The Boxer and the Butterfly

by Sasha Hibbs

  “Don’t make too much noise. Observation only. If you’re asked to place a bet, put five on Leo,” Craig said.

  Daniel and Mickey nodded in understanding. Craig left us. I gazed around the basement and observed the older populace littering and cramping what would have been a huge space if empty. This was triple the amount of people that came to Mickey’s fights. As money exchanged hands and people looked over their shoulders in paranoia, I wondered how good Leo was.

  As the referee emerged in the ring, the audience grew excited until he raised his hands, ushering in silence and the beginning of the fight. A tall, lean, muscular guy surfaced on the left side of the ring. His dark hair was cropped to his scalp. His black shorts hugged narrow hips where red boxing gloves lay flush with his hip bones. He sported a cocky-looking grin and exuded a dangerous air. If Leo’s reputation reached him, this guy didn’t seem shaken by it.

  And then Leo the Lion was announced. I held my breath as I watched a guy slide in between the ropes on the right side. When he stood, I realized he was shorter than who the announcer identified as “Diablo Devin”. Compared to Leo, Devin’s build was significantly larger. He towered him by at least six inches.

  “Leo’s not very big,” I whispered to Mickey.

  “Supposedly, his punch is,” Mickey said.

  As the bell rang, the two faced off. Devin circled Leo and I almost held confidence that Devin’s size would overpower Leo until Leo pounced. In one swift motion, Leo jabbed the right side of Devin’s ribs and with a twist of the hips, sent an uppercut to Leo’s chin that propelled him sprawling backward across the mat.

  I gasped. Leo hadn’t been touched. The referee got down on all fours, one hand slamming down beside Devin’s head as he counted down. Devin shook his head as though trying to clear the pain Leo delivered. Just as the ref was going to call it, Devin managed to shake the stupor off and stand back up.

  Leo’s face was what garnered my attention. His expression was completely apathetic, void of any emotion. His gaze was unreadable. Devin screamed at the audience, riling them up while Leo kept his fists and silence up. Where Devin aimed for showmanship, Leo had none.

  Again they danced. I thought of Mickey’s training, his rhythmic sliding in and out of the maze of ropes as though the lines where projected onto the ring from my mind’s eye. As I watched Devin and Leo, I tried to assess where their skill stacked up against Mickey’s.

  Devin was large, but he was predictable. Leo, on the other hand, was unassuming. He watched Devin as a predator would its prey, waiting patiently for the right opportunity to present itself. What worried me about the facts I was gathering, was Leo’s techniques reminded me of Mickey’s. His stealth, his patience, making every hit count, those were Mickey’s trademarks. The problem—Leo was five years older than Mickey. He had age and experience on his side. All Mickey had was the weight of his family’s financial burdens.

  The fight lasted five rounds. In the end I realized that Leo was only entertaining the audience and toying with Devin. He knocked him out in one hard uppercut that split Devin’s left temple above his eye. The blood spattered across the beige mat reminded me of a Pollock painting.

  The sight made me sick. Watching Leo, I could swear for a brief moment that he caught my gaze. There was something cold and unfeeling in his eyes that unnerved me. All I could think of was Mickey laying where Devin did. I felt hot, like I couldn’t breathe, as though the room was closing in on me.

  “I want to leave,” I said to Mickey.

  He looked down at me, and I could see him, but he was blurry. The room was fading, the noise diminishing even though I knew it was going on around me. I had to get out of there.

  I didn’t wait for Daniel or Mickey. I jetted from there and waited until I felt the gravel of the parking lot underneath my feet, before I started dry heaving. I had nothing in my stomach but cramps and nausea. I wiped my mouth off, trying to let the frigid winter air cool me down. I walked to Daniel’s truck, but before I got there, Mickey caught up to me.

  “Hey. Are you okay?” Mickey asked as he gently grabbed my elbow.

  “No, Mickey. I am definitely not okay. Did you see what happened in there?”

  “Of course I did.”

  I gave him an incredulous look.

