CHAPTER SIX
We stopped near Antigonish at a roadside diner. Bonita had driven for a couple hours by then, and we were all ready for a snack and a chance to stretch our legs. The place was blue with smoke and had rows and rows of booths and round seats lining a counter that ran from one end of the building to the other. People shuffled in and out so quickly, the seats never cooled off, and every time someone in shorts got up to leave, it sounded like the peeling of cellophane from Tupperware as their thighs became unstuck from the leatherette.
Tina and I followed behind Bonita and looked for an empty booth, but the only one was at the far end. Every eye was on my sister – it was as if she had six or seven neon signs directed at her. Most folks pretended to be eating their fries, but a couple of kids laughed at her. The smacks they received from their mother didn’t do much to help the situation – in fact it only made it worse, since it drew even more attention to my sister and forced the kids into defending their actions.
“But it’s a little woman,” said the one kid, and the other one nodded in agreement.
Clearly the waitress hadn’t heard the remark and didn’t realize that Tina was, in fact, a woman.
“Hello ladeez,” she panted, pulling a pencil out from behind her ear. “I’m Ruby and I’ll be your waitress today. Our specials are western sandwich with fries, toasted clubhouse with soup and salad or deep-fried shrimp and chips. Coffee’s on the house and children under twelve eat for half price,” she said with a faint smile while pointing her pencil at Tina.
Then she did a double take.
“Sawry,” she added, handing us each a menu.
“I’ll have a slice of lemon meringue pie,” said Bonita, “and you girls have whatever you’d like. It’s my treat.”
Ruby suggested the shortcake, then apologized again.
“So, Mama says this Flyin’ Ryan fellow is going to win some big titles,” Bonita said, after Ruby’d slapped down some well-used flatware and left for the kitchen. “He’s good, is he?”
“He’s supposed to win the Eastern Canadian championship,” I said. “If he does, it will mean more business for our father, and we won’t lose the gym.”
“I hope your daddy can stay in business,” sighed Bonita. “The poor man’s had enough trouble.”
“Poor man?” bellowed Tina. “You’re kidding me.”
“Well, with his hand and everything. Having to quit like that, right before the fight for the British Empire crown.” She took three serviettes out of the dispenser and passed them around.
“The British Empire title?” Tina squinted her eyes. “I didn’t know he had a chance at that.”
“He didn’t tell you about it?” said Bonita. “You two were babies at the time, but I was there. The match was going to be in Sydney.” She smiled. “Your father was the card, really. He was the draw.”
Draw. Card. I thought I was getting away from all this boxing blab.
“Anyway,” continued Bonita, “I just hope this Byrne wins a title or two.”
“Never going to happen,” declared Tina, leaning to the side so Ruby could stick a ginger ale in front of her.
“Will you be wanting anything else?” she asked, holding up her index finger at a table of impatient customers to get them to wait a minute. We shook our heads, and she ripped our bill off her pad, mumbled a few meaningless words about the weather, obviously in the hope of securing the tip she figured she’d already lost, then went on to the next booth.
“What do you mean, never going to happen?” I asked Tina. “I know Byrne’s a jerk, but….”
“He hasn’t got what it takes.”
“He doesn’t?”
“No, Ellie, he doesn’t.” She sucked up her ginger ale through a straw, then tilted the glass so she could get at the ice. After crushing it between her teeth and letting it fall back into the glass, she explained. “I’m not saying that Byrne isn’t a good technical fighter, but that’s not worth squat if he lands in the ring with a wildcat.”
“My best friend Louise’s husband manages a fighter like that.” Bonita swallowed a big piece of pie. “This is delicious, by the way.”
“What’s his name?” asked Tina.
“Jesse Mankiller.”
“Mankiller?” I asked.
“Oh yeah,” said Tina. “I read something about him. What’s his real name?” she asked.
