Shadowboxer

by Jessica L. Webb

  “Madi.” Jordan’s voice had an edge this time.

  Madi threw her arms up in surrender. “I’m out.” She walked away, smiling.

  Jordan watched her go. She did not want to look at Ali.

  “She’s a firecracker, as my dad would say.”

  “Yeah, she is. And incredibly bright with very high emotional intelligence.” Jordan took a breath and turned to Ali. “Which she uses for good and evil.”

  “Maybe she should be a lawyer,” Ali said.

  “You should tell her that.”

  “I will.”

  Someone cranked the music, and Johnny Cash came blaring through the speakers.

  “Nice warm-up music,” Ali said.

  Jordan said nothing. She suddenly wanted to be away from Ali; away from the uncertainty of what to say and how to act; away from the constant awareness that she needed to apologize to Ali for walking away when they were younger.

  Running, Jordan thought to herself.

  “I should go,” Jordan said awkwardly. “You know, get the kids organized.”

  “Sure.” Jordan thought she caught a moment of doubt in Ali’s expression. That couldn’t be. Ali Clarke was never uncertain. “I’ll catch up with Madi.”

  Jordan nodded and turned to go, uncomfortably relieved to have Ali out of her line of sight. It was going to be a long night. And an even longer six months.

  “Hey, JP!”

  Jordan’s heart bottomed out and rebounded, and she closed her eyes at Ali using her old nickname. But they weren’t seventeen anymore.

  “Can I buy you a beer later?”

  Jordan shook her head slowly. “I’m buying,” Jordan said. Ali grinned and Jordan tried desperately to school her expression before she approached her kids.

  Rupert and Sierra were waiting impatiently for Jordan in the ring. They were throwing imaginary punches at each other from opposite ends of the ring, laughing and trading insults. Rupert was smiling, and right now he looked like a boy with a crush. Sierra seemed to like the attention. Jordan made a mental note to check in with Cay, who was her social worker. At sixteen, Sierra had already had a baby removed from her care. She had committed to getting her life back on track and getting her baby out of the foster home. Jordan and Cay planned to help get her there.

  “I’m going to take you down,” Rupert called across to Sierra, throwing a wobbly right hook that left his head wide open.

  “Not with that, you’re not,” Jordan said as she climbed into the ring. It was easier to focus with the music and the noise of the kids in the background. “Sierra, tell him why you’d have him on the mat with that throw.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Jordan was sweating from keeping up with the teenagers. They were still dancing and throwing punches but had focused their energy and aim with her guidance. Sierra had an athlete’s ability to read her opponent and knew when to stay out of the way or move in. When she timed her right hook accurately, it was killer. Rupert, on the other hand, was a solid block who could take a blow and follow up without faltering. He’d once told Jordan that boxing fit his life philosophy: don’t let anyone knock you down. It wouldn’t work in a real match, but Jordan had to hand it to the teen. He’d committed valiantly to a life course.

  The music dropped noticeably, signaling the fifteen-minute cool-down. Groans and cheers bounced around the gym. Jordan gauged the clusters of teens scattered around the equipment. Tonight had been a good night. Jordan caught sight of Ali. At some point, she’d pulled off her button-up shirt and was now just in her tee. She’d been holding a bag and kick gloves for Madi as they’d paired up for a circuit run. Jordan couldn’t read Madi’s body language, but the two of them were still together, and that was a good sign.

  “Rupert and Sierra, can you grab the food from the fridge?” Jordan tossed them the key to her apartment. She knew the kids talked about who Jordan trusted with her apartment key, even just for the five minutes it took to grab their post-workout snack and return.

  Rupert and Sierra high-fived and ran off. Puppies, Jordan thought again. And then, because she’d wanted to all night, Jordan walked over to Madi and Ali.

  “Jordan, tell your ex to bring workout gear next time,” Madi said as she sat on the floor and stretched.

  “Madi, you can call her Ali or Ms. Clarke,” Jordan said before turning to Ali. “Ali, bring your workout gear next time.”

  Ali threw her hands up. “Madi has berated me sufficiently. I’m bringing workout gear tomorrow.”

