Lightning's Run Page 2

  After getting home from the Woodrat, I only got three hours of sleep before Papa woke Ezra and me to come with him to work. Half-asleep, I reported to my post in the brick factory with Ezra. Papa went off with Uncle Mordechai to continue work on a building a few blocks away.

  I slip on thick leather gloves, take a deep breath, and open a small door into the brick oven. Inside, almost twenty thousand bricks are baking down a long row of racks. The air ripples from the intense heat of the fires along the bottom. I reach into the oven with a pair of long metal tongs, pull out a newly baked brick, and slam the oven door shut.

  Steam rises off the brick as I slide it onto a nearby stone surface. I poke at it and inspect every side carefully. Then I nod at Ezra, who’s been sitting patiently on a stool nearby. He jumps up and runs up and down the line of workers who stoke the fires of the brick oven. “Off!” Ezra shouts. “Off!”

  The fires must be manned twenty-four hours a day for a week while the bricks bake. But this batch is done. Now we wait for the oven to cool before we unload.

  Over the noise of the factory, I hear someone swear loudly in Yiddish. It’s Yossel, the older boy who works next to me. His job is to fill the brick molds with clay and sand. It’s messy work, and Yossel hates to be messy. Once the molds are filled, Ezra takes them to a shed to dry. They have to dry for a week before I can bake them in the oven.

  “I should be in rabbinic school,” Yossel says, sulking.

  “I didn’t know rabbis knew curse words like that,” I say with a smile. Yossel narrows his eyes at me.

  A whistle blows, announcing the end of the work day. After twelve hours next to the sweltering oven, there’s no part of me that doesn’t ache. Ezra and I stand in the long line to collect our pay. Outside the factory, I take Ezra’s shoe off and cram all but three coins into the front. He winces, cramming his toes back in.

  “It hurts,” he says.

  “It’s just until we get home,” I promise, pocketing the three coins I’ve kept.

  As we start the walk back to our tenement, Yossel falls into step next to us. He lives across the hall. I’ve never spent a minute with him where he wasn’t talking about wanting to be a rabbi. His parents are very proud of him.

  As usual, Yossel is so in love with his own grand plans that he doesn’t notice when our path is blocked. From a distance, you’d think it was a man. Or a monster. But the boy in front of us can only be a year or two older than me. It’s his muscular frame and the brow that juts out over his eyes that make it hard to tell his age.

  “Hiram,” Ezra whimpers.

  “Stay close,” I say quietly.

  “It’s the Jew boys,” the boy says. His thick jaw barely moves.

  “Leave us alone, Carter,” I tell him as I push Ezra behind me.

  We have no idea who Carter is. All we know is he started following us from the factory two months ago. And when he blocks our path, bad things happen.

  “You haven’t figured out how this works,” Carter says, balling his hands into fists. “See, I figured it out. I figured out when you get paid. So you should figure out that when you get paid, I get paid.”

  Sometimes, like now, Yossel’s desire to be a rabbi takes over. He holds up his hands and says, “We are a people of peace.”

  Papa has also said this. Usually when walking through the streets and thinking about life in the old country. But every day, I’m reminded that we’re not back in the old country anymore. These people, these New Yorkers, are not people of peace.

  Carter grabs Yossel by the neck. Without thinking, the skinny boy drops his coins into Carter’s free hand.

  Before I can stop him, Ezra charges forward. Carter tosses Yossel, wraps his hand around Ezra’s face, and throws him to the ground.

  I raise my fists. I’ve been watching the fighters at the Woodrat closely. I know how to stand to defend myself. But that’s all I’ve learned.

  “Oh,” Carter says, laughing, “Jew boy is getting brave. Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

  I think about the Woodrat fighters and throw a jab. Carter leans back and chuckles as my punch falls short. I try again. This time he sidesteps.

  Before I can wind up for another go, Carter’s arm swings up. His meaty fist sinks deep into my stomach. I double over, my body wrapping around his arm. I’d vomit, but I’m trying too hard to catch my breath. I don’t get a chance to recover before another blow slams down on my cheek. I hit the sidewalk, vision blurred.

