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The Baker

Page 24

by Paul Hond


  By the time Mickey finished his calisthenics, the speed bag was free. He walked past the ring, which was elevated three feet off the ground: the two kids inside it, headgear falling over their eyes, danced endlessly. Along the perimeter of the space, fighters skipped rope and shadowboxed. They all knew who Mickey was—he was conspicuous enough—but no one went out of his way to talk to him. Mickey took it in stride. He knew they saw him as Glazer’s favorite boy (which was dead wrong: Glazer favored no one, loved no one), and if this cost him their friendship, it also spared him their wrath: it was the colored kids who got whipped with towels and shoved into the lockers.

  He stood before the red pear, tapped it, roused it, then stroked it until it blibbered and blurred. He could forget himself, could surrender completely to his own crafted rhythms. He watched his fists, slow and pendular in a shiver of red.

  After this, he headed for the giant salamis. These were for power. Mickey sent his bag swaying lazily, the chain squeaking from where it was attached to the ceiling. He wasn’t a grunter; he swallowed his grunts, not wanting to draw any attention to himself, but also out of a kind of sexual shyness. His gray T-shirt grew dark with sweat as he directed his punches with increased purpose. At points he feared he might begin to cry if he stopped punching. His father had loved salami. He used to eat it sliced thick, with mustard and olives on rye toast.

  He shadowboxed and skipped rope. Normally he felt his body trimming and tightening into perfection as the rope whipped over his head, but as he faced the mirror and observed himself, all the uncertainty in his life—the bakery, the house, the prospect of living alone—came straight at his chin, blows that were so quickly absorbed into his concerns about tomorrow’s fight that he felt he could not go on training unless he knew more about his opponent. But for some reason Glazer wasn’t telling. Mickey didn’t think Glazer would pit him against a lion, not in his first fight anyway. But was Glazer that careful? Who was Thomas Childs? Despite himself, Mickey felt the first small stirrings of fear; his feet stuttered, and the rope snared his ankle.

  It was time to spar. Glazer whistled for Hurt, who, though not a middleweight, had been one not long ago; he was only three pounds heavier than Mickey, but found himself on the other side of the class cusp. He was gaining weight now, wanting to move up to cruiser-weight; at six feet two, he had room for more pounds. He was twenty-three years old and his face was already flat as a photograph.

  Glazer gripped Mickey’s jaw and fed him a mouthpiece, then strapped him into his headgear. Again, Mickey thrilled at Glazer’s firm touch. He ground his teeth on the mouthpiece, enjoying the weight it gave to his skull. He saw his hands eaten up by two red gloves. Glazer secured these, then took a dollop of Vaseline on his finger and drew a cross on Mickey’s face: a stripe down the nose and across the brow.

  On the other side, Glazer’s assistant, old Abe Lackman, outfitted Hurt. Mickey scraped his shoes in the rosin box and stepped nimbly into the ring. He met his opponent in the center and touched his gloves.

  The other fighters stopped their workouts to watch. They all knew that Mickey was fighting tomorrow (Hurt was fighting too, as was a kid named Leonard Roach), and Mickey sensed a kind of familial pride in the way they gathered around the ring. To please them he danced a little with Hurt, but that wasn’t his style; he was a flat-footed puncher, not so much a bull as a rock: patient, willing to wait for an opening, a mistake. He kept his fists high, his head down. He knew that Hurt—stronger, more experienced—was under orders to take it easy. Mickey planted his feet and initiated with a lead, then let Hurt toughen him up with body blows. There was pain, the gasp of lost wind, the need, at first, to vomit, but once beyond a certain threshold the blows became like cramps that come only with laughter: no pain in between, just a giddy bracing for it. More impressive than Hurt’s punches was Mickey’s ability to absorb them. Having lulled Hurt into that game, Mickey suddenly went after him, jabbing, feinting. Now he moved his man back, landing harder stuff, and as Hurt went into his shell Mickey pounded the arms, wanting to pry them open to get to the meat. Glazer was yelling something at him, and in the very instant he turned to look at Glazer he saw a flash of shattered light and found himself on his back, his chin tingling, his skull bruised where it had slammed on the canvas.

  A towel full of fumes was passed under his nose by crooked-nosed Lackman, and Mickey could hear Glazer yelling at Hurt. Mickey knocked the towel away and stood up too fast. Wobbling, he saw that the onlookers had been stirred: they shook their heads, grinned, slapped each other’s backs, mimicked Hurt’s delivery. Mickey winced at Glazer’s fingers on his lips, then coughed up the mouthpiece as though he had swallowed it. The headgear came off to a blast of air and noise. Glazer told him he’d had enough. “Save it for tomorrow,” he said.

