Tooth and Nail

by Linda D. Dahl

  Slowly, he pried his eyes open, blinking a few times in the light. “What happened? Is it over?” he asked, more confused than disappointed.

  “Well, the fact that we’re having this conversation right now means the fight’s over, right?” I smiled at him. “Do you know where you are?”

  “Yeah, the Manhattan Center. Man, I lost?” His brain was recalibrating nerve impulses into consciousness. The movement must have turned on other reflexes, too, because he sneezed, sending coagulated drops of blood onto my neck, chest and hair. I didn’t react.

  “Yes, you lost, but you put up a good fight. Most guys don’t last that long in the ring with Kid Chocolate. Do you have a headache? Do you think you can get up?” I offered a hand. The blood was hot and wet. I felt nauseated, but the Dom loved it, savoring the blood, a badge of honor.

  His corner men were crouched behind me in chaotic discussion. Dr. Gonzalez and Dr. Roy had also made their way into the ring, but stood back with the rest of the crew. They were all awaiting my instructions, even though the boxer wasn’t from the red corner.

  I beckoned the referee. He helped the boxer to his knees and guided him to a stool. The boxer stared back at me. “I ain’t never seen you before. You some kind of manager or somethin’?” he asked.

  “No, I’m one of the doctors. When you’re ready you can stand up. Take all the time you need.”

  He did as he was told, using the chair for leverage.

  “Now I want you to touch your left glove to your right shoulder—like that, good—and walk heel-to-toe across the ring.”

  When he got to the opposite corner, he turned and raised his gloves in the air. “I’m good, see?” he said. “So, will I see you at the next fight?”

  “Only if you plan on getting knocked out again.”

  It wasn’t until the boxer was nearly out of the ring that Dr. Roy got close enough to speak to me. “There’s a fine line between brains and beauty, Dr. Dahl, and you walk that line in very high heels. Nice work. How did you make it up into the ring so fast in those boots, girl?” He was impressed in a way I had never seen before. The usual look of concern hidden behind his glasses was gone, replaced with a kind of reverence.

  I looked past his head over to my corner, where a small group of men from the audience was gathering.

  “Looks like you got yourself a fan club,” Dr. Roy said. “I can’t say I blame them. But before you go signing autographs, I’ve got a fighter in the back who needs your help. He’s cut up, and his team requested that you fix him.”

  The Dom was happy to oblige. Her night was just beginning.

  * * *

  “Let me look at the cuts,” I said, taking a seat in the folding chair next to the boxer. The room was otherwise occupied with empty water bottles, dirty towels and two other men milling around in the background. The only light was from incandescent bulbs that framed a mirror on one side of the room.

  “’Kay,” the boxer said, in a whisper. Lying sideways across an armchair, his head was tilted back. Beads of sweat collected like pearls on his dark skin, the dim light reflecting a glow on the round parts of his face. Eyes closed, he looked like he was in meditation.

  “Oooh, you a lucky man, Chop Chop,” one of the men said. He looked like he was in his midfifties, from a place with perpetual sun, and he had a paunch that quaked every time he laughed. “You got the pretty doctor!”

  I ignored him, took off my jacket and leaned in close to examine the cuts. There were three, two parallel ones over his left brow and one over his right, which were coincidentally symmetrical. Although they were deep enough to expose subcutaneous fat, they were no longer bleeding.

  “I’m gonna clean the cuts first, then inject them with lidocaine. A quick pinch, then it’ll go numb,” I said.

  He nodded and kept his eyes closed.

  In addition to the essentials, I had stocked my medical bag with enough supplies for a makeshift surgery. On a less-than-sterile surface of paper towels, I laid out my instruments: syringe, alcohol, needle driver, scissors, forceps, nylon suture and gauze pads. Under the muted light of the dressing room, my tools reminded me of what my office patient had said—that I was a natural Dom. In this setting, I saw what she meant.

  I wiped the cuts with alcohol, anticipating that he would recoil, but he remained motionless. After drawing lidocaine into a tiny syringe, I made a series of injections into the open edges of the cuts, watching the tissues swell and blanch. After a few seconds, I clamped the curved needle with the needle driver and pricked the edge of the first cut. He didn’t wince, so I continued, curling the nylon thread over the wound.

