A Book of American Martyrs

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Jamala’s eyes were swollen, beginning to blacken. Her face that had been a savage-beautiful face scarcely a half hour before was now battered and raw-looking. The gold tooth might be loose in her jaw, she might be spitting blood. She might urinate blood that night. But she was ecstatic, euphoric. A kind of boundless love leapt from her to D.D. Dunphy like an explosion of music too loud to be heard but only felt as sheer throbbing vibrations for the swollen-faced white girl standing in the aisle gazing at her in adoration—except there came friends screaming “Jamala! J’mala!”—swarming at her, screaming their love for her and grabbing at her. And in the arena supporters were on their feet wildly applauding Princess Jamala Prentis as if she’d won the fight.

  In the aisle flatfooted D.D. Dunphy stood forgotten, watching, trying with her hurt mouth to smile too.

  UNTIL THE NEXT FIGHT which would eradicate the shame of the draw-fight it would be said to her You won. Should have won. God damn bastards stole it from you.

  Training without complaint though often her head felt like the interior of a bell. A thin high ringing in her ears. The bruised ribs ached and at last it was discovered in an X-ray that the rib had been fractured.

  Scars in the area of the eye which would heal but not fade. In the eyebrow, a tiny sickle-shaped white scar.

  Slowly returning to her full strength. Not immediately beginning to spar again but, in time.

  Drilled into her Do not lower your left when you throw a cross. Do not ever lower your left. And do not look away from your opponent.

  She was being groomed for the WBA women’s welterweight championship. But first, she must win the Midwest Women’s Boxing Association title.

  In the MWBA, D.D. Dunphy was ranked at number nine.

  In the WBA, D.D. Dunphy was ranked at number twelve.

  Smiling nervously to think how the next fight would be televised—“Almost probably” as Cass Cassidy said.

  ESPN boxing night, Pittsburgh Armory on undercard of a fight between (male) heavyweights Kevin Johnson, Homer Cruze. This was a possibility!

  Smiled thinking of this as slowly she was plaiting the hair.

  Jamala had entrusted her. Rich oily-black hair plaited into cornrows. It was a loving process—it was very slow, exacting. Her fingers were (just slightly) clumsy. Large fingers, small plaits of hair.

  Seemed that she was standing before a mirror bent over the girl, the head, an attentively lowered head, no longer shaved but springy with hair, thick with hair, that had to be arranged in fastidious cornrows. But she could not see the face of the (brown-skinned) girl. Still she knew that the girl was Jamala with long hair now, that had to be tight-plaited. Oily fragrance of the hair, slightly coarse in her fingers as her own was coarse, wiry-tough. She loved this smell, wanting to press her face against the hair. Those parts of the scalp that were exposed.

  Love you like Jesus loves you. Wish you loved me.

  THE NEXT FIGHT, she won by a TKO. And the next, by a third-round knockout.

  But no TV. (Not yet.)

  Showered her body running her hands briskly up and down her sides. Water as hot as she could bear. The pleasure of hot water against her aching muscles, the torn-feeling ligament in her neck, throb of her lower back where (impossible to avoid!) her kidneys had been pounded. Lifting her face to the spray. Shut her eyes, opened her mouth, with the soap poking shyly about her body, between legs, between breasts. That sensation of hot water streaming over her, a sensation like caressing.

  Rough embraces of the other boxer, after the fight. Grabbing at each other. Dazed and exhilarated, stunned, drunk with adrenaline, like carbonation in the blood—feeling no pain, or anyway not yet.

  Sharp pains in her neck, dull throb at the base of her skull. Dr. Danks prescribed pills, Ernie gave her. And the other, smaller white pills Ernie gave her, one each morning, never forget for it was essential that she not bleed.

  Still she was working at Target. Part-time, not half-time. There were no workers’ benefits for either half- or part-time but if (for instance) D.D. Dunphy needed prescription meds, needing to make an appointment with Dr. Danks, needed X-rays—all covered by Dayton Fights, Inc.

  Plus dentistry. Plus new boots, new gloves, new fleece-lined nylon jacket of a higher quality than the Target merchandise she could get with her worker’s discount.

