Read Online Cataract City by Craig Davidson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig Davidson
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darkly.
It was burnt, which was a blessing: I assumed the taste of char was better than the taste of raccoon. Mahoney ate in silence, backhanding the juice that dribbled down his chin.
We lay in the grass. I was exhausted but couldn’t let myself fall asleep next to Bruiser Mahoney—cold snakes squirmed in my belly just thinking about it. The stars were bright in a way they never were in my suburb. The moon was perfectly halved, like a paper circle folded over. The sky so clear that I could see calligraphic threads on the moon’s surface.
“Did you know,” Mahoney said, “that the Russians sent dogs into space? My mother told me this when I was a boy. Nobody knew the effects of space on a body, you see, so they sent dogs first. They found two mongrels on the streets of Moscow. Pchelka, which means Little Bee, and Mushka, which means Little Fly. They went up in
Sputnik
6. They were supposed to get into orbit and come right back. But the rockets misfired and shot them into space.
“Whenever I look at the night sky, I think about those dogs.Wearing these hand-stitched spacesuits, bright orange, with their paws sticking out. Big fishbowl helmets. How …
crazy
. Floating out and out into space. How bewildered they must have been. Freezing, starving, dying from oxygen deprivation. For what? They would have happily spent their days rummaging through trashcans.
“For all anyone knows those dogs are still out there. Two dead mongrels in a satellite. Two dog skeletons in silly spacesuits. Gleaming dog skulls inside fishbowl helmets. They’ll spin through the universe until they burn up in the atmosphere of an uncharted planet. Or get sucked into a black hole to be crushed into a ball of black matter no bigger than an ant turd.”
Bruiser Mahoney laughed. The sound sent a shiver through my gums. His laughter rolled out and out into the wilderness; the sound didn’t touch anything I could recognize or draw hope from.
“Who
are
you?” I asked—the most searching, most innocent question I’ve asked in my life.
Mahoney propped himself up on one elbow. His fingers were black with dried raccoon blood.
“What do you mean?” he asked, a child himself. When he caught the aim of my question his lips curled back from his teeth. “Am I not still your hero?” he said, deathly soft. “The mighty Bruiser Mahoney?
Ooh
, you’re a smart boy. You’ve figured me out, haven’t you? Unmasked me. Well then, I guess that makes this the hour of truth. Let’s lay all the cards on the table, hmm? Card one: I’m not Bruiser Mahoney. My name is Dade Rathburn. I was born in Orillia, Ontario. Before becoming a wrestler I was a janitor at a box factory. I’ve spent time in jail—once for beating a man half to death outside a bar, and once again for passing phony cheques.
Mahoney?
I don’t have a drop of Irish blood in me! I’m a fake, boys.” Coldness crept into his voice. “And I’ll slap down card number two: wrestling’s fake, too.”
Dunk made a helpless noise in his throat, like the tweet of a small bird.
“Oh, yessss,” Mahoney hissed. “Fake as a three-dollar bill! Fake as Sammy Davis Junior’s eye! The matches are bunko. I win because we draw it up that way. The punches and kicks don’t hurt—hell, most times we don’t even touch each other. It’s a big scam, and you bought into it.”
“You be quiet,” Dunk said. “You just shut up.”
Mahoney laughed in Dunk’s face.
“My opponent tonight, the Boogeyman? His name is Barry Schenk. Used to be a math teacher. Good guy. We head to the bar after our matches and have a laugh. We’re
friends
.”
Dunk twisted into a wretched ball. Mahoney’s expression softened abruptly. He reached out and put his fingers on Dunk’s shoulder. Dunk withdrew from his touch.
“I’m sorry, son,” Mahoney said. “You shouldn’t pay me any mind. I’m a drunk and a clown. You ever see an old clown, boys? No. Old clowns don’t die, though.”
He stood. His eyes
It was burnt, which was a blessing: I assumed the taste of char was better than the taste of raccoon. Mahoney ate in silence, backhanding the juice that dribbled down his chin.
We lay in the grass. I was exhausted but couldn’t let myself fall asleep next to Bruiser Mahoney—cold snakes squirmed in my belly just thinking about it. The stars were bright in a way they never were in my suburb. The moon was perfectly halved, like a paper circle folded over. The sky so clear that I could see calligraphic threads on the moon’s surface.
“Did you know,” Mahoney said, “that the Russians sent dogs into space? My mother told me this when I was a boy. Nobody knew the effects of space on a body, you see, so they sent dogs first. They found two mongrels on the streets of Moscow. Pchelka, which means Little Bee, and Mushka, which means Little Fly. They went up in
Sputnik
6. They were supposed to get into orbit and come right back. But the rockets misfired and shot them into space.
“Whenever I look at the night sky, I think about those dogs.Wearing these hand-stitched spacesuits, bright orange, with their paws sticking out. Big fishbowl helmets. How …
crazy
. Floating out and out into space. How bewildered they must have been. Freezing, starving, dying from oxygen deprivation. For what? They would have happily spent their days rummaging through trashcans.
“For all anyone knows those dogs are still out there. Two dead mongrels in a satellite. Two dog skeletons in silly spacesuits. Gleaming dog skulls inside fishbowl helmets. They’ll spin through the universe until they burn up in the atmosphere of an uncharted planet. Or get sucked into a black hole to be crushed into a ball of black matter no bigger than an ant turd.”
Bruiser Mahoney laughed. The sound sent a shiver through my gums. His laughter rolled out and out into the wilderness; the sound didn’t touch anything I could recognize or draw hope from.
“Who
are
you?” I asked—the most searching, most innocent question I’ve asked in my life.
Mahoney propped himself up on one elbow. His fingers were black with dried raccoon blood.
“What do you mean?” he asked, a child himself. When he caught the aim of my question his lips curled back from his teeth. “Am I not still your hero?” he said, deathly soft. “The mighty Bruiser Mahoney?
Ooh
, you’re a smart boy. You’ve figured me out, haven’t you? Unmasked me. Well then, I guess that makes this the hour of truth. Let’s lay all the cards on the table, hmm? Card one: I’m not Bruiser Mahoney. My name is Dade Rathburn. I was born in Orillia, Ontario. Before becoming a wrestler I was a janitor at a box factory. I’ve spent time in jail—once for beating a man half to death outside a bar, and once again for passing phony cheques.
Mahoney?
I don’t have a drop of Irish blood in me! I’m a fake, boys.” Coldness crept into his voice. “And I’ll slap down card number two: wrestling’s fake, too.”
Dunk made a helpless noise in his throat, like the tweet of a small bird.
“Oh, yessss,” Mahoney hissed. “Fake as a three-dollar bill! Fake as Sammy Davis Junior’s eye! The matches are bunko. I win because we draw it up that way. The punches and kicks don’t hurt—hell, most times we don’t even touch each other. It’s a big scam, and you bought into it.”
“You be quiet,” Dunk said. “You just shut up.”
Mahoney laughed in Dunk’s face.
“My opponent tonight, the Boogeyman? His name is Barry Schenk. Used to be a math teacher. Good guy. We head to the bar after our matches and have a laugh. We’re
friends
.”
Dunk twisted into a wretched ball. Mahoney’s expression softened abruptly. He reached out and put his fingers on Dunk’s shoulder. Dunk withdrew from his touch.
“I’m sorry, son,” Mahoney said. “You shouldn’t pay me any mind. I’m a drunk and a clown. You ever see an old clown, boys? No. Old clowns don’t die, though.”
He stood. His eyes
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