"Put 'em up, Renault," Janza said, his own fists ready at chest level.
Jerry shook his head.
"I don't put them up." Voice steady.
"You afraid to fight?"
"You're the one who fights, Janza." Taking a breath. "Not me."
"Okay," Janza said. "It's your funeral, buddy."
Jerry braced himself, remembering last fall, when Janza had struck him in the boxing ring, but both of them then at the mercy of Archie Costello, puppets playing roles Archie had created. This time, however, Jerry was on his own two feet, by choice.
Janza hit him twice in succession, both blows to the face, first his jaw, then his right cheek. Jerry's head swiveled instinctively with the blows, which took some of the sting out of Janza's fists.
Janza paused, setting his feet again, squinting, taking aim. He faked a blow to Jerry's face, hit him instead in the stomach, but his fist did not land with full force. Grunting in disgust at his lack of efficiency, he lashed out at Jerry's face and body, a series of one-two blows. Jerry stood his ground. Tasted blood in his mouth, knew one eye had closed, absorbed the pain but found it bearable. And surprised by the fact that he was not only on his feet but steady, having taken a pace or two backward but solidly planted there.
Janza's breathing tore at the silence of the alley. He looked up, taking a deep breath, saw the scattered faces at the windows, bellowed: "What are you looking at?" And lashed out again, but not looking at Jerry as his fists flew. A glancing blow, Jerry's right cheek absorbing it. Jerry was surprised to find how strong, impregnable really, cheeks were. Hard bones, not much flesh. But one of his teeth had been jarred loose, and the taste of blood was stronger in his mouth now.
"What's the matter with you, Renault?" Janza asked, arm cocked, fist ready. But pausing, his breath ragged. "Why don't you fight?"
Jerry shook his head, beckoned with his hands, the gesture saying, Come on, hit me again.
Janza hit him again. A furious telling blow that sent Jerry back three paces, his knees turning liquid, sending a sheet of flame up the right side of his head, snapping his neck. He fell against the brick building but pulled himself away from it. Another blow followed before Jerry could recover and establish himself solidly on his feet again. This one to the chest. Then another that almost missed his jaw but scraped his ear, tearing his earlobe a bit.
Wobbly, weaving, Jerry remained on his feet, his body arranging itself somehow to meet the blows and absorb them.
"Hit back, will ya?" Janza said, pausing again, breath still ragged. Was the great Emile Janza out of shape? Running out of steam? Had he used up his best blows?
"I am hitting back," Jerry said.
"You crazy?" Janza yelled, outrage in his voice. Or frustration, maybe. "This is for the birds—"
"Come on, Janza," Jerry said, lips swollen, that loose tooth beginning to throb, voice bubbling with either saliva or blood. He swallowed both, not wanting to spit, not wanting Janza to see his blood.
"You're nuts, know that?" Janza cried, arms at his sides. "You're crazy. . "
Jerry smiled at him. He knew it must be a grotesque and pathetic smile. But a smile all the same.
"Tell you what I'm going to do, Renault," Janza said, calmer now, having caught his breath, rubbing his fists together, massaging his knuckles. "I'm letting you go. For now. You've had enough. I've had enough. But every time I see you — I don't care where it is — I'm gonna beat you up. So keep your ass away from me. . "
A solitary person clapped his hands at one of the windows, a hollow pathetic sound in the alley.
Janza walked toward the building to his right, leaning against it, sucking his knuckles, studying Jerry. He felt drained, something missing, not feeling horny, nothing sexual in his combat with Renault. Like he had lost something. But what? And he hated that smile on Renault's face. Hated what that smile said. What did it say? He didn't want to think about it. Christ, his knuckles hurt. He wanted to get out of here.
"Remember what I said, Renault," Janza threatened, pushing past Jerry, and then over his shoulder: "Keep out of my way. . "
Renault watched him go. He looked around for the Goober. He had forgotten about Goob. He stumbled to the corner, saw Goober leaning against the mailbox. Still clutching his groin.
"Jesus, Jerry," he said. "I'm sorry. I should have—"
"Forget it," Jerry said.
"You look terrible. I let you down again. The thing I'm best at."
"No," Jerry said, placing his hand on the Goober's mouth. "It's something I had to do. And I had to do it without you."
They turned and watched Janza's retreating figure, still swaggering as he walked, arms swinging, shoulders moving as if to some unheard bully's music.
"Know what, Goober?"
"What?"
"I'm not going back to Canada next fall."
"You're not?" Feeling miserable, never felt so lousy in his life, worse than last year during the chocolate sale.
"I'm not going to Monument High, either."
"Where are you going, then?" Goober asked, automatically responding. Am I doomed to let Jerry Renault down forever?
"I'm going back to Trinity."
Jerry's words struck Goober like blows.
"That's crazy, Jerry. Why do you want to do something like that?"
"I don't know. It's hard to explain." He limped painfully as they walked, had somehow wrenched his knee during the fight without realizing it. His knee felt swollen, twice its size, but he refused to look down. He needed to concentrate on what he must tell Goober. "Just now, Janza was beating me up. But he wasn't winning. I mean, you can get beat up and still not lose. You can look like a loser but don't have to be one." Saw Goober's puzzled expression and felt frustrated because he couldn't make him see what he knew was the truth. "Janza's the loser, Goober. He'll be a loser all his life. He beat me up but he couldn't beat me. . "
"It's not only Emile Janza," the Goober said. "It's the school itself. Brother Leon, who lets the Vigils and guys like Archie Costello get away with murder. Okay, Archie Costello's graduating, but somebody else will take his place. And what about the chocolates, Jerry? There'll be another chocolate sale. And what will you do?"
"Sell them," Jerry said. "I'll sell their chocolates. Every stupid box." The pain of Janza's blows still resounded in his body, and he knew somehow that the answer to everything was in the echo of that pain. And in the fact that Janza had walked away. "They want you to fight, Goober. And you can really lose only if you fight them. That's what the goons want. And guys like Archie Costello. You have to outlast them, that's all."
"Even if they kill you?"
"Even if they kill you."
The Goober kept shaking his head as he walked along beside Jerry. He didn't understand what Jerry was talking about, just as he hadn't understood why Jerry hadn't sold the chocolates last fall. All he knew was that he didn't want to return to Trinity. And if Jerry did, then he'd have to return, as well. And he sure as hell didn't want to do that. Couldn't. From the moment that Jerry's father had called him a few weeks go, everything had gone wrong. Tracking down Emile Janza. The fight in the alley and Janza's kick that had immobilized him, leaving Jerry to face Janza alone. Now this: Jerry returning to Trinity. All Goober wanted was to run. Get on the team at Monument High. Find a girl, maybe. No complications, no fights or talks about fighting. Or winning. Or losing.
"I'm not going back to Trinity," he said stubbornly.
Jerry glanced at his friend, saw the utter misery on his face, as if he were being tortured, and realized suddenly how his decision to return to Trinity was affecting him. He felt stricken with guilt, inflicting guilt on his friend, Goober. And knew instantly what he must do.