The Manager (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

T
ina didn't mention Boston again and neither did I. I kept to myself for a couple of days, spending the long hours reading and looking out the window to see if Bonita Lester was around. Tina did what she always does: she boiled mouthpieces to fit the amateurs (pros like Ryan Byrne had theirs custom made by a dentist), brewed up her secret special salve (supposed to be a miracle styptic that stops bleeding instantly) and stood on top of a crate with two huge red training mitts on her hands, hollering at the young trainees to hit the bull's eye or she'd hit them.

I didn't care if she wanted to wear those big stupid gloves (even if, with her diminutive stature, she resembled a lobster) and I didn't care if she cooked mouthpieces (although I wished she wouldn't use our spaghetti pot to do so). But whenever it came time to whip up a batch of her miracle styptic, I prepared myself not only for the huge cleanup of the kitchen that would follow, but also for her cloak-and-dagger antics. Upon returning from the drug store with a brown paper bag full of unmarked tinctures, she would proceed to push two or three chairs against the kitchen door and draw the curtains before beginning her work.

I often listened from the hall and could hear her dragging the stepladder from one side of the room to the other so she could reach the cupboards, occasionally swearing when she burned herself on the stove and counting out one quarter teaspoon of this and two droppers full of that. What this and that were, I never did find out, although it wasn't from lack of trying. Once I even resorted to putting on sunglasses and a big hat and hiding in the pharmacy, in an attempt to hear what mysterious ingredients she was procuring from the druggist. (I was promptly taken aside by a clerk with crusty eyes who, in a low throbbing voice, filled me in on the various kinds of contraceptives they had in stock and how they should be used.)

To this day, Tina refuses to give up her recipe, and just like any 15th-century alchemist worth his salt, she's committed the constituents, the amounts and the cooking time to memory so that it won't be until she's been read the last rites that she will reveal what's in this magic styptic. Which explains why, when she had finally perfected her formula – when this mixture of herbal tinctures was able to stop the blood gushing from even the most stubborn laceration – she expected my father to jump for joy. A boxer with blood running into his eyes isn't going to last long in the ring, for three reasons: he won't be able to see a thing, the ringside physician will likely make him stop fighting (and his opponent will win by a technical knockout) and, since boxers aren't too far off vampires when it comes to their thirst for blood, the other guy is going to do everything he can to reopen the wound. This is why the cut man, who cleans up the bloody mess between rounds, is so crucial to the sport. And this is why Tina was so excited to unveil her elixir and test it out in the gym.

She crashed through the kitchen door with a jar of goo in one hand and the bag of vials in the other, told me the kitchen was a bit messy – the “bit messy” entailed a half dozen dirty pots and pans, three funnels stuck with wax, two sieves stained green and enough dirty tea towels to fill the washing machine – then ran downstairs, holding out her forearm where (again, like any good alchemist) she'd tried it out a few times by pricking herself with a pin.

I followed Tina to the gym to see if the stuff worked. Wasting no time, she pulled our father aside and insisted he try it on Byrne the next time he got cut, which was every hour or so, usually from a lace on his sparring partner's glove.

“Not now, Tina.” Our father turned his back on her. “I'm busy.”

“He's a bleeder, Sandy, and that's what's going to bring him down, I'm telling you.” She looked at Flyin' Ryan. “Well, you almost lost that fight at Glace Bay because the cut man couldn't get your eyebrow to stop. Right? And the next time you're in a title match, I guarantee your opponent will head straight for it, and if the bleeding doesn't take you out, the ringside physician will.”

“No thank you,” said Byrne superciliously. “My manager looks after everything.”

“Tina,” snapped my father, “I don't have time to deal with this. Can't you find something else to do?”

“Maybe the salve will work,” I said to Byrne, but he just shrugged his shoulders and continued punching the numbered bag, which, to my mind, had more brains than he did.

Tina watched him for a minute. Then she held up her hand.

“Ryan, let me ask you something,” she said, and he dropped his arms. “You're fighting for the Eastern Canadian light-heavyweight championship soon, right?”

He nodded.

“Then you plan on taking a national title and after that, a North American one?”

“You know that,” said Byrne, tapping his gloves together, like he'd already won.

