A Book of American Martyrs

by Joyce Carol Oates

  There came cries of disappointment and dismay from the crowd. Dunphy continued to swarm forward, throwing punches. Her broad doughy face was bleeding, contorted. She was breathing through her mouth. Though Dunphy was plodding and graceless the mercurial will of the crowd was shifting to her, to the flailing white girl-boxer, that she might overcome the other, more beautiful figure, out of a kind of perversity.

  Dun-phy!

  But Aya was too smart, and too experienced. Even in distress Aya knew to clinch, to punch at her opponent’s kidneys, to get through the round without collapsing.

  And then in the next round, as if her corner men had injected her with a magical potion Aya seemed to have completely recovered. Or almost completely. She even danced about the slower-footed Dunphy, like a bullfighter taunting and tormenting a bull. And Dunphy was slow, leaden-legged. You could feel the effort required for her to lift her dense arms, to protect herself with her gloves.

  And again, the will of the crowd had shifted from Dunphy. Aya was the favorite after all. Of course—“Icewoman” was the favorite: look how beautiful she is, how easily she moves, with what contempt she eludes the fierce-thrown blows of her opponent. When one of Dunphy’s feet slipped and she almost fell, and Aya took advantage to strike Dunphy hard on the side of the head with a lightning-quick blow, the crowd erupted in cheers and whistles.

  Ay-a! A-ya!

  Naomi saw, or believed she could see, small white scars in Dunphy’s eyebrows like bits of exposed bone amid streaks and smears of blood.

  The round ended with flurries of blows from both women. Siri Aya too was breathing through her mouth. Not very steadily she “strode” back to her corner when the bell rang.

  “Who won that round?”—Naomi asked, with dread.

  “Can’t tell. Pretty close.”

  “But is Aya ahead?”

  “Yah. Aya ’way ahead.”

  Yet in the following round Aya behaved unpredictably. She tried to clinch with Dunphy whenever she could—as if, for her, the fight was over: she had won on points. Barring an upset she could not not win the fight, she had only to prevail against her opponent. The crowd sensed this, and became restless. In frustration Dunphy threw off the other’s binding arms, and lunged forward blindly. For a moment the boxers teetered together, and might have fallen except Aya pushed away. Aya was back on her toes. Aya was smiling and taunting her opponent, mocking the other’s clumsiness.

  Always the elegant devious Aya was moving back from her stymied opponent, moving away, moving laterally, out of the range of Dunphy’s wayward blows. When it was necessary she defended herself with raised arms, elbows. Her tight-curled platinum-blond head bobbed and weaved like a snake’s head. She seemed to be taking pleasure in the very strain of the struggle though her beautiful cocoa-skinned face too was flushed, wet with perspiration. Still Dunphy pushed forward, trying to get inside. It was habitual, Dunphy’s dropping of her left glove, unconscious, lethal—in a moment of vulnerability Aya struck Dunphy with a precisely executed right cross to her chin.

  Naomi understood from the eruption of the crowd that Dunphy was hurt. Staggering on her feet she was stunned, she appeared blinded. She could not defend herself. Her gloves sank as if the weight of them were too much for her.

  Naomi cried: “No! No . . .”

  Another blow to Dunphy’s head, blows to her torso, midriff, as the crowd erupted. Naomi felt a tremendous hatred for the crowd, like a pack of animals they were, savage, stupid.

  Yet, Dunphy did not fall even to her knees. Dunphy remained standing, dazed, as the referee began to count: for the referee would not allow Dunphy to continue, in this state; the other boxer would destroy her.

  At the count of six, the bell rang.

  Naomi realized that she was on her feet, horrified. Others in the audience were standing.

  Dunphy stood bleeding and confused in the center of the ring, not knowing what to do. Her corner men came hurriedly to get her.

  Voices were heard—Stop the fight!

  The ring physician was examining Dunphy in her corner. Naomi stood in the aisle, staring. She wanted to cup her hands to her mouth and call—Stop the fight!

  Her throat was hoarse. She hadn’t been aware that she must have been screaming.

  Unbelievably then, the examining physician must have determined that Dunphy was able to continue the fight. Dunphy’s corner men were adamant that Dunphy continue. Dunphy herself was looking less confused, more clear-eyed. Her bloodied face had been washed, styptic deftly applied to her wounds.

