Squaw Girl: A Boxer's Battle for Love

by Abby Winter Flower

“Seems you’ve got more friends than you think. After you left, Dr. Shay and two other professors got together with some of the students going to Nigeria and raised a big stink. Your new boyfriend, Andy Mason, said she wouldn’t go if they kicked you out.”

  “Andy said that?” His dad hates our family. I just saw him tonight and he didn’t say a word.”

  “Let me know when you understand men, Layla. You can write a book and make lots of money.”

  He leans against the bag and continues. “Dr. Mason forced another special meeting of the school board tonight. I invited myself. Most of them know that I specialized in discrimination law and won some big cases that ended up giving some large corporations very bad publicity. I told them I represented the Tribal Council. That helped change their minds. They actually asked me to give you their apology.”

  * * *

  I take a shower and Gus takes me to Pete’s Perfect Pancake house for either a very late dinner or an early breakfast.

  “That was the good news,” he says. Now for some other news. I don’t know if you’ll see it as good or bad.”

  I stop eating and look across the booth. “Your dad is dying. He won’t last a week,” he says.

  “How?”

  “Last stages of liver cancer. You had no need to know. He wants to see you. We have to get down there tomorrow.”

  “Mom? Jack?”

  “She can’t go and Jack won’t go, probably the best thing for both of them. It’s you he wants to see, Layla.”

  My stomach turns and I spit a piece of waffle back on the plate. “I remember that day, Uncle Gus.” I run my finger over the scar on my face. “I remember it all—what he did to mom. Why should I go?”

  “Not for him, Layla. For you.”

  He takes me back and tells me he’ll pick me up at seven in the morning for the drive to Stillwater. There’s not much left of the night and I know I won’t sleep—not with those memories torturing me.

  Chapter 15

  The prison doesn’t fit. Stillwater is a picturesque, tourist town on the St. Croix River. The prison is an ugly wart on a bluff a quarter mile away. The wart is worse on the inside. We go through too many doors to count. Walking down the tunnel-like corridors, I hear the clanging of metal doors and the muffled shouts of stressed voices. I see neon lights reflecting a yellow glare against over-waxed floor tiles. We pass a room filled with inmates sitting at tables and hanging out in small groups. Most of them look at me through the wall of bars that separate us like hungry wolves. It dawns on me that they don’t see women very often and they have only one thing on their minds. I look down and walk faster.

  My father is too sick to move and Gus has used his St. Paul contacts to get permission to visit him in the prison hospital. They’ve put a couple partitions beside his bed and a guard stands at the foot. At first I see nothing but a pile of rags, then make out a stick figure, a pale bag of bones, propped up at the end.

  “You got ten minutes,” shouts the guard over the background din.

  The stick moves. A skeletal head emerges from the tangle of blankets and a shrunken arm raises and points at me.

  The head talks. “Layla . . . that you . . .?” The voice is raspy, reed like, hard to hear. Its sunken eyes are glazed and spit runs down its chin when it talks.

  This thing, this shrunken zombie, can’t be my dad. My mind snaps back seven years to the last time I saw him.

  * * *

  I’m in the bedroom doing homework. Mom is in the kitchen cleaning up after supper. I hear the door slam, then the sound of a metal pot bouncing against a wall. Dad’s home.

  I peek out the bedroom door and see him looming over her. He’s tall, around six two, and he’s thick. I watch him flex his heavy arms, clench his big hands and loosen his wide shoulders. He’s drunk again and when he gets drunk he gets mean and I worry about my mom.

  “Just laughed at me,” he bellows. Said he don’t remember no agreement. Told me no court of law would pay any attention to me. Called me a no account drunk.” He hurls another pan against the wall with his right hand and pushes mom with his left.

  She can usually handle his drunken rages but I can tell that’s not going to happen tonight. I run to the kitchen and stand between them. “Leave her alone,” I scream.

  “Stay out of this girl. This is my house!” He pushes mom again and she trips over a chair and ends up on the floor. He grabs my arm and slings me against the wall.

  I bounce back and try to shove him out the door. I’m surprised I’m able to move him at all. “Get out of here find someone else to pick on, not her.”