“My God, girl,” said my father. “We haven't got all day.”

“You're a good fighter, and you don't throw junk,” declared Tina. “But being technically correct is one thing and winning is another. If I was your manager—”

“Which you are not,” said my father.

“If I was your manager, or even your
trainer
,” said Tina, casting a combative glance at my father, “I would be a whole lot more concerned about your thin skin than having you memorize combinations on this dummy.” She punched it, and it swung back at her.

My father coughed up a laugh. “Give it up, kid. Go and make yourself useful someplace, will you?”

Useful
. I knew that was going to do it. If it's true that defeat is a lot of little things, I figured that one six-letter word was the final push that would send my sister over the brink. And it did.

“Useful?” cried Tina. “All I ever do is make myself useful. I help you every day in this stupid gym.”

“She does,” I muttered.

“Okay, Sandy,” she declared, “I'm getting the hell out of this dump. And I'm not coming back.” She looked at Byrne. “So you're not interested in this?” she asked him, holding out the jar of goo.

He didn't even answer her that time. Just turned away.

Arrogant jerk
, I thought.

Tina looked around the room, and no one was sparring. No one was doing sit-ups. No one was skipping rope. All the young men were listening. Some of them were grinning. Not one of them had the guts to stand up for Tina and tell Sandy how important she was to the gym. How important she was to them. I wished Dan was there. Maybe he would have.

Her face went red again, but this time it wasn't from anger – it was utter humiliation, and she took off. The door slammed behind her. My father carried on with Byrne like nothing had happened.

“You insulted her, Dad,” I said, but he didn't hear me.

I followed Tina outside. She was leaning with both hands against the side of a tree and there were tears in her eyes. She had plenty to cry about but rarely did, so I was taken aback when I realized how upset she really was.

“Let's go over to Azalea's and get a cone or something,” I said, fishing in my pocket to be sure I had enough change.

“I'm leaving, Ellie.”

“What?”

“I'm leaving.”

Tina had threatened to check out of Whitney Pier many times, so I didn't take her seriously, although this time there was something different about her voice. It was quiet. Too quiet.

“Come on,” I insisted. “Let's go to the store.”

Tina walked next to me and stared straight ahead; when we got there, she sat herself down on the step, told me she wasn't the least bit interested in ice cream and insisted that I find out if Bonita was home yet.

She was, and she and Azalea joined us outside.

After a round of hugs and how-have-you-beens, the four of us perched ourselves across the front steps like a row of pigeons. Bonita was one of those women who embarked on every conversation with the vivacity of a kid carrying new ice skates and could slide smoothly from sociopolitical issues like the economic liberty of women and the oil crisis in the Middle East to a recipe for raspberry muffins. I asked her about being a teacher and about her upcoming trip through the New England states.

Tina was quiet throughout it all, but I could tell by the way she kept rubbing her tongue against her top row of teeth that she was preparing herself for something. While the seagulls swooped and hollered over our heads, and cars raced by, and we passed around topics such as designer jeans and the weather like they were salted peanuts, my sister said nothing. Then, when there was a three second lull – somewhere between how many miles to the gallon you get on the highway and the vacuum cleaner salesman with large transparent ears who'd asked Bonita to the movies – Tina decided to drop the bomb.

“Bonita?” she said softly, as if she was about to ask her where she'd bought her skirt or where she'd ever managed to find such a pretty purse.

“Yeah Tina?”

“When are you leaving for the States?”

“Tomorrow.” Bonita leaned back and rested both elbows on the step behind her.

“Tomorrow?” asked Azalea. “Why so soon? Can't you stay a few more days?”

“Oh, Mama.” She reached out for her mother's hand. “I'll be back by the middle of August and we can spend a couple of weeks together, okay?”

Azalea smiled. “I guess I don't have much choice, now do I.”

“Are you going as far as Boston?” Tina asked. Her eyes were focused on Bonita's so intensely I expected she could learn the answer by reading her mind.

“Yes, I am, and—”

“I'd like to come along, if you have room. I will pay you for the gas and any other expenses, and—”

“No!” hollered Azalea. “No, Bonita. Tell her no.”

“Well … why not?” Bonita turned to me. “What's going on?”

