Tooth and Nail

by Linda D. Dahl

  “Tell me more about you, Mike. Where’d you grow up?” Unlike most people, I didn’t know much about his history. In truth, I had never cared before that moment. To me, he was just another angry, violent man who had come into too much fame and money and didn’t know how to handle it.

  He told me about Cus D’Amato and how he had taken him under his wing and brought him into his home. Cus and his wife had raised him like their own. Except Mike came with a suitcase of rage—rage that could only be harnessed in the ring. When Cus died, so did Mike’s sense of security. He was, once again, alone in the world.

  He took one last drag from the joint, nearly burning his fingers. “That’s enough about me,” he said, humming along with the music. He leaned back and coughed, closing his eyes, tapping one foot and then the other. In his reclined position, his oversize belly rose in a mound, cinched in by the waistband of his pants. Rolls of skin gathered around his neck as he settled into the chair. After a few minutes his breathing slowed and, unable to draw air in through his party nose, his mouth dropped open. A tiny snore vibrated across his palate as his chest strained to pull oxygen past his thick tongue. He was in no shape to fight anyone. Not even his own demons.

  “Are you tired?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. He was already sinking into slow-wave sleep.

  I stood and moved closer, studying how the glow of the light outlined his features. I touched his skin, brushing my fingertips across his tattoo. With closed eyes, I felt its raised edges, following the lines as they wrapped around his left eye—what some cultures believe is our weaker one. This ta moko was his shield, a permanent guardian as he looked out onto the world, and the protector against all who looked in. His sleeping face gave away his secrets. His was a tribe of one.

  I opened my eyes and got very near to him, so near I could almost breathe in his breath. I kissed his forehead softly. It felt terrifyingly peaceful. Like a prayer.

  On the way out of the hotel, I took a different elevator down to the main floor. The doors opened to a large space, occupied by a full-size, empty boxing ring. Posters surrounded the area with pictures of Mike. On the ground, in front of the ring, was a life-size cardboard poster of him, gloved hands on his hips. The reproduction reflected nothing of the man I had just left. Boxing had given him everything and, because he didn’t know how to hold onto it, had taken it all away. I wondered what it would try to do to me.

  9

  Our apocrine glands produce different kinds of sweat depending on how we are feeling. The milky liquid that leaks from our armpits and genitals changes composition and interacts with the bacteria on our skin to create different odors, odors that we inherently understand, even if we don’t know why. Because of this, we can literally smell other people’s emotions. Sweat can fill the air with an emulsion of anger or drip down limbs and torsos like aqueous anticipation. Disgust smells different from anxiety. Fear is more pungent than trust. What I smelled in this particular dressing room was an admixture of all of those things, with a dash of sulfuric acid from the micrococcus sedentarius growing in someone’s athletic shoes.

  “Which one of you is Bruno?” I asked, looking around the room. No one responded.

  I was back at Hammerstein Ballroom, newly anointed with a better notion of my role as a fight doctor—a state-appointed regulator of organized violence. It didn’t bother me; in fact, it gave me clarity. I knew I had to protect the fighters from each other, but I had learned that I also had to protect them from themselves, when they hid injuries from me. In the ring, I had the chance to prevent the catastrophic blow to the head before it happened by carefully watching the fights progress. But even that was wishful thinking. Boxers died in the ring. The commission was still dealing with a death that had occurred shortly before I started working the fights.

  Through hushed words and fragments of stories, I finally wove together a patchwork of what happened on the Intrepid. Docked in the Hudson River off Midtown Manhattan, the World War II–era aircraft carrier had hosted its first and only fight. The boxer who had died was just 26. A last-minute replacement, he went down from a blow to the jaw in the tenth round. After the knockout, he had been taken to the hospital unconscious, but he never woke up. The doctors and commission were involved in a wrongful-death suit and, although they were afraid of the outcome, none of them had quit. His name was Beethavean Scottland. And his spirit had haunted every fight ever since.