  He clenches his jaw, squints his eyes and gets into an exaggerated boxing stance. “Well, goodie-goodie, honor student. Seems you’ve got a spine after all.” He corners me and hits me hard in the gut and I double up.

  He comes at me again. I roll on the floor and duck behind the table. “I heard you. Someone called you a no account drunk. He was right, leave us alone,” I scream.

  It’s the wrong thing to say. He throws the table against the door, grabs a butcher knife, and lurches toward me.

  Mom moves between us. Lately he’s been beating on her every almost every week. Nothing to send her to the hospital, just a few slaps and punches before she talks him down. I don’t know why she takes it, why she doesn’t leave. She was a teen aged migrant from Denmark, stranded in Duluth when she married him. Now he’s not the young strong sawmill foreman who rescued her. He’s a monster with his killing blood up.

  “Stop it right now. It’s not her fault you can’t hold your liquor or keep a job. He was right about you.” Her voice is calm, slow, like she’s reading a script.

  It is another wrong thing to say. He becomes even more enraged. “Get out of my way, bitch,” he roars as he moves toward me with the knife.

  He gets me in the corner. I grab his wrist and try to keep the knife from my throat. I’m in good shape, big for my age, but I’m thirteen, a girl, and he’s a grown man. I push with all my might but the knife moves closer.

  “Stop it” Mom gets behind him and tries to pull him back.

  We all lose our balance and bounce against the wall. I feel a sharp pain under my left eye. When I reach up, my hand comes back covered with blood.

  “You cut her—your own daughter—you worthless piece of shit.” Mom slams a sauce pan across his head. For the third time it’s the wrong thing to say and the sauce pan is definitely a bad decision.

  The sight of blood and mom’s outburst pushes him over the edge. He’s no longer human, no longer my father. He’s a killing machine and unless I do something we’re both dead.

  I twist away and race to the bedroom. Jack keeps a .45 Colt automatic hidden on the closet shelf. It’s not there. He must have taken it on tonight’s car procurement adventure. I find his old metal baseball bat and run back to the kitchen.

  Mom’s on the floor and dad’s bent over, pounding the side of her head with a heavy frying pan. I can smell the blood and each time he hits her I hear a hollow squishing sound—like a flat board hitting a watermelon.

  He doesn’t see me coming. I swing the bat with all I have and connect with the back of his neck. He drops the frying pan and staggers forward. I get in front of him and swing again. This time I hit his face and his nose explodes with a shower of blood. He goes down.

  I don’t want to stop. I’m ready to put him in his grave when Jack comes in. I’m standing over dad holding a baseball bat with blood pouring from the cut below my eye. Mom’s lying across the room in a pool of more blood. Jack stands paralyzed looking at us. “Call the cops, call an ambulance,” I scream, dropping my bat and grabbing a dishtowel to wipe some of the blood off mom’s face.

  The rest is a blur. The cops and the ambulance come at the same time. Jack takes me to the emergency room where Dr. Mason sews up my cut.

  * * *

  That was eight years ago. The wasted body propped up on the bed has no resemblance to the bloody monster I last saw in our trailer. “That you, Layla
?” it asks again.

  “I ought to break your skinny neck for what you did to mom.”

  Gus tugs my arm. “No need for that. He won’t last much longer . . . talk to him . . . do it for me,” he pleads.

  “I forget that he’s your brother.” I put my arm around him.

  “Layla, come closer.” I can barely hear my father’s raspy voice.

  I bend down. “I want to warn you . . . He’s. . . He is evil. He’ll try to destroy you like he did me . . . dangerous . . . will kill you if he can get away with it . . .” His breath is hot and rank. I gag and stand back.

  “Who’s he talking about?”

  “He’s on lots of pain meds. Doesn’t always make sense.”

  “More . . .” A disembodied voice comes from the bed. “I got more to say.”

  Gus and I both bend close, “Take care of your sister. Don’t her get messed up….”

  “I got no sister old man. You mean Jack. He can take care of himself.”

  “ No. . . . No . . .” It lapses into a spit filled coughing spasm and the boney body convulsions.

  “One more minute,” the guard announces.

  “I need that minute alone with my brother,” says Gus, motioning to the guard.

