All blood and dirt and broken skin.

Dear Dad,

Mudgett gave me a serious bloody nose. Then Mudgett got the crap beat out of him, but not by me.

Earlier, in social studies, I said, “You still feel the need to fight me?”

“I ain’t no wussy boy like you,” Mudgett said.

I didn’t see him again until after school. At three o’clock, the last bell rang. Science class ended and I walked toward the back of the gym. Donnie Joad asked me where I was going. “No place,” I said. He asked if Mudgett was going there, too. I didn’t answer and two seconds later, Donnie went running away from me to spread the news. He can’t help himself, I guess.

By the time I got to the back of the gym, Mudgett was already there. He’d put his taekwando jacket on, but still wore jeans. He looked pretty cool, for a dork. I wondered if Mom would pay for me to take taekwando lessons.

“You ready to get your butt whipped, wussy boy?”

“If you’d just stop calling me that, we wouldn’t have to fight,” I said.

“Oh, we’re gonna fight. I’m gonna show all the ladies just what a wussy boy you are.” He pronounced it, “lay-dees.” He got into his taekwando pose. He looked like he was ready to break a board.

I got into my boxing pose. The problem with boxing lessons through the mail is that it’s like following instructions. I mean, I still have to think about all the stuff you said. I made sure my left foot was forward. I bent my knees. I thought about my back being straight. I looked down to make sure I was on my toes. I looked up and pow! Mudgett whopped me right in the nose. Blood started spurting everywhere. In about five seconds it made a red path down the front of my shirt. I think it freaked out Mudgett more than me.

A bunch of people started coming around the corner of the gym. Donnie, Brian Haase, Misty Lee and some other girls, that jerk David Gilman and his stupid friend, Jordan Sackett. Once a crowd formed, Mudgett got all agitated and started jumping around. “Hey, wussy boy!” he yelled at me. “You’re a bleeder!”

I got into my stance again. Left foot and shoulder forward, on my toes, knees bent, hands up, elbows in, fists relaxed. The blood running down the back of my throat didn’t bother me much. You were right. I didn’t die or anything. I started sliding toward Mudgett. He came at me again with his fist, but I was ready this time. I blocked it and jabbed him in the chin. He stepped back, almost into the crowd. Then he tried this big roundhouse kick and completely missed me. He spun around and totally nailed David Gilman right in the nuts.

Gilman let out a big groan and bent over. The whole crowd let out this huge gasp, then started laughing. In only a couple seconds, Gilman stood back up and all the laughter stopped. It was the first time I’d ever seen him without that stupid grin on his face. He marched up to Mudgett. He must have been eight inches taller and a good hundred pounds heavier. Mudgett backed away until he ran into the gym wall. Gilman said something to him I couldn’t quite hear. His voice didn’t sound quite right. Mudgett started muttering and shaking his head back and forth. Gilman grabbed him and bounced him off the gym wall hard. I could hear the back of Mudgett’s head crack against the concrete blocks. As Mudgett bounced forward, Gilman drove his fist into Mudgett’s face and bounced him off the wall again. Gilman hit him again and Mudgett crumpled to the ground. Gilman fell on him then and started pounding on him. In the face, on the body, wherever. Gilman was beating the snot out of him.

That’s about when I realized that I was screaming at Gilman to stop. I grabbed him around the throat until he gagged. Gilman tumbled over and rolled to his feet, coming at me in a crouch, like a wrestler. I fell into my stance, without thinking about it that time.

I could tell the crowd was yelling stuff at us, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. My ears were full of a buzzing, pounding sound.

I jabbed with my left. Gilman slapped it away with a big paw and circled around me. I turned to face him and jabbed with my left again. I grazed his chin. I popped back into position. He swung his big fist around toward my head. I blocked his fist with my hand, but I didn’t stop it. The blow to my head was hard enough to knock me to the ground.

As I was standing back up, he hit me again and knocked me down again. I stood up and backed away, getting back into my stance. Left forward. On my toes. I went in with a jab. Then another quick one. Each time I jabbed, his head would swing away from my left hand.

I jabbed him again. Hard. Then followed even harder with my right cross. One-two. Pow. I hit his chin with my center knuckle so hard it felt like I broke my finger. Gilman’s chin snapped up. I could hear his teeth click together. He looked at the sky, then fell straight over backwards.

I was a mess. Mudgett was a worse mess, all blood and dirt and broken skin. I grabbed Donnie and Brian and we helped Mudgett to his feet and ran around the far side of the gym.

“Can you walk?” I asked him.

“Barely.” He was hard to understand. I bet his mouth was full of blood. Maybe even a busted tooth.

“We better get out of here.” I watched him stumble to his mom’s car, wondering how he was going to explain his face to her. I ran out to the parking lot, where Rhett and Rhonda were waiting for me in Rhett’s crappy car.

