Squaw Girl: A Boxer's Battle for Love

by Abby Winter Flower

  “Ben shares a room with Jethro. Tonight you’ll sleep in Ben’s bed, he’ll sleep on the couch and Jethro will bunk with me.” says Tim. “I’ve got my own bedroom—since I act like the mother around here I get my own quarters.” He takes my hand and leads me, not to Jethro’s room, but to his.

  * * *

  We sit on his bed and he gives me a penetrating stare. “Do you know about Mama Jefferson? What you’re getting into?”

  “Guy named Henry, some sort of Mafia-like gangster, helped me out of the airport. Wants money. Ben’s Area Boys, or whatever you call his gang, are using me to increase the betting pool—get more people to come to the fight. They’re going to bet against me—use what they win to pay him back.”

  “Oh, god, just when I was starting to like you,” he shivers.

  He hesitates for a few seconds, then I feel him put his arm around me. I don’t push it away.

  “Henry’s a powerful gangster. He sells drugs to kids, sells girls to men, and kills people if he needs to. The woman you’re going to fight—Mama Jefferson—works for him. When she’s not fighting she’s what you Americans call a hit man, only in her case a hit woman—specializes in beatings and strangulation from what I’ve been told”

  “I got no choice, got to fight her. It’s the only way out.”

  “Mama’s a monster. She’ll beat you to a pulp.”

  “Jethro and the boys were out spreading the word about me today, telling everyone what a good fighter I am.”

  “What do you think will happen after the fight?”

  “I’m hoping they’ll help me get out of town. I think Ben will do that.”

  “Ben’s held this family together by doing some bad things. He does what he has to do so we can survive. He owes Henry and he’ll do whatever Henry tells him. I can tell he likes you, but that won’t mean anything after the fight.”

  “What do you think will happen?”

  “If Jefferson doesn’t kill you, Henry will. You’re a loose end and Henry ties loose ends to concrete blocks and skinks them in Lake Logos.” He shivers again, harder, then gently takes his arm away, stands and kisses me on the forehead. “Get some sleep, we’ll talk tomorrow,” he whispers.

  Chapter 22

  I wake up to bright sunshine filtering through a dirty bedroom window and the sounds of heavy traffic coming through the thin wall. I remember parts of a dream where I’m sinking in a cold, black sea, weighted down by cement blocks tied to my arms and legs. I shake my head to clear the nightmare and notice all my clothes are washed, folded, and stacked at the end of the bed.

  Tim comes to the doorway. “Good morning my stinky guest. Get dressed. I made you an American breakfast. Hurry up before it gets cold.” He’s wearing shorts and a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt.

  I move to the kitchen. “Did you wash my clothes or is there another maid that works here?”

  “I like you better clean.”

  “What time is it?”

  “You’re the one with the fancy Rolex, look for yourself.”

  I haven’t set the Rolex since Jack gave it to me but the clock on the kitchen wall says ten. He’s fixed bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast. I’m amazed.

  “Wow” I say for the second time since I met him, as I dig in.

  “You Americans have a limited vocabulary. Must be because you spend so much time sleeping. Ben and Jethro had business to take care of. Ben told me to keep my eye on you until they get back. I have to admit, you’re not all that hard to look at when you clean up. Apparently you like my cooking. I worked as a dishwasher at a fancy hotel that caters to foreigners for a while. I learned what an American breakfast looks like. After you finish we need to have a serious talk if you want to live to have breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Tell me about all this domestic stuff, Tim. Why do you cook and do all the housework? Why aren’t you out with Ben and his gang of street thugs?”

  “Before my mom died, she made me and Ben promise that I’d stay away from the gangs. It was too late for Ben and Jethro was just a baby. Jethro’s drifting into the life but I’ve kept my promise. I’ve assumed the role of stay-at-home house-guy but it’s time to get out of here—do something productive with my life.”

  I help him clean up and we move to the couch. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me why you’re really in Nigeria?”

  I explain the school project and what happened on the plane. When I’m done he goes all quiet. Eventually he asks, “Why do you want to be a part of it? What’s in it for you?”

