A Book of American Martyrs
Page 69
“Yah.”
“My name is Naomi, if you’ve forgotten . . .”
In careful primer sentences she addressed Dawn Dunphy. It was like speaking to a wild creature: feral cat, bird. The slightest misstep, the creature will flee.
The slightest misspeaking, you are left alone and abashed.
“We can continue the interview—if it’s agreeable. Marika said . . .”
“Yah. Fuck Marika.”
Naomi wondered if she’d heard correctly. Dunphy’s battered face was inscrutable. Her eyelids quivered as if with rage.
(Marika was in a corner of the room, talking excitedly on her cell phone. Smoking.)
Apologetically Naomi murmured, “She said it was all right, for a half hour maybe. I realize this isn’t a good time.” Pausing then, and wondering if she’d said something tactless. “Well. I have just a few more questions . . .”
Dunphy waited impassively as Naomi fumbled with her camera. Her fingers were unusually clumsy, stiff with cold.
It was cold, drafty in this inhospitable space. And outside it was very cold, Naomi’s fingers had been chilled inside her leather gloves making her way to the hotel.
Naomi saw that Dawn Dunphy’s nails were blunt, just perceptibly dirt-edged, cut close to the flesh and not filed. Her fingers were larger than Naomi’s, her hand large enough (Naomi thought) to swallow up Naomi’s hand in her own if she wished.
And if Dawn Dunphy squeezed hard and would not let go, the bones in Naomi’s hand would be shattered.
Dunphy laughed mirthlessly. “Like last time. But I guess—I look worse . . .”
“Oh no . . . Well maybe.”
Naomi wondered if Dawn Dunphy knew what déjà vu meant.
The drafty utilitarian setting in a hotel. Bleak-fluorescent light of a windowless space. Facing each other across a tabletop of some cheap cork material that would crumble into bits if hit the right way.
“I guess the eye-cut is worse. How many stitches?”
Dunphy shrugged. Dunphy wiped her nose with the edge of her hand.
“I’d guess—twenty? Twenty-five?”
“Yah.” Dunphy’s lips twitched in a bitter smile.
“Does it hurt?”
“What d’you think? Shit!”
“Well. I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. They give me what’s-it, Ty-len-all.”
“You should put ice on the wound. That will help with the swelling.”
“Yah I did. Last night.”
“Could you sleep?”
“Yah. So tired, you sleep.”
The damage to Dunphy’s face was marginally worse than the damage had been in Cincinnati. Both her eyes were bruised and bloodshot and there were small cuts across her forehead. The black cross-stitches above her right eye were ferocious-looking, ugly. Almost there was a comic-grotesque look to her. But Naomi wasn’t about to smile.
It seemed possible that Dawn Dunphy was wearing slept-in clothes. A stale, not unpleasant odor wafted from her. Dull-gray sweatpants and a pullover with a hood and the front of the pullover stained.
“If it’s any consolation people are saying that you won the fight—or would have won it. In that last round—”
Naomi spoke encouragingly. But Dunphy stared brooding at the tabletop.
“If the fight hadn’t been stopped, if your opponent hadn’t ‘head-butted’ you . . .”
Naomi heard herself speaking as if knowledgeably and wondered if she sounded as naive to Dawn Dunphy as she did to herself.
For this interview Marika had neglected to provide a bottle of Evian water for Dawn. Awaiting her Naomi had been drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup, from a vending machine in the hall, and this cup was prominently on the table. Naomi had a sudden sensation of vertigo, that Dawn Dunphy might take up the Styrofoam cup impulsively and drink from it, and her regret was, the coffee was both very poor and no longer hot.
“Would you like me to get you some coffee? There’s a vending machine in the hall . . .”
“Nah. Thanks.”
“It’s no trouble, Dawn. It’s just in the hall.”
Dawn. So naturally Naomi uttered the name, Dawn Dunphy seemed scarcely to notice.
When Dawn didn’t insist no, Naomi went out into the hall. At the vending machine she pushed quarters into the slot. She was feeling disoriented, almost giddy.
She returned with the (hot) Styrofoam cup in both hands. She’d brought tiny packets of sugar, “cream.”
Set the cup down in front of Dawn Dunphy who seemed not to see it at first.
“Thanks.”
“I was saying—everybody knows you won the fight. You should be the WBL champion . . .”
“MBL.”
“I mean—‘MBL.’ You should be the welterweight champion.”
“Yah. OK.”
“They will give you a rematch. People say.”
“Yah.”
“Next time, you will beat ‘Siri Aya.’ Everybody says so.”
Dawn Dunphy shifted her shoulders. She lifted the Styrofoam cup in both hands and peered into it but didn’t drink.
“If there’s a ‘next time.’ I guess.”
“Everybody is saying . . .”
“Yah. I know.”
“You shouldn’t be discouraged. Until last night you were undefeated . . .”
What was she saying? She didn’t mean this at all.
Of course you should be discouraged. You should quit this terrible sport before . . .
Dunphy was saying that her trainer Ernie had told her to take the week off—“Just rest.”
“You’re not still working—are you? At Target?”
