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