  When the bell rang, and the fight continued, Naomi found herself hurriedly descending the steps, approaching the bright-lit ring. There was a roaring in her ears as of a distant waterfall—the noise of the crowd, or the sound of her quick-beating blood in her ears. She was just below the struggling boxers. She could see Dunphy’s grim-set battered face, and she could see the face of the other, not a young face, a drawn and taut face, and she could hear the women grunting, and the scuffing sound of their feet. She had never been so close, so terrifically close to anyone so locked in struggle, in combat. She could smell the struggling bodies. She could smell her own fear. At ringside she tried to make her way to the farther side of the ring where Dunphy’s corner men were seated, for she intended to appeal to them, to plead with them to stop the fight; but her way was blocked by legs and feet, and furious ringside patrons were shouting at her—“Get away! Get the fuck out of here! Crazy bitch.”

  A security guard stopped her—“Whoa there, girl!”

  Her face pounded with heat. Her voice came pleading.

  “The fight—the fight should be stopped. She’s badly hurt. She might have a concussion. Isn’t there anything that can be done?”—even in her distress Naomi made an effort to be reasonable.

  How her parents would smile, she thought. Don’t raise your voice. If you raise your voice you have already lost the argument.

  The guard, tall, youthful middle-age, dark-skinned, regarded her with incredulity. “Ma’am this’s a fight—y’know?”

  “But—Dunphy is being hurt . . .”

  “They taken care of her all right, ma’am. She c’n quit anytime she wants to quit. Best go back to your seat, ma’am. You need help?”

  Naomi drew away, offended. Of course she didn’t need help returning to her seat.

  In her seat, however, she felt very strange. The shouts and cries of the arena came to her as an undersea vertigo. Her eyes had narrowed as in a mimicry of tunnel vision and so she was spared the spectacle in the boxing ring at which she dared not look.

  One of the boxers had slipped, or had been struck, and had fallen to one knee. Astonishingly it was not Dunphy but the other, the opponent with the tight-curled platinum-blond hair and smooth cocoa skin: the cries of the crowd made it difficult for Naomi to concentrate on identifying who had been hurt.

  Was this a “knockdown”?—the referee had begun his count. Dunphy had crossed to a neutral corner.

  By a count of nine Aya was on her feet. Shrewdly the veteran boxer knew to take nearly the full count, to recover her strength.

  But she was shaky, out of breath. Dunphy ran at her like a maddened steer and struck at her as her gloves flailed helplessly. At last Dunphy was inside. Dunphy struck Aya several blows yet Aya did not fall but clutched at her, desperate to stay on her feet. The boxers swayed, nearly fell into the ropes. Curtly the referee said: “Break!”Dunphy wrenched away preparing to fight but Aya lowered her head, seemed to be ducking, and falling against Dunphy—

  Sudden bright blood on Dunphy’s forehead, over her right eye. A terrible gash of several inches in thin scar tissue that had scarcely healed since the last fight.

  It had been a head-butt. Not a legitimate blow but a foul. Dunphy sank to her knees, and fell to her hands and knees, and what looked like part of her mouth fell out onto the canvas—broken teeth?—Naomi was horrified until she realized that it must be a mouthpiece . . .

  Shouts and screams in the arena. Protests.
The referee was waving his arms briskly over his head, stopping the fight.

  At once Dunphy’s corner men climbed into the ring, to loudly protest. And there was the forlorn, badly bleeding boxer now on her feet, trying to protest.

  So abruptly, the fight was ended. Dunphy was led to her corner where she sat heavily, dazed as the wound in her forehead was examined.

  Naomi could not see what was happening in the ring. Too many individuals climbed through the ropes and all of them men—except for Siri Aya strutting about lifting her gloves in triumph.

  The crowd was not happy. The ring announcer was asking for attention.

  “ . . .winner and still champion Midwest Boxing League Women’s Welterweight Siri “Icewoman” Aya . . .”

  A hefty belt studded with faux gems, absurdly ornamental, was buckled about Aya’s waist.

