Welcome to False Choices. This story is part of a series on Detroit, the city where I grew up. Detroit Morning is also part of the series. If you are new here, enjoy my work and would like to support this substack please
The intercom crackled to life. Sister Ruth’s voice started, cleared and then started again.
“There will be a special Mass today for the soul of our classmate’s father, Joseph Bates, at 10:00 in the upper church.”
Billy Bates wasn’t in class. He’d not been in for a few days. We knew his father died, Mr. Allen at homeroom told us the news, but that was all we knew. No one talked about how, or why or where. It seemed wrong to ask.
At 10:00 we all lined up and marched into the upper church. Billy was there with his Mom and three brothers and some other family members. They were dressed up. I looked at him but he didn’t see me. I was too far behind. We were sad about his Dad, and we didn’t know what to say to Billy, or any of his brothers, or his Mom for that matter.
When we went to take communion, I saw Billy and I know he saw me. But we didn’t talk or nod across the distance of the long pews. But I know he saw my sad face and I saw his.
At the paper station that Sunday, Mr. DeLaurio asked me when Billy was coming back. I didn’t know and told him I didn’t know.
“I can’t do his route forever. If he wants to keep it he needs to get in here and do it.”
I saw Billy in school the next day, for the first time since the Mass on Friday. I told him what DeLaurio told me. Billy said “screw him.” When I went to the station later, Billy didn’t come again. So I told Mr. DeLaurio to give me the list for the route and the papers. I did my route first and then I went back and got Billy’s papers and the list and pedaled his route. I rode up the drive same time as Pops. He asked why I was so late?
“I did Billy Bates’ route, too.”
“You gonna’ get paid for that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, just a favor for Billy, till he can get back.”
I saw Billy at school the next day and we played catch at lunch. It was stupid because the sun was out but it was still too cold to play catch. My throwing hand froze, and we gave up.
“I did your route yesterday, you gotta’ come back or DeLaurio will give it away.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
Some girls were standing outside, freezing and shuffling around. “Hey Billy,” they said. Billy was amazed and didn’t know what to say. So I said “Hey, what’s up?” and they all stared at me like I had horns.
That afternoon the papers were late and Billy finally showed up and he was still in his school clothes. His eyes were all bloodshot. He smelled bad, like dope smoke. And even the half asleep Mr. DeLaurio noticed because he gave Billy a long look.
Some boys at school learned some about how Billy’s Dad died. I didn’t want to listen though. I heard them talking earlier about Mack, the old man at the candy store who had only one hand. He lost his hand in a press, they said. There were lots of men like that, men with missing fingers from working on the presses. You met them everywhere, at church or the barber shop, or the candy store. They said the funeral was “closed casket” and then I hurried away cause I couldn’t stand thinking about it.
On Saturday I delivered the comics and the tv guide with the thin Saturday paper, just the front page and the sports section. Everyone wanted the tv guide so they paid the bill for the week. When I was done I had a huge pocket of change and a wad of bills. I stopped by the bridge over I-94 and thought about it, diner or no diner. Billy came off the bridge then.
“You collect already?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Billy said. We stood over our bikes.
“God, I’m hungry, you wanna go to the diner?”
“Nah,” Billy said, “I gotta give the route money to my Mom from now on.”
“K. Then just come over to my house and we’ll make something.” So Billy followed me home. The house was empty. Dad was at work and the rest were out somewhere. I don’t know. We put on a can of beans and two hot dogs cut up and buttered some bread. When the beans came to a boil I split them between two plates. We always used to talk a lot but we didn’t talk hardly at all. I poured ketchup on mine. We ate the beans, and dipped the bread into the sauce. Then we watched wrestling on tv. I gave Billy a shove because we used to wrestle sometimes during the commercials, but he just rolled backwards and smiled a little. He didn’t want to.
“Whatchu’ wanna do?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Billy said. He was laying straight back now and looking at the ceiling.
I started to count my money. I had plenty to pay my paper bill in the morning, and nine houses left to collect still. Billy had enough, too.
I piled the dishes into the sink and we put our coats back on. I followed Billy into the yard and we pedaled our bikes back to his house, about ten blocks away. The sun was in and out now. It would warm up for a few minutes and then behind a cloud the air got cold and the wind cut a little. Billy was ahead of me. He was a little shorter than me, but built like a fireplug, stout and thick and strong. He played the line in football, and was still one of the fastest kids on the team, and pretty fearless. We were in no hurry. Billy stopped at a house when he saw a car in the driveway. He got his money and we reached his house right after. He counted out the money for his bill, and handed everything else over to his Mom, who was embarrassed about it.