  The next day, Mickey escaped the house again on another flimsy pretext. He had a feeling Morris was on to him—Morris had remarked offhand the night before about the puffiness around Mickey’s eyes, and later had caught him shadowboxing in his room—but still Mickey lied. Glazer had gone through a lot of trouble to get him this fight, and Mickey had trained his heart out.

  He drove down to the gym, where Glazer was waiting with Hurt and Roach and Abe Lackman. They all got into Glazer’s car, the three fighters in the backseat, Mickey in the middle.

  As Glazer and Lackman talked up front, Hurt and Roach chatted across Mickey’s knees about neighborhood things. Then the conversation got around to the fights, and Hurt poked Mickey in the chest. “You’re money in the bank,” he said. He was a few years older, and Mickey respected his wisdom, though he was afraid of him personally. “They gonna put you against bums, make you look good for the white people. Turn you pro fast as they can.”

  Roach, his knees scissoring, listened studiously.

  “You’ll never have to be any good to make money,” Hurt said. “Just good enough to be a good white bum. They always room for a good white bum.”

  Roach nodded.

  Mickey tried to ignore it. He said, “You know anything about Thomas Childs?”

  “That your man?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Prob’ly a bum.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Or maybe not.” And at this Hurt closed his eyes and stretched extravagantly.

  None of the fighters had ever been to Dundalk before. It was working-class to the bone: tidy row houses, corner bars, Old Glory hanging from front porches. Hurt began fidgeting a little; Roach stroked his chin.

  They pulled up to the venue, one of those Legion halls that are often rented out for weddings or fund-raising events. The proceeds from this exhibition, the fighters had been told, were to go to a local hospital—meaning whatever was left after the promoter and the managers took their cuts.

  The place was already half-filled with thick-necked men, their bellies burning with beer and Polish sausage, with the sparks and fire of the workplace. In a dark corner of the arena, Mickey noticed, there sat a small group of Negroes.

  The mood in the dressing room was funereal. Hurt and Roach were subdued, almost prayerful, hardly their usual belligerent selves. Mickey changed into his pine-green trunks and took a brief rubdown from Glazer, who told him to relax, to just fight his fight—as if he had a fight, as if he’d fought a dozen times. Mickey just nodded.

  “Jabs,” Glazer said absently, slapping Mickey’s shoulder blades. “Don’t chase him.”

  “Okay.” Suddenly Mickey was on his feet, with Glazer helping him into a long, threadbare purple robe. He shuffled, threw a few punches at the air, touched his toes, bent his knees. Glazer reached behind him to put the hood over his head.

  Mickey heard his name being announced. Glazer turned his head at the sound of scattered boos and catcalls, and his fleshy, battered face grew dark. “It’s time,” he said. Mickey threw a sloppy combination at the air, then followed Glazer through a doorway and down an aisle toward the ring, where, under the lights, a referee and a ring announcer stood looking at him, and where T
homas Childs, rangy, unknown, his face hidden in the hood of a glowing white robe, was being aided through the ropes by his colored handlers.

  Glazer removed Mickey’s robe, then inserted his mouthpiece and greased his face while Lackman arranged the water bottle and towels and bucket by the stool. Mickey touched his head—no protective gear there. A face wide open. He looked around: there must have been over a hundred and fifty people on hand, most of them white. They eyed Mickey with a mix of curiosity, pride and blunt expectation. Mickey looked down at his shoes.

  Glazer pawed his head and said into his ear, “I know you’ve had a tough couple of days, kid. Now go and take it out on the shvartze.”

  “Lerner!” called the referee, a fat, middle-aged man in a striped shirt. With a push from Glazer, Mickey trotted to the center of the ring to meet Childs, who was still huddled with his seconds.

  Childs was skinny, sleek; he had a part in the middle of his hair and a pubescent mustache. But his arms were long, and when he shook off his robe his muscles rippled. His face was unreadable. He stared at Mickey and flashed his mouthpiece. Mickey felt a chill down his back. When Childs met him up close, Mickey saw dull, shifting eyes and a perfect nose, preserved either by lack of experience or a refusal to be hit.

