A Book of American Martyrs

by Joyce Carol Oates

  From the audience came isolated calls, cries, bursts of applause. Pryde Elka had her supporters and so did (evidently) D.D. Dunphy. But many patrons had entered the arena during the final round without any interest in the frenzied action between the women boxers in the ring. There was a collective impatience for this fight to end, and the next fight to begin.

  Naomi believed that Elka had won. Enthusiasm for Elka had been more evident in the Armory. She’d been the more skilled boxer, if the more devious with her attempts at head-butting and kidney punches. As a Native American, Elka was more sympathetic. All you could say of Dunphy was that she was tough, resilient. She was clumsy.

  Naomi would return to New York City happily, if Pryde Elka had won. She would take a few photographs in the Armory and return to New York City and to the care of her grandmother and (how this had happened, she couldn’t quite comprehend) her “half-uncle” Kinch. They were her family now. They needed her, and she was happy to be needed. She was accumulating photo-portraits, and portraits of “The Squaw” and “The Hammer of Jesus” would be appropriate. She would not ever think of Luther Dunphy’s daughter again.

  But to her surprise all three judges gave the fight to Dunphy. Naomi had not been aware of the “judges” until now—two middle-aged white men and a middle-aged black man, seated at ringside. The first judge had “awarded” seven rounds to Dunphy, one round to Elka; the second, six rounds to Dunphy and two rounds to Elka; the third, all eight rounds to Dunphy.

  How was this possible? Naomi was astonished.

  The ring announcer’s amplified voice exuded an air of zest, exhilaration: “‘D.D. Dunphy’—‘The Hammer of Jesus’—unanimous win increasing this young fighter’s record to eight wins, one draw, zero losses!”

  Now came a final outburst of applause. Spectators who’d just trailed into the Armory, who’d seen nothing of the fight, clapped loudly, catcalled and whistled. The mood in the arena was festive, elevated. The mood was impatient. Get the bitches out of the ring!—there came braying cries laced with laughter.

  In the ring, in the blinding light, without her gleaming red boxing gloves uplifted to protect her, D.D. Dunphy was very ill at ease. She smiled inanely as a nervous child might smile. She’d been invited by the ring announcer to “say a few words to our audience”—but before she could speak there was a change of plans, and Dunphy’s handlers were instructed to escort her from the ring. Equipment had to be set up for the next fight, which was to be televised within a few minutes.

  Naomi asked of the young boxing fans beside her how Dunphy could have won the fight when she was so clumsy it seemed like she couldn’t “box” at all; and they retorted, “She win, man. That white girl can hit.”

  This was a rebuke. Naomi felt her face burn as if she’d betrayed someone to whom she was expected to have been loyal.

  With her camera Naomi hurried after D.D. Dunphy and her several handlers up the aisle, taking flash pictures. She saw now what she hadn’t seen before the fight: Dunphy’s black robe, that fell to just her knees, bore gilt letters on the back—D.D. DUNPHY HAMMER OF JESUS. And on Dunphy’s head was a black cap with the inscription, also in gilt letters, JESUS IS LORD.

  In the giddy aftermath of her victory there were several other photographers taking pictures of D.D. Dunphy. A barrage of flash photos. Naomi was grateful for the anonymity. She had to suppose that a boxer is a kind of public property and that Dunphy’s handlers were happy for her to be photographed if it meant publicity.

  Naomi heard herself ask one of the corner men if their boxer was available for an interview and was told—“Maybe. Depends.”

  Another told her, over his shoulder, “Contact Dayton Fights, Inc.”

  Dunphy and her retinue disappeared into the interior of the Armory where no one unauthorized was allowed to follow. Naomi saw that one of the photographers, whom they seemed to know, probably with a local newspaper, had been allowed to accompany them to Dunphy’s dressing room.

  Ridiculous, Naomi thought. Why would I want to interview her?

  She was feeling just slightly dazed, light-headed. Her heart pounded with excitement and also a kind of chagrin, or shame. She had never witnessed anything quite like the “eight rounds of boxing” between Pryde Elka and D.D. Dunphy.