  Walking through the maze of dressing rooms, I got disoriented. The rooms were so large, they were shared by multiple boxers, and since each had an entourage, they were also filled with men. Men I could barely differentiate. I had one fighter left to check in, and I had to do it quickly because his fight was about to start. “Bruno Castillo? Anyone?”

  “Linda, I was looking for you. Can we talk?” It was the Chairman, walking toward me with a concerned look. Coming out of anyone’s mouth, that phrase made me nervous. If someone wanted to talk, why didn’t they just talk? Asking about it first created a sense of foreboding.

  “I just wanted to let you know, you’re doing a great job,” he said, in an almost fatherly tone. “And if anyone gives you any trouble, I want you to let me know.”

  “Why would anyone give me trouble? Everyone is so nice,” I said, relieved and a little confused. I didn’t know what he meant by trouble. No one had belittled or put me down. Unless it was behind my back, I hadn’t heard a single sexist comment, and no one had complained about the quality of my work. Yet, for some reason, he felt like he needed to protect me.

  “I’ve been in boxing for over forty years. I know what can happen. I know I don’t look it, but I’ll be sixty this month,” he said. He did look it, but I raised my eyebrows and shook my head in disbelief anyway. The more I got to know him, the more I respected him. He had so much empathy, protecting the boxers like they were his own children. But he was tough, too, with the promoters and managers. I couldn’t believe he had only held this position for a few years.

  “What day is your birthday?” I asked. Mine was also later that month, nestled in the week of Thanksgiving.

  “My birthday is on the 24th,” he said.

  “Seriously? That’s crazy! We have the same birthday! We should celebrate together.” I was so overcome with excitement I didn’t think about the implications of my words.

  The Chairman’s expression changed ever so slightly. His eyes softened and creased at the edges. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t like it. Even if I did, there was no time. I had to get to the last fighter.

  “Yo, Linda, Bruno’s in the back. You better hurry. He’s about to go on,” Tom said. He was doing one last circle through the dressing rooms before the show began.

  “I can’t find him,” I said, turning away from the Chairman to look around the room.

  “Bruno, yes. Aquí.” I heard a voice beckoning me from the far corner. “Aquí.”

  I walked to the source of the voice, past satin jackets and boxing boots, over shards of cut hand wraps and open duffel bags, to one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen.

  He was seated forward on a ratty couch, forearms resting on his thighs, a curious look on his face. His eyes locked into mine and wouldn’t let go. I sat in a chair next to him and pulled out my blood pressure cuff and stethoscope, trying to ignore the warm glow that burned ever so gently in my chest.

  Through darting glances, I pieced together his face. The dorsum of his nose, depressed from repeated blows, was wide and flat, like a baby’s. The alar cartilage and columella were all that was left to hold his nostrils up and open, but they weren’t doing a very good job, retracting with each inhale. I was taught that we are drawn to beauty because of symmetry, through math and angles and golden triangles. And although his face had none of that, the rest of him seemed unnaturally refined. Lips reflecting light around the margins, philtrum hidden behind their soft fullness. Dimpled chin drawn back into a square jaw. Eyelashes thick like
scrub brushes, curled like backward cs. Cheeks too abundant to escape a punch, if one ever reached that far. Even folded, his legs looked long enough to take the top of his head above six feet when he stood.

  “Who are you?” he asked, stone-faced.

  “I’m one of the doctors. I’m here to check you before the fight.” I held up my medical equipment as proof. In light of what the Chairman had just said, I hoped he wasn’t upset that I was a woman.

  He unzipped his warm-up jacket, exposing his brawny chest and more smooth, dark brown skin. His concentrated gaze didn’t change as he held out his arm. I wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his sculpted bicep and placed the stethoscope over the inside of his elbow. His veins were thick and corded and floated on the surface of his skin. I inflated the cuff, watching them swell even more until I heard his heartbeat, slow and deep. Releasing the cuff, I watched the dial swing to the left until the thumps faded. Then pressing lightly on his wrist, I felt his pulse. I closed my eyes and counted, long enough to feel the beat escalating through his soft, warm skin. I stopped counting at thirty-five but didn’t move my fingers.