  Plus, each Sunday at the Zion Missionary Church she left a (folded, inconspicuous) ten-dollar bill in the collection basket.

  She was proud—That girl can take a punch.

  Not so fast on her feet as certain of her rivals. But harder-hitting, with the (alleged) punch of a man. She was trained to defend herself but boxing is not about defense but offense. Two defensive boxers, you stink up the arena. Fans will boo, catcall. Female boxers too often fell into clinches. Dunphy did not like clinches—you could count on her to shove the other female away. Often she was not fast enough to slip a punch and so it was drilled into her, how to take a punch.

  That was how the (aging, slower) Ali won his famous fight against (very young, very hard-hitting) George Foreman. Rope-a-dope. Foreman punched himself out on Ali, lost all his strength and could no more punch than a girl or a child by the end of the fight. Fantastic!

  Her eyes were becoming more sensitive. She wore dark glasses outdoors. Her eyes swelled easily. Hematomas developed more quickly than in the past. She could “see”—all she needed to see, to fight.

  Rainbows, shimmering blurs. The strongest fighting is by instinct not by craft or calculation.

  She did not tell her trainer, corner men, Mr. Cassidy or even her friend Mickey Burd how blurred her vision was sometimes. During the fight if she told them, the fight would be stopped. If the referee knew, or the ringside physician, the fight would be stopped.

  Or, Ernie would not stop the fight and she would understand that they didn’t give a damn for D.D. Dunphy only for the crowd applauding her. For the Hammer of Jesus had fans, followers. These were men. Bringing the crowd to its feet, or almost. Some of the crowd. The kind of fans willing to pay money for serious boxing.

  In the car where they’d told her to wait D.D. Dunphy sat eating a hero sandwich with shaky fingers. They’d taken her to Dr. Danks for vitamin shots. She was so hungry: sausage, tomato, onion, drenched in mustard, running down her hands.

  She wasn’t sending Edna Mae much money lately. Seemed like, Edna Mae could have written to her, to thank her. But her great-aunt Mary Kay wrote. Mary Kay was promising to see her fight “real soon” if it wasn’t too far away like Cleveland, Cincinnati.

  Saying she was a “good brave girl.” Saying that Edna Mae loved her but “found it hard to say what is in her heart.”

  After the sixth fight when D.D. Dunphy was raised to number three MWBA welterweight contender and number seven WBA contender a televised fight was almost certain sometime in the New Year (2010).

  In an envelope carefully printed EDNA MAE DUNPHY she mailed five hundred-dollar bills as she’d mailed in the past. Of this Jesus approved for it was turning the other cheek, returning love where there was not love, or did not seem to be love.

  Momma, this is for you. Hope everybody there is OK.

  If you want to call me my number is ——.

  I am a “ranked” fighter now. I am a “contender.”

  I am doing pretty well. Look for me on TV in (maybe) January next year.

  Love

  Your Daughter Dawn

  “D.D. Dunphy”—“Hammer of Jesus”

  ANOTHER TIME she’d been pounded in the lower back. In the kidneys.

  In the lavatory before she flushed the toilet she saw, and looked quickly away. Oh, why had she looked!

  That languid curl of red in her urine.

  HAVE TO SAY, I was surprised Dunphy turned out so terrific.

  First sight of her (in the gym) was not impressive. Looked to me like some homely girl stumbling over her own feet, that clumsy. And her legs short, and her arms—you could see her reach was shit. But Ernie Beecher kept saying, Du
nphy has promise. Give her a chance.

  Turned out Ernie was correct. Just took a little time.

  A girl boxer is not much different from a male in training. They can be just as serious. But they can get discouraged faster. Dunphy was not like that—Dunphy did not get discouraged.

  Right away you could see how strong she could punch. It’s said—you are born with a punch, or you are not. If you are born with a punch you can be trained to use it. If not, not.

  Dunphy was real promising with that left hook and a cross-over right and a left uppercut she could sometimes land exactly on the tip of the chin like you are supposed to—despite her short reach. She was a terrific counter-puncher once she got excited—nothing could stop her.

