Page 22 of The Beginning and End of Everything
10
Brandon
January 2002
It was almost five, and Uncle Darren said he’d be here by a quarter to four. He was always late.
Sighing, I picked a wide blade of grass and held it to my lips, blowing it until it sounded like a mini trumpet, then leaned against the side of Uncle Darren’s caravan. From here, I could see the whole camp and Old Man passed out in his lawn chair. A rare glimpse of sunshine peeked through the trees, bathing the leaf-strewn grass in golden light. When I was seven, I asked Uncle Darren why his caravan was out in the middle of the field, well away from the others. He said it was so he didn’t wake everyone up when he brought his lady friends back.
Old Man’s goat came bleating around the side of the caravan, followed by Uncle Darren’s heavy footfalls. Excitement darted through me like an electrical current. I had been waiting for this for what seemed like an eternity. Ever since Dad took me to my first fight, I had been counting down the days, waiting for my first lesson with Uncle Darren.
He finally stumbled around the corner of the caravan, then slumped sideways against it with a thud. His jeans weren’t even done up properly, and his bright, ginger hair stuck up in every direction. The stout smell of Guinness permeated the air when he exhaled a hard breath.
“First thing you need to know…” He placed his feet a shoulders width apart and twisted his body. His stained, white vest strained over the bulging muscles of his chest. Unlike my dad, Uncle Darren still fought. “You need to stand like this.” He raised his fists in front of his face, swaying on the spot. When he flexed his biceps, the tattoos that covered his skin stretched and bulged.
I mimicked his stance, and a crooked smile worked over his lips.
“Good. Now punch me.” He tapped his jaw. “Right here.”
“But—”
“Hit me, you little pussy!”
I swung. My fist smacked against his face. Though a painful crack radiated through my knuckles, Uncle Darren didn’t even flinch.
A deep belly laugh rumbled from his chest. His hands clapped together like a performing seal as he threw his head back. “Again. This time, don’t hit like a girl.” He stared right at me, one ginger eyebrow arching high over mischievous eyes.
I must have hit him a hundred times while he drank three more tins of Guinness. By the time I threw my last punch, the sun had all but sank below the horizon. Uncle Darren’s cheeks and jaw were bright red—not that he seemed to care—and my hand was swollen and throbbing.
I held up my fist, barely able to open my fingers. “I think I broke my hand.”
“Good. It’ll heal stronger.”
“But, I can’t straighten my fingers.”
“What do you need to be doing that for?” He burped. “You need fists, lad.” He tipped up the last of his can.
I glanced at the marks on his face. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
Through a snort, he choked on his mouthful of Guinness, then finally wheezed out a breath. “I once fought Billy Big Bollocks. Got my nose, my eye socket, and my jaw broken. And then we went out in Dublin, partied until the wee hours. The trick is…” He tapped his temple, and I waited with bated breath, expecting some revolutionary tactic worthy of the Dalai Lama to be revealed. “To get shit faced. Then you can’t feel a damn thing.”
I wanted to learn how to fight, but at the same time, something uncomfortable sat in my gut at the thought of being like Uncle Darren. Like my Dad.
“Right, off with ya. I have a pool game to get to.” Uncle Darren turned and strolled back toward the gate, hefting himself up and teetering dangerously at the top, finally descending the gate on the other side before he staggered out of sight. I’d probably find him passed out outside his caravan the next day. He never seemed to quite make it inside.
I walked back across the field, toward the other caravans. The closer I got to home, the more acid burned up the back of my throat. It was Saturday, and the sun was down, which meant Dad would be drunk.
My hand trembled as I reached for the door. I stepped inside to Dad holding Ma against the wall, his hand around her throat. My flight or fight response kicked in, the problem was I wanted to both runandfight. Anger washed over me, tightening my chest. Red tinted my vision, and before I knew what I was doing, I balled my fist the same way Uncle Darren had taught me. I threw one, solid punch at Dad’s kidney, and his hand unwound from Ma’s neck. For one amazing moment, I felt triumphant. I didn’t feel powerless—then came the blow.
His knuckles collided with my face with a harsh smack. I went from standing to sprawled out, flat on my back with no in-between.
“Des!”
My vision cleared enough to see Ma standing between Dad and her back in my direction.
“Leave him alone!” There was a strength in her voice I’d never heard.
Dad peeked around Ma, pointing a finger. “Try to hit me, you little shit. You get the feck out of my house.”