  “Some of them are doing it because it will look good on their resumes, make them look better to employers. Some really want to help. Helping out is partially why I came but a bigger reason is that I want to prove that a woman from Desperation Hollow is as good as anyone. That I’m not a charity case—that I can fit in.”

  “Why do you need to prove anything to anyone? Or, are you really trying to prove something to yourself?”

  He stops me cold with those questions so I change the subject. “What about you? Since you don’t plan on being a cook and house-guy for your brothers forever, what are your plans?”

  He stands and moves to the book case. “See these books. I’ve read them all. I had to drop out of school but I’m teaching myself—math, history, French, everything.” He looks at the computer. “I’ve stayed up late, taken on-line courses. I even got the equivalent of a high school diploma from one of them.”

  “Impressive.” That’s not the right word, but it’s all I can think of.

  “I want to go to America, go to college there. I think you can help me but I need to keep you alive after the fight to make that happen.”

  “You really think my life’s in danger?”

  “We need to make a plan or you won’t live to see the sun come up. But, before we do that, there’s something you need to help me with.” His eyes sparkle, and he smiles.

  * * *

  He puts an arm around my waist and guides me to his bedroom. His arm is strong and I don’t resist. We sit on the side of his bed. “You married, Layla?” he asks, moving his arm lower.

  “Nope.” I turn to face him, putting my own arm on his shoulder.

  “You got a boyfriend?”

  I hesitate before answering. “I recently connected with an old one after a long absence.”

  “My English isn’t too good. Did you say absence or abstinence?” His hand is now on my ass.

  “Your English is better than mine. You know what I said, but abstinence was there for a long time, too.” My hand is now inside his shirt. His fingers are doing heavy reconnaissance inside mine.

  “You faithful to each other?” He’s got my shirt off and has unbuttoned my shorts.

  “Haven’t made any pledges yet, but he’d not be happy with what’s going down here.” The Dallas Cowboy t-shirt is on the floor and it’s hard to talk with his mouth and tongue exploring my nipples. “How about you?” I pull back and ask.

  “I . . . I’m . . . very . . . choosey. Haven’t found what I like . . . ummm . . . for a long, long . . . ummm . . . time.” He pulls my shorts down to my ankles in one smooth motion.

  “You think you found it now?” His shorts and briefs join the Dallas Cowboys on the floor.

  “Answer that in . . . in a few minutes.” Our shoes are the last thing to hit the floor and we’re now side by side rubbing and kissing. “Under the pillow . . . now,” he moans.

  I reach under his pillow and find a familiar sealed packet. He rips it out of my hand. “In this country . . . you always need . . . need . . . protection,” he pants.

  I watch him put it on. “Don’t move,” he whispers . . . let me do the work . . . ,” he groans. He gets on top, slowly mounts me, then stops. “Now I can answer your question . . . Yes . . . yes . . . yes, I got what . . . what I need,” he pants, beginning to pump.

  We move together with increasing urgency. We go even faster. “You can come anytime,” he screams, “I’m ready now.”

  I’m more than ready, raising my
hips, I join him.

  Afterward we’re quiet, just lay there. I can’t help comparing Andy. He’s passionate, but he needs me to turn him on and doesn’t need to be in control. Tim knows what he wants, takes charge and goes after it. I’m not sure which I like better, wish I could have them both. Tim rolls to his side and looks at me.

  “I’ve got one thing to say to you Layla.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Wow.”

  We’ve got things to do and there’s no time for a repeat performance. Ben doesn’t let Jethro carry, but he’s hidden still another .45 in his dresser and Tim knows where it is. We get dressed, he gets the gun, and we spend the next hour making a plan that I hope will save my life and change his. I need to stay in the apartment in case Ben or Jethro come back and he has to run some errands. We linger over a long farewell kiss. He pulls away and takes out his phone.

  “Hold that pose.” He takes my picture.

  “Might be worth something someday,” he says as he goes out the door.

  Chapter 23

  The fight is at eight. They pick me up at six in Henry’s shiny black Town Car, the nicest vehicle on the street. Bernard is driving. He’s wearing a too small sport coat and a too large billed cap that has slid over his ears. I can see the mangled end of his left ear as I get in.