  “How old is you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thirty? Thirty-one?” He opened his eyes to get a better look.

  “Why do you need to know my age?” I asked.

  “You older than that?” He wrinkled his forehead and lifted his head off the chair, disturbing my work area. I held the needle steady, waiting for him to relax and lie back down. Once settled, he continued in a cool voice. “You look young, look good. Mmm.” He nodded, studying my face. His mild drawl was southern. “You married?”

  “Not anymore, not that it’s any business of yours.”

  Chop Chop leaned in and whispered, “He musta been crazy to leave you.” He lingered, his face so close to mine I could feel his breath on my bare chest. I inhaled his attraction, pulling it into me like an electric current.

  “I left him,” I said.

  He smiled and closed his eyes again, enjoying the push and pull.

  Tying off the suture, I began working on the next cut, when I noticed that the scruffy man wearing jeans was recording us.

  “The guys ain’t gonna believe this. I so happy you doin’ the cut. We heard about you. The Lady Fight Doctor.” He grinned behind his camera.

  I ignored him and continued working. “Why did you become a fighter?”

  He kept his eyes closed. “The trophies. I wanted the trophies. Started boxin’ at ten, kept winning so I kept goin’. I’s really good. But you know what I really wanted to be?” His eyes flung open in excitement. “A fashion designer! I looooved makin’ the girls’ prom dresses in high school. All them other guys said I was gay. But the girls knew I wasn’t. Hoooey! Loved all that lace and satin. Mmm. I’s gonna do that when I done boxin’.” He was smiling broadly now, lost in the moment.

  Fashion designer was an unexpected surprise. I wanted to tell him how we shared the same dream, and that someday, I, too, wanted to leave all this behind for the great sewing machine in the sky. But that kind of intimacy was not allowed here.

  “Do the guys in your corner know about your passion?” I asked.

  “Nah. Ah keep it quiet wit dem.” His eyes narrowed as if to say and so should you. The two men behind us had finished filming and were moving around the room faking jabs.

  “There. You’re all done. That should keep you together until the next fight.”

  The scruffy man peered over my shoulder. “Looks great, Chop Chop! Best job I seen.”

  The boxer sat up and walked over to the mirror.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  He studied his reflection, turning his head from side to side to see the stitching from different angles. Pursing his lips together, he nodded and coolly turned, sliding on his shades as he walked out of the dressing room.

  * * *

  As I was leaving, I saw the Chairman out of the corner of my eye. He had avoided me all night, or maybe it was the other way around. I couldn’t be sure. I knew I had to confront him and, now that it was about to happen, I was terrified.

  “You did really well tonight. I’m proud of you,” he said, catching up to me, in his usual fatherly tone. His tie was loosened, his jacket unbuttoned all the way. “I was, uh, wondering if you thought a little more about what I said at dinner.”

  My usual r
esponse would have been to placate him, but that kind of pathetic passive aggression was no longer an option.

  “Funny you should mention it. I did think about it, actually. And while I can’t blame you for being attracted to me, here’s why an affair between us is a bad idea. I am a fight doctor for the commission, and you are the chairman. I want assignments because I am good at what I do, not because I have to sleep with you to get them. If you had any respect for me, or yourself, you would stop trying to get me into bed and start treating me like a professional.” I looked directly at him as I spoke. “So, here’s how it’s going to work moving forward. The only way you will have any contact with me is at the fights. No more personal dinners or phone calls or inappropriate requests. Understood?”

  We looked at each other in silence.

  “Okay, I get it. I hadn’t thought of it that way.” He was calmer than I had expected. Perhaps he had heard this kind of rejection before. “You’re scared. And you’re right. If it doesn’t work out, I could break your heart. I don’t want you to feel awkward around me.”

  My blood boiled at his egocentric delusions, even though I was the one who fed them to him in the first place. I wasn’t scared or fragile. And, although my heart had been battered, I was strong. I stilled myself, cooling to numbness, and walked out into the cold night air.

