Mitzvah Man

13

Adam’s been waking up early, no need to adjust his schedule to anyone else’s. He wakes before dawn, exercises , and davens, alone or at the synagogue, then goes to the dojo for practice or a private lesson with his sensei. Some mornings he jogs the paved walk along the Charles, watching the single sculls and crews skimming the quiet water. Today he’s earlier than usual, just past 5:00, and he’s jogging along the path, the river still and empty of boats. Mist rises from the water. He breathes in cool air before the city heats up. He becomes aware of some noise by the river, behind the bushes—some animal, he thinks. Big. Too big for a raccoon. Are there bears in Boston? Then he sees a clump of men, three young guys bent over, and he hears a scream, a howl, and sees a woman on the grass. Adam stops to catch his breath. “Hey!” he calls, absurdly. “HEY!” One of the men stands up and says something, bends down again. He sees him for two seconds at most, but the man’s sway and the stumbling, clumsy stance of the others, it’s enough to let him understand that they’ve been out drinking, and the woman—was she drinking with them? Did they stumble upon her here, was she sleeping off a drunk, is she homeless? Whatever, they’re trying to get into her, he’s sure of that, and yells, “You guys stand up and get out of here. Right now.” He can’t see what’s going on, but he sees her pants have been ripped half-off. He expects her to be a|13| middle-aged lush, but no, she looks young, maybe twenty, who can tell?—a mess, lipstick smeared, dark hair a jumble. “Mister, you get yourself the fuck out of here,” one of the men calls, and hunching, comes toward Adam, who backs away down the bank toward the river so he can’t get jumped from behind. Three drunks without weapons. They’re younger, stronger, but he stays calm. Of course they’re not the same punks who slammed Shira into the car door, but at this moment it’s as if they are, as if he can do them damage. It’s more than helping the woman. He wants to punish them. He takes a defensive stance, foot forward, foot behind, hands open and ready to block, body turned. The youngest man, early twenties, a messy head of blond hair falling over his face, guffaws. “Hey, will you look at that, man. Guy’s scaring the shit out of me.” “Oh, yeah. Old prick’s definitely taken a karate lesson.” “Should we give him another?” The woman staggers to her feet and one of the men punches her twice and pulls her down, though by now they must know they’re not going to gangbang her. In fact, Adam thinks, they’re doing that for my benefit. That guy holds onto her, so he’s facing only two of them. They’re young and tough, white guys—accent sounds like Charlestown or South Boston. One guy, hunched down, comes at Adam slow, looking for an opening, and now he yells “FUCK!” and charges, and when he charges, it’s easy, it’s a move he’s practiced for years. Adam simply steps aside and as the guy tumbles forward, slams the back of his head, tumbling him hard face-first into the mud at the edge of the river. Adam keeps track of him in the fight map in his head, and he turns back to the others. Now another man, beer-fat, his belly hanging over his belt, his shirt open and flapping back like a cape, dives at him to make a football tackle, and the first, behind him, is getting to his feet, so Adam, not to be caught between them, backs away from the tackle, and the guy stumbles and turns. When he swings, Adam blocks the drunken swing and clips him in the throat. He comes again; Adam gets under the punch swing, pulls the guy off balance, slams him hard on the side of the neck, and, grabbing arm and elbow, uses his hip as fulcrum to throw him| 155 Mitzvah Man hard into the first man. He hears a bone crack—arm snapping at the...