  “You so pretty,” he said. “This place too dirty for you. Full of smelly old men. Why you here?” He spoke like he valued vowels more than consonants, extending his words like rubber bands.

  “I told you. I’m one of the doctors,” I said, sticking to my script, praying that it was enough for him.

  “No, why you here?” he asked again, emphasizing the last word. I knew exactly what he meant, but it was too complicated to explain. Especially to him. Especially at that moment. “How come I never seen you before?”

  I stopped writing his vital signs and looked up to meet his gaze. His eyes had the warmth of genuine consideration, but I knew better than to get into a personal conversation with him. I spent enough time dodging landmines of unwanted attention in my office to let that kind of talk complicate my position here. “I’ve been around. I’ve been working with the commission for over a year. We’ve probably met before,” I lied, starting to feel uncomfortable.

  “Nah, I’d remember. You beautiful. Where you from?” he asked.

  “Your pressure and pulse are perfect, and I’ve gotta go check out the other fighters. See you after the fight,” I said abruptly, cutting him off. I wanted him to stop. Although I couldn’t control my internal reaction to him, I could choke it before it penetrated through to the outside. I had found a way of being with these men that was void of sexuality, or so I thought. I realized at that moment that the person most uncomfortable with my gender was me. If I had been born a man, everything would have been so much easier. I wouldn’t have felt vulnerable every time I felt attracted or attractive.

  “You’re an angel,” he said as I was leaving. His words felt painful, sweet and hot at the same time. Vulnerability was more terrifying than isolation.

  * * *

  When Bruno ascended into the ring, I hardly recognized him. His black mouthpiece, firmly planted between his teeth, made his face look stern. Every movement of his glistening, oiled body exuded confidence. His eyes were focused on the battle in front of him. He had transformed into something other. The gladiator. The warrior. Raised four feet above the ground, backlit by bright lights, he was terrifyingly majestic.

  “Did you know Bruno fought in the Olympics?” Tom asked. He was standing next to me at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, legs spread, head back. He often arranged himself like that when he delivered facts, a position that exaggerated his already long, thin body. “He was on the Puerto Rican team in the late ’90s. He was also a Golden Gloves champion.”

  “He’s that good?” I asked, hating that I was growing more impressed.

  “Yeah, but he’s old already, and he’s had some injuries. This is his first fight since his hand surgery. What’s it been—seven or eight months, I think? I hope he’s still got it in him.” Since I wasn’t there for his prefight physical, I didn’t know his medical history. But I knew what it took to recover from hand surgery. One bad landing could destroy his whole career.

  The bell clanged, and the fighters circled the ring. At first, Bruno held back. He studied his opponent, hopping on one foot and moving his neck from side to side like a bobblehead. After what couldn’t have been more than fifteen seconds, he moved in to the other fighter and, with one crushing blow, pounded him to the ground. His opponent was out with one punch.

  He stood, arms raised in the air, welcoming the cheering crowd. He was victorious and magnificent. The attraction I had fought so hard in the dressing room swept through me like a tidal wave.

  He descended the stairs, with a congregation of inspectors, corner men and fans in tow. “Good job,” I said.

  He barely looked at me, smiling sheepishly as he moved by.

  One of the inspectors, a small wiry man with glasses and a stutter, ran through his wake over to me. “H-h-he did it for you!” he said, excitedly.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Before he we-we-we-went into the ri-ri-ring he tol’ me, he said, ‘I gonna knock him-m-m-m-m out in-n-n-n the first ro-ro-round for the doctah!’”

  “He did that for me?” I asked, overcome with so many contradictory emotions I wasn’t sure how to feel. Maternal merged with sexual, powerful mutated into vulnerable, attraction morphed into repulsion. But mostly I was speechless.