  “Please tell me, after that, you are not seriously contemplating fighting that guy,” I said, knots reforming in my stomach.

  “Autumn, I’ve been doing this for a couple of years. I came tonight to see what I was up against. I have to fight him,” Mickey said. “And now I know how to.”

  “Maybe you’re punch-drunk, Mickey. Did you not see the same fight I just did? Devin is twice Leo’s size. By all logic, he should’ve won and Leo knocked him out. Do you understand what that means? Knockouts lead to—”

  “Loss of brain tissue, can potentially lead to traumatic brain injuries, mood changes. Yes, Autumn, I am aware of the consequences.” Mickey pulled me into his arms.

  I was trying not to hyperventilate. I was only beginning to digest how serious boxing was, especially shady underground illegal matches where the same rules didn’t apply. And I didn’t want Mickey to be part of it.

  “You’re so smart, Mickey. Too smart to be doing this. You have no formal training, no coach, nothing. You have nobody to protect you from someone like Leo. Don’t fight him. Please don’t let fighting take away what makes you you,” I said, hot tears pooling in my eyes.

  He stroked my hair as he listened to all my fears, like holding me would somehow erase all the awful images I’d just been subjected to. I vented about how smart he was. That he could use his head in college, not the ring. He listened patiently but ultimately said, “I have to do this.”

  I knew his secret, his desire to take care of his family regardless of the suffering he’d have to go through in order to obtain it. But it didn’t change the future I wanted more for him than he did himself. I knew his resolve was still set when he took his thumb and wiped away the last of my tears. I was tired, my eyes swollen from crying. That fear gnawing at me for Mickey gave way to the dawning realization that what I felt for Mickey was more than a passing feeling.

  I was falling in love with him.

  I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. I sighed, exhausted. “Why fight? Why boxing?”

  He tucked his finger under my jawline. Tilting my chin up, he softly kissed me and said against my lips, “Because it’s the only fight in this life that’s fair.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When I finally made it home, I had every intention of hiding up in my bedroom. I pulled in and noticed Dad’s Mercedes was gone. I thought it was strange but dropped the thought as soon as it entered my mind. He could’ve run out to the store.

  When I entered the house, the stench of alcohol and vomit seared my senses. I gazed up the staircase where the light was trailing from my parents’ bedroom. It spilled out like a ghost beckoning me to follow it. I took the steps two at a time, but hesitated as I reached the doorway. My mother was an alcoholic, but most of the time she decided to get drunk, she was discreet about it, leaving only the evidence of an empty bottle behind. I closed my eyes for a second and then took courage in entering.

  She was lying on the bed with her back to me. The smell of putrid bile choked me. I circled around the bottom of the bed so I could face her. She had one arm slung over the bed and the other tucked under her chin. She was breathing, thank God, and I supposed that was what mattered. I glanced down beside the bed to see where the source of the smell was coming from.

  Placed where she could easily access it, was a wastebasket lined with saturated paper towels. I had no doubt my father strategically placed the wastebasket there, or that he cleaned her up and put her to bed.

  Once, I tried a taste of my mother’s wine. I wanted to see what was so alluring about it, what contents were trapped in the confines of the glass bottle that summoned my mother so. I remember it was a red wine, too sweet, and it instantly burned my throat and churned
my stomach. I didn’t understand it then, and gazing down at my mother, I had no more answers now.

  Sometime during my father’s absence, she must’ve thrown the covers off. I sighed, thinking of Mickey tonight and the carnage of poor Devin. I looked down at my mother’s small frame and it angered me that alcohol had such an influence over her, could leave a beautiful woman a shell of herself when she was this intoxicated. I pulled the blanket up and tucked it under her chin. I turned off the light and switched on the nightlight.

  I made it into my room and collapsed on my bed. I was still awake when I heard my dad pull in to our driveway. I didn’t want to see him. There was a large part of me that was angry at him. He knew my mom was an alcoholic. I thought about Mickey’s luck eventually running out and I thought about what it would take to save him, to save my mom.

