A Book of American Martyrs

by Joyce Carol Oates

  An astonishment, the response of strangers. The reaction of the crowd that was so immediate. The crowd was on her side and wanted her to hurt the other, and to win.

  D.D. Dunphy’s powerful left hook, her sharp right cross. She had practiced these for months, and could now “unpack” them. Inside the other’s feeble defense raining frenzied blows on the opponent as the opponent stumbled back into the ropes, trying desperately to clinch with her stronger opponent, being shoved away, failing, falling.

  Lorina Starr fell heavily, her legs could no longer support her. With an audible thud her head struck the canvas. Panting with excitement D.D. crouched over the opponent not knowing what to do—she had not (yet) had the experience of knocking down, knocking out, an opponent; the situation did not seem real to her, and so she wondered—was this a trick? Was the opponent going to leap up, and attack her? Her heart was beating wildly, flooded with adrenaline. When someone touched her arm—(the referee: urging her to cross the ring into a neutral corner)—her instinct was to punch this person, hard.

  But she did not. She understood. Her handlers had been yelling at her, and she understood.

  In the neutral corner staring with wide blinking sweat-stinging eyes as (at the count of five) the referee stopped the fight, with a swift gesture of crossed forearms, for Lorina Starr was unresponsive.

  In the arena, cries and applause. The first fight of D.D. Dunphy, welterweight, from Dayton, Ohio, had ended in a knockout, a rarity in women’s boxing.

  And in the first round: two minutes forty-two seconds of the first round.

  Was this possible? She had stumbled out of the neutral corner, summoned by the referee. She did not want to look too closely at the fallen Lorina Starr—“The Cougar.”

  Her arm was being raised. Her name was being uttered, amplified—D.D. Dunphy, “Hammer of Jesus”—two minutes forty-two seconds, first round.

  Her trainer was beside her. Her mouthpiece was removed. Her smile was the smile of a blind person confused by waves of sound. Her face looked as if it had been slapped, reddened by the jabs of her opponent, but not bloodied. Her skin was intact. Her lips had not been split. Flat-footed now she stood bathed in sweat, glittering in the bright lights. With a stab of something like guilt she was staring at the fallen opponent, slowly coming to consciousness, helped to her feet by her handlers as the small crowd continued to clap, cheer, whistle. There was approval of D.D. Dunphy’s performance and now there was some (fleeting) acknowledgment of the losing boxer Lorina Starr whose last fight this would be.

  In the ring, in the bright lights, D.D. stood with her gloves lowered at her sides uncertain what to do. She seemed not to know where to go next.

  Then—there was someone—a man—grabbing her, embracing her.

  Her trainer! Ernie Beecher virtually never touched D.D. Dunphy except to tie on and remove her boxing gloves. Now, Ernie was embracing her.

  “Good work, D.D.! Perfect uppercut. Viper-fast.”

  But she’d missed many punches. She’d made mistakes. All that had happened was that her opponent had made more.

  He would tell her that later, in the gym. But not now.

  Lorina Starr was able now to stand without her corner men steadying her, though they were close beside her. Her sallow, scarred face was bleeding from numerous cuts. She was looking so tired now—much older than thirty—possibly by ten years. Trying to speak, even to smile jauntily—but she could not. In a rush of emotion D.D. pushed away from her trainer to run to Lorina, to embrace her with girlish enthusiasm, as she’d seen winning boxers embrace their defeated opponents. She was feeling almost weak now with gratitude, relief that the fight was over, that she had won.

  Their skins that were both hot and clammy-feeling skidded together, slick with sweat. From a great distance the cries from the arena echoed around their heads like thunder.

  The opponent’s mouth was swollen, Lorina could not speak. D.D. heard herself cry in a wild wail of a voice—“God bless you—Jesus loves you, too—thank you.”

  Hurriedly then they were made by their handlers to leave the ring. The next boxers, (male) middleweights, buoyed by fresh waves of applause, were already at ringside.

  “D.D. DUNPHY’S first fight.”

  Blurred photos were posted on the front wall at the gym. A newspaper clipping of the fight night in Cleveland on which, in the final, brief paragraph, crucial lines were highlighted in yellow.

  In the gym, spontaneous applause when D.D. appeared the following week.