  12

  Once I had had a taste of my inner Dom, it was hard to tuck her away. She was so many things that I wasn’t. She didn’t care how women judged her. She didn’t care what the other doctors said behind her back. Her sexuality was unapologetic. I wanted nothing more than to give her the reins, but I couldn’t. The Dom made her own rules, and I lived in a world where I could only survive by following the rules of others.

  Medicine is very rigid. From anesthesia checklists to hospital policies, there are no gray areas. But rules aren’t limited to scientific facts or surgical landmarks. The whole culture of medicine is inflexible. Doctors communicate in medspeak. We ignore what is right in front of our eyes if it doesn’t fit the proscribed differential diagnosis. We condescend when the patient doesn’t respond to treatment the way they are “supposed to.” Healing that was once an art is now based on evidence and statistics and populations. Somewhere along the way, the group became more important than the individual. Empathy was no longer valuable.

  But I was brought up the opposite way, so worried about failing—my patients, my profession, my reputation—that I was willing to do anything and everything to please others. Even if it meant ignoring who I really was. My need for perfection on the outside led to suffocation on the inside. First do no harm should have been an oath I also made to myself.

  * * *

  Over the next few months, the Dom’s showdown with the Chairman proved fruitful. If he called, it was only to offer fight assignments. When he joined a group of us for drinks after the fights, he bowed out early without trying to corner me with more pleas. I sensed he was biding his time, trying to come up with another strategy but, since I was getting what I wanted, I didn’t waste time worrying about it.

  In the spring, I was assigned to work the Irish Ropes fights. It was held around St. Patrick’s Day every year in the theater at Madison Square Garden. The arena was sizeable—big enough to seat 5,000 beer-infused Celts. That year, a local Irish favorite, John Duddy, was the headliner. He was an energetic fighter whose offensive power made him exciting to watch. It didn’t hurt that he was also handsome, all freckles and bright green eyes. His fans included nearly as many women as men.

  “You finally get to see Duddy fight,” Tom said. He was in his usual tart mood, but something was different. He seemed saltier than usual, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “I hear he’s quite the sensation,” I said.

  “When he was an amateur, he fought like 130 times and won 100 of those fights. He’s only been pro for a few years, but he knocks everyone out in the first couple of rounds. That’s why the fans love him.”

  “Sounds like he was born to fight,” I said, feigning punches with my fists. I was trying to be playful, but he wasn’t softening.

  “Whatever. They are just setting him up with losers so he can build his record. He’s an offensive fighter. He can hit, but he can’t defend. They won’t put him up against anyone good, or it’ll ruin his standing.” His stubble was a little longer than usual, and by the rainbow of dark colors under his eyes, I could tell he hadn’t slept much. I guessed he was having trouble with his on-again, off-again girlfriend. He rarely talked about her, so I suspected this was another off-again period. “You should like this, Dahl. Tonight he’s fighting some failure from your neck of the woods.”

  “Oh, he’s from the Bronx?”

  “No, this dude, Shelby Pudwill. He’s from North Dakota. From a town called Mandan.” He said the town’s name like it was two words, not two syllables. I shuddered at the mention of it. Just outside of Bismarck, it was even smaller and more insular than Minot.

  “What? That’s crazy! I didn’t even know there were fighters there. Does he even stand a chance?”

  “Nah, it’s all the same crap. He’s just up there feeding the beast like the rest of them.”

  The fight went as Tom predicted. Shelby went into the ring with Midwestern dignity and a white bandana. But after two knockdowns, at one minute and thirty seconds into the first round, Duddy knocked him out. The loss was quick and decisive and, despite myself, I felt sorry for him.

  After the show was over, I found Shelby sitting near the side of the ring. Even though he was a complete stranger, he was more familiar to me than almost everyone I had met in New York. His elongated speech, pale skin, light eyes and lanky limbs incited a visceral response. When I was in grade school, I’d grown so used to looking at pink-skinned blonds I would often fail to recognize my own dark-haired reflection. I felt like an intruder in my own home.