  My dad was just as culpable for allowing my mom to drink. But then, was I too for not ratting Mickey out? I’d never been in love before. Was this what it boiled down to? Keeping the secrets of those we loved, even if they were on the most destructive path possible?

  As I drifted off to sleep, I thought that perhaps I was no better than my dad. He sat back quietly and watched my mom drink herself into oblivion as I sat beside him equally watching Mickey take hits and money. My dad and I had more common ground than I realized—we both were in love with those who would inevitably self-destruct. It was all a matter of timing.

  ****

  Our days went on as usual. We Chamberlains passed each other in silence, going about our daily routines surrounded by pretty things. No matter how white our walls were, how polished our wooden floors were, how many smiles we gave in public, this façade of a charmed life, the evidence that we covered ugliness with prettiness was still there. And it was growing with each day, festering until I knew it would come to a head.

  It was mid-March. I had succeeded in keeping things as they were. Mickey and I continued to date without my parents’ knowledge. But he’d asked a couple of times about coming over to meet them. By this time lying was something that became second nature to me. But I knew there were only so many lies I could come up with before not only Mickey, but my parents busted me.

  One Wednesday, Principal Oliverio stopped me in the hallway on my way to the bathroom.

  “Mr. Romano tells me you and Mickey are making great progress in Honors.”

  I looked for those features hiding in his face that would give away clues that he and Mickey were related. I couldn’t see them. Had Sean not told me, I would’ve never guessed.

  “Uh, yes. He’s a great partner. I can see what Mr. Romano sees in him,” I said.

  “He sees hope,” Principal Oliverio said.

  “And you don’t?”

  “I gave up on that a long time ago,” he said.

  I opened my mouth to defend Mickey, but he turned quickly and left me in a silent hallway. What did he mean?

  ****

  On the way to Mickey’s house, I asked him. I couldn’t take it any longer.

  “I know Principal Oliverio and Mr. Romano are your uncles. What I don’t know is why you hate them so much.” I kept my gaze on the road so I had no idea what his expression was. He was silent for several seconds before beginning.

  “Who told you? Sean?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “That punk.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I would’ve figured it out eventually.”

  “My mother is an Italian Catholic who comes from a long line of prominent Italian families in the area. She comes from old money, a very rich family,” he said. I flicked my gaze over to him then quickly back to the road.

  “That’s no reason to hate your uncles.”

  “No, that’s not why,” Mickey said. He cleared his throat after a few seconds of silence in what promised to be a lengthy explanation.

  “Principal Oliverio is her older brother and Mr. Romano is her younger brother. Oliverio and my mother shared the same parents. But my grandfather died when they were young and my grandmother remarried. That’s why Mr. Romano’s last name is different. My mother was supposed to marry another Italian Catholic boy, preferably someone picked out by my grandmother. When she met my dad and introduced him—from Irish Protestant descent—my grandmother gave her a few choices.”

  I could see where this was going but didn’t interject. I wanted to hear Mickey’s story.

  “My grandmother told her she could forget about my dad, never mention him or bring him up again, or she would be kicked out of the house, lose her inheritance, and never be welcomed by any of the family again. Marco, Mr. Romano, was really too young to make a choice, but Roberto, Principal Oliverio, was. My mother was pregnant with me, told me if she could do everything over again, she wouldn’t do it differently. When she refused to give my father up, Uncle Roberto stood by and watched my mother get thrown out of the house without so much as a penny to her name.”

  It made sense to me now, this incessant need to secure a roof over his mother’s head. It was because Mickey felt responsible for why she never had one. At every turn, the more I found out about Mickey, the more my heart broke.