  I take one final look at the thing that was my father before another guard walks me back through the obstacle course of hallways and locked gates to a waiting room. It has windows and the bright sun and blue sky startle me. Suddenly I start to cry. I cry for Gus, for mom, even for the thing dying in the hospital. I also cry for myself but it’s different. It’s a happy cry because I get a chance to walk out into the sunshine—not just away from that prison but into the rest of my life.

  * * *

  When Gus comes back, he’s quiet, thoughtful. He drives slower than on the way down. I wait until we’re halfway back and hit him with the questions I’ve been trying to work out.

  “Who’s he talking about? What’s all his babbling got to do with me?”

  “It’s a complicated story. I haven’t figured it all out myself yet.”

  “And what about Jack? Does he think he’s a girl? Hell, maybe he thinks I’m a guy? Some people actually think women boxers got a hidden pair of balls.”

  He doesn’t answer and I press on. “I remember that night, when he hurt mom, gave me this.” I rub my scar. “He said someone laughed at him. I think that’s what set him off.”

  Gus is quiet for a long time. Finally he says, “I made a promise to your father and won’t break it while he’s still alive. He hasn’t got long. Then I can get the key and open the box—get some details—fill in the blanks.”

  “What key? What box?”

  “When your dad went to prison, he had to turn over all his personal stuff. One thing he gave them was a key to a safe deposit box in Duluth. When he dies he told them to give it to me.”

  “What do you think’s in the box?”

  “He gave me some hints and told me after I open it, after he’s dead, to tell you everything. Right now, that’s all I can say.”

  We drive in silence for a half-hour. Then he brakes hard and pulls to the side of the road. He turns, puts both hands on my shoulders, and looks in my eyes. “One thing he was right about Layla. You’re not safe. You remember the most important thing I taught you about boxing?”

  “Protect myself at all times.”

  “If you want to get back from Africa alive, remember that.”

  Chapter 16

  It’s a two hour bus ride from Buck Brush Falls to the airport in Minneapolis. Rolf Olson sits in the front seat next to Mia. I’m as far away as I can get, on the opposite side at the very back next to Andy. I listen to the steady, rhythmic sound of the tires hitting the pavement cracks. They seem to chant, protect yourself—protect yourself—protect yourself. I watch the back of Mia’s head and wonder why she hates me, wonder why her dad doesn’t tell her to back off. Gus thinks Rolf Olson’s a rich, spoiled asshole who likes to lord it over people like us. Maybe it’s as simple as that.

  It’s hard to put the pieces together—figure out what’s acting and what’s real. Last night, Gus hosted a catered farewell dinner at the casino. I can’t imagine why he did it but he insisted. He and Olson acted like old friends and I know that’s pure bullshit. I can’t make sense out of it so I give up, shut my eyes, and doze to the sound of Gus’s warning mantra.

  * * *

  We have a three hour layover in Houston and I get a text from Gus. “Your dad died. Call me.” I should be ashamed because I don’t feel anything. No sadness, no relief, nothing. I simply follow directions and make the call.

  “Happened six hours ago, I’m on the road, driving down to get his things.”

  “Funeral?”

  “I’m having his body shipped to Buck Brush Falls. There’ll be no funeral. He’ll be buried on the reservation.”

  “Mom and Jack?”

  “I’ll take your mom to the grave site. Jack wants nothing to do with it.”

  “Me?”

  “Stay on your trip. I’ll contact you when I open that safe deposit box. It’ll be a few days.”

  * * *

  I find Andy and some of the group at the food court. They’ve pushed together three tables and are pigging out on fast food. I grab a soggy concoction of noodles and dough from the Asian stand and join them. Sammy’s telling a story in graphic detail about getting food poisoning on airline food at thirty thousand feet. Andy looks at me and rolls his eyes. I methodically chew my gooey noodles and wonder if I’m a sociopath.

  My dad just died and I feel nothing. No pain, no remorse, not even a degree of satisfaction—zilch. My boyfriend is beside me and I don’t even tell him my father’s dead. I just sit there pretending to listen to Sammy charm the group while really pondering my own mental health. It’s a long overnight flight to Lagos. Lots of time to think. Maybe I’ll come to some conclusions but I doubt it.