  Now the eyes were on her, just slightly differently. Not derisive—(not so that she could see)—but subtly envious, admiring.

  FOR THE first fight she was given, in an envelope, $900 in crisp new-smelling bills.

  She had not known how much money she would receive—she’d been reluctant to ask. For she had signed a contract and would be expected to know such details; and yet, she’d had difficulty reading the contract which contained words she had not ever seen before in print. And so she’d put her copy of the contract carefully away for safekeeping in a manila folder in a small cardboard box kept beneath the bed of her rented room. She did not want to be embarrassed in front of her trainer. She did not want to be embarrassed before Mr. Cassidy who seemed both mildly amused by D.D. Dunphy and somewhat perplexed by her, if not disdainful of her as a female boxer. (She’d overheard Cassidy speaking of her as our girl-ox—which was meant to be affectionate, she thought; recalling how for a brief while, at the high school, when she’d been a player on the girls’ basketball team, such remarks were made of Dawn Dunphy, and not meanly.)

  She was thrilled by the sight of so much money. Hundred-dollar bills—nine of them! Her first impulse was to call Luke, to tell him. For some reason she was thinking of her brother. See? What did I tell you? Asshole.

  But no: she felt generous, magnanimous. She loved her brother—she loved them all.

  Though she had not heard from Edna Mae since sending her five hundred dollars some months ago she would send Edna Mae, again in cash, in an envelope addressed to EDNA MAE DUNPHY c/o MARY KAY MACK on Depot Street, Mad River Junction, five hundred of the nine hundred dollars contained inside a plain sheet of paper folded neatly.

  Dear Momma, this is for you.

  Hope you & Anita & Noah are doing OK.

  Please say Hello to Luke & to Mary Kay for me.

  I “won” my first fight in Cleveland. They are saying that I am “on my way.” I did not get on TV this time but maybe next time.

  Hope that your nurse-work is going real well.

  Love

  Your Daughter Dawn

  “D.D. Dunphy”—“Hammer of Jesus”

  “WHEN YOU WIN, lots of people want to be your friend. When you lose, your own damn family don’t want to see you.”

  But Mickey Burd was joking, mostly. Mickey had a high nervous laugh that felt to D.D. like somebody tickling her ribs.

  Somehow it had happened, after the triumph of the first fight, Mickey Burd was her friend. Mickey showed up at the gym one afternoon to watch D.D. Dunphy train, and that was the beginning—she’d rushed at D.D. to embrace her in a tight hug, congratulating her on her win over her first opponent, daring to brush her lips against D.D.’s sweaty cheek. “Damn girl, you are on your way!”

  D.D. had been so taken by surprise she’d let her gloves fall to her sides. Ernie frowned seeing his ex-girl-boxer hugging his new girl-boxer but did not speak harshly to her.

  Between Mickey and D.D. it was Mickey who did 90 percent of the talking which was a relief to D.D. also because Mickey had such a wild sense of humor, D.D. would laugh until her stomach hurt.

  Most of the time, and always when she was alone, D.D. never laughed. What was so funny? Her mind just naturally lapsed into sadness when she was alone. Or when she was shelving merchandise at Target which was almost the same as being alone. She would try to think of how she’d won her first boxing match and how she was already signed up for a second boxing match and how proud her father would be of
her, except her father was not living to know, and anyway when she thought honestly about it, she was not so sure that Luther Dunphy would approve of a girl boxer. She would put it to Jesus for an opinion but He stood a way off if the issue was something trivial for He did not like D.D. to be “brooding” and “sad.” The admonition is to make a joyful noise unto the Lord as she’d been told as a child in the St. Paul Missionary Church. And so she could never think of a single thing funny but Mickey Burd always could.

  Mickey took D.D. Dunphy to her favorite pizzeria, to celebrate her victory over Lorina Starr. “Some ‘cougar’! That bitch is lucky you didn’t break her jaw and it’d have to be wired.”

  On her fingers Mickey counted off things that D.D. should do for herself now that she had a little money.

  “Number one, you can do something with your hair. Right now it’s like you don’t do anything with it, except wash it once in a while, but if you’re in the public eye which is what boxing is, especially women’s boxing, you should stand out, like, in some way special to you. Like, I used to bleach my hair all kinds of colors until it got dried out and brittle like shit so now I’m letting it go back to just brown. But I’ll have blond streaks in it. What you should do, and I can help you, is have streaks put in your hair—like blond, or red—even purple, orange, green—and have the hair cut like a Mohawk, y’know what that is? So you look real butch, but in a fun way.”