“What happened to you?” asked Rhonda.

“Fight.” I said.

“With who?”

“Mudgett. Then Gilman.”

“Holy crap. How’d you do?”

“I think I lost to Mudgett. But I think maybe I beat Gilman.”

“Geez.”

When we got home, Rhonda helped me clean up before mom got off of work. Mom will probably hear about it from some teacher and then I’ll hear about it. But right now, as I write this letter, I feel OK. And that was the last day of school before Christmas break!

Your son,

Trevor

I used Sung-Hee’s awful coffee as paint.

Dear Trevor,

My stomach is doing flip-flops. I don’t think it’s accurate to say I’m afraid of Mudgett. I’m just nervous for you. It’s the most I’ve felt about anything since I’ve been up here.

I walked down to The Laughing Gull to get an order of Sung-Hee’s fish and chips. I had to do something while I was waiting, to settle my nerves. So I made a paintbrush out of a scrunched-up napkin and used Sung-Hee’s awful coffee as paint. On the back of your own envelope, you now are the proud owner of The Laughing Gull, an original architectural painting by yours truly. Not as good as your work, but I have the excuse of limited art supplies.

I paid and left before Sung-Hee arrived with my order. I wasn’t hungry anyway and once I finished my, ahem, painting, I couldn’t stand to sit around and wait. I walked out to the end of the fishing pier and stared out into the fog. Then I walked over to the train station and stared down the tracks. Nothing.

It gets very quiet around here just before the newcomers arrive. It’s quiet now.

I went over to Carl’s cabin and told him about your upcoming showdown. I don’t usually share my news of you with anyone. I think I caught him off guard. He looked at me with squinty eyes, as if I was trying to trick him.

“This other kid any good?” he asked.

“No idea. Takes taekwando lessons.”

“Then you should have told your boy to avoid clinches,” he said.

“Too late,” I said.

I thought talking to Carl would settle my nerves, but he became more nervous than me. That made me nervous. He kept drilling me on my instructions to you. “Is his stance as flat-footed as yours? You tell him to keep his chin tucked in? How’s his left hook?”

“I didn’t tell him about a left hook.”

“What? A left hook should follow a right cross! Whyn’t you tell him about a left hook?”

“I thought it would be too complicated.”

Carl pursed his lips and nodded quickly. “Maybe you’re right. Yes. Best to keep it simple. Jab and a right cross. That could do it, if he’s lucky. Is he lucky?”

“Well, his dad’s dead. But he lives in a house on the beach.”

“Seems like a fair trade to me.” Carl barked out an abrupt laugh, then grew instantly quiet.

Now all I do is wait. By the time you get this one, it will all be over.

Dad

How about tomorrow? Behind the gym right after school.

Dear Dad,

I saw Mudgett today. Huh. It’s weird to even write it, because I feel so different about it now. I saw Mudgett today. Big deal. I even said hi to him. He gave me one of those dark-eyed stares of his. It made me frown, because I still don’t really get his beef with me.

“Wussy boy.” It was all he could think of to say.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Or what?”

“Why do you have to answer that way? Why can’t you just stop acting like a jerk?”

“Why can’t you stop being such a wussy boy. I’ll kick your butt all over this school.”

“No. You won’t.”

“Yeah. You’re such a wussy boy, you’ll probably keep running away from me.”

“I’m not running. Stop calling me that.”

“You ready to fight me then?”

“If that’s what it’s gonna take, then yes. How about tomorrow? Behind the gym right after school.”

I caught him off guard with that one. It’s hard for me to tell if it freaked him out or not, because Mudgett is really good at keeping that stare going. He said, “I’m taking taekwando, you know.”

“I know. So how about tomorrow?”

“You’re gonna get your ass kicked, wussy boy.”

“Whatever. As long as I get it over with.”

“What makes you think it’s gonna end?”

It wasn’t exactly a joy-filled conversation. I wasn’t afraid of him, but I don’t really want to fight him. I sure don’t want to lose, which is why I hit the heavy bag as soon as I got home, working on my combinations.

But I think the bargain thing might have worked. I didn’t really feel afraid of him. Stay tuned.

Your son,

Trevor

The only blood to be found in this place seems to be on the boat.

Dear Trevor,

Don’t worry about David Gilman and his “wussy boy” comment. He’s one of those guys who says whatever sounds cool that day. Tomorrow he’ll be making fun of his best friend if he hears someone doing that.

David Gilman is the stupidest kind of bully. He is not worth considering. Your Mrs. Henry, however, is a different matter. She is certainly worth a study.