  “My grandmother died not long after I was born and true to her word, the inheritance was given to Uncle Roberto who made sure Uncle Marco had his share, but didn’t include my mother. I’ll never forgive him for that. He was the eldest. Regardless of how cruel my grandmother was to my mother, once she died, he had an opportunity to make her wrongs right, and he didn’t. And I will never forgive him for living in luxury while my mother has to work, her skin cracking and bleeding from rolling, and kneading, and rolling and kneading to feed other rich people…” He trailed off and I think we both knew why. He caught himself because he had to be thinking the same thing I was. That I was one of those rich people his mother slaved to feed.

  “I understand,” I assured him.

  “Do you, Autumn? You don’t know what it’s like to be poor, to ration out how much meat you buy at the cheapest grocery store so you can make it last until you’ve saved up enough tips to go again. Why haven’t I met your parents yet, Autumn?”

  I pulled up alongside the curb in front of Mickey’s house. I couldn’t believe how he was turning the conversation back to me. Or was it the fear that deep down Mickey knew I kept him a secret and now I was finally being found out?

  “Mickey—”

  He opened the car door and jumped out. Slamming my door, he stalked toward his house. I turned the engine off and ran after him.

  “Mickey, stop it. My parents know about you. Why are you so angry at me all of a sudden?”

  Lie, lie, lie. They were all I had. He turned around, facing me with a heated gaze I hadn’t seen in weeks.

  “They know where I am, that I’m with you. Our maid, Mary, is friends with your mom.” The last part wasn’t a lie. “It’s only that my dad works so much, is rarely ever home, and my mom is always at some meeting at the Country Club.”

  “Look at you, Autumn,” he said, waving a hand up and down at me. “You’re a rich girl and I’m just a poor boy—my father’s son.”

  “Mickey, what are you saying? What does that have to do with anything? I don’t care that you’re poor. It’s your head, that beautiful mind of yours, not your wallet that I care about.”

  He stared at me, shoving his hands in his jeans pocket. He let a frustrated sigh escape through his perfectly white teeth. He looked up to the sky as though in contemplation and then looked back to me.

  “Do you know what attracted me to you, Autumn?”

  I thought back to our first exchange, when Mickey stood quietly watching me spray paint on the side of the school.

  “My ability to impersonate Williem de Kooning on school property?”

  Mickey gave me a sad smile. “I noticed you long before you ever did me, Autumn,” he said. “But then the poor always do.”

  I felt my eyebrows draw together as confusion descended on me.

  “I understand your confusion. In our freshman
year, I actually had English with you. I sat in the back and watched you. Your intelligence always had my curiosity, but when you argued with Mrs. Price about Far From the Madding Crowd, my curiosity turned into more than a passing feeling. You said that in the end, while Bathsheba learned from her mistakes, it was Gabriel for the duration that was the real victim. That he was the hero in the story to be admired, not rich Bathsheba. Mrs. Price said that the idea behind Hardy’s novel was to show Bathsheba’s transformation but you argued—”

  “Wealth was a constant in Bathsheba’s life, but poverty was a constant in Gabriel’s,” I said. “That never once had he been swayed by money, but Bathsheba had money and lined herself with suitors who had even more, shunning Gabriel although he wanted nothing from her other than her love. Bathsheba would’ve saved herself from a lifetime of heartache and misery had she married poor Gabriel in the beginning.”

  “My mother turned her back on money to be with my father, and I’ve never respected a woman more than her. But when I listened to you that day, you reminded me of the same virtues my mother has instilled in Jimmy and me. But we aren’t living in a fictitious world, Autumn. You remind me of my mother in more than one way. You are both from money. My father didn’t fit into my mother’s world, and when she left hers to be with his, she lost everything. I’ve seen those tightwad jerks at the Country Club. I know the folks who move in your circle, and I’m not one of them. I’ll always be on the outside looking in and longing for someone I can’t truly have.”

  “No, Mickey. We are not your parents. That was a long time ago. I am not from some rich Italian Catholic family who will shun me based on your religion or genes.” I came up to him and cupped his face in my hands. “My parents know about you. Besides, I’m their only daughter.” I let out a small laugh. “Come this Sunday to the Country Club. We eat at one. Come meet them and know I am not ashamed of you or where you come from.”