  The referee went over some rules, wished the fighters well and ordered them to touch gloves. Childs tapped Mickey’s glove without looking at him and went back to his corner to wait for the bell.

  The lights that had been rigged above them were hot, bright; as much as anything else they gave the fight the semblance of an event. Glazer was barking instructions and rubbing Mickey’s neck when the bell rang. Childs charged to the center before Mickey left Glazer’s fingertips. The crowd responded favorably to Mickey’s slow advance.

  Childs kept his hands low, jiggling them at his sides. Mickey forgot about everything else; the past and the future fell away from him. He had only his body.

  He stepped in and jabbed. Childs snapped his head back, avoiding the punch, then countered with two lightning jabs, both of which Mickey barely picked off with his mitts. His own quickness surprised him. That, and the lack of power in the punches. Childs uppercut, missing completely, then crossed to the face. Mickey felt his nose go numb; the sensation forced tears. An uppercut landed under his heart. Mickey covered up, felt a small storm on his arms and at the top of his head. If Childs was scoring, Mickey felt a moral advantage in having had his nose struck first. The crowd, however, was less encouraged: they booed loudly, a thunder to accompany Childs’s rain, and through it all Mickey could hear Glazer screaming at him to get out of there.

  Mickey pushed Childs off, and brushed his own nose with his glove to make sure it was still there. He got in close, jabbed and feinted in the textbook fashion. Both corners were yelling for their guys to mix it up; both sensed a vulnerability in the opponent. Mickey jabbed, then hooked with his left, catching the chin. His right followed to the nose. Bull’s-eye. Childs sailed back into the ropes. The chest was open, and Mickey charged in, nailing the solar plexus and the heart. Some in the crowd had risen. Childs gasped, leaned into the ropes. Mickey roundhoused to the head; sweat jumped from Childs’s scalp like bugs. The ref was on top of them. Fans stood and pumped their fists. Childs’s face looked dented. “Finish him off!” Glazer yelled. Childs’s trainer was hollering for jabs. Mickey went down low to work the body. Glazer screamed for him to pound the head. Childs hit Mickey’s ear like a baby banging a drum. “The head!” Glazer screamed. The crowd picked up on that. Mickey straightened and nailed the sinuses. Childs clung to Mickey. Mickey dug again into the gut. The ref separated them and said something to Childs. Childs nodded that he was okay, but his legs were rubber. The ref stepped back. Mickey went to the body, and Childs sagged into the ropes again, covered up, waited. Mickey did not pursue. Childs staggered forward and embraced him, punching weakly at his kidneys. Mickey slow-danced with him, draping his arms over Childs’s shoulders. He breathed and closed his eyes to the shouts. The ref separated them. Mickey assumed a stance à la Benny Leonard, waiting for Childs to come to him. Childs shuffled and bobbed, but did not come. The bell rang.

  Mickey returned to his corner. Glazer wiped his face with a towel as Lackman aimed the water bottle erratically, squirting everything but Mickey’s mouth. Mickey knocked it away. Glazer was livid: “Why did you let up? Huh? You were one punch away!”

  “He didn’t go down.”

  “You didn’t go in for the kill!”

  “I can take him,” Mickey said, panting.

  “Then take him,” said Glazer.

  Mickey came out more aggressively this time, to the renewed delight of the crowd. The first round had just been a tease, they seemed to think; its promise would now be fulfilled. Mickey scraped the canvas with his shoes, rolled his neck, flashed his mouthpiece.

  Childs looked refreshed, even confident; his corner had reconstructed him. Maybe this wasn’t a bum after all; maybe the first round was just so much subterfuge. Mickey tried some exploratory jabs, like poking at something that might or might not be alive. Again he sensed Childs’s lack of power. Then he was struck on the chin; he staggered, and in the corner of his eye saw the small group of Negroes lean forward in their seats. Childs came again to the body. Mickey tried to clinch, but Childs backed up. Mickey followed him. He charged into Childs’s right hand, but kept coming, and they mixed it up, trading to the body before their skulls collided in a klonk that sent them both reeling. Mickey recovered and fired, smashing the nose, and followed that with a hook. Again, Childs was on the ropes: his eyes and his nostrils were slits. Mickey noticed blood on the canvas. He looked at Childs. It was hard to tell from where he was bleeding, he was so dark and sweaty. Mickey pawed at him harmlessly, thinking he might be in real trouble. What had he done to him? Again came the cries to put him away. The ref got closer. Sweat poured into Mickey’s eye. Pausing to wipe at it, he was struck on the throat. Mickey caught his breath and fell into Childs so that he could wipe the eye. His glove came away bloody. The eye blurred up. He tasted blood on his lips. It was his own.