“That is his real name,” Bonita responded. “He’s Cherokee on his father’s side – Mankiller is a traditional Cherokee name – and his mother is Mi’kmaw.” She took another bite. “He lives in Millbrook, the reservation near Truro, with his mother and sisters. Don’t know what happened to his father.” Then she grinned slowly from ear to ear. “Louise says his name should be womankiller, he’s that handsome.”
“And this guy’s a contender, right?” asked Tina, more interested in his boxing skills than his good looks.
Some teenagers sat down next to us and smirked when they noticed my sister. She was about to gesture with a finger (and unlike Ruby, it wasn’t her index finger), but I grabbed her wrist.
“Forget about it,” I told her.
“Mankiller’s good,” Bonita explained, “but he’s unpredictable. Moody. One minute he’s going to take on the world, and then he turns on a dime and Paul can’t deal with him.”
“Paul?” I asked.
“Paul Holley, Louise’s husband. He’s betting everything he’s got on this Jesse Mankiller. Says he’s going to take the world title one day. If he can stop chasing after girls, that is.”
“Mankiller hasn’t ever lost a fight, has he,” inquired Tina.
“I don’t think so.”
“I thought we were getting away from boxing,” I said, in a whiny attempt to steer the conversation (not to mention my life) away from the ring.
Bonita got my drift, and from that point, she and I flitted back into the world of fashion and school teaching and the sort of topics that left my sister in the dust. She clammed up and said nothing for the rest of the afternoon.
It was almost six by the time we reached Truro. Bonita’s little stucco cottage sat proudly at the end of a tree-lined side street. Surrounded by flowering bushes and shrubs and sporting freshly painted shutters in a cheery shade of yellow, her house was small but well-kept, immaculate. On the front porch sat wicker furniture with floral cushions that matched the shutters, and I thought to myself that one day, I was going to have such a pretty and feminine place to live.
“My God, your grass is perfect,” chirped Tina, once she’d decided to talk again. “What do you do? Cut it blade by blade?”
Bonita laughed and opened the door for us. Her home was just as nice on the inside and smelled so much better than our place.
She told us to boil up a package of pasta while she got some sheets and made up the spare room. I searched around in the cupboards for canned sauce and Tina located a couple of pots, and somehow we managed to work together in the confines of the small kitchen without pulling each other’s hair out.
Someone knocked on the front door; I answered it.
“Well, hello,” said the visitors, an attractive Black couple with warm smiles. “Who are you?” asked the man.
“I’m Ellie, Bonita’s friend.”
“That you, Paul?” Bonita hollered from the back room. “Come on in. I’ll be with you in a second.”
“We’ll wait on the porch,” said the woman. “There’s a good breeze out here right now.” The two of them sat on the loveseat, and I took the chair, leaving Tina to carry on with the supper, a task for which a boll weevil was better equipped.
Paul and Louise Holley introduced themselves, then Bonita came out and joined us.
“I wish I could go with you,” said Louise. “I’d love to see the New England states.” She sighed. “But Paul’s going to be away most of the summer, so I have to
stay with the kids.” Bonita told me they had three children, and the youngest was only six.
“Where are you going, Paul?” asked Bonita.
“I’ve got fights set up for Jesse Mankiller. We’re starting in Halifax tomorrow night – the American promoter wants to see him in action. He’s trying to generate some local interest because they’re holding the U.S.–Northeast light heavyweight championship in Amherst this year. Win that one and it’s on to Portland for the American title.”
“Jesse’s from the States,” Louise explained.
“Anyway,” continued Paul, “if he doesn’t kiss the canvas in Maine, we’re heading to Boston for the North American title.”
“Kiss the canvas?” Bonita asked.
“Oh come on – you know what that means. A face-down knockout,” answered Tina, whose nose had been pressed to the screen ever since the word fight was uttered.
“Who’s this?” asked Louise, pulling open the door.
“My sister, Tina,” I mumbled.
While the next round of introductions was taking place, I could smell something burning. I ran in and saved the sauce – barely. Tina came in behind me.