  “You look goofy,” I greet him. “How’s your ass? Probably sore from sitting on the floor that long.”

  “Don’t irritate him. He’s a bad enough driver as it is. He wants revenge, but for now, he’s Henry’s driver,” says Ben.

  They put me in the back seat between Ben and Jethro. Henry sits in front. He’s wearing a tuxedo. “Odd couple up there,” I say to Jethro, loud enough so I’m sure they hear.

  Ben jabs me with his elbow. “Zip it up. It’s one thing to irritate Bernard, much more dangerous to do it to Henry,” he whispers.

  The Pit is located in a part of town called Lagos Island. Bernard gets us there in a half-hour, fast for the city’s permanent traffic jam. It’s an eerie trip. No one talks and Ben and Jethro avoid looking at me. I stay quiet, more worried about what will happen after the fight than the fight itself.

  * * *

  From the outside it looks like a rundown warehouse. Once inside I see a very strange boxing arena. It’s not hard to figure out why they call it The Pit. The ring is large round, and at the bottom of a steeply tiered circle of benches and folding chairs. Henry heads for a roped off ringside section of soft seats. Bernard follows. He’s—a man of multiple talents—both driver and bodyguard tonight. Ben leads me to a side door, down a zigzag metal stairway, into a shabby, basement locker room.

  “We’ll be your corner men, only there’s no corner, just platforms on opposite sides of the circle,” says Ben. “Here’s your gear. Put it on.” He hands me a paper bag. Inside is a mildewed pair of unwashed boxing trunks and a faded red sweat shirt that smells worse than the trunks. The trunks were once white but now are a milky grey with yellow sweat stains. There’s also a worn-out pair of running shoes. Unlike normal boxing shoes, their low cut and raised heels will limit my lateral movement and increase my chances of turning an ankle.

  “Where’s my protection? In case you haven’t noticed women are different than men. Women boxers need chest and groin protectors.”

  “Couldn’t find any. Just have to tough it out,” says Jethro.

  “No woman in her right mind would go in a ring without protection.”

  “You don’t have any option,” says Ben. I notice he’s put his gun on the table.

  “Here’s some kind of protection. Found it on the shower floor.” Jethro tosses me a used mouthpiece.

  Surprisingly it fits. I may get my tits mangled, but at least I’ll have nice teeth.

  I change away from their view in a dirty, mildewed shower stall. I take off my clothes. They’re my oldest and grungiest. I don’t bother to hang them up, just throw them on the shower floor. I pad my bra with my socks and make it tight. Not much but better than nothing. Can’t do anything about a groin pad so I’ll just have to duck low blows.

  The trunks are too big and the shoes are too small. I manage to tighten the trunks and hope they’ll stay up. Good thing I’m using my socks for padding, I can barely squeeze into the shoes without them. My big toes are pinched and the laces are stretched, a sure recipe for blisters but sore feet are the least of my worries.

  Ben throws me a dirty bath towel, “Drape this over your shoulders. Couldn’t afford a robe. This’ll do. It’s red, matches your sweat shirt. Mama’s colors are green. Figured red would be the right symbol for you.”

  “Now the gloves,” says Jethro. He reaches in a dusty locker and hands me a worn pair of six ounce gloves. They’re fastened with Velcro, not laces.

  “Tape?”

  “Don’t have any.”

  “That’s just great. Six once gloves are too light. I’ve never fought with them. Velcro straps are too loose, I need laces to keep from hurting my wrists. No tape means I’ll damage my hands. This is crazy.”

  “Like I said, no choice.” Ben picks up the gun, points it in my direction and sets it down again.

  I try to stretch, shadow box, get warmed up but my heart isn’t in it. Finally, I sit and stare at the clock on the wall. When it’s time to make our entrance Ben says, “Nothing personal, Layla, just business. Wish it could have ended better. Try to last two rounds. It makes a better show.”

  “Nice pep talk,” I say.

  * * *

  We step out a door at the bottom of the pit and march toward the ring. The air is hot, sticky and smells of smoke and unwashed bodies. The noise hits me like a solid wall. I hear boos, screams, and shouts in English and other languages. Someone from above throws a beer bottle. Jethro picks it up. It’s not empty and he takes a swig and drains it. A girl about my age wrinkles up her pretty face and spits at me. “I guess I’m not the favorite,” I shout at Ben but I’m not sure he can hear me above the roar.

