Mears wonders if the bestial faces that materialize in the midst of his fights are related to the pain in his head. In his heart he believes they are something else. It could be that he has been granted the magical power to see beneath the surface of things. Or they may be something his mind has created to compensate for his blindness, a kind of spiritual adrenaline that inspires him to fiercer effort, often to victory. Since his retinas became detached, he has slipped from the status of fringe contender to trial horse for young fighters on the way up, and his style has changed from one of grace and elusiveness to that of a brawler, of someone who must keep in constant physical contact with his opponent. Nevertheless, he has won twelve of seventeen fights with his handicap, and he owes much of his success to this symptom or gift or delusion.
He knows most people would consider him a fool for continuing to fight, and he accepts this. But he does not consider himself a greater fool than most people; his is only a more dramatic kind of foolishness than the foolishness of loving a bad woman or stealing a car or speculating on gold futures or smoking cigarettes or taking steroids or eating wrong or involving yourself with the trillion other things that lead to damage and death.
As he lies in that darkened room, in the pall of his own darkness, he imagines attending a benefit held to raise his medical expenses after his secret has been disclosed. All the legends are there. Ali, Frazier and Foreman are there, men who walk with the pride of a nation. Duran is there, Duran of the demonic fury, who TKO’d him in 1979, back when Mears was a welterweight. The Hit Man is there, Thomas Hearns, sinister and rangy, with a cobra-like jab that had once cut him so badly the flesh hung down into his eyes. Sugar Ray Leonard is there, talking about his own detached retina and how he could have gone the same way as Mears. And Hagler, who knocked Mears out in his only title shot, Hagler the tigerish southpaw, he is there, too. Mears ascends to the podium to offer thanks, and a reporter catches his arm and asks him “What the hell went wrong Bobby? What happened to you?” He thinks of all the things he could say in response. Bad managers, crooked promoters. Alimony. I forgot to duck. The classic answers. But there is one answer they’ve never heard, one that he’s nourished for almost two years.
“I traveled into the heartland,” he tells the reporter, “and when I got done fighting the animals there, I came out blind.”
The reporter looks puzzled, but Ali and Foreman, Frazier and Hagler, Duran and Hearns, they nod sagely, they understand. They realize Mears’ answer is partly a pride thing, partly intuitive, a summation of punches absorbed, hands lifted in victory, months of painful healing, hours of punishment in the gym. But mainly it is the recasting into a vow of a decision made years before. They would not argue that their sport is brutally stupid, run by uncaring bastards to whom it is a business of dollars and blood, and that tragedies occur, that fighters are swindled and outright robbed. Yet there is something about it they have needed, something they have chosen, and so in the end, unlike the asbestos worker who bitterly decries the management that has lied to him and led him down a fatal path, the fighter feels no core bitterness, not even at himself for being a fool, for making such a choice in the folly of youth, because he has forsworn the illusion of wisdom.
Mears is not without regrets. Sometimes, indeed, he regrets almost everything. He regrets his blindness, his taste in women, his rotten luck at having been a middleweight during the age of Marvin Hagler. But he has never regretted boxing. He loves what he does, loves the gym rats, the old dozers with their half-remembered tales of Beau Jack and Henry Armstrong, the crafty trainers, the quiet cut men with their satchels full of swabs and chemicals. He loves how he has been in the ring, honorable and determined and brave. And now, nodding off in a cheap hotel room, he feels love from the legends of the game returned in applause that has the sound of rushing water, a pure stream of affirmation that bears him away into the company of heroes and a restless sleep.
Three mornings later, as Mears waits for Leon in the gym, he listens happily to the slapping of jump ropes, the grunt and thud of someone working the heavy bag, the jabber and pop of speed bags, fighters shouting encouragement, the sandpapery whisk of shoes on canvas, the meaty thump of fourteen-ounce sparring gloves. Pale winter light chutes through the high windows like a Bethlehem star to Mears’ eyes. The smell is a harsh perfume of antiseptic, resin and sweat. Now and then somebody passes by, says, “Yo, Bobby, what’s happenin’?” or “Look good the other night, man!” and he will hold out his hand to be slapped without glancing up, pretending that his diffidence is an expression of cool, not a pose designed to disguise his impaired vision. His body still aches from the Cuban’s fast hands, but in a few weeks, a few days if necessary, he’ll be ready to fight again.
