Bruiser Read Online Free PDF Page A

Hoyt reaches down, undoes his belt buckle, and in a single move pulls his belt out of his pants, wrapping the end of it around his palm like it’s something he does on a regular basis. He storms toward the boy, buckle end dangling. “IT’S DEAD!” the man screams. “GET YOUR SNIVELIN’ ASS AWAY FROM IT OR I SWEAR I’LL WAIL ON YOUR HIDE TWELVE WAYS TILL DOOMSDAY.”He brings his arm back, threatening to swing the buckle—and the Bruiser doesn’t do a thing. He just stands there watching, like he’s helpless to stop it.
    â€œNo!”
    That’s my voice. I don’t even realize I’m going to shout it until the word’s already out of my mouth. I never meant to intercede, but I can’t help it. Someone has to stop this.
    Suddenly they all turn to me, and now I’m part of the cast of this twisted old Western. I have no choice but to take my place in the scene. I drop my backpack but keep hold of my lacrosse stick. Then I quickly climb the Dumpster and jump over the fence, racing toward the three of them. The moment I’m close enough, I raise my lacrosse stick as a weapon, perhaps the way it was done back in the days when the game was warfare. Then I stare the man in his hateful, rheumy eyes and say, “If you hit that kid, I will take you down!”
    And everything freezes like a snow globe. I half expect little flakes to start swimming all around us. Then the Bruiser steps in front of me. He grabs me with his heavy hands, and he whispers angrily into my ear, “Stay out of this!”
    I try to pull free from the Bruiser’s grasp, but he’s just too big. As I struggle, my lacrosse stick falls to the ground.
    â€œWho the hell are you?” Uncle Hoyt finally says now that he’s not in imminent danger of having his head bashed in.
    The Bruiser pushes me back. “Stay out of this!” he says again. “This isn’t any of your business.”
    â€œPlease, Uncle Hoyt,” pleads Cody, “leave Tri-tip alone.”
    Uncle Hoyt looks at me, sizing me up. “This a friend of yours?” he asks the Bruiser.
    â€œNo!” says the Bruiser quickly. “Just some kid from school.”
    Uncle Hoyt spits on the ground, giving me a dirty look. Then he turns and saunters inside, dragging the belt like that buckle’s his pet on a leash. The screen door closes and I can’t see him anymore, but I hear him calling from inside: “You dispose of that bull, Brewster. I don’t wanna know about it.”
    The Bruiser stares at me with anger that ought to be directed at his uncle, and now the only sounds are clanking shopping carts from the market beyond the fence and the wails of a little boy clinging to a dead beast that’s already collecting flies.
    With Uncle Hoyt gone, the Bruiser holds my gaze only a moment more before he decides I’m not worth the effort. Then he goes over to his brother…but instead of comforting him, he kneels beside him, puts his hands on the bull just like his brother, and just like his brother he begins to grieve. It starts with mild weeping but soon crescendos into the same tortured sobs as his little brother, both of them wailing in a strange harmony of misery.
    I’m embarrassed to be watching—it’s as if I’m witnessing something too personal to view—but I can’t look away. I want to leave, but it would be like walking out in the middle of a funeral.
    A few moments more and Cody’s sobbing begins to resolve into whimpers; but the Bruiser is still doubled over in his sorrow, the sobs so intense I can almost feel the ground shake as his chest heaves. In a moment Cody has fully recovered, as if all he needed was someone else to share in his grief.
    The Bruiser’s anguished sobs go on for at least another minute while Cody waits, patient and untroubled, playing tic-tac-toe in the dirt.
    Finally the Bruiser’s sobs begin to trail off. He gets