  Chapter 17

  I see Mia, Levi, Mr. Olson and Dr. Mason, in the first class cabin as we pass through on our way to the cheap seats. Dr. Mason shakes his head. Mia gives me a disdainful sneer and Rolf looks through me as though I don’t exist. Not a lot of love for me in first class.

  Andy could have talked his dad into an upgrade and be up there with them but he chose to stay with me and the seven other volunteers in the tourist cabin. I’m in the middle seat, Andy’s on the aisle, and Sammy has the window. They both complain about the close quarters. I’ve never flown before and don’t know what to expect but, after wedging myself in, I join them.

  Two hours out of Houston I’m feeling sleepy. I disconnect my earplugs, stop watching the boring movie, lean my head on Andy’s shoulder and shut my eyes. I can definitely get into this—thirty thousand feet in the air, flying away from Desperation Hollow, and feeling his warm body next to mine.

  * * *

  I feel Andy move, open my eyes and see Mia standing in the aisle. Levi is next to her. “Welcome to the lower class. Wait—I’ve got it backwards based on the kind of people they let sit up front,” I say.

  “Speaking of class, I thought you had better taste,” says Levi, talking to Andy, “Sitting next to half-breed lesbian and a queer nerd.”

  “You’ve got to be careful Andy, never know what kind of diseases you can get from those kind,” says Mia, smiling and raising her eyebrows.

  The smile is a trigger. I try to get out of my seat but Andy holds me down.

  “Andy works in a hospital—probably end up as a doctor like his dad—so he’s taken precautions. You guys are safe in the rarefied air of first class while we’re quarantined back here,” says Sammy with a grin.

  “Shut the hell up faggot. We’re talking to Andy and his squaw, not you,” growls Levi.

  Sammy grins even wider. He gets on his knees and turns to the middle-aged trio in the seat behind him. “Sorry for the rude behavior of our betters from the front of the plane. They’re not used to dealing with those of us back here in claustrophobic class. Fact is, they probably
don’t even know what that term means,” he says loud enough to attract the attention of the flight attendant.

  The flight attendant is old enough to be our mother and acts like it. “There a problem here?” She addresses the whole row. “Please sit down young man,” she says to Sammy.

  “No problem, we didn’t mean to make so much noise, only wanted to say hello to our friends. Better get back to our seats now. We’re not supposed to clog the aisle,” says Mia, gently pushing Levi toward the front of the plane.

  Mother flight attendant stays scowling at us. “Thanks for looking after our safety, convenience and comfort and helping us have a nice flight,” says Sammy, still wearing an ear-to-ear grin.

  After she leaves we’re quiet. The only sound is a sharp crack when Sammy pushes the tray table down so hard the plastic snaps. His cheeks are pale and there’s no trace of the grin.

  “I don’t know how you can take that crap, keep smiling, and stay cool enough to talk your way out of trouble,” says Andy.

  “Got me through high school with lots of bruises, but no broken bones.”

  Sammy grew up in Warroad Minnesota, a remote town on the U.S. shoreline of Lake of the Woods. “Must have been tough,” says Andy.

  “I came out when I was a junior in high school. Warroad’s a universe away from a San Francisco or a New York. It’s not known for its tolerance. I got beat up a lot. My dad’s what they call a Jack Pine Savage—a logger and a heavy drinker. He beat me up too. The only way I kept sane was to live by my wits—develop a sense of humor. When I got the scholarship to North Star, I left town and haven’t gone back. Kept my charming personality though. Learned not to let things bother me.”

  I look down at the broken tray table. It tells a different story but I let it go. Sammy stayed with me in the hollow the summer after our freshman year, before he met Bruce, his partner in Minneapolis. One night we went to a rough bar half way to Duluth where they don’t check ID’s. He was into his second beer and I was nursing my first Coke when a few of the local minor league hockey players showed up looking for trouble. They pushed him around, called him every name in the book, and one tried to put his hands on me. A kick in his balls solved my problem and by Sammy’s sixth beer, he charmed them into a pair of free tickets. Back in the trailer he told me being treated like that didn’t bother him. I woke up in the middle of the night to a hollow thumping sound and watched him pound his fist against the trailer wall until it bleed. He didn’t see me but I learned there’s more than one layer to my friend from Warroad.