“I’m cleaning the upstairs so if you two want to stick around, basement,” she said pointing. She was pretty cross about it so we didn’t say anything, just jumped out of her way. There wasn’t much to do in the basement, no tv or anything. We jousted with some old hockey sticks and a hard plastic ball for a bit. Billy’s little brothers played too until one of them cried when he took a hard shot from Billy in the arm. The twins went upstairs and Billy’s Mom came to the landing to the basement and gave Billy the business about hurting his brother.
“I didn’t mean it, Mom!” Billy said over and over. I tried to make myself invisible. I knew Billy did it on purpose. We hung around for a bit and just passed the ball back and forth. Billy went over to the little room under the steps and came out with some old boxing gloves.
“Let’s give these a try,” he said.
“K.” I was game. I had never really tried boxing before. But we’d both been in fights at the paper station. “Where’d you get the gloves?”
“My old man was a boxer in the Marines, during the war,” Billy said.
We squeezed our hands into the gloves that were already tied at the wrist. Billy had some experience with the gloves. He knew how to duck and move and spar a little.
“Lenny always kicks my ass with these,” Billy said. Lenny was Billy’s older brother.
“No kiddin’” I said. Lenny was big and like three years older than Billy.
Billy was quick and hard to hit, but he got me a couple of time with pretty good shots. I stopped playing around and started to get more serious. Billy too started to throw a lot harder. I covered up my face with the gloves and Billy hit me in the side and the gut a couple of times, pretty hard. I gave him a few then, long hard jobs in the face. His face changed, got screwed up, and he threw a flurry of shots at me. I took a few and then landed a couple myself. Billy’s face got more and more wild. He came at me with everything he could muster. Throwing punches in every direction. I kept backing up and throwing back and his face became crazy. Exhausted we grappled in close and Billy was crying, first a little and then sobbing uncontrollably. His arms finally relaxed and he pushed the top of his head into my shoulder. He let out little yelps of “ahh, ahh” every few seconds and he shook and his nose ran. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there and pretty soon I was holding him up. He was lost in his tears. He fell to his knees and I had to let go.
“I’m sorry, Billy, I’m sorry.” I kept saying it, cause I thought it was the boxing that hurt him so bad.
After a while he sat there on the concrete basement floor and told me what happened.
“The crane at my Dad’s work broke or somethin’ and it landed on him and crushed him. My Uncle Sam told Lenny and I heard it. It was really bad. He had no chance. We couldn’t even see him in the casket.” Billy was still crying, wiping his nose on the boxing glove, his face was soaked, the tears came from everywhere. He laid back and covered his face with the gloves, trying hard to breath in and out.
“Jeez,” I said. I was out of words. I sat down, holding my ankles with the boxing gloves.
“Don’t tell anyone, ok?” said Billy.
“Nah, I won’t, I won’t tell anyone ever.”
After a while, we both struggled to remove the boxing gloves. Our hands were soaking wet. Billy’s Mom, was on the landing. In a hushed voice she said “Billy come upstairs, dear.” So Billy got up and trudged up the stairs. I didn’t know what to do, so after a bit I got my coat and started up the stairs, too. They were in the kitchen, Billy was inside of her arms, crying again. She looked at me with so much hurt. I nodded and left out the side door and rode home.
Sunday the paper was huge. Huge classified ads. I had to put them in a wagon cause the bike couldn’t handle all of them that size. After I was done delivering I dropped by the bakery on Harper and got two raspberry donuts, still warm. I saw Billy a few minutes later and in the warm March morning sun on the bridge over I-94 we each ate a donut carefully, making sure not to let the raspberry filling fall to the ground. We laughed at how much filling there was, and our effort to keep it from hitting the ground. My fingers were dark blue with paper ink but I still had to lick the filling off. What else could I do? Billy did the same, too.
He pedaled along with me as I walked home. We talked a little about collections and stuff. He said that he was going to help his uncle and get paid to clean up his yard. We didn’t talk then or ever about the boxing.
In April Billy’s Mom sold the house and rented a place in Grosse Pointe Park. The boys all went to public school there. Anyway, after a couple of warnings Lenny got kicked out of school for smoking pot. I saw Billy once in a while at the paper station, and sometimes at the diner next door after Saturday collections. He was still friendly at first, but he soon had new friends. He looked away when I caught his eye sometimes. So I didn’t bug him. After Christmas the following winter he gave up his route, and I didn’t see him again for several years.
I ran into his Mom one day at the grocery store. She was tired, haggard really, and was confused when I said “hello Mrs. Bates.” I reminded her that I was Billy’s friend.
“Oh, Billy left for the Marines, last month, just after graduation. His Uncle told him to join the Marines or go to jail like his brother.” She turned and walked away. It was not the pleasant conversation one hopes for in a chance instance like that.