  He grabs my collar, hauls me to my feet, and buries another punch in my gut. This time, I can’t help it. Bile shoots from my mouth. He tosses me aside. My cheeks burn as I writhe on the pavement.

  Carter pulls the three coins from my pocket and walks away. He’s too dumb to question why he got more from Yossel than from me.

  Yossel says nothing, too stunned to think. Ezra’s on his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. I force myself to sit up and comfort him.

  “I’m telling Papa,” he says, over and over.

  “Please, Ezra, don’t,” I say, rubbing his shoulders and praying he stops crying. “Not yet. I’m learning to fight. I’ll take care of this. I promise.”

  We are a people of peace. I’ve always believed it. I’ve always lived it. But for the first time since we came to America, I’m no longer sure it’s something I can hold to. I have to stop this.

  As Yossel and Ezra help me stand, I glance over to a nearby alley. Someone is watching. It takes me a moment to recognize him. It’s Lightning. He’s dressed in a gentleman’s suit, looking nothing like the seasoned fighter I saw last night.

  I have no idea how long he’s been standing there. But the sad, pitying look in his eyes confirms what I fear.

  He saw the whole thing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Nice shiner.”

  Bulldog smirks at me as I walk into the back room of his soda fountain on my one day off. It’s five o’clock, hours before the fights start. This back room is where Bulldog’s fighters train. But most of them have already gone home to prepare for their bouts tonight. Only Lightning remains, shadowboxing on the far side of the room.

  My blood boils. It was hard enough coming up with an excuse for the black eye that my family would believe. “I fell down” didn’t seem to work. I don’t need this schmuck mocking me, making me feel worse.

  I march up to Bulldog. “Look, you can see I need training. I’ll do whatever. I’ll paint your house.”

  Bulldog points at me with his cigar. “Kid, ain’t nothin’ you got that I want. Now beat it, or I’ll have you arrested for loitering.”

  I think about what Silas told me. Bulldog just wanted to see how bad I want it. When he goes to move around me, I stand in his way. He’s half a head taller, so I’m not much of a barrier.

  He looks past me. “Silas! Where the hell is Monty?” He points over to Lightning in the corner. “He know he’s supposed to spar with Lightning?”

  Silas, leaning against the wall in his red-and-white-striped soda jerk uniform, shrugs. “I dunno, Bulldog. You know Monty. He’s not very good with times and stuff. Think Lightning’s hit him in the noggin one too many times.”

  “That means you’ve got an opening,” I say.

  Bulldog scowls at me. “What?”

  “Send your star fighter home and train me.”

  Bulldog pushes past me. “I told you before, I’m not training someone with zero fighting experience. That’s not what I do. So get out of here or I’ll—”

  “I’ll fight him.”

  It takes me a second to realize that Lightning is talking. And he’s pointing at me.

  Bulldog freezes where he is. He looks from Lightning to me to Lightning. “No way. You need to spar with someone who can fight. It’s not training if he can’t compete.”

  Lightning strips off his shirt and shoes and moves to the center of the room. “Well, Monty’s not here. It’s him or Silas.”

  I’m pretty sure I hear Silas squeak in fear.

  Bulldog gnaws o
n his cigar, then throws up his hands. “You heard the man. Get over there.”

  I gaze over at Lightning. This wasn’t how I pictured my first lesson: going up against the champion. I take two steps into the ring when he holds up his hand.

  “Take your shirt off,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to get blood on it.”

  He chuckles. It’s a challenge. He’s trying to shake me at the mention of blood. But I won’t give him the satisfaction. I unbutton my shirt and toss it at Silas. Then, looking at Lightning’s feet, I take off my shoes.

  “You don’t need to do that,” he says as I walk to him.

  “If I’m going to learn from the best,” I say, “I should act like the best.”

  For a second, Lightning smiles. Then he’s all serious. He plants his feet and raises his arms, fists pointing up. When I lift my arms, he breaks his stance and moves behind me. He kicks gently at my ankles, moving my feet apart, one in front of the other. He balls my hands into fists, pulling my thumb from inside and laying it along my fingers. Once he’s molded me into position, we face off again.