  Quickly then, for she was feeling as if she might faint, Naomi left the Armory, and stood for some minutes out on the avenue, breathing deeply, fresh air, or rather a fresher air than inside the Armory, though tinged with something metallic and yeasty—a smell of the Ohio River not far away. In her confusion and disorientation she scarcely knew where she was. She could not stop thinking about the fight—she could not stop seeing the fight—she had only to shut her eyes and immediately images of the female boxers and their swinging gloves, their stricken faces, assailed her like dream images loosed from some primitive nightmare.

  “D.D. Dunphy”—that was the disguise.

  Wondering: did Dawn Dunphy know her, as intimately as she knew Dawn Dunphy?

  FORTY MINUTES were allotted for the interview, the next morning. In a drafty utilitarian space described as a conference banquet room at the Cincinnati Marriot near the airport.

  “Hello. My name is—”

  Glibly the name rolled off her tongue: Naomi Matheson.

  (And what a beautiful name it was! Never had Naomi uttered this name aloud before.)

  “—and I am preparing a documentary film on women boxers.”

  Pausing then to add with a friendly sort of frankness, smiling at both the abashed-looking D.D. Dunphy and at a dyed-blond woman of about thirty-five who’d introduced herself as “Marika”—chief of public relations at Dayton Fights, Inc.: “Only the preeminent women boxers who are champions, or leading contenders for titles. The film is financed by”—glibly too the name rolled off her tongue: The New York Film Institute—“which is a private institute that has prepared documentaries shown on PBS and other TV channels as well as at film festivals like Sundance, Telluride, and Lincoln Center.”

  The dyed-blond woman seemed impressed. D.D. Dunphy blinked and stared at the floor with her bruised eyes, that were nearly swollen shut. The wound above her right eyebrow seemed to have been stitched tight and one side of her mouth was swollen and bruised.

  She wore a dark gray sweatshirt and sweatpants that fitted her stocky body loosely, and these were unadorned. Naomi looked about for the black hat with gilt letters Jesus Is Lord but did not see it. She said:

  “My partner and I have made a number of films focusing on women pioneering in fields traditionally belonging to men. There has been much interest in women boxers and there is a possibility that ESPN would help finance the film . . .”

  Nothing uttered by “Naomi Matheson” was in the slightest implausible. Nor was it impossible that, one day soon, a documentary might be made of women boxers in the United States, including D.D. Dunphy, to be aired on PBS, or indeed ESPN.

  It was clear that D.D. Dunphy and Marika would believe anything that was flattering to them. Or rather, Dunphy would cooperate with anything Marika approved that might advance her career for Dayton Fights, Inc.

  “You will make a video available to us of the interview with D.D., Ms. Matheson?—for our own use, also?”—the dyed-blond Marika spoke shrewdly; and Naomi said, with the warmest sort of sisterly sincerity, “Certainly, yes.”

  To Dunphy the woman said, as one might speak to a child, “Just forty minutes, D.D. I’ll come back to make sure it doesn’t go longer. Are you OK with this? You’ve been interviewed before for video. Or do you need me to stay with you?”

  Gravely, bravely D.D. Dunphy shook her head no. A plaintive expression in the young woman’s face, in her somber bruised downlooking eyes, would have suggested to a more perceptive protector that no really meant yes; but the dyed-blond woman, already on her feet, an unlighted cigarette in her fingers, chose not to perceive this.

  Though Marika did linger in the doorway for a minute or two listening to the interviewer’s initial questions, lo
ng enough to ascertain that the interview would be an altogether conventional one following a familiar journalistic form: what made you decide to be a boxer, what are your hopes for your career, is it exciting to be a part of the “revolution” in women’s boxing?

  These questions Dunphy answered slowly, with care, like one making her way across a plank above an abyss. At times she ceased speaking completely, though she was easily prodded to continue by a few words from the interviewer. Her shyness, or her reticence, or perhaps it was her bovine stubbornness, did not allow her to lift her eyes to meet the interviewer’s frank friendly gaze. Not so easy to establish a sisterly rapport here.

  Astonishing to Naomi and not altogether real, that she was being allowed such access to “D.D. Dunphy”—virtually no questions asked about her credentials, and not a moment of doubt or skepticism on the part of the PR woman. Since arriving in Cincinnati the day before she’d been feeling not altogether real; she’d felt both conspicuous in her white skin at the Armory, and invisible. It was like crawling through a mirror into a looking-glass world in which, if she was perceived at all, it was as someone other than herself.