“Not full-time. Just when they need me.”
Dunphy sipped at the hot black coffee into which she’d put neither sugar nor cream. The taste had to be bitter in her mouth.
“You know, we could find a Starbucks. I could buy you some really good coffee.”
“‘Star-bucks’?”—Dawn Dunphy seemed not to have heard this name.
“Maybe not in this neighborhood. I don’t know where we are, exactly. But—somewhere . . . Is there a downtown in Cleveland?”
“How’d I know?”
“Anyway. There’s all kinds of coffee flavors at Starbucks, and it’s real coffee not instant like this.”
Naomi returned to the interview. Dawn Dunphy had not shown much enthusiasm for Starbucks.
“Marika was saying—your manager Mr. Cassidy will negotiate a ‘rematch’?”
Dawn Dunphy shrugged. “Yah. Maybe.”
“D’you think this will happen? Any idea when?”
“Prob’ly won’t happen.”
“But why not?”
“They know I will beat Aya next time. And it won’t be as much money with me as with someone else.”
“But—don’t title-holders have to fight contenders? Won’t Aya’s manager have to negotiate with you?”
“Have to?—no.”
“There are other ‘champions,’ I think? In ‘WBL’—”
“‘WBA.’”
“—maybe they would negotiate? With your record . . .”
“They know I’m too good. I can win, and I can hurt people. It’s too risky for them.” Dunphy paused, frowning. “If they make me quit I could go to nursing school like my mother did.”
“Oh—why’d they make you quit?”
“If I lose the next fight. If I can’t keep going.”
“But—until last night you were undefeated . . . Everyone says you are a wonderful boxer, Dawn.”
You are crude, and you are clumsy. But you can take a punch.
“Yah. Bullshit.”
“Last time you told me, you were fighting for Jesus. Is that still the way it is?”
“Jesus has had enough of me, maybe. Sometimes I think so.”
“But—why?”
Dawn Dunphy’s eyes moved restlessly about as if seeking the ghost-figure of Jesus in this very room.
“Don’t know. Just a feeling.”
“W
ould your mother like you to quit boxing?”
“Yah. I guess.”
“She worries about you getting hurt . . .”
“Nah. She doesn’t. I don’t think so.”
“Did they take you to a hospital last night?”
“Some kind of clinic. They put in the stitches.”
“Did they take X-rays?”
“I don’t know.”
“But—how do you feel? Does your head hurt?”
“After a fight you hurt all over. No matter if you win or lose.”
“Dawn, I don’t like to tell you what to do, but—you should see a neurologist. You might have been concussed last night. When you fell to your hands and knees . . .”
“When was that? I didn’t fall.”
Dawn Dunphy spoke contemptuously. Naomi realized with a thrill of horror that she’d forgotten.
“ . . .wasn’t never out, and didn’t fall. Ernie would’ve told me if I had.”
“I think you should have a brain scan. In case of a hairline fracture. You should insist.”
Naomi was speaking rapidly, in a lowered voice. In a corner of the room Marika continued to talk on her cell phone, aggrieved and angry, oblivious to the interview.
“There’s a doctor in Dayton. They take me to him.”
“Oh but—what kind of doctor? Is he—actually—a doctor?”
“There’s some diploma-like, on his wall. He gives me medications.”
“What kind of medications?”
“I don’t know.”
“D’you think—steroids?”
“Don’t know.”
“Maybe you could show me the medications, sometime. I could see what they are.”
“How’d you know?”
“I’m a doctor’s daughter. What I don’t know, I can look up.”
Dawn Dunphy considered this. For a moment she seemed about to speak, but did not.
Naomi said, “You should see a more reliable doctor. I could take you.”
“How’d you do that?”—Dawn smiled, disbelieving.
“How? Why not?”
“Who’s gonna pay for that?”
“I will.”
“You will!”
Dawn laughed, almost jeering.
Naomi persisted: “I can. I could pay for it.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“Because I would want to.”
“Why’d you want to?”
“Because—you need better medical treatment than you’re getting. That’s my feeling.”
“But why’d you do that for me? You don’t know me.”
“I would do it for anyone who needed it . . .”
This was untrue. Naomi spoke quickly, feeling blood rush into her face.
“Your father? Your father is a doctor? Is that who I would see?”
“No. Not my father.”
“This doctor they take me to, he’s OK. I’ll be OK. Even if you win a fight you hurt like hell for a long time.”
“Do you pass blood?”
“Nah.”
So quickly Dawn answered, with an embarrassed frown, Naomi knew that there must be blood in her urine.
“That’s a kidney injury. That needs attention.”
“Nah it’s OK. Never mind.”
“Look, please. I will pay for it. Are you driving back to Dayton today? I can check, and see who is available in Dayton. There’s a network of doctors, they know one another and recommend one another and I can—I can check for you. I could call, and make an appointment. I could do that, in Dayton. I wouldn’t even need to be there—though I could be there. If that was necessary.”
“I’m OK. I said.”
Dawn was becoming irritable. Naomi knew she must not press the issue. But she was feeling excited. Reckless.
