t think so, but we have some extra just in case,” he said, pulling a dusty cardboard box from under the ring and slamming it down on the tabletop.
He dug around inside the box for a moment and pulled out two bright-yellow hunks of cloth. He unrolled them like toilet paper and they reached the other end of the gym. He lifted my left arm, which had been resting on my side, to begin rolling the cloth across my wrist and palm. I had to spread my fingers out wide as he circled the cloth over and over so it was snug but not too tight. He systematically wrapped it around my wrist, over my thumb, and around my knuckles until a thick padding covered my hands.
“Always wear these when you train,” he said. “They protect your hands from being broken or sprained. You won’t have to worry about those injuries as much once you get the proper form down, but wear the wraps anyway to be safe. They’re important. Got it?”
I nodded blankly.
He placed two swollen gloves on my wrapped hands and led me to a dangling red heavy bag. I tried to recall whether I had consented to the class in the first place, but now it was too late. He led me around the room like a timid puppy.
“The only thing you need to worry about right now is the jab,” he said.
“The what?” I asked quietly so the two teenagers wouldn’t hear me.
Bud brought his fists to his cheeks and threw a straight left into the air. “Like this. Keep your hands up at all times and throw your left straight into the bag. Master that and we’ll go over more later.”
“Just this one punch?” I asked.
“That’s it,” he said. “One step at a time.”
Practicing one punch at a time didn’t seem difficult. When I tried baseball or football they expected you to be the best on the first day, but now I got to learn and master techniques step-by-step. I swung my arms around like a propeller to loosen my shoulders before I started throwing punches. Bud set a digital timer for three minutes and stepped into the ring with one of the teenagers, an Italian boy, to work the mitts. Bud wore pads over his hands so the boy could focus on sharpening his skills on smaller targets.
There seemed to be an unspoken rule that you didn’t get to do the mitts until you showed enough promise not to waste Bud’s time. It was only my first day and I didn’t want to waste his time. I so badly wanted to be hitting those pads. I wanted to be a part of it all. The bell rang and the Italian boy shuffled up to Bud, started bobbing, weaving, and striking the mitts like it was choreographed, but it wasn’t. Seeing Bud work with the Italian boy inspired me and I threw a couple of feeble lefts, the first of which resembled someone swatting a fly, and the next bending my wrist the wrong way on impact. I grunted in pain and looked around to make sure nobody had seen me.
The round ended and Bud stepped outside into the parking lot. The Italian boy came down too, glistening, and undid his gloves with his teeth. He stood next to me like a person who wants to start a conversation but can’t think of what to say.
“Hey,” he said after a moment, holding out his hand. He wore a black tank top showing off his large shoulders. His biceps looked like someone had shoved baseballs under his skin.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I took his hand, damp with sweat. “Where did Bud go?”
“Oh, he went out for a smoke. Funny, isn’t it? A boxing coach who rides us about healthy choices, but grabs two smoke breaks a night. Good job on the bag tonight.”
I didn’t know why he said that. Either he was being sarcastic or he didn’t want to crush my feelings on the first day. But the longer I studied his face the more I realized he was genuine. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who was afraid to declare his true feelings on any subject. If only I had been like him, instead of some clumsy, worthless liar. He was the kind of guy I would’ve despised for being so good-looking and charming. My initial assumption was that he treated everyone like garbage, but I was wrong. I would come to learn that he didn’t care what anyone thought about him and he wasn’t an ass. I’d never met anyone like him before.
CHAPTER 4
I STARED AT MARIE AS SHE SIPPED HER COFFEE. I Still hadn’t made up my mind about Carla’s story. I wanted to ask if it was all a lie, but my thoughts were conflicted. Although I was in the thick of it, I still didn’t give myself permission to rock the boat. Questioning my own world didn’t feel natural, and I was terrified of ripping the bandage off old wounds. Staying silent was much easier.
I didn’t doubt that a relationship of one sort or another had existed between Carla and Dad when they were younger, especially because of how emotional she was at his burial, yet whether it was to the extent she described was questionable. Either way, I felt it was unhealthy for her to have held on this long. The day some girl dumped me, which was bound to happen, I’d vanish from her life completely. Never would I permit it to be public knowledge that I was still pining for her, because it was nobody’s business. But maybe Carla couldn’t handle seeing Dad move on to a better woman like my mother, so she concocted a bogus story about bearing his illegitimate children to rip our lives apart? Anything was possible at that point.
The truth was, women loved Dad, which I never understood because he wasn’t particularly attractive. I assumed it was his confidence, his biting sense of humor, and the ability to appear like he had it all together even when inside it was all a mess. None of these traits had been passed down to me, unfortunately. I wasn’t confident. I wasn’t funny. And to make matters worse, I wasn’t good-looking. Girls didn’t particularly care for me. They’d describe me as a good friend, the sweet guy who could always be counted on to be there when they broke up with the guy who really drove them wild—but certainly I was not boyfriend material.
“This must be uncomfortable for the two of you,” said Marie, breaking the awkward silence that descended upon the living room. “I’m just going to say this once. I’m here, if either of you have any questions.”
“Why would we have questions about our father?” asked Catherine. “I knew him better than anyone else in …” She was wound up and itching for a fight, but each time she started to unleash the beast inside, she’d promptly remember how we were trapped at Marie’s house. She was already very uncomfortable and didn’t want it to get worse. “No, thank you,” she added, clearing her senses. “I don’t think we have any questions at this time.”
“Not all of us are so open. There was much damage done when your father left and some of us, even after all these years, are sore about it,” said Marie, pausing for a moment. “It sounds funny saying all of us, doesn’t it? I never thought it’d be this way.”
“What do you mean?” asked Catherine.
Marie began stumbling over her words. “Well, it’s just that Thomas, I mean your father, didn’t really want anything to do with us. He made no secret of that. He ran into some trouble before he left for Wellbourne, borrowed some money that he couldn’t pay back, and as for his family, we were as good as dead to him.”
Catherine sat up straight and looked