  Everyone commented how Dunphy had heart. She would not be stopped. You’d have to kill her to stop her. That is the warrior-type—you would have to kill them to stop them. People were saying, Cass you got a girl-Tyson there.

  But there’s no comparison, see. Girls don’t hit hard—not like Tyson. Any injury that happens it’s a weakness in the opponent, or she falls sideways and hits her head on the ring post. Or in sparring, they clinch and hit each other’s kidneys. The actual punch, even Dunphy’s—is not that great no matter how it looks. A man could take it.

  Well—they can get concussed in a fight. That is true. There’s female boxers pretty punch-drunk, I guess. That is so.

  It’s a weakness in the female skull. You can’t hit it without the brain kind of swishing inside like something in water—like if there’s a sac or something, and you shake it. But Dunphy had a hard punch, male or female notwithstanding, and could protect herself.

  Problem was, the public don’t like to look at females who look like athletes or like men. That’s what the promoters say, and the TV producers, and advertisers. What they say is correct because they say it. They are buying goods and nobody blames them.

  We got this neighborhood girl Mickey Burd who’d been one of Ernie’s girl-boxers to help us out. She sweet-talked Dunphy into having her hair streaked, getting showy tattoos, ear studs. Even thinned Dunphy’s eyebrows a little so she didn’t look like some kind of female orangutan.

  Dunphy had a high threshold for pain. The fans can mistake that for courage. If she was hit, she’d laugh. If she’d lost a tooth she’d have spat it out on the canvas and just laughed, and kept on with the fight. Like Arturo Gatti or what’s-his-name—“Boom Boom” Mancini—she’d give all she had for the crowd, wouldn’t hold nothing back. A boxer like that will risk everything trying for a knockout, make the fans cheer.

  If she was lonely, that had to feel good to her. Hearing people she didn’t know cheering for her.

  Her breasts were kind of heavy for a female boxer but we taped them as close to flat as we could without injury. Or maybe there was injury. Dunphy would never let on. The pills she took we arranged for her, she never had a period. She didn’t bleed like a normal girl or woman will bleed. You’d think the black blood would be backed up inside them like sewage, wouldn’t you?

  Maybe that is so. You hear all kinds of things.

  THE CONSOLATION OF GRIEF

  SEPTEMBER 2011–FEBRUARY 2012

  “TRUE SUBJECT”

  When you encounter your true subject, you will know it.

  She had faith. She had not ceased waiting.

  MUSKEGEE FALLS, OHIO:

  SEPTEMBER 2011

  Sun-splotched Muskegee River, dazzling the eye.

  The hue of the river was tarnished pewter. Patches of reflected sun like fire in the choppy waves.

  A strange beauty in the sound: “Mus-kee-gee.”

  She’d been driving through Ohio farmland for hours. Rolling hills like those sculpted hills in the paintings of Thomas Hart Benton. Acres of cornfields dun-colored, and the cornstalks dried and broken, fields of harvested wheat, stubble.

  Early autumn. Beauty of slanted light, desiccated things.

  Beside the highway the river’s current was quickened, there had been a heavy rain the previous day.

  Slow-circling hawks high overhead. She’d been noticing, glancing skyward. Did hawks hunt together? There were several wide-winged birds soaring, dipping, gliding on wings that scarcely moved. Like those drifting thoughts of which you are not altogether aware.

  He’d have driven this route, she thought. When he’d driven south and east from Michigan.

  Exiting the interstate at Bowling Green, or Findlay. South through Upper Sandusky to Broome County south of Wyandotte. On two-lane state highways through rural Ohio (hilly, farmland, dense-wooded) to Muskegee Falls where he’d begun his new life.

  She’d learned that Gus Voorhees’s life had been threatened many times. She had not known, and didn’t believe that Darren had ever known, that their father had been verbally attacked numerous times in public places, and physically attacked several times; when they’d lived in Grand Rapids he’d been accosted in the parking lot of the women’s center, beaten so badly he’d had to be taken to the ER. (Yet, when Naomi tried to remember anything like this, her father visibly injured, hospitalized, she could not remember a thing. Possibly, there’d been a pretense that Daddy was out of town for a while.) Fires had been started at virtually all of the women’s centers in which he had worked—there’d been vandalism to the buildings, and to vehicles parked outside. Not just doctors but nurses and other staffers had been threatened. It was shocking to learn belatedly that they’d all been threatened—Gus Voorhees’s wife, children.

