The Fifth Gospel(85)

            The Russian scraped along the back wall, buying space.

            I felt a shadow fall over me, so dark that Simon couldn’t have seen me if Rome was burning.

            But he could feel me there. I wanted to run, but his stare closed in.

            The Russian was coming now, barreling down on my brother. All I could do was point.

            Simon turned just in time; the Russian caught the hairs on his chest. But for some reason, Simon staggered. He stared at me, and the rhythm fell out of him. Even the kids up above saw it.

            “Padre!” a boy in the crowd yelled.

            But Simon never took his eyes off me.

            I will never come here again, Sy. I swear to you. But this one time, for me, finish this. Even if they have to piece this man together in the hospital, show me you understand.

            And from the look on Simon’s face, hanging from the blacks of his eyes, I knew he did understand. He turned back and tilted his hands, inviting the Russian back.

            Just for an instant, the Russian looked for me in the crowd.

            Not him, Simon mouthed, waving him in. Me.

            The crowd came back to life, people shouting like cannibals. The Russian stepped up, jabbed and pulled back.

            Simon bobbed. But nothing more.

            The Russian came one-two this time—and Simon let the punches slap him so loudly, it shut those kids up.

            “Come on,” he said, opening his hands. But this time, his hands didn’t fist up; they stayed open.

            So the Russian drove a blow into Simon’s ribs, and Simon barely stayed on his feet. He winced as he straightened up.

            Now the Russian came with a one-two-three: a jab that almost missed Simon’s shoulder, except that it came with a cross rolling behind it like a freight train. That cross knocked Simon out of his stance, bending him over.

            My brother’s hands shot up instinctively, to protect his head. But he forced them down. And now a smile broke over the Russian’s face when he brought the left hook to finish. Because if this kid was going to take a beating—if he was going to dangle his head there like a bobber—then this would be no left hook to the body.

            No fighter I ever saw, before or after, wound up for a punch like that. The Russian dropped his right hand to the bottom of the ocean, not even bothering to keep up his guard, and threw a left hook that crushed Simon’s cheek as if he’d been hit by a bolt from a cattle gun. My brother’s head almost jumped off his neck, but instead his body popped up in the air. Then he lay there, dead in the dirt.

            I jumped over the pit wall, wailing, screaming, not knowing what I did; but there were hands on me, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me back. I threw punches, but Simon was already moving on the ground, pulling himself up. He turned in my direction and stared. Fat parachutes of blood fell from his mouth, but he locked me in, like there was no one in this seminary but us brothers, trying to get our thick heads around this lesson.

            And the Russian just waited there, holding his punches, because he knew what was coming.

            Above us, in the high seats, the kids were coming unglued. Stop! they were shouting. And No! And Why won’t he fight? I shook my head at Simon, the spit hanging from my mouth, and I screamed, Don’t do this. Please.

            But he wiped an arm across his bleeding mouth, tapped the sides of his head, and stepped back into that fight.

            The Russian sent an uppercut through his chin that would’ve split a tree in half. It shattered what was left of Simon’s jaw, and when his head snapped back, everything was done. Before he ever hit the ground, my brother was gone.