  When it came to male attraction, I was never comfortable. As much as I had yearned for it in high school and college, when it did rear its fickle head, it was never what I expected. In the beginning it felt nice, but that sweetness quickly faded, bringing with it a dark, endless yearning for more. But more of what, it was hard to tell. I thought it was love, that ever-elusive four-letter word that, I learned from my mother and her Harlequin novels, entailed some sort of hunky man making a sweepingly romantic gesture. Wasn’t that what had just happened? But that’s where the stories usually ended—at the moment of falling in love.

  Love. It created a kind of insatiable thirst in me, but the only drink it had offered so far was whiskey. Pungent, sharp, throat-burning sips that left me drunk with desire and even more dehydrated. I had only a headache and heartburn to look forward to the morning after.

  Falling. Who would be there to pick me up? The answer was no one. Once the man “got” you, the chase was over. As was the kindness, the attention, and the Feeling Special part. I saw it over and over again in the boys my sister dated, the men my mother married, the patients who were never satisfied by the women they called their wives. In my own husband. I never wanted to be on the taken-for-granted side of love again. Which meant I didn’t want to go anywhere near it.

  * * *

  Over time, the men in boxing started acting like the men everywhere else. It took longer than expected, but it happened just the same. Once they saw I wasn’t going away, the chivalry faded, replaced by something much more practical: active pursuit. And the more I resisted, the more enticing I became—each man taking a stab at me like I was some sort of carnival attraction. Come try your hand at the Lady Doctor! One dollar buys three swings!

  At first I didn’t mind, letting them play out their charades in front of their friends or in private, because I knew I would never give in.

  There was the well-dressed Italian with a thick middle and ambiguous fortune, who pronounced Italy with two syllables. He bought me dinner before a fight one night, explaining that he knew how the match would end so it didn’t matter if I was late getting back, if I knew what he meant.

  There was Cedric Kushner, a promoter, who was once known as Big Ced until he lost two hundred pounds. He noticed me one night at Roseland Ballroom, proclaiming through his slow South African droll that I was “a most handsome woman” that he would very much like to take out. Having made and lost millions, he also had a penchant for the dark side. “You women don’t always know what you will like. I’ve spent a lot of time in houses of ill rep
ute.” And even though he moved with the slow gait of a stroke patient, he promised to teach me “a few new moves.”

  There were countless managers, trainers, friends and fans, egos lubricated by alcohol, who tried to impress me with who they were, who they knew, what they owned, how much money they had. They attached adjectives to my face, eyes, hair, breasts, thighs, ass, as if each comment were a consecration. But, as Frank so honestly put it, they didn’t want to “own” me. They were just vultures swooping in to see which part they could steal or borrow for the evening.

  As time went on, deflecting the attention became a bigger job than working the fights, but it was a burden I would bear on my own. There was no sense in crying about it or blaming them. I had made the choice to be there. No one was forcing me. I was invading their world. If I wanted to stay, I just needed a better shield. And some weapons.

  * * *

  When the Chairman called my office to invite me to dinner, I had no reason not to accept. It wasn’t uncommon for commission members to go out before or after the fights, and none of my colleagues, including him, had made a single inappropriate comment. Although I didn’t tell him what the rest of the men were putting me through, I knew that if it ever got too much I could turn to him for help.

  We met at an Italian restaurant in Midtown, with the same old-world feel as Gallagher’s. Ancient waiters carried bottles of wine and crusty bread, towels draped across their arms. The Chairman was already seated when I arrived but, from the way he was dressed, I worried this night might not go the way I’d expected. Under his sharkskin suit, in lieu of a tie, the first two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned. On men, open collars usually meant they were open to other things.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, rising to pull out my chair. “How was your day?” The incongruence of the situation irked me. This was the Chairman, not a potential boyfriend. We were having a work dinner, not a date. I calmed myself with the fiction that he was just being nice. There was no way I could leave, so I smiled politely and decided to make the best of it.