“Don’t you dare tell them why I’m going to Boston,” she hissed.
“You burned the supper.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Well if it wasn’t you, then who?”
“The stove did it.”
“The stove did it?” I asked. “You know, you always used to say stuff like that. When we were little.”
“I did?”
“Don’t you remember, when you got that huge wad of gum stuck in your hair and it took Dad a week to get it out?”
Tina laughed. “You’re right. I told him the bubble did it.”
Bonita and Louise came inside to set the table. Paul had gone next door for a bottle of Chianti.
“I’m worried about him,” said Louise.
“Worried about Paul?” asked Bonita. “What for?”
“I don’t know. He’s tired all the time. And yesterday he was short of breath. I know it’s been hot lately, but….”
“Probably just anxiety over this new fighter of his.” Bonita put a cloth napkin beside each plate.
“Maybe,” said Louise. “I hope you’re right.”
Paul returned with the wine, and we all sat down to a plate of overcooked spaghetti and sauce that tasted a little bit like charcoal, but nobody seemed to mind.
Flowered cushions, cloth serviettes, the smell of potpourri instead of feet – it was paradise to me. The conversation was lively and I was truly enjoying myself. And then Satan, in the form of boxing, entered the Garden, and Tina and Paul spent the better part of an hour arguing over who’d had the most devastating punch in history. By the time they’d decided on Joe Frazier’s left hook, I’d decided that pugilism, and everything it entails, had chosen to stalk me like a B-movie slasher and would track me down no matter how far I ran from Whitney Pier.
CHAPTER SEVEN
We pulled into the reservation in Paul Holley’s station wagon. Kids ran around in various stages of undress, playing with rocks and sticks and pieces of plastic toys. Empty beer cans and gin bottles lined the dusty roads, and the homes were nothing but rusted trailers and shabby cabins. A few of the shacks were in better shape and had a new car or truck parked outside; Paul said some of the men had found jobs when a factory opened up nearby.
When a couple of boys kicked a soccer ball in front of us and we had to stop for a minute, I noticed two teenaged girls sitting on crates in front of a trailer. One of them was nursing a baby. I tried to look away – I didn’t want her to see me staring – but she spotted me and smiled. I don’t know why, but I was embarrassed and didn’t smile back.
Tina, sitting next to Paul in the front seat, was too busy making plans for Jesse Mankiller’s big fight in Halifax to notice anything.
“Do you think Mankiller has a chance against Mason Pitts?” she asked. “I hear he’s good. Doesn’t fall easily.”
“I don’t know. Until tonight, Jesse’s been fighting undercard matches, and nobody’s been able to take him down. He’s only nineteen, but I think he’s got the potential to go to the top in the professional circuit.” Paul swung the car around a broken-down truck. “He’s got crisp jabs, and he’s fast.”
“Can’t wait to see this guy in the ring,” said Tina.
The two of them went on and on, and I wished I hadn’t come with them. But I didn’t want to be in Bonita’s hair all night; I figured that she would like some time to herself. So when Paul offered to take Tina and me to watch the fight in Halifax, I acquiesced. I figured a fight was the only thing that would get the Ilizarov procedure off Tina’s mind – she didn’t say anything, but it must have been haunting her. It was scaring the hell out of me. Anyway, I’d never been to the big city, so even if it meant spending a Saturday night watching boxers, at least I’d get to see Halifax.
Paul pulled up in front of a long, weather-beaten trailer. Actually, it was two trailers stuck together to make a square house. The siding was grey with red stripes, and the front door had fallen off and was propped up against the side. We parked the car and two kids ran over with their hands out. Paul handed them each a candy bar then knocked on a piece of plywood that was being used as a substitute door. Another piece of thicker plywood formed a ramp from the trailer to the ground.
A young girl pulled back the door.
“Hey, there,” said Paul, “is your brother home?” The girl nodded and ran back inside.