  He would never fully remember what happened next; all he knew was that he had thrown himself at Childs, wanting the skull, the soft food beyond it. He was blind, swinging his fists as though trying to break through a darkness to light, coming closer to something, a moment of shattering release in which he would howl like some wild, soaked animal, his torso wet and shiny as a carnival in the rain. His face and chest were spattered, his trunks streaked with blood; Childs was a bronze font, a twisted, drooling sculpture, sprinkling the ring with a water that drove Mickey’s thirst to madness. Mickey punched and punched, continually finding the snapping head, urged on less by the crowd than by his own burning need for relief. He yelled and pursued his target, connecting again and again until at last it fell away from him as the body crumpled into the ropes. He gave chase, but was pulled away. Childs fell forward and lay in a heap.

  The ref waved his hands. A doctor climbed through the ropes, his box shining under the lights. The crowd was on its feet, cheering, jubilant, fists pumping, a hungry tribe drunk on enemy blood. It took Mickey a moment to understand what had happened.

  Glazer was beside him. He grabbed the bloody, gloved hand, raised it. The crowd roared.

  Childs was motionless. The doctor called for a stretcher.

  Mickey’s heart pounded. A damp towel was pushed over his face: everything went dark. Abe Lackman’s gravel voice broke over the shouts of the crowd: “A tiger! We got a tiger!”

  The mouthpiece was pulled from him, and all at once Mickey felt naked.

  He broke away to get a look at Childs, who was surrounded by doctors, seconds, family members. The eyes were still closed. A woman held his hand. His mother? She was weeping, praying.

  Mickey stared. His mouth tasted of metal. What had he done? God, what had he done? His hands were numb inside the gloves.

  Thrown debris piled up in Childs’s abandoned corner. Mickey wanted to reach down to Chil
ds, touch him, bring him back. The woman holding the downed fighter’s limp hand looked up at Mickey with a tear-streaked face. “You killed him,” she cried. “You killed my baby!”

  Mickey couldn’t speak. The woman turned back to the boy on the canvas, begging him to come to as the doctor aimed light into the peeled-open eyes, one and then the other, looking for a response.

  No, he wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead. The doctor was calm, methodical. He’d seen this all before. Hadn’t he?

  Mickey told himself that he wasn’t solely to blame for this: the crowd had willed it, yes, and the ref had held back. It was a conspiracy. Why hadn’t the fight been stopped sooner? Why hadn’t Childs’s people jumped into the ring? Mickey felt the tears stinging at his eyes. What would it mean, what would it make him, if Thomas Childs were to die?

  Mickey gritted his teeth. He wanted to reach out to the woman, throw himself at her mercy, but was stopped by the pat of a hand on his behind. “Let’s go, kid,” came a voice. It was Glazer. “He’ll be fine. Come on now. Gotta get you cleaned up.”

  Childs was still unconscious, as far as Mickey could see.

  “Mick!”

  Mickey jumped at his name and followed Glazer out of the ring and up the aisle, fixing his eyes on a spot at the back of Glazer’s head, thinking insanely that if he looked back at the ring, Thomas Childs would surely die.

  Around the edges he saw the proud, beaming faces of the patrons, some of whom called out his name.

  He woke up in the dark, in a strange bed in a strange room. He knew where he was. He checked his watch, which—he now remembered—he’d set ahead for Paris time. It was a little after five in the morning: he’d slept for more than fifteen hours.

  He turned on the bedside lamp, the taste of the memory still on his tongue. Poor Tommy: never the same. It had been Tommy’s last fight, just as it was Mickey’s last, though Mickey felt that he himself, unlike Tommy, hadn’t quit the game so much as fled it. Its demands were too much for him; he’d been a decent athlete, true, but never what he’d call a competitor; he’d thirsted not for victory or blood, but for contact, the equitable exchange, the physical conversation; and yet he had nearly killed a man. This was a promising sign in Lou Glazer’s opinion, but Mickey had had enough. Something awful had been unleashed. He’d felt it, felt the frenzy of the crowd invade him, possess him, urging him on as though he were one of their own, and God knew he had craved that, yes, he was aware of them, every single one of them, a whole proud and rabid family of men promising him their sweaty, brutal love.

 

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