“When I was growing up we had one phone in the whole ’partment building, in the hall at the top of the stairs. All the families used it, that one phone, if somebody was sick or needed to call the butcher or his bookie. Now everybody’s got a phone. Little kids got phones. This morning I seen a kid talking on one.”
Bud’s eyes lit up-he’d remembered something from that morning. Through his brain he chased the young girl with the tiny phone, hoping she’d lead him to wherever he was supposed to be. But, like the rest of day, she slipped away into a bunch of dim fragments.
“Are you from here?” Hanna asked.
“Yeah, I was born south of the Slot. Used to fight here professionally,” he said, marshalling thoughts into a familiar pattern, one that made sense. “Middleweight. I’m heavier now but not by much. I was right in the thick of it back then, fought all kinds of main events. The Civic, Oakland Auditorium. I was on the undercard when Joey Maxim fought Ezzard Charles here for the title. I fought in L.A. a bunch of times, but never back east. Here in this town, I was a big draw. I gave value-that’s what the promoters used to say. Those were the days. My days.”
He watched the city glide by outside the window. Every street seemed to be under construction, like the whole town was being rebuilt. Nothing looked familiar. Inside, the car was as silent as a tomb; he couldn’t even hear the engine running.
“Where can I drop you?” she said.
He felt defensive, like he was being backed into a corner. His mind raced, but didn’t get beyond the usual place.
“I fought Ray Robinson one time, can you top that? I beat him, too. Right up here at the Civic. Knocked him out in the sixth round. Set him up with a hook, made him bend at the waist. Then over the top I came with a big right cross. Bang! Just like that. The crowd went nuts. Local guy knocking out Sugar Ray, can you top that? I fought ’em all, one time or another. What a life I led.”
It went on like that for blocks. A litany of Bud Callum’s ring accomplishments, each opponent growing in stature, each bout becoming a greater life-or-death battle. Hanna didn’t know anything about boxing, but she knew she wasn’t hearing the truth. It sounded too much like the lies Uncle Bob told the other residents at the retirement home, before they’d had to move him to the assisted-living facility. Before they dared even speak the dreaded A-word.
Bud took his eyes off the street and peered at the woman. In profile, she looked like Nora. Same angular nose, same strong jaw. He was suddenly back in the apartment they had on Jerrold Street. He saw the kitchen curtains that she’d made and the ugly pink-and-brown speckled linoleum they both hated, and for a split second he smelled the burning remnants of the dinner he’d tried to make for her twenty-fifth birthday, when he had no money to take her out.
“You look like my wife,” Bud said.
Hanna blushed. “How long have you been married?”
“She’s dead.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, cheeks reddening. “Was it recently? That she died?”
“Tell you the truth, I can’t remember. I think it was a long time ago. She was beautiful, I remember that.” They fell quiet as traffic on Ninth Street surrounded them.
“Where can I drop you?” she asked, delicately.
“I guess I should go home. Can you take me?”
“Sure. Where’s home?”
“You know, where I live.”
“Well, actually, I don’t know. What’s the address?”
“I can’t remember right now. It’s around here somewhere.”
She drove back and forth on the grid of one-way streets South of Market for the next half hour, while he searched for a landmark he recognized. The problem was, he recognized everything as it was sixty years ago, and delivered a running commentary about what used to be there: the bakery where the homeless shelter now was, a nightclub that had been the glass works, the office building that replaced Coliseum Bowl, the combination boxing arena and rollerskating rink. He knows exactly where he lives, Hanna suspected. He just wants somebody to talk to. Like Uncle Bob. She wondered if Bud Callum knew there was something wrong with him.
“Mr. Callum,” she said, tentatively. “Are you seeing a doctor?”
Doctor. Medicine. Prescription. Drugstore. That’s where he was supposed to go: the drugstore. Joan had gotten him a prescription for some kind of medicine she wanted him to take. Oh Christ, he could hear her now, bitching about how long it took to arrange that appointment at the free clinic. They had a huge fight when he refused to go. There’s nothing the matter with me! he yelled. But he went. Joan was unstop-pable; she always won in the end.
Bud dug into his pants pocket. He still had the slip for the prescription. What about the money? She’d given him cash. A bill, one big bill-a hundred dollars. He couldn’t find it. Joan would kill him. Where had the money gone? It was right in his hand, he could see it.
“Did you lose something?” Hanna asked.
Suddenly, Bud was afraid. He wanted to go home.
“Sixth. I live on Sixth Street,” he said.
Bud didn’t want Nora to leave. He could tell she didn’t believe all the things he’d said, the stories he’d told her about what he’d made of himself, and how close he’d come to fighting for a title. She needed to know. Nora needed to know.
“Please,” he said, looking at her behind the wheel of the expensive automobile. “Come up just for a minute. I’ve got something I want to show you. Please. It’s been a long time, and I just-please.”
What’s the proper payback for someone who’s saved your life? Certainly more than she’d given so far.
“I’d love to, but-there’s no place to park.” It was automatic, the quintessential San Francisco excuse.
“There’s a space right there,” he said, pointing.
She’d never been inside squalor, only driven past. Everything about the building scared her: the creaking of the old warped floors, the stains and graffiti all over the walls, the neglect that hung in the dingy corridor, the misery she imagined behind every door. When she heard the muffled screaming of a baby, she thought she’d be sick. And the worst part was, she knew this wasn’t the bottom.
Bud lived at the far end of the second floor. One bedroom, a bathroom with a shitty shower. A hot plate, no stove. He kept it clean as a whistle.
Uncle Bob had four rooms, an ocean view from each, and a staff of nurses ’round-the-clock: eight thousand dollars a month.
“Wait here,” he told her. “You can sit right there if you like. I can make tea or coffee.”
“That’s okay. I can’t stay long.”
She sat at a small Formica-topped table while he went into the next room and rummaged around. A narrow band of sunlight cut through the window, slicing between buildings across the alley. Bud Callum came back with a scrapbook, which he set in front of her.
“Just look at it for a minute,” he said. “So you’ll know. You’ll know I wasn’t making that stuff up. You think there’s something wrong with me, that I’m ready for the nut house. But I did all that. Here, look. It’s real.”
She slowly turned the black pages, scanning a procession of brittle clippings that told the tale of Bud Callum’s rise. It was a hell of a life, a lot more dramatic than anything Uncle Bob had ever done. Looking at a big halftone of Bud throwing a punch, Hanna had to laugh. “My lucky day,” she said, tapping the picture. “At precisely the right moment, this guy came into my life.”
Bud smiled and went back to the other room. From the top shelf of the closet he pulled down his old foot locker and flung it on the bed. He started digging through it. Nora’s pictures were in there. Weren’t they? This is where he kept them, where they’d always been. She’d see the resemblance, once he showed her. Nora. He hadn’t looked at those pictures in ages. Or had he? They’d better be here. Joan better not have moved them, or thrown them out.