I think I understand what she is saying with her theories. If God is more than bunk, than time and space and life and death have to be meaningless to him. Otherwise, what would the point be of praying for your brother to have a safe trip.  You’re praying that God will somehow go with him into the future, in another location, and impact the surface of the road he drives on and keep other cars from running into him. Would it be possible, Mrs. Henry is postulating, to pray for something that also happened in the past? Would it be possible to make an oath with someone, with God as your witness, who was on the other side of the world or even, dare I say it, dead? I have an idea or two on how we might test her theory, but it would be great to hear more from Mrs. Henry.

Boxing has become a bit of a hobby with Carl and me. We wrapped our fists in a couple of Sung-Hee’s dish cloths and punched a sack of beach sand and rags. It doesn’t have the heft of your heavy bag, but then again, either do my punches. I can’t seem to hit the bag hard enough to tire out my hands. Carl derides me for my weak arms, but his don’t seem to hit any harder.

We tried a little sparring as well. Carl slipped a hard jab through and hit me right in the nose. I expected blood to come out and kept touching my nostrils with my rag-wrapped hands, but no blood.

The only blood to be found in this place seems to be on the boat and its bloody woman captain. As far as I can recall, the boat hasn’t been here in a while, which means we should be seeing it any day. I long for and dread its appearance, as well as the appearance of newcomers. Believe me, any diversion is precious, but each newcomer who arrives and then leaves is another painful reminder that I am still here.

Dad

A cross, my son, is the most powerful punch in boxing.

Dear Trevor,

Time to work off all that Thanksgiving food. Get back to that heavy bag and keep boxing. We talked about your stance and how to jab. Now, to keep it simple, let’s just focus on one other good move that you could perfect. The one-two punch.

All you need here is to throw a right cross after a jab. And a cross, my son, is the most powerful punch in boxing. It follows a left jab as naturally as boys follow a dogfight. A right cross is just a straight punch, full force. So you’re in your stance: Knees bent, back straight, left foot forward, elbows in to shield your body, fists relaxed and up to shield your chin. You’re working that left jab, feeling out your opponent, getting your distance down.

Jabbing with your left keeps your left shoulder forward where it should be. While you’re jabbing, look for an opening. When you see one, jab hard. Pop! Your left hip is forward now, too. Then, as you bring your left hip and your left fist back, you use that momentum to slam out that straight right, in hard at Mudgett’s chin. All that movement—your left side coming back and your right arm going out, will make that right cross hit like a jackhammer. Bam! Hit that chin with all you got, then pull that right back up to your chin, back to your protective stance and ready to do it again. The one-two punch. Pop! Bam! Back in position.

Get that down, Trev, and you can lick Mudgett. Work out on that heavy bag. Keep that stance. Stay on your toes.

Dad

I always had a pretty humble goal: just land one good punch.

Dear Trevor,

Oh, my son, I am sorry. Mostly.

I am jealous, too. What I wouldn’t give for a chance to spar with someone. To feel battered and out of breath. You shouldn’t wear your black eye with any kind of shame at all. Wear it with pride. Patton—he was a general in World War Two and kind of a jerk—was shot through the buttocks during World War One and was famous for dropping his pants to show his scar. If Patton took pride in a butt scar, you can certainly take pride in a black eye.

Let Mudgett know how you got it. Tell him you were boxing with your brother who is five years older than you. Tell him your brother retaliated after you rang his bell. Give Mudgett something to think about.

Stick with it. Here’s lesson number two—the jab:

Remember, you’re jabbing with your forward hand—your left hand. So you got your hands up about chin high, palms facing each other, formed into fists, but relaxed. You’re on your toes, with your right foot back.

In one motion, you’re going to push off from your right foot, step forward with your left, then do a quick punch with your left hand. As your hand goes forward, you’re going to twist your hand so that the punch lands palm-down. As soon as you land that punch, push back off your left foot and get out of reach. Land on your right foot and get ready to do it again.

Once more: Push off from the right foot. Step forward lightly with the left. Quickly punch your right hand straight forward, landing the punch palm-down. Push back with your left foot and get back into position. You’re popping forward and back. Pow. Pow. Pow.

Do that for a while on the heavy bag. Don’t even worry about your right hand yet.

When my neighbor Carl sees me shadow boxing on my porch, he comes over to give advice and to watch. “You’re flat-footed again, you old Welsh bag of bones,” he yells. “Put your chin down. Don’t give ‘em so much of a target.” “Keep your elbows in.” He and I were lucky enough to grow up in an era where a little friendly boxing was a pretty stress-free rite of passage. It wasn’t that big of a deal if you won or lost. It was more about if you could take a licking. At least, that’s how I remember it.

Think about this, Trevor. You got socked right in the eye by a kid five years older than Will Mudgett. Sure, you got a black eye. But you survived just fine. Bags of peas, embarrassment—you can handle those. Throw in a fat lip, a bloody nose and maybe even a chipped tooth. You can handle those as well.