  D.D. blushed to hear these words. She knew what a Mohawk was—a haircut that some guys wore.

  “Well, maybe not fun. Because you are a serious athlete—of course. But some connection with, like, Indians—your manager Cassidy can say you have ‘Indian blood’—like Lorina Starr except that poor bitch really is from some damn Indian tribe that gets special tax breaks.” Mickey laughed scornfully. “Lot of good it did her!”

  D.D. wondered why Mickey was so derisive speaking of Lorina Starr. Hadn’t it been enough for the woman to have been knocked out in the ring by a first-time boxer, and to have lost the fight? D.D. had begun to see how in boxing there was ridicule and a kind of fury associated with losers as if putting distance between yourself and them was a way of protecting yourself from them.

  “Did you ever box her?”—D.D. asked impulsively.

  “Fuck her. Never mind her.”

  Mickey seemed annoyed. Probably yes, she’d fought Lorina Starr, and probably she had lost. D.D. wasn’t going to pursue the subject.

  “It’s you we’re talking about, girl. ‘The Hammer of Jesus’—that calls for something special.”

  D.D. was mesmerized by this new friend whom she scarcely knew speaking so matter-of-factly and familiarly about her. Since she’d been Dawn Dunphy living at home she’d never considered that she was a person about whom others might have opinions, let alone strong opinions. Streaks in her hair? Mohawk?

  Only the most asshole guys she knew, working at the mall at Safeway, Walmart, Walgreen’s, Target, wore their hair in Mohawks and these were short, abbreviated Mohawks you could almost mistake for just ordinary spike-haircuts.

  “Let me take you to the beauty salon where my cousin works, and see what they can do for you. Maybe not a Mohawk but something sharp and cool. Ernie says you win your next fight you’ll be on TV probably. You know Ernie never exaggerates. Some color-streaks in your hair will be terrific. Plus tats.”

  “‘Tats’?”

  “Tattoos. You need some great tattoos, to go with your great body.”

  D.D. laughed, shaking her head. She would never consent to a tattoo. It would be the final break between her and Edna Mae and all of Edna Mae’s church-friends, if she did. There was nothing more savage and heathen than tattoos, her parents had believed.

  “I don’t think so, Mickey. That would not be good.”

  “Why’n hell not?”

  “Because—it’s like a heathen thing. It isn’t Christian.”

  “Christ spoke against tats? Like hell He did.”

  D.D. laughed, shocked. She could not recall that Jesus had ever spoken of tattooing the body but it was not like Jesus to restrain or scold.

  “I just think—my church—my kind of church—where my family goes—would not approve . . .”

  But she spoke tentatively. Mickey scowled and laughed at her.

  “There’s all kind of Christian tats. Some of the best tats. There’s Christian rock music, did you know? There’s Christian heavy metal bands. It’s way cool. Fuck, it’s hot. Have some of my beer. You’re not in training every damn minute.”

  “Ernie wouldn’t like it . . .”

  “Fuck Ernie. What’re you, engaged to him? Shit.”

  D.D. was stunned to hear these words. She could not believe that her friend had said such things about Ernie Beecher.

  “See, girl—Ernie doesn’t have to know.”

  Mickey poured water out of D.D.’s water glass and into her own water glass, and poured the remainder of her beer into D.D.’s glass.

  “Go ahead, drink it. It won’t kill you.”

  D.D. lifted the glass reluctantly. The smell of beer had always been intriguing to her. Edna Mae had been upset when Luther drank beer, when she could smell beer on his breath; but others in the Dunphy family drank beer, she knew. Luther’s brothers.

  D.D. took a small taste. Her nose crinkled. The taste was so strong, something flamey ran up her nose. Seeing her friend regarding her so closely D.D. laughed, and hiccupped.

  Mickey’s eyes were mascara-smudged. Often she looked sleepy, as if she’d just wakened from a deep sleep. The dark roots of her hair had grown so that the straw-colored hairs seemed to float an inch or two above her head like a halo. Mickey had a way of licking her lower lip that made D.D. feel shivery as she felt when a cat licked her hand.