  Naomi had positioned her camera on the table between them. She’d explained that it was a “recording” camera but Dunphy did not seem to hear. Answering her questions Dunphy spoke so softly, Naomi had to ask her politely to repeat what she’d said.

  Dunphy looked startled, perplexed. Repeat what she’d said?

  Naomi thought—Has she forgotten? So quickly?

  She wondered if the young boxer had suffered a concussion. Or rather, concussions. So many blows to the head, just the previous night . . .

  Gently saying, “You might look into the camera lens also, ‘D.D.’ This is a visual medium, not just audio.”

  Nervously Dunphy swiped at her nose with the edge of her hand and murmured what sounded like OK.

  “You’ve been interviewed before? For TV? For video?”

  Vaguely Dunphy nodded yes. She was having difficulty lifting her bruised eyes to the interviewer, or to the camera lens. Naomi thought—Is she ashamed? But why?

  Naomi had approached the interview with a feeling of strong repugnance for the task. A faint nausea of dislike stirred in her bowels, that Luther Dunphy’s daughter existed, and was sitting, slightly hunched, her wounded mouth working silently, just a few feet away from her across a table.

  The tabletop was very plain, and looked to be made of some cheap material like cork. Presumably, white linen tablecloths would be draped over such a table on the occasion of a banquet.

  “Well, ‘D.D.’! That was a terrific fight last night—an excellent performance. All three judges . . .”

  Dunphy appeared to be listening. But she did not smile.

  “Are you—not happy with the fight? You won.”

  Dunphy shrugged. A look of faint embarrassment crossed her face, as if she were enduring gas pains.

  “Nah. It was OK. Ernie says, I got work to do.”

  “‘Ernie’—your trainer?”

  But Dunphy had fallen silent. Marika had left for her a bottle of spring water, from which she now drank, thirstily, somewhat clumsily with her swollen mouth. Naomi saw that the young woman’s nose was mottled with fine, broken capillaries. Her teeth were uneven, the color of weak tea. It was unsettling when she lifted her eyes, for a moment, and Naomi saw how bloodshot the whites of the eyes were, nearly hidden by the swollen and discolored eyelids.

  The coarse hair, cut short and razor-cut at the sides and at the nape of the neck, had been matted flat, in need of washing. The streaks of color were the more incongruous, clownish, in the bleak light of day.

  “You have been examined by a doctor, I hope?”

  Dunphy murmured what sounded like Yah.

  “Is it more than a cursory exam? Does a—an actual—doctor examine you? X-rays, a brain scan?”

  Dunphy murmured again, this time irritably. Roughly she wiped her running nose with the edge of her hand.

  Naomi was recalling the intense, exacting physical examinations of her childhood. Bloodwork was essential: you could not avoid the needle drawing blood out of a delicate vein. A badly bruised and aching rib would have to be X-rayed—of course. Insect-bite infections and infections caused by childhood accidents were to be treated with antibiotics immediately. There was no taking a chance with Lyme disease. To grow up in the household of a doctor is to become aware of the slovenly-wide range of what is called “medical care” by the world. Gus Voorhees was egalitarian in every respect except medically: either a doctor was good, or a doctor was not-good.

  You avoided the not-good. Unfortunately, the not-good were everywhere except at principal medical centers and medical schools.

  “Well, ‘D.D.’! Or—is your name ‘Dawn’? Someone said . . .”

  Dunphy shifted in her chair. The sound of her name was unexpected and startling to her but she did not deny it. Rather, she smiled just slightly, glancing up abashed at her interviewer.

  Naomi thought—She has been found out. There is nowhere for her to hide.

  “Just tell me, Dawn. In your own words. What gave you the idea of—becoming a boxer . . .”

  Naomi smiled encouragingly at Dunphy. She did not hate Dunphy—really. It was Dunphy’s existence that maddened her as, for years, it had been the existence of Luther Dunphy after her father had died, that had maddened her.