  Defiantly Aya raised her gloves, circling the ring like royalty. Her long shapely arms glittered with tattoos. Her face was drawn with fatigue and yet she was smiling, she would not cease smiling so long as she was in the ring and cameras were flashing. Applause erupted, but many protests. The ring announcer raised his voice to be heard over the commotion.

  “ . . .and let’s have a round of applause for contender D.D. ‘Hammer of Jesus’ Dunphy for a fine, spectacular performance this evening . . .”

  Dunphy was not to be seen. Boos and catcalls continued. Naomi found herself standing in the aisle beside her third-row seat which (it seemed) she’d abandoned. She was clutching her camera which she’d forgotten to use. She was exhausted, emotionally drained as if she’d been locked in a pitiless struggle herself, and had been defeated.

  There was jostling in the aisle. Security guards were preventing anyone from approaching the ring.

  “Ma’am, move along. Everybody clear the aisle.”

  Clearing the aisle was not so easy. Slowly she made her way up the steps, to the exit. This involved a good deal of jostling and many minutes. But the exit was also an entrance. Many patrons were streaming in.

  In her bag she’d found Marika’s card—Dayson Fights, Inc. She tried to show this to a security guard insisting that she was a friend of D.D. Dunphy and was expected in Dunphy’s dressing room but the guard scarcely glanced at it.

  “Ma’am, this area off-limits. You need special ID here.”

  SHE WOULD LEARN: the fight had had to be stopped because D.D. Dunphy had been too badly injured to continue. The gash above her eye could not be remedied by mere styptic medication but required stitching.

  Though the gash had been caused by a foul that appeared to have been intentionally committed, and though Dunphy had been unexpectedly “winning” at the time, and points would be deducted from Aya, still Aya was the winner of the fight because she’d been ahead on the judges’ scorecards. There was no way to prove that the head-butt had been deliberate. Dunphy’s corner protested vehemently but the decision of the referee and the judges was final.

  From Marika, she would learn this. Embittered Marika explaining to Naomi why the fight had been stopped and the championship lost—“That should have gone to D.D.! Everybody knows.”

  IT SEEMED THEN, the interview with D.D. Dunphy scheduled for the next morning had been canceled.

  Except, a call came to Naomi on her cell phone. She’d been about to call the airline to see if she could move up her return ticket to New York City but there was a harried-sounding Marika on the phone.

  She could see Dunphy for a few minutes if she wished—“To tell our side of the story.”

  Waiting then for Dunphy to arrive. In another windowless drafty utilitarian “banquet room” in a hotel.

  Marika was vehement, on her cell phone. In a corner of the room and ignoring Naomi.

  Naomi could overhear only a few sibilant words, curses. Dyed-blond Marika was not so attractive as she’d appeared initially and she was not so friendly to Naomi as Naomi had recalled.

  There was fury at Dayton Fights, Inc. There was genuine indignation as if the championship belt had been buckled about their boxer’s waist and had then been taken away, by force, by another.

  Naomi was not listening to this. Naomi was a neutral party, a documentary filmmaker. She was scrolling news on her cell phone seeking Dunphy, D.D. Then she realized—of course—she should be seeking Aya, Siri.

  The news items were terse, merely factual. Siri Aya, 29, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, retained Midwest Boxing League women’s welterweight title in Cleveland fight last night defeating D.D. Dunphy, 24, Dayton, Ohio.

  She was wondering how badly injured Dawn Dunphy had been. The worst of a boxer’s injuries (she had to suppose) are not visible to the eye.

  Not exterior bleeding but interior bleeding. That would be fatal.

  Marika was standing over her. “H’lo? She’s on her way. She’s coming.”

  She. Naomi had to think for a moment who she was.

  Marika added, hotly, “You need to say in the interview that D.D. was cheated of the championship. Make that clear. A head-butt, that’s a foul. That’s like an assault. Twenty-two stitches! That’s why Tyson bit Holyfield’s ears, twice—Holyfield head-butted him. Those shits, it was a conspiracy. Cass is consulting a lawyer, if he can sue. Except if you sue, you’re fucked. No one will touch you. TV, ESPN, Vegas—forget it. Cass is demanding a rematch. Aya’s manager made a deal with the referee. You’d have to be blind to miss that. Aya’s a crack-head. They clean her up for training. They feed her steroids. Half her fights, they’re fixed. Deals are made. You can’t say any of that in the film—(though everybody knows it)—but you can make it clear how Dunphy was cheated of the championship. Twenty-two stitches! Next time, she’ll bite the bitch’s ears off. She’ll fucking destroy her. You better believe, there will be a next time—a rematch. Understand?”