  It was unsettling seeing him bloodied, bruised and anemically pale in the fluorescent lighting. He represented people who had caused me so much pain.

  “Rough night,” I said.

  “I’ll say. Duddy’s no joke. I knew he’d be tough, but I didn’t see that coming.” He was surprisingly kind and humble, but also completely outside of his element.

  “This city’s no joke. It’s not for the meek.”

  “Yeah, I can’t believe I’m in New York City. Back home, no one could believe I got this fight. They even gave me a big send-off. It will suck to go back and tell ’em I lost. Especially the way it happened.” I pictured him at the local truck stop, breaking the bad news to his friends over disco fries and corned beef hash.

  “Well, at least you made it here. Not many people can even say that. Do you wanna know something? I grew up in North Dakota, too. In Minot.”

  “Holy moly, you grew up in Minot?” He pronounced the name of the town the way the city’s natives did, with a long i and the emphasis on the first syllable.

  “Well, I lived there a long time, but I didn’t grow up until I left. Thankfully, I got the hell out.”

  “I can’t believe it. I would never think you’re from Minot. I thought you were from here, the way you talk and dress and everything.” It was the rare person who left North Dakota and, even if they did make it out, a boxing ring in New York City was the last place you would think to find them. He seemed genuinely impressed and suddenly intimidated.

  “What is it about the way I look that makes you think I come from New York?” I asked.

  “Uh, I dunno. You look, um, uh...”

  “Is it my dark hair? My skin tone? I’m wearing clothes that you would never find back home, that’s true. Or maybe it’s my shape or height? My face?”

  Shelby shook his head. “No, it’s not that, although you don’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen there. It’s more your, uh, attitude. You just seem like a big-city woman.”

  “Thank you,” I said and bid him go
odbye.

  After he left, a tape that had been running through my head for far too long slowed to a stop. Its familiar, sad song was of no use to me anymore.

  * * *

  The first time I walked into the main theater at Madison Square Garden, it was empty. Through all my years in New York, I’d never attended an event there. I wasn’t a fan of huge concerts and, other than boxing, I had never been to a major sporting competition. I couldn’t understand how anyone would enjoy an evening with 18,000 screaming strangers.

  I stood at the center of the ring, looking out at the vacant arena, and felt the massive size of the place. There were bleachers and railings as far as I could see. The domed ceiling was concealed by lights and speakers. In the quiet, it was hard to imagine what the place would feel like at capacity. But I would soon find out. It was the day before New York’s famous Puerto Rico Day Parade in Manhattan, and this was one of the most anticipated fights of the year.

  I had spent enough time with the Dom to gain my own kind of confidence. Less intimidated by her outfits, I learned how to maneuver around more gracefully in heels. I even started re-inhabiting my body when she was there, listening to her thoughts more carefully and mimicking her behavior. I wanted to see how I could be without her tonight.

  “I like the suit, Dr. Dahl. Looks like you’ve taken charge,” Dr. Williams said. He was dressed in a silver sharkskin suit, pink tie and a vapor of Issey Miyake cologne. I had come to realize he only attended the important fights. And he always sat ringside at one of the commission tables where he now stood, overseeing everyone else’s calls. He needed to navigate from the front row in case things went south. Ultimately, he was responsible. “You working the back tonight?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’ve already checked out all the fighters. Malignaggi’s team is here—all twenty-five of them,” I exaggerated.

  I had heard stories about Paulie Malignaggi, how he was born in Italy and moved to New York with his mother and brother after his parents divorced. As a kid, he was always getting into trouble and, like many fighters, found a place to capitalize on his violence in boxing. Sassy, confident and always surrounded by a gaggle of handlers, he was a pretty boy in the truest sense of the word—with hair styled into spikes or a curly halo. His dark eyes were framed by long lashes and thick, professionally tweezed eyebrows that matched the precision of his hair. At the weigh in the night before, he wore thick gold chains that dangled from his neck, framing bare pecs through a button-up shirt that wasn’t buttoned. Despite his years of fighting, his skin was flawless and glowed with the flavor of his homeland.