When I was a kid and got into a fight, I always had a pretty humble goal: just land one good punch.

Dad

Thanks for the boxing idea. Now I have a black eye to wear to school tomorrow.

Dear Dad,

Thanks for the boxing idea. Now I have a black eye to wear to school tomorrow.

I did find one and one-half old pairs of boxing gloves. The half-pair is only a left glove. Rhett showed me where they were, down in the basement, stuck up in the rafters by an ancient coconut that was shipped from Hawaii. Jeez, Dad, these must be the oldest boxing gloves in Washington State. The liners are all torn up inside, so it feels like I’m sticking my hands into bags of stuffing. It takes about five minutes to get my thumbs in the thumbholes. Rhett found the heavy bag, too. It looks homemade—like a big army duffel bag stuffed full of clothes and sand or something.

We used some rope and hung it up back by the washing machine and took turns pummeling it. I was trying to get in the stance you described to me, but Rhett kept getting impatient, waiting for his turn and yelling at me to hurry up, so I’m not sure I did it right.

Then Rhett said he’d box me one handed. I put on the full pair of gloves and he put on the extra left and kept his other hand behind his back. I was poking at him with my left, jabbing like you said. And it worked, kind of. I was jabbing at his stomach and he kept bringing his one hand down to block it. So one time when he brought his hand down, I brought my right around and hit him pretty hard in the side of the head.

He was surprised all right. He stared at me and his eyes watered a bit, then pow, his ungloved right hand came out of nowhere and caught me right in the eye. I fell down and Rhett said it served me right and how did it feel and great, now he was going to get in trouble from Mom for giving me a black eye.

Boy, did he ever give me one, too. It swelled almost all the way shut by the time Mom came home. Rhett said I should put a raw steak on it, but there was no way I was going to listen to him after what he did to me so I watched TV with my one good eye while my other one was covered in a bag of frozen peas.

When Mom came home, she asked where we got the idea to box. I lied and said I didn’t know, so you owe me one for covering for you.

I really don’t want to go to school with a black eye.

Your son,

Trevor

How about if I teach you how to fight?

Dear Trevor,

Mrs. Henry sounds like my kind of folks. There were so many days that I sat in the realty office, wishing I was teaching high school or college English instead of showing houses or filling out forms. I don’t know if you like books as much as I did. I really do think I would give an arm for a little bookshelf full of some of the authors you mentioned in your last letter. I was always a sucker for Mark Twain, that closet socialist.

But it sounds like our current assignment demands someone with a bit more theological bent. I’m hoping you keep the conversation going with Mrs. Henry and try to figure something out. We could experiment from both sides of the pale.

I had another idea for you to try as well. Something a bit more practical, or at least more physical.  How about if I teach you how to fight? Specifically, to box. I know this could be a bit tricky to do by mail, but just think of it as a correspondence course.

When I was still down there, we had a heavy bag and a couple pairs of boxing gloves down in the basement. Any idea if those are still there? If so, we’re ready to get started. If not, we’ll have to improvise.

Boxing was a big deal when I was a kid and it was one of those sports I really connected with. Probably because or your Uncle Gwyd. He and I used to get together to watch every big fight.

I figure you don’t have time to learn all the subtleties, so here are some basics:

First comes the stance. Boxing is more about speed than power. Your job is to get in, land a blow, and get back out of harm’s way. That means you have to stay on your toes, literally. Never box flat-footed. Always keep your knees bent a bit and keep your back fairly straight. Lean forward just a wee bit.

And don’t face him head-on. If you’re right-handed, put your left shoulder forward. Position yourself sideways toward the target, so that you lead with the shoulder opposite that of your strong punching hand. If you’re a right-handed boxer, point your left shoulder toward the target so you’re diagonal to him. Your left foot should be forward, too.

I asked Carl, my neighbor, to help me out with this, to help me remember if I’m telling you correctly. We got into such an argument about which hand should be forward that we almost came to blows. Carl finally agreed with me. I was actually a bit disappointed. I would have liked to take a swing at him.

Anyway, get your fists up about as high as your chin with your palms turned inward toward each other. Your fists and your arms are not just your clubs. They’re your shield, too. Keep your hands formed into fists, but don’t clench until you punch. Every time you jab, you should be clenching your fist right when it strikes your opponent. Every time you throw a cross or a hook or an uppercut, same thing. Relaxed fist then Pow! Clenched fist.

I could go on and on about this. And I will if you want me to. But that’s plenty for today. Get the gloves. Get into your stance (left foot and shoulder forward, on your toes, knees bent, hands up, elbows in, fists relaxed). Then just start shadow boxing away.

Let me know how it goes.

Dad