Bruiser Read Online Free PDF Page B

anything. Not because it’s dirty but because it feels unclean. I can’t quite explain the difference, although I suspect it has something to do with my own snob factor. Conflicted, I force myself to sit in a chair at the kitchen table. There are dirty dishes in the sink. He notices me noticing.
    â€œSorry,” he says, “the dishes are my job. I usually take care of them when I get home.”
    â€œWhat does your uncle do?” I asked him.
    â€œRoad construction,” Brewster says. “He works nights, driving a steamroller for the Transportation Authority.”
    Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. I get this image of a maniacal Uncle Hoyt rolling over defenseless wildlife caught in the unset asphalt.
    I pick up my glass, and he looks at my knuckles. Four out of five knuckles on my right hand have scabs in various states of healing. “Where’d you get those,” he asks, “beating on band geeks?”
    He’s trying to push my buttons. I don’t let him. “Lacrosse,” I tell him.
    â€œRight,” he says. “Must be a rough sport.”
    I shrug. “Good for getting out your aggression.”
    He nods. “What do you do in the off-season?”
    â€œI use the stick to smash mailboxes.”
    He looks at me like I’m serious.
    â€œI’m kidding,” I tell him, but he doesn’t seem entirely convinced. I’m uncomfortable with the conversation being all about me, so I flip it back on him.
    â€œSo, your uncle’s got a government job; he must pull in a decent salary.”
    The question is right there, although I don’t ask it directly: If he’s got a decent job, then why do you live like this?
    The Bruiser glances back toward the family room. The shifting glow from the TV plays on the arched doorway like lightning, making it look like a portal to another dimension. The gateway to Hoyt-Hell: Abandon all hope ye who enter. He turns back to me and speaks softly. “My uncle’s got an ex-wife and three kids in Atlanta. The government garnishes his wages.”
    â€œGarnish,” I say. “I thought that was, like, parsley on a dinner plate.”
    The Bruiser grins. “So there’s something I know that you don’t?” He relishes the moment before explaining. “Garnishing means the government takes child support right out of his salary even before he gets the check because they know he won’t pay it otherwise.” The Bruiser thinks about it and shakes his head. “Funny—he runs out on his wife and three kids and then he ends up stuck with Cody and me.”
    I’m about to ask him how that came to be, but I realize it must not be a pretty story. If they’re stuck with a loser uncle,it means that their parents are gone in one way or another. Dead, incarcerated, or AWOL. No joy in any of the possibilities, so I don’t ask.
    â€œYou’re uncle sounds like quite a guy,” I say, the sarcasm practically pooling around my ankles, adding another stain to the carpet.
    â€œThere are worse things,” he says.
    Right about now Cody comes out of his room, shirtless.
    â€œMy shirt smelled like Tri-tip,” he says, “but I got no clean shirts. It’s your fault I got no clean shirts!” he tells his brother.
    The Bruiser sighs and says to me, “I do the laundry here, too.”
    I wonder if there are any chores he doesn’t do.
    When I glance at Cody again, I note that the kid’s back is nothing like his brother’s. No bruises, no scars, no sign that their short-tempered uncle beats him at all. I begin to wonder if maybe I’m wrong in assuming the man is an abuser. Maybe he just blusters, but he’s all wind and no weather. Still, it doesn’t answer the question about the Bruiser’s back. The Bruiser goes to a little laundry room just off the kitchen and mines through a huge pile of clothes on top of the dryer. He pulls out a small