  Madi leapt up from the mat with an agility Jordan envied. “Tomorrow I’m coaching. You can find a circuit partner, probably. Or follow me around.” Madi shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me.” Jordan caught the mildly embarrassed look on Madi’s face. Interesting. When she turned back, Madi had controlled her expression. “Food’s here. It will be gone in about two and a half minutes, so get in there if you want some.”

  Ali waved away the offer and Madi shrugged and left, leaving them alone.

  “Firecracker,” Ali confirmed. “She’s great.”

  Jordan’s heart swelled at the approval in Ali’s tone. Then her head warned caution.

  “Madi’s a great human being. And incredibly complex.”

  Ali looked at Jordan carefully. “I won’t hurt her, JP.”

  “Never said you would.” She wanted to tell Ali to call her Jordan. It seemed childish, but more than anything, she wanted Ali to see her as an adult. A functioning, successful adult. Jordan breathed deep into her core as shadows of doubt and uncertainty darkened her thoughts.

  She turned when Ali gave a low whistle. Jordan followed her gaze to see the kids gathered around the foldout table, grabbing carrot sticks and apples and handfuls of almonds. The ranch dip would be gone by now. Jordan tried not to calculate how much of her paycheck she spent every month on ranch dip.

  “That’s one of the things Centera’s donation is helping pay for,” Jordan said. “It’s the only time some of them see a vegetable.”

  “That’s awesome,” Ali said, still watching the cluster of teens fighting over the food. “What else?” She suddenly seemed all business, but Jordan recognized the light in her eyes. She was pursuing something.

  “Nothing flashy,” Jordan said with a shrug. “Gym time, mostly. I can’t legally make money off the program, but I offer the gym to the Ministry of Children and Youth Services at cost. I’m hoping to get a washer and dryer in here at some point so the kids can take turns washing their clothes while they work out.”

  Ali wrinkled her nose. Jordan tried not to feel defensive and failed.

  “They’re street kids, Ali. A lot of them, anyway. It’s not their fault.”

  Jordan had never been that kid, not really. She’d had brothers who looked out for her when her parents couldn’t. But she knew the humiliation of powerlessness and poverty. She felt the weight of Ali’s judgement, for herself and her kids.

  “Sorry. That was an unnecessary reaction,” Ali said. “I’m just not used to being around teenagers. They’re…fragrant.”

  Jordan allowed a smile, but she was torn. She knew she should give Ali some leeway, allow her to be the decent human she’d always been. But Ali knew very little about this world. Caution settled like a resolution in Jordan’s thoughts. It was comforting. It was distance.

  “Jordan, do you have a minute?”

  Rachel approached and her posture was tense, her expression focused. She’d disappeared halfway through the workout. Jordan assumed she’d got a call-out.

  “What’s up?”

  Rachel looked up and was about to speak when she saw Ali.

  “Hi. Sorry, I’m interrupting.”

  “Not a problem,” Jordan said. “Rachel, this is Ali Clarke. She’s partnering with Madi for the mentorship program. Ali, this is Constable Rachel Shreve.”

  The two women shook hands. Rachel smiled warmly, but Ali seemed a little stiff.

  “Do you mind if I steal Jordan away for a minute, Ali?”

  Jordan began to worr
y.

  “No, not at all. I’ll leave you two alone.”

  Jordan watched Ali walk over to the chaos around the snack table. Jordan admired her courage. She focused back on Rachel.

  “What is it?”

  “Probably nothing. That symbol I showed you earlier? Turns out the mayor’s office and all sixteen regional councilors received a fax earlier today with the sun symbol and the words ‘lighting the dark to help you see.’”

  “Sounds vaguely ominous. But who sends faxes anymore?”

  “Someone who has access to the main branch of the library, since that’s where we traced the sending number.”

  “So, it’s still just a weird event. Sounds less like a gang, if you ask me. They don’t tend to worry about faxes, regional politics, and being helpful.”

  Rachel smiled, but she seemed to do it just for Jordan’s benefit. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Anything you want me to do?”