  Still, Naomi would impersonate a sincere interviewer. In a way, so far as anyone could know, she was that sincere interviewer. Through the night she’d been sleepless with excitement at the possibility of making a documentary film about women boxers, including both D.D. Dunphy and Pryde Elka. Yael Ravel’s words came to her—When you encounter your true subject you will know it.

  Was this Naomi’s true subject? She had waited so long.

  Dunphy continued to speak in her slow groping way of caution and dread. She was a poor interview subject—surely Pryde Elka would be more interesting.

  “The average person has a fear of being hit—a dread of being hit. But you have no fear, it seems.”

  Was this a question? Dunphy gnawed at her lower lip, and made no reply.

  “You’re not afraid of being hurt?—I mean, seriously hurt?”

  Vigorously Dunphy shook her head no.

  “And why is that?”

  “‘Why?’—” Dunphy looked at the interviewer as if the interviewer had asked a very stupid question, or had to be joking. “ ’Cause I’m too good.”

  “You are—‘too good’?”

  “My training is to avoid being hurt. Even if I am hit, it doesn’t hurt like it would somebody else.” A slight sneer to somebody else.

  Naomi perceived that Dunphy was repeating words told to her. I’m too good. Even if I am hit . . .

  “You’ve never been defeated in any fight. That’s very impressive.”

  Dunphy shrugged. Very slightly, the swollen lips smiled.

  “I did some checking and it’s surprising—some of the champion boxers have lost fights. But you have not.” Naomi paused, waiting for Dunphy to murmur yet.

  How expected it was, in such a situation, that the young athlete would murmur yet.

  After a moment Naomi continued, in her friendly, frank way:

  “Do you make a good living as a boxer? Could you tell us—for instance—how much you’d made on last night’s fight?”—Naomi smiled to soften the rudeness of such a question; but Dunphy did not seem to register an effrontery. Rapidly her swollen eyes were blinking as if she were trying to recall a figure, a sum.

  “I guess—I don’t know . . . There’s ‘expenses’ . . .”

  “Expenses come out of the boxer’s earnings? I guess that’s the tradition . . . I suppose there are considerable expenses?”

  Dunphy nodded grimly. “There’s hotel rooms, and meals, and all kinds of—‘supplies.’ There’s a ‘medical kit.’”

  “But you don’t receive a fixed sum? You don’t remember what this fixed sum is?”

  Dunphy
shook her head no.

  “You’ve signed a contract? Yes?”

  Warily Dunphy shook her head yes.

  “Did you have a lawyer look over the contract before you signed it?”

  “L-Lawyer? No . . .” Dunphy frowned, trying to think. “Maybe yah. Maybe I did.”

  “A lawyer in Dayton? Your lawyer?”

  Dunphy made a vague grunting noise of discomfort. Naomi relented.

  “Do you send money home to your family?”

  More emphatically, Dunphy nodded yes.

  “That’s very generous of you. You are a good daughter.”

  (Was this going too far? Would Dunphy register the flattery here, just barely masking contempt? She did not seem to.)

  Naomi continued, with convincing concern: “I was reading online that most women boxers are helping to support their families. Some of them have young children . . . Pryde Elka, for instance. Do you know much about her background?”

  Dunphy shrugged irritably. As if to say Why the hell would I care about Pryde Elka!

  “I think you are still working? At a Target store in Dayton? That must be difficult . . .working at the same time that you’re training as a boxer, and traveling to fights . . .”

  Dunphy said, with the air of recalling something both pleasurable and painful, “There was going to be a ‘community sponsor’—sports store—in Dayton—but that fell through. Though—it might happen yet . . . There’s champions that have to work. Can’t live off their boxing.” She paused ruefully. “Women boxers, I mean. Not men.”

  “The men make more money?”

  Dunphy sneered as if the interviewer had said something meant to be funny. “Yah. The men make more.”

  “It seems surprising that a ‘champion’ has to work . . . whether male or female. That would be surprising to many boxing fans.”

  The line of questioning was making Dunphy uneasy and irritable. Naomi had never interviewed anyone in her life and was coming to comprehend the subtle but unmistakable adversarial challenge, a kind of bullfighting, with very sharp blades. Whoever wielded the questions wielded the blades.