“Tina needs to get to Boston, to a medical centre at Harvard, because—”

“Because Tina is a dwarf,” said my sister. “And because Tina is sick of being a dwarf and because Tina is sick of being treated like crap.” She stood up. “Look, Bonita, can I come with you to Boston or not?”

Azalea shook her head and went inside. I followed.

“You can't let her get those operations,” Azalea insisted. “Those doctors are just looking for a guinea pig.”

“There's no way to stop her. She's eighteen now, so she can do what she wants.”

Azalea held a finger to her mouth and stood next to the screen door. She signalled me to come quietly.

We listened to Bonita and Tina and although I felt like we were peering into someone's medicine cabinet, it didn't stop me from eavesdropping. At first, I thought their conversation might turn out to be a boring one, especially when Bonita started into Machiavelli and whether or not the end justifies the means. Soon, however, I was riveted to the wall.

“I know what it's like to face discrimination on a daily basis, believe me,” said Bonita. “Growing up Black was never easy, and trying to get a decent teaching position was no walk in the park either.” She sighed. “But I don't think I'd subject myself to a series of operations to change it.”

“That's because you can reach the pay phone,” declared Tina, breaking a small twig into pieces. “And you don't have to ask someone to push the elevator button for you.”

“No.”

“Have you ever been called….” Tina had trouble repeating the adjective she'd had hurled at her a hundred times. “Have you ever been called a retard?”

“No,” said Bonita. “I haven't.”

“And when it comes to job opportunities, you aren't limited to babysitting for the rest of your life or joining a travelling circus.”

Bonita didn't reply at first. Then she asked Tina if she could be ready by noon.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
he next morning I found my father slumped over the breakfast table with a newspaper and coffee, a cigarette burning precariously close to his lips. Beside him sat a ledger for his bookkeeping, a couple of bank books and a pencil that was chewed down to a stump. I had to pry a bank statement out of his hands to get him to eat the special French toast I'd prepared. I wanted him to have an open mind when Tina came down to tell him she was going away. For a long time.

He poured syrup until it flowed to the edge of the plate. One drip went over the side.

“Dad?”

“What is it?”

Before I'd found the courage to answer, I heard a knock downstairs at the front entrance to the gym.

“Beat it,” hollered my father. “We don't open before noon.”

“I'll see who it is,” I said, scrambling down the front staircase.

It was Dan Campbell.

“You're early,” I said, unlocking the door. “Tina hasn't even told my father yet.”

“I promised my girlfriend I'd drive her out of town this morning.”

Girlfriend.

“Girlfriend?” My hands got clammy and my stomach flipped over. All this time I thought, maybe, he liked Tina. “I didn't know you had a girlfriend. I thought….”

“What?”

“Forget it.”

Since Dan's knowledge of human emotion could be put through the eye of a needle, I didn't have much hope in educating him in the art of dealing with people's feelings.

“After Tina called last night, I set things up with Uncle Seamus. I didn't give him an exact arrival date, because Tina said Bonita Lester wants to do a bit of sightseeing on the way to Boston. He's fine with that.” He handed me a map and directions to the hospital. “So he'll be ready for you two when you get there.”

“We two?”

“Tina said you were going with her.”

“She did?”

Dan looked at his watch. “I'm running late. Tell Tina good luck, okay?”

Good luck? That's it? How could I tell Tina that Dan isn't interested in her? Isn't it because of him she's getting her limbs sawed in half?

“Tina,” I said, once back upstairs in our room, “Dan left this map and directions.”

Without even looking at it, she folded it up into a wad and stuffed it into her purse.

“He thinks I'm going with you.”

“Well, aren't you?” said Tina. “And why haven't you packed yet? Bonita will be ready to leave in a couple of hours.”

“I can't stay in Boston for a year. I have to go back to school in September.”

“Don't you want to get out of the Pier for a couple months? Bonita said once I'm settled in Boston, you can come home with her.” She pushed down on the clothes in her suitcase, then tried to force it shut. “I don't care. Do what you want.”

Out of the Pier for a couple months.
The words were dripping with milk and honey.

“Oh, damn this thing,” said Tina. Then she pulled out a pair of jeans and tossed them onto the floor. I noticed she had room for that enormous jar of salve.