  “So, we’ll get your hair cut and streaked, just a little. And a beautiful cool tat. You can pick it out yourself.”

  Blushing D.D. shook her head no. That could never happen.

  MICKEY TOOK HER to the Golden Arrow Tattoo Parlor on Division Avenue.

  This was downtown Dayton where D.D. had not yet been. At the edge of downtown in a neighborhood of taverns, nail salons, pawnshops, tattoo parlors. Division Avenue was a wide windswept littered street, they had to run to cross before the light changed like two high school girls—laughing and shrieking as traffic advanced upon them.

  “Marco, h’lo! Here’s my friend D.D. Dunphy—‘The Hammer of Jesus.’ Next God-damn women’s welterweight champion of the world.”

  Mickey swaggered into the fluorescent-lit tattoo parlor in which the girls were mirrored on the walls in distorted, distended versions of themselves. D.D. saw herself and quickly looked away. Her face was so coarse and plain, her eyebrows so heavy, she felt a pang of loathing.

  “Here. Look here”—Mickey was pointing at tattoo designs displayed on the wall.

  On D.D. Dunphy’s right bicep there came to be tattooed a cross made of crimson roses, four inches in length. On her left bicep, a matching cross of white lilies.

  On her back, close beneath her neck, in an ornamental black font, were tattooed the words JESUS IS LORD.

  It was an enormous undertaking! Hours were required.

  Mickey had gone away, and returned with Cokes and cheeseburgers. D.D. was determined not to wince with pain as the needle pricked, poked, jabbed into her skin, like something alive that was eating her.

  “Oh God, D.D. Those are fucking beautiful.”

  In the mirror D.D. stared at herself. On each of her bare upper arms, a cross. On her back, below her neck, JESUS IS LORD. She’d expected to feel a rush of shame but it was another kind of rush she was feeling.

  CRUDE AND CLUMSY but she had heart. That, D.D. Dunphy had.

  In a boxer the heart is the last thing to go. Just before his life.

  First, they lose heart. Then, they lose their lives.

  “THANK YOU, JESUS.”

  Within the year she was rising within the women’s welterweight division. D.D. Dunphy ranked at number thirteen, then number
ten, then number eight . . . The second match was with a Canadian girl, a former super lightweight boxer from Nova Scotia, moving up now to welterweight, beautifully precise, poised, very fast on her feet, yet like Lorina Starr confounded by Dunphy’s aggressive ring style—Push forward. Get inside. Use your strength. Keep in focus. Hurt her.

  The Canadian girl was named Cameron Krist. She had an American trainer now, an American manager and promoter. She’d had six professional bouts in the States and had won each by a decision. She wore white satin trunks with red trim, a white top with a red maple leaf embossed on front and back. Her pale hair was tight-braided. Her skin was unlined, smooth. She had the poise of an athlete who is confident that she cannot be hit, she is too fast on her feet, and too smart.

  A tall graceful bird confronted by a short graceless shrike-bird on the attack.

  The Hammer was not cautious. The Hammer rushed forward as if blindly.

  The Hammer wore silky black trunks, black T-shirt. Black shoes. On the Hammer’s biceps, vivid tattoos: a cross festooned with white lilies, and a cross festooned with red roses. On her back just beneath her neck the words JESUS IS LORD.

  It had been obvious as soon as the girl-boxers climbed into the ring: the one in the white trunks trimmed with red was the sexually attractive female, the one in the black trunks was the unattractive female. Yet, the excited interest of the (mostly male) spectators leapt to the boxer in the black trunks as she began to batter her opponent and render her hapless, helpless as a girl.

  Because you become a man, battering the other. That is what “man” is—battering the other into submission.

  Krist’s unblemished unlined face was bloodied. Both her eyes would be blackened. A flash of slick red appeared in her nostrils. An inch-long cut in her eyebrow leaked blood. The referee peered at her frowning but did not stop the fight. When Krist tried again to clinch he roughly separated the boxers.

  “Break! Step back.”

  There came isolated cries as the Hammer rushed in for the kill with powerful blows like the sweep of a scythe.

  Remembering Mike Tyson—I like to hit the nose, shove the nose-bone back into the brain.