  Rachel put her hand on Jordan’s arm, squeezing gently. “No, friend. Just keep an eye out and listen for anything the kids are bringing in about this. I…” Another hesitation. Very unlike the confident constable.

  “Say it, Rach.”

  “Something’s up. Something…organized. I don’t know what yet. But the gang task force is saying they’ve got nothing new. No new activity, no increase in trafficking or prostitution. Other than the influx of opioids, which is true in every municipality across the country, the gang scene is low and slow, as they put it.”

  “Organized but not a gang. Is that it?”

  Rachel grimaced. “I know it doesn’t make any sense. It’s just petty crimes. But it’s the targeted nature of those petty crimes that’s making me nervous. That symbol is making me nervous.” She shrugged. “Maybe I’m off.”

  “Trust your instincts on this, Rach.”

  Rachel looked away for a moment, doubt causing her posture to slump. Then she turned back to Jordan and smiled slightly. “Yeah, okay. But maybe I’ll wait until I have more information before I bring it up with my supervisor.”

  “Fair enough, Constable,” Jordan said, trying to keep Rachel in a positive headspace. Self-doubt didn’t look good on her. “Be good to yourself.”

  “You, too. I’m going to go home and put my babies to bed. See you tomorrow if I can make it.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Rachel left and Jordan took a moment to try and clear her head before heading over to the table where a handful of kids still lounged. Ali was talking with Madi and Sierra. Sierra was showing Ali something on her phone. Probably pictures of her little girl, Brooklynn, if that smile on her face was any indication.

  Madi looked up first when Jordan approached.

  “Everything okay?”

  Jordan touched her lightly on the shoulder. Madi was tense.

  “Yeah, Madi. Everything’s okay.”

  Madi gave Jordan a long look, as if testing the veracity of Jordan’s statement. Then she turned away.

  “I’m out. Places to be, people to do. Sierra, you coming?”

  Jordan caught Ali’s expression of surprise but Ali just blinked and said nothing. Madi was going for shock value. It meant she’d had a good night with Ali. Now she was going to attempt some self-sabotage. But it wasn’t going to work if Jordan could help it. She wondered at herself. She’d gone from wanting to protect Madi from whatever this mentorship was to wanting to pin Ali down and hold her to her promises.

  As Madi rounded up the last of the kids and clanged the gym door closed behind them, Jordan rubbed her hands over her face. Long day, so little sleep. And a beer with Ali. She looked up to see Ali watching her.

  “You still up for a beer? I’ll understand if you’re not. You look beat.”

  Maybe she should take this offer of distance. Establish a boundary, draw a line between past and present. But she really, really didn’t want to.

  “Give me ten minutes to shower?”

  Ali looked down at her own T-shirt and pulled it away from her body. Jordan tried and failed to not watch Ali running her hands over her stomach.

  “How about you meet me at the Anchor Inn Pub in half an hour? It’s next to my hotel.”

  “Yeah, okay. Perfect,” Jordan said. Of course Ali was staying at the swankiest hotel in Halifax.

  Ali dropped her hand and said nothing. Jordan wished she’d leave. And briefly, so briefly, wished she’d never arrived.

  “You can pick somewhere else. I just thought—”

  “No,” Jordan interrupted, feeling like an ass. “It’s good. See you there in half an hour.”

  Another drawn-out pause. Jordan felt the weight of their uncertainty.

  “Just a beer, Jordan,” Ali said quietly.

  Jordan could not hold her gaze. She picked up the remnants of the veggie platter and wiped the table down quickly with a napkin. Arms full, clearly ready to go, Jordan met Ali’s eyes.

  “Just a beer sounds great.”

  * * *

  The Anchor Inn Pub pretended to be a local bar with history. Every detail had been designed to make the tourists in the neighbouring hotel feel like they were part of the seaside city’s local flavour, including the shiny black anchor on a pedestal outside the heavy wooden front door.

  Jordan, in dark jeans and a black shirt under her leather jacket, snorted quietly as she parked her car up the street. Cay would give her a hard time if she saw Jordan here. But the chance of running into anyone she knew was slim.

  “Jordan, hello.”