  All this had been kept secret from the children. Perhaps some of it had been kept secret from the wife.

  Madelena had said But that’s why he moved away, Naomi. And Jenna had refused to go with him. To protect you. The children.

  She hadn’t wanted to think that this might be true. That her father had known he might be killed, and had continued with his medical work nonetheless.

  Gus Voorhees had not given into his enemies, as he’d insisted. But his enemies had had their revenge nonetheless.

  How lonely the countryside was, in this part of rural Ohio! Farmhouses were far apart, and set far back from the road; the communities through which she drove were just a few scattered houses, a gas station and a few stores, churches.

  (Did this part of Ohio remind her of Huron County, Michigan? Any of these country roads might have been the Salt Hill Road.)

  Thinking such thoughts she almost missed her turn to Muskegee Falls. Turning left, to the east, to cross the Muskegee River.

  And this route too, her father had taken. Carefully she’d mapped out the routes he must have driven.

  The bridge to Muskegee Falls (population 26,000) was an old, dignified, single-span bridge of another era. It was narrow: barely two lanes. Speed limit fifteen miles an hour.

  If she hadn’t known she (probably) could not have guessed: the choppy pewter-colored river was flowing north to south, perpendicular to the bridge she crossed in her small rented vehicle. The falls for which the town was named was a quarter mile upstream shrouded in mist.

  A rapid succession of shadows cast by the bridge’s rusted girders fell onto the vehicle. Across the hood, fleetingly onto the windshield (insect- and seed-flecked, that needed washing—she must stop for gas soon), invisibly then onto the roof, and gone.

  Splotched sunlight, the moving shadows of the girders, the gleam of the car hood—Naomi recalled how strobe lighting can trigger epileptic fits. Rapid patterned flashes of light can have a narcotic effect upon the brain. Her (half-)uncle Karl Kinch, her grandmother’s invalid son, could not tolerate ordinary daylight still less electric or fluorescent lighting. If Kinch ventured outside he wore dark glasses to protect his brain from further poisoning but mostly he did not venture outside. He’d had to hide himself from the world in order to save himself.

  But she did not want to think of Kinch, not now. Not in Muskegee Falls, Ohio, where (at last) she’d traveled, alone.

  Clearly visible now were the falls, that spanned the width of the river, approximately t
hirty feet high, whitely churning, sending up spray and froth. There is a fascination in cascading water, Naomi had to wrench her eyes away for fear of becoming entranced behind the wheel of her car. She’d affixed the video recorder to the window beside her to record the view her father would have seen in the last months of his life.

  She was determined to make a video of the place in which Gus Voorhees had briefly lived, bravely worked, died. The circumstances of his life in Muskegee Falls. So many years had passed, she believed that she must be strong enough now.

  Madelena had said Just go, dear. Take as long as you need. It will take courage. Do what you need to do. Call me.

  She had come to love her grandmother. This love had happened without her wishing it to have happened and now that Madelena was not well, she felt her love for the woman with a particular sort of desperation. She felt like one who has had a vast quantity of time and so has squandered much of that time, feeling now the horror of time rapidly passing like water through her fingers.

  But please call me. We will miss you!

  At first Madelena had not thought that Naomi’s intention of creating an archive of her father’s life was a good, or even a workable idea. How long would such a project be? How could she bring it to a reasonable end? And what would she do if and when she uncovered damaging things about her father?

  She didn’t expect to discover “damaging” things about her father—Naomi said.

  Amending then, of course she understood: all lives are imperfect. Even Gus Voorhees was imperfect.

  She was twenty-four years old—which seemed to her no longer young. She must hurry.

  For the past two years she’d been working as an assistant to a documentary filmmaker attached to the New York Institute—her first real job. The project was tracking the lives of a family of Somalis living in New York City and in Minnesota. The work had been exacting, and exciting; she had learned a great deal. She believed that she was ready to prepare a documentary of her own.