A few seconds later, a young man appeared.
I knew he must be Jesse because not only was he the most handsome guy I’d ever seen in my life, he had the body of a boxer. Firm and fit. His long black hair was tied back into a ponytail. He wore nothing but a pair of sweat pants, and I started to shake.
He looked at me with piercing brown eyes. I shook even more. Then he looked at Tina – one of those long, slow looks – and made no attempt to disguise the fact that he noticed she was a dwarf.
“These are friends of mine, Tina and Ellie MacKenzie,” said Paul. “They’re coming with us to Halifax.” He pointed at my sister. “Tina’s quite an expert in boxing.”
“Oh yeah.” Jesse sounded like Paul had just told him that cabbages were on sale at the supermarket.
I don’t think my sister had any conception of what was going to happen to her when she met Jesse. No, she was thinking like a boxing trainer, and it wasn’t until she came within a foot of his gorgeous body that any female hormones left in her – any that had managed to stay afloat in the sea of testosterone she’d been swimming in from reading nothing but The Ring – came rushing to the surface, demanding to be recognized. Sure, she’d been around many young male boxers – we both had – but none of them came close to Jesse Mankiller.
Tina was speechless for a full minute and her eyes never left the ground. Her feet did, though. She slowly lifted her heels so she’d appear to be a couple inches taller.
Jesse moved aside and unceremoniously ushered us through the door. What was supposed to be the living room was long and narrow, and a woman in a wheelchair, with an afghan over her lap, nodded her head when we sat down on the couch. A couple of girls – the one who’d opened the door for us and another who was a bit younger – sat in front of her and were playing with a doll that had no hair.
“Beer?” asked Jesse.
Tina and I shook our heads to say no.
“Forget about beer,” scolded Paul. Then he apologized. “I’m just getting a bit restless. I need you in top form in …,” he looked at his watch, “about four hours from now.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been gettin’ plenty of rest? Eating what I told you?”
Mankiller didn’t answer.
“Got a goddamn headache,” he complained, taking a bottle of aspirin out of a drawer in a cupboard beside him. He
opened the jar.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” warned Tina.
Jesse looked at Paul. “What’s she talking about, Holley?”
“Thins the blood,” she said. “If you get cut, we’ll never stop the bleeding.” She caught herself. “I mean, your cut man will never stop the bleeding.”
The old Tina was back in business and for once, I was glad to see her. Okay, so I knew she was hiding behind her expertise because boxing was the only thing on earth that gave her confidence, but she needed it.
Mankiller ignored her and went to pop the aspirin in his mouth.
Paul stopped him. “She’s absolutely right, Jesse. You’ve got to be clotting even more than cottage cheese tonight.”
Sensing her vindication, Tina decided to throw in a few more of her ideas for good measure.
“And Paul,” added Tina, “I’d limit the use of ammonia pellets if I were you. Maybe we could bring some vinegar instead, okay?” Now my sister was showing off a bit, but the fact she was a dwarf was the elephant in the room. How else could she deal with it?
“No ammonia bombs?” asked Paul.
Tina explained that while it was true that one sniff of those things is enough to jolt a dazed and staggering fighter back into the ring, ammonia increases blood pressure and therefore bleeding. My sister thought of everything.
“Got any vinegar?” Paul asked Jesse, who just shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
Paul leaned against the wall. He appeared short of breath and kept putting his hand over his chest.
“Are you okay?” I asked him. “Do you need water?”
“No, thanks, I’m fine. Just a bit hot.” He sat down in a chair, but he didn’t look fine to me.
I noticed that Jesse’s mother hadn’t said a word since we’d arrived, so I asked her if she was proud of her son and his excellent undefeated record. She smiled and nodded, but still didn’t say anything.
Then I saw the crutches next to her wheelchair. I looked down to where her feet should be and there was only one. I could see that her leg had been amputated at the knee. Now there were two elephants in the room.
The Manager Page 4