  Circling each other, we never break eye contact. This goes on for a long while. From the corner of my eye, I see Silas shake his head. But I don’t let down my guard. I brace myself, waiting for Lightning to strike.

  “At some point,” he says casually, “you might want to throw a punch.”

  Remembering how Carter fought, I swing my arm in a wide arc, aiming for his stomach. Lightning swats my hand away and frowns.

  “What are you doing?” he demands.

  The real answer is I don’t know, but I say, “Going for your breadbasket. Trying to knock the wind out of you.”

  He shakes his head and points to his own head. “This is your target. This is always your target. Take out the head, and the body will follow. You might not get many shots. Don’t waste them on anything below the neck.”

  I nod and throw a few more haymakers, swinging wildly. He slaps my fist each time, sending the blows harmlessly off to the side. “You’re throwing too wide,” he says. “You’re telling me what you’re going to do. I’ve got time to react. Don’t let me. Keep your elbows in tight.”

  This is how we spend the next hour. I throw a punch, he stops and corrects me. He shows me how to punch with more than my arm, how to throw all my weight into it. When he’s not doing that, he’s throwing light blows my way and showing me how to block and dodge.

  The whole time, Bulldog and Silas stand on the side, arms crossed. Whenever I shoot a look at Bulldog, he rolls his eyes.

  After an hour, I’m drowning in my own sweat. My arms throb with pain. When Lightning says we’re done, I drop to my knees. Silas throws me a towel. Lightning, who barely broke a sweat, gets dressed and moves toward the door.

  As he passes me, he stops. Then he squats down, hand outstretched. I reach out, my arm weak and shaking, and he hauls me to me feet. The room spins at the sudden movement. I’m either going to pass out or throw up.

  “You learn fast,” he says quietly. “Come back tomorrow. Same time.”

  “I can’t,” I say, wheezing. “I have to work.”

  “Then come back after the fights are done at night. We’ll work some more.”

  I grunt. “I can’t believe I hurt this bad. You didn’t lay a finger on me.”

  He nods at my black eye. “You didn’t need any lessons in getting hit. You’re already an expert.”

  Lightning turns to go, but I hook my hand around his elbow.

  “You just stood there,” I say. “You stood there and let Carter beat the tar out of me. Why didn’t you help?”

  Lightning looks back at the center of the ring, our footprints still fresh in the moist soil. “I think I just did.”

  Without another word, he turns and walks out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Every night for a week, it’s the same. Twelve hours at the brick factory. Chores at home. Dinner with the family. Sneak out. Watch the fights. Then train with Lightning for two solid hours until midnight.

  And every day, it’s that much harder to get up in the morning. I wake so stiff I could swear I’ll never move again. But I do. And by the end of that first week, I feel myself getting stronger. The minute Lightning sees that, he takes our training to the next level.

  His fist, so fast it’s invisible, grazes my chin. I hop out of the way just in time. An inch closer and I’d be picking myself up off the dirt floor. Or out cold. I’ve seen Lightning end many a round with that exact same punch. It tells me everything I need to know.

  He’s not holding back anymore.

  “Nice,” he says softly, bobbing back and forth on the balls of his feet. “You’re getting faster.”

  I may be getting faster, but I still haven’t landed a punch. I charge forward, throwing jab after jab, just like he taught me. He weaves and blocks, and I never touch him. But I can see it in his eyes. I’m getting closer.

  My mistake is enjoying that fact. With me distracted, he slips a short, sharp punch to my ribs. My entire left side ignites with pain. I drop to one knee. I wasn’t expecting that.

  Grinning, Lightning helps me to my feet.

  “You told me,” I rasp, “not to aim below the neck.”

  “That’s right,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean your opponent won’t. Looks like we gotta work on how much punishment you can take.”

  I nod, and as he turns, I throw a light sucker punch into his stomach. My knuckles burn, but Lightning doesn’t move an inch. He winks.