“Why are you bringing that?” I asked.

“I'm not leaving it here. That's for sure.”

“Tina,” I said bravely, “there's something I need to tell you.”

“Can't it wait?” said Tina. “I've got Sandy to deal with.” Not exactly thrilled with my role as a bottomless pit of bad news, I was happy to wait. As it turned out, it was a good thing I did.

—

“I've decided to go to Boston, Sandy,” said Tina, her eyes as cheerful as a wet rag. “You don't want me here anyway.”

“I didn't say that.”

“You might as well have.”

“Have it your way then.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

I picked up my father's plate and set it in the sink. Then I swung around to face him.

“Can I go too? Just for a few weeks?”

“No.”

“I'll come back with Bonita.”

“NO.”

“Jesus Christ, Sandy, can't you let the girl have a life?” She pushed one of the chairs hard against the kitchen table so it crashed beside him. “It's one thing to be miserable with me all the time. Hell, you make me feel like a package that's been left on the wrong porch. Maybe you think I don't have much of a life to ruin. But Ellie has a chance. Don't wreck it for her.”

He looked at me.

“Who's gonna make my meals?”

“Make your own meals,” said Tina.

I thought about it for a minute. “I could ask Azalea to—”

“He can look after himself for a couple of weeks, Ellie,” declared Tina. “Maybe he'll appreciate you when you get back.” She gave the chair another push, this time a gratuitous one, and went back to our room.

My father lit another cigarette.

“I think Tina wants me there for moral support,” I said.

“I think the whole thing is a stupid waste of time,” he said.

“It doesn't matter what either one of you thinks,” hollered Tina. “And by the way….” She came back into the kitchen. “Other than Dan Campbell and Azalea, nobody around here needs to know what I'm doing.”

“What the hell am I supposed I tell them?” asked my father.

“Tell them I died. Tell them I'm going to take a stab at Mount Everest. Tell them whatever you want, I don't care.”

Dad didn't see us off. He went downstairs to the gym and started repairing the ropes around the ring. I asked him if there was anything he wanted me to bring back from the States, but he shrugged and grunted something about not spending all my money.

—

Bonita gassed up her car, and what a car it was. A 1959 Thunderbird convertible in Brandywine Red. I'd always admired it but had never taken a close look. It had red seats with white insets, a dashboard that reflected light in every direction and fins! The car was twenty years old but didn't have a spot of rust on it. It looked like someone had driven it off the set of
American Graffiti
.

“I treat Brandy with tender loving care,” said Bonita. “She was my daddy's, before he passed on.”

“Brandy's in great shape,” I said, admiring the whitewall tires.

“Oh, great shape,” echoed Bonita. “She's going to need a new rad sometime, but other than that, she purrs like a kitten.”

We loaded our things into the kitten's trunk, and I saw Tina glance over to the gym to see if our father was watching. He wasn't.

Azalea hugged each of us. Bonita took a container of coolant from the trunk, released the hood and filled up the rad, while Tina commandeered the front seat (claiming that if she sat in the rear, the only thing she'd see would be the back of my head.)

Azalea had a word with me alone.

“You're not going to let her go through with this, are you?” she asked, her eyes soft and sad.

“You know what my sister's like,” I admitted. “But I will try.”

“Good girl,” she said, giving me another hug.

“Azalea?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Can you look in on my father every once in awhile? See that he has food in the fridge?”

“Yes, Ellie. I'll make sure he doesn't starve.” She opened the car door for me, and I hopped in. “Don't worry yourself,” she told me. “Have a good trip and bring me back some pictures, you hear?”

We all waved goodbye as we motored down the street. Bonita honked the horn a few times and turned on the radio. “Wheel in the Sky” played, and with the wind blowing through my hair, I felt pretty smug as the Pier disappeared gradually in the rear-view mirror. I wasn't just going on a trip, I was leaving the world of men and their fists behind me and watching as a whole new vista opened up. Before long, we were sailing down the highway and I couldn't have been happier.

And then came the tragic realization that my utopian state was nothing but a daydream and that Count Ilizarov was waiting at the end of that road, a smile on his face and a hacksaw in his hand.