  Mutely Naomi nodded yes, she understood.

  Following the debacle of the fight Naomi had had the night to compose herself. Back at her hotel she’d had two, possibly three, glasses of wine before falling into bed.

  A very long night like all nights on the road. She’d slept poorly. She’d felt her head being hit. Whiplash. The strain in the neck. Broken capillaries in the eyes. Poor Madelena, capillaries bursting after chemo. She’d worn dark glasses. No one could see. Naomi helped adjust the beautiful silver-haired wig. It was so lonely to be away. She could only sleep well now when she was in her bed on the thirty-first floor of her grandmother’s building in New York City because there she’d decided was home.

  She wondered if she would tell Madelena about Dawn Dunphy. Of course Madelena knew about Luther Dunphy—she knew of Naomi’s fruitless journey to Muskegee Falls. At least, she knew what Naomi had told her.

  But Madelena knew nothing about Dawn Dunphy. Naomi was not sure what there was to be known.

  She’d decided yes, she would attempt a documentary on women boxers. She would interview D.D. Dunphy at greater length, and she would interview Siri Aya if she could. She foresaw a project whose merit she would have to argue for. Not boxers who happened to be women but women who happened to be boxers.

  “Naomi, dear. We have to talk.”

  Madelena had clasped her hand, at last. Naomi hadn’t been able to slip away.

  It appeared that she was in remission now, Madelena conceded. The last bloodwork she’d had, her meticulous Chinese-American oncologist at Sloan Kettering had declared her blood “robust.”

  But—“Remission does not last forever.”

  And—“Please face it, Naomi: you will outlive me by decades.”

  Naomi winced at her grandmother’s remarks. It was like adults to embarrass you, under the pretext of being kind to you.

  That such remarks were made matter-of-factly, as her grandmother might happen to mention that a friend of hers was coming for dinner, or that she had tickets for Naomi and herself for a Philip Glass concert that evening, made them all the more upsetting.

  Naomi said, “You could outlive me, Lena.”

  “Want to bet?”

  Madelen
a laughed, heartily. There is a particular sort of gut-wrenching laughter in an older woman, Naomi thought.

  Madelena was saying that she intended to leave a “considerable amount of money” to Naomi in her will. In fact, she had named Naomi her executrix—“It will be an educational experience.”

  But she preferred to leave some of the money, perhaps most of it, to Naomi while she, Madelena, was still alive. That was so much a better idea. “That way we can both enjoy it.”

  Madelena had inherited money from her parents, and this money had grown through investments. She’d accumulated some money in the course of her life, teaching, writing, living an essentially frugal life. In speaking of her estate she brightened, visibly. There was a girlishness in her manner, not often evident since the cancer diagnosis.

  Naomi wanted to press her hands over her ears. Please. I don’t want to talk about this.

  She’d tried to explain to Madelena that she did not want or need money—really. Her parents had both believed that inherited money was deleterious to the well-being of the young. Gus had always wanted to work. Jenna had always wanted to work. Neither had been happy in the slightest, without work. Of course, work had to be meaningful. Work had to be, in some way, creative.

  Madelena laughed at her, not unkindly. “But I want to leave my money to you, Naomi. I have charitable organizations of course. I will establish a scholarship or two. And there is always Karl—the insatiable. But I want to leave money expressly to you.”

  Naomi had been deeply embarrassed.

  “Well—I—I could use some funding, I suppose. For the documentary. If—”

  Madelena said, “Exactly. You are correct.”

  FORTY MINUTES AFTER the hour, when Naomi was about to pack up her equipment and leave, Dunphy arrived.

  “H’lo.”

  Her voice was flat, toneless and unapologetic. Her cracked and swollen mouth drooped downward in a sullen mockery of a smile.

  “Hi. Thanks for coming.”