  Jordan turned at the sound of her name to see a familiar figure approaching from the street.

  “Helena, hi,” Jordan said.

  Helena Cavio was a petite woman with thin, straight brown hair that fell just below her jaw, her bangs blunt across her forehead in a style either fashionable or uncaring. Given her intense focus and commitment to protecting and supporting the vulnerable in their community, Jordan guessed the latter. Her clothes were always clean but worn. Helena was often slightly awkward, a fierce champion for her clients but a bit of an oddity with her colleagues.

  “Out shopping?” Jordan said, indicating the large reusable shopping bag Helena had over her shoulder.

  Helena’s eyes lit up.

  “I’ve just picked up a few maps for a project we’re doing in our support group. We’re discussing what it means to have a home, to be home.”

  Jordan smiled at Helena. They’d always gotten along well in meetings and the working groups to which they both belonged.

  “That sounds incredible. Maybe it’s something I could adapt with the teens? I’d love to hear more about it, but I’m just heading in to meet someone.” Jordan sheepishly indicated the Anchor Inn behind them, though she doubted Helena was the type to judge.

  The look of excitement dimmed a little on Helena’s face.

  “Yes, of course. We can connect whenever you’d like.”

  A figure emerged from the dark street.

  “Let me get that for you, boss.”

  Helena smiled at the man who took the bags and propped them over his shoulder. Jordan thought he looked familiar, but it took a moment to place him.

  “Creaser?”

  The man looked up and smiled. Everything about James Creaser had always been good-natured.

  “Jordan. Man, I haven’t seen you in ages.” Creaser turned to Helena. “Jordan and me grew up together, same neighbourhood. She’s good people.”

  “Thanks, man. So are you,” Jordan said. Seeing Creaser made her think of late nights hanging out at the park, a sense of boredom and danger and belonging. “It’s good to see you.”

  Helena looked back and forth between the two, her smile serene. “Yes, good people. Well, we should go set up for a meeting. Have a good night.”

  Creaser waved cheerfully and followed Helena into the night.

  As she headed into the bar, Jordan considered Creaser and their shared history in one of the rougher neighbourhoods of Halifax. Knowing what she did now, Jordan suspected Creas
er had Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder. He had struggled in school, but he was always wanting to please the people around him, which often made him the fall guy. And he couldn’t predict future consequences for his actions. Jordan was happy to see he was his same happy-go-lucky self, connected to community services like Helena’s.

  The bar was sticky warm and smelled of shrimp and garlic and hops. The combination made Jordan’s stomach rumble, despite her resistance to the pub itself. Ali was already seated along the wall under black-and-white photos of Halifax Harbour. She was dressed simply, her hair still damp and tucked behind her ears. It made her look younger, like the teenager Jordan had once known. Jordan wasn’t sure if that made this easier or harder.

  “Don’t be mad, I ordered shrimp,” Ali said, by way of greeting.

  Jordan laughed and took off her jacket, pulling herself into the booth opposite Ali.

  “It does smell good. Why would I be mad?”

  “Because I promised just a beer,” Ali said.

  She really was beautiful, Jordan thought. The bar was evening dark, each table lit with one overhead light and a glass globe lantern. The candlelight made Ali’s skin glow, the shine of her smile matching the expression in her eyes. Seeing that look again and knowing it had once belonged to her was joy and agony.

  The waiter approached with menus, the specials, and a dizzying list of local craft brews on tap. Jordan ordered a lager from Lunenburg, just down the coast. Ali ordered amber ale from a brewery only a few blocks from where they sat. When the waiter left, Jordan found just enough courage to jump in.

  “I assumed the ‘just a beer’ comment had more to do with our conversation and less to do with what we ordered.”

  Ali looked briefly surprised, then gave a short laugh. “I thought maybe I’d leave it open to interpretation.”

  “Meaning you’d let me take the lead?” Jordan had the sense she wasn’t being fair, that she was pushing. But she didn’t stop.

  “Showing up unexpectedly, not just in your city but in your gym, and then directing what we were going to talk about seemed overly presumptuous. Even for me.”

  “So, you knew it was my gym before you arrived.”