  “Not bad,” he says. “I almost felt that.”

  I laugh. “You’ll feel the next one! Let’s see how much punishment you can take.”

  We shake hands. With that, our fists are up and we’re at it again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  For a week, I’ve managed to avoid Carter. I’ve led Ezra and Yossel home by different routes each day. I know that Carter will figure it out and track us down. By then, I plan to be ready for him. I just need more training.

  But today, after work, Papa is waiting for us at the brick factory door. His face is stony but not unfriendly. He only looks like that when something is wrong.

  “I’ve come to walk home with you,” he announces. Ezra is happy. I’m suspicious.

  As the four of us walk, Papa holds my arm and slows down until Ezra and Yossel are ahead of us. He wants to talk to me in private.

  “Hiram,” he says quietly, “remind me again how you hurt your eye.”

  I bite my lip. When I checked the mirror this morning, I could barely see the bruise anymore. Why is he asking now?

  “I fell,” I said. “In the factory.”

  Papa nods. “Yes. That’s right. You fell.”

  We walk together quietly for several blocks. Ahead, Yossel keeps glancing over his shoulder at me and Papa. When I meet his eye, he quickly looks away.

  “Did I ever tell you why we moved to America?” Papa says.

  “Because life was hard in the old country,” I respond. “And Uncle Mordechai offered you a job.”

  Papa wiggles his hand. “A bit yes, a bit no. I was happy back home. We moved to America because your mother was not. Now, as the husband, I could have put my foot down. I could have insisted we stay put. But here we are. And why? Shalom bayit.”

  Shalom bayit. It means “peace in the home.” When Papa says it, he means that sometimes you do things you don’t want so that there can be harmony in your family. Any quarrel between me and Leah or Ezra is quickly ended with those two words.

  “You are a bar mitzvah,” he continues softly. “You have studied the Torah. You know what our people have been through. You know what our family has been through. I’m sure you would never do anything to dishonor all that has come before. If only for shalom bayit.”

  I have no idea why he’s saying all this. Before I can ask, I catch Yossel sneaking another look at me. And I understand: he heard me tell Ezra I was learning to fight … and Yossel told Papa.

  My stomach clenches. Papa knows what I’ve
been doing. He’s giving me a chance to confess. But how can I do that? How can I tell him that I’m learning to fight to protect Ezra? Papa has spent his life protecting his entire family, and he’s never thrown a punch to do so. How do I explain that this is America, and I don’t see any other way?

  “I never want to bring shame to our family, Papa,” I say. I can’t look him in the eye.

  It must be what he wants to hear. He pats me on the back, and we pick up speed to catch up with Ezra and Yossel.

  Tonight, we’ve taken the usual way home. As we round a corner, I see Carter sitting on a stoop, waiting for us. But he spots Papa and stays where he is. Our eyes lock. There’s a promise in his gaze.

  Next time, it says. And I believe it. I can’t hide from him forever.

  As we approach our tenement, we find Leah waiting on the front steps. She runs down the lane to meet us, jumping into my arms. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she says. I worry she knows absolutely everything.

  Guilt rips through me, harder than any punch I’ve taken from Lightning. We are peaceful people. I don’t want to disappoint Papa or Mama. And if Papa finds out I’ve been learning to fight, I could lose a lot more than my factory pay.

  I could lose the family I thought I was fighting for.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lightning is murdering his opponent.

  They met in the middle of the ring for the first round. A beast of a man who called himself the Harlem Crusher announced that he was going to take the Negro down. For the first time, I was worried for Lightning. The Crusher was twice his size, a mountain of muscle and fat.

  Now, halfway through the second round, the Crusher hasn’t landed a punch. And Lightning has beaten the man’s face nearly unrecognizable. It’s amazing he hasn’t fallen.

  I’m standing in Lightning’s corner, feeling sick to my stomach. Not because the Crusher is getting a beating he deserves, but because I’ve come to tell Lightning I can’t train anymore. He’s given me so much of his time, and I’ve learned so much. It feels like I’m betraying him.