  I’m sitting on a stool on a platform outside the ring when Mama Jefferson makes her entrance. She wears a green robe over a purple hoodie. Some kid of marching music blares from a speaker and she dances to the ring surrounded by four, very large, male attendants also dressed in green and also dancing.

  She climbs in the ring, takes off the robe, slides off the hoodie, and glares at me. She’s not just big, she’s huge—a freak—something fit for a circus side show. She looks close to seven feet tall and somewhere around three hundred pounds. I watch the lights reflect off her shaved, bullet shaped head and throw a shadow over her black slanted bowless eyes. Her nose doesn’t fit her face. It sticks out too much and looks more like a snout. She has the chiseled muscles of a weight lifter and a flat belly. Unlike me, I notice she is well protected where it counts, wears new boxing shoes and has gloves that are laced.

  I stand, return her stare, and turn to Ben. “She doesn’t look so tough.”

  Things keep getting weirder. The referee is a broad shouldered woman with grey, close cropped hair. She calls us to the center of the ring for instructions but ignores me.

  “You doing okay? Feeling good? Let me know if you need anything,” she says to Mama Jefferson. She pushes me away. “Go to your side, sit down, and come out when the bell rings.” She chats with Jefferson for another minute while I sit.

  * * *

  The bell rings and Mama Jefferson strolls across the ring. She’s not even in a boxing stance. I move toward her and throw a left jab. She just stands there, so I throw it again. I might as well be hitting a concrete wall.

  “That all you got, little white girl?” Her voice is high, almost childlike.

  “Half-white. Not a girl. I’m twenty-one.” That sounded really stupid. I move away and come in from her left. The heel of my junk running shoe catches and I stumble, but not before throwing a right, just below her ribs. This time she feels it. She gets into a boxing stance and shuffles toward me. “You little spoiled American punk bitch,” she chants.

 
I head fake and move to her right and throw a left to the other side of her ribs, “Not a punk,” I grunt through my mouthpiece. More like it.

  Back to her right again with another hook below her ribs. “Not a bitch.” Better.

  She doesn’t move so I do it again. “Not spoiled.” On a roll.

  I move back, and she shuffles toward me again. I circle and she turns and keeps moving in. I discover one advantage: I’m faster. She’s a brawler, not a boxer and Gus taught me to box.

  Then, the atomic bomb explodes. I’m on my belly and my cut lip is bleeding on the canvas. How I got there I don’t know. Mama Jefferson is kicking my ribs with those new shoes and the referee isn’t pushing her away, she’s counting me out.

  She gets to nine, and I stagger to my feet. I grab the rope and get her between us. “Can’t kick—against the rules,” I scream.

  She shoves me back so Mama can get at me and I go into a clinch, hug around her arms until my head clears. The ref’s supposed to break up the clinch and separate us but, instead, I feel her fingernails digging into my back, tearing my skin.

  I’ve got to keep this monster from killing me and fight the referee too. The cobwebs in my brain clear enough so that I think to turn and push her into Jefferson. When they’re both off balance, I step up to the ref and give her a left uppercut. She drops to the canvas and all hell breaks loose.

  Mama’s attendants jump into the ring, an old man with a drooping mustache and a satchel—must be the house doctor—and two uniformed cops join them. Not to be left out, Ben and Jethro climb in. Everyone’s pushing and yelling. The old man trips over the fallen ref and stumbles into Jethro. Now there are three on the canvas. I edge along the ropes, trying to avoid Jefferson’s bodyguards. Jefferson is shouting at Ben, shoving him into the ropes.

  Then the bell rings. Not once, but about a dozen times. End of first round.

  It takes ten minutes to get everyone out of the ring and clear the debris thrown by the fans. I sit on the platform outside the ring with Ben and Jethro. I can see blood on the back of the chair from fingernail scratches and my lip feels wet and puffy. “What have you got to stop the bleeding?” I ask Jethro. “Corner men are supposed to have first aid supplies.”