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

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

Trevor’s dead dad writes back.

Dear Trevor,

Kiss the girl and fight the boy. Is this good advice? I don’t know. But I do know that I miss the pain of a bloody nose almost as much as I miss the wet and tender press of a pretty girl’s lips on mine. And there’s nothing else I miss more than that.

In case this letter disappears and all you ever hear from me are those lines, I want you to hear them. I filled a house with children and loved your mother more than I loved anyone, but I still feel I squandered most of my life. Don’t do it. Go back to school. Kiss the girl and fight the boy.

Dad

P.S. There is a post office here. I’ve never gone there before today, when I just happened to wander in. I discovered all your letters there, in a post office box with my name on it. There is even a postman.

I hope you keep writing. There isn’t much to do here, and I’ve enjoyed every word on every letter. As soon as I send this off, I plan on reading them all again.

Will Mudgett told me he was going to fight me.

Dear Dad,

Today at school, Will Mudgett told me he was going to fight me if I asked Misty Lee to be my girlfriend. I have no idea why he would say such a stupid thing to me. What do I care about Misty Lee? She’s not that cute. She doesn’t have buck teeth like Mrs. Edsel the music teacher, but her front teeth still stick out. And her hair is frizzy.

I don’t understand why someone like Mrs. Edsel doesn’t get her teeth fixed. She’s kind of pretty, except she looks like she cuts her own hair, and not very well. And she’s icy. Do you know what I mean by icy? She looks like she’d be cold to touch, although I can’t imagine touching her. OK, so maybe I can imagine touching her, but I still bet she’d be cold. She has dark hair and pale skin and doesn’t smile, even if she thinks something is funny. She smirks. I’ve never heard her laugh. She’s married, but it’s hard to imagine her ever being snuggly with her husband. Maybe they just have serious discussions and never really snuggle with each other.

Tomorrow is our first soccer game. I’ve never played in an actual game on a real team before. Mr. Schick has me playing right fullback. Mom said she won’t be able to come to the game, because it’s right after school, so she’s still at work. Keith is home from college. He said he’d come and then give me a ride home.

You know what I’d really like to do with Will Mudgett? I’d like to take him up to the top of the old marina and dare him to jump. I bet he’d be so scared he’d piss himself. I bet he’d wet his pants, just like Lee Reel. I’d pay money to see that.

That’s all I got today.

Your son,

Trevor