The night before, she’d written a message to Dawn Dunphy. She’d been unable to sleep in the unfamiliar hotel bed, and writing a message to Dawn Dunphy had been soothing to her. She had not believed that she would actually give this message to Dawn Dunphy—of course.
But she’d brought it with her this morning, neatly folded inside her bag.
Stubbornly Naomi said, “I’ll look into it, Dawn. I’ll find a doctor. And I’ll take you.”
“Jesus! Why’d you do that.”
“Why? Because I can. Excuse me.”
Naomi stood. Her hands were trembling badly. She had the message, the folded sheet of hotel stationery, to present to Dawn Dunphy.
She said, “This is for you. I’ll be right back. I need to use a restroom.”
She went away, pushing through double doors into the corridor. Her ears were ringing. She felt as if both sides of her head had been smacked with boxing gloves.
In a restroom in a panel of mirrors was a pale excited face, she did not recognize at first.
Dear Dawn—
I did not tell you the truth the first time I met you.
The truth of why I have come to see you.
I am the daughter of Gus Voorhees. I am Naomi Voorhees.
I am sorry to deceive you. I did not know how otherwise it would be possible to meet you.
I will return in 10 minutes. I hope you will still be here.
If you are not, I will understand.
We are the only two who will understand. But maybe that is not possible.
If you would like to see me some other time but not right now, I will leave my phone number here. My email address.
If you do not wish to see me again I will understand & I will not make any attempt to see you.
It is true, I am a documentary filmmaker. I am just beginning this project of women boxers. I would like you to be a part of it but I don’t know how it will go.
My life has been like that—I have started projects, and I have started courses in college, and not finished them.
I used to think it was because my father was killed when I was a young girl. But now I am wondering if that is just an excuse for my life that is broken in pieces and some of these pieces lost.
Or maybe that is just everyone’s life. & I am no one special.
I hope that I will see you again. But if not, I understand.
Sincerely,
Naomi Voorhees
Her head was aching as if she’d been punched repeatedly. Her mouth kept twisting into a foolish smile.
She could run outside, she didn’t have to return to the banquet room.
Except she’d left her expensive camera there. She had no choice, she would have to return.
But she could snatch up the camera, whether Dawn Dunphy was still there, or had left.
Her camera she would grip in her fingers. Anxiously she would check the lens. She would check what the camera had just recorded. Someday, it might be stitched into a documentary film. It might be screened in a darkened room. Strangers would stare at the battered faces of women boxers. Strangers would strain to hear their halting voices.
Strangers might cry—You have told my story! You have touched my heart. Thank you.
Boldly Naomi pushed through the double door, and there was Dawn Dunphy on her feet, in her gray hoodie and sweatpants looking shocked, irresolute.
The expression in Dunphy’s face! Beneath the bruises, cuts and swellings you could see astonishment and wonder breaking.
Naomi would wonder: had Dawn Dunphy been about to slam out of the room or had she been about to come look for Naomi in the corridor?
“Hi . . .”
Naomi’s heart was pounding tremendously. She could not believe that Dawn Dunphy was still standing before her and had not walked away without a backward glance.
So quickly it happened. The decision had been made for them.
In the consolation of grief they held each other tight and wanted never to let go.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOYCE CAROL OATES has written some of the most enduring fiction of our time, including the national bestsellers We Were the Mulvaneys, Blonde, which was nominated for the National Book Award, and the New Y
ork Times bestsellers The Accursed and The Falls, which won the 2005 Prix Femina. She is the Roger S. Berlind Distinguished Professor of the Humanities at Princeton University.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
NOVELS BY JOYCE CAROL OATES
With Shuddering Fall (1964)
A Garden of Earthly Delights (1967)
Expensive People (1968)
them (1969)
Wonderland (1971)
Do with Me What You Will (1973)
The Assassins (1975)
Childwold (1976)
Son of the Morning (1978)
Unholy Loves (1979)
Bellefleur (1980)
Angel of Light (1981)
A Bloodsmoor Romance (1982)
Mysteries of Winterthurn (1984)
Solstice (1985)
Marya: A Life (1986)
You Must Remember This (1987)
American Appetites (1989)
Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart (1990)
Black Water (1992)
Foxfire: Confessions of a Girl Gang (1993)
What I Lived For (1994)
Zombie (1995)
We Were the Mulvaneys (1996)
Man Crazy (1997)
My Heart Laid Bare (1998)
Broke Heart Blues (1999)
Blonde (2000)
Middle Age: A Romance (2001)
I’ll Take You There (2002)
The Tattooed Girl (2003)
The Falls (2004)
Missing Mom (2005)
Black Girl / White Girl (2006)
The Gravedigger’s Daughter (2007)
My Sister, My Love (2008)
Little Bird of Heaven (2009)
Mudwoman (2012)
The Accursed (2013)
Carthage (2014)
The Sacrifice (2015)
CREDITS
Cover design by Allison Saltzman
Cover photograph © Moolkum/Shutterstock
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A BOOK OF AMERICAN MARTYRS. Copyright © 2017 by The Ontario Review, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.