He hears Leon rasping at someone, smells his cigar, then spots a dark interruption in the light. Not having to see Leon, he thinks, is one of the few virtues of being legally blind. He is unsightly, a chocolate-colored blob of a man with jowls and yellow teeth and a belly that hangs over his belt. The waist of Mears’ boxing trunks would not fit over one of Leon’s thighs. He is especially unsightly when he lies, which is often—weakness comes into his face, his popped eyes dart, the pink tip of the tongue slimes the gristly upper lip. He looks much better as a blur in an onion-colored shirt and dark trousers.
“Got a fight for us, my man.” Leon drops onto a folding chair beside him, and the chair yields a metallic creak. “Mexican name Nazario. We gon’ kick his fuckin’ ass!”
This is the same thing Leon said about the Cuban, the same thing he said about every opponent. But this time he may actually be sincere. “Guy’s made for us,” he continues. “Comes straight ahead. Good hook, but a nothin’ right. No fancy bullshit.” He claps Bobby on the leg. “We need a W bad, man. We whup this guy in style, I can get us a main event on ESPN next month in Wichita.”
Mears is dubious. “Fighting who?”
“Vederotta,” says Leon, hurrying past the name to say the Nazario fight is in two weeks. “We can be ready by then, can’t we, sure, we be ready, we gon’ kill that motherfucker.”
“That guy calls himself the Heat? Guy everybody’s been duckin’?”
“Wasn’t for everybody duckin’ him, I couldn’t get us the fight. He’s tough, I ain’t gon’ tell you no lie. He busts people up. But check it out, man. Our end’s twenty grand. Like that, Bobby? Tuh-wenty thousand dollars.”
“You shittin’ me?”
“They fuckin’ desperate. They can’t get nobody to fight the son of a bitch. They need a tune-up for a title shot.” Leon sucks on his cigar, trying to puff it alight. “It’s your ass out there, man. I’ll do what you tell me. But we get past Nazario, we show good against Vederotta—I mean give him a few strong rounds, don’t just fold in one—guy swears he’ll book us three more fights on ESPN cards. Maybe not the main event, but TV bouts. That’d make our year, man. Your end could work out to forty, forty-five.”
“You get that in writin’ ’bout the three more fights?”
“Pretty sure. Man’s so damn desperate for somebody with a decent chin, he’ll throw in a weekend with his wife.”
“I don’t want his damn wife, I want it in writin’ ’bout the fights.”
“You ain’t seen his wife! That bitch got a wiggle take the kinks outta a couch spring.” Delighted by his wit, Leon laughs; the laugh turns into a wet, racking cough.
“I’m gon’ need you on this one,” says Mears after the coughing has subsided. “None of this bullshit ’bout you runnin’ round all over after dope and pussy while I’m bustin’ my balls in the gym, and then showin’ up when the bell rings. I’m gon’ need you really working. You hear that, Leon?”
Leon’s breath comes hard. “I hear you.”
“Square business, man. You gotta write me a book on that Vederotta dude.”
“I’ll do my thing,” says Leon, wheezing. “You just take care of old Señor Nazario.”
The deal concluded, Mears feels exposed, as if a vast, luminous eye�
�God’s, perhaps—is shining on him, revealing all his frailties. He sits up straight, holds his head very still, rubs his palms along the tops of his thighs, certain that everyone is watching. Leon’s breathing is hoarse and labored, like last breaths. The light is beginning to tighten up around that sound, to congeal into something cold and gray, like a piece of dirty ice in which they are all embedded.
Mears thinks of Vederotta, the things he’s heard. The one-round knockouts, the vicious beatings. He knows he’s just booked himself a world of hurt. As if in resonance with that thought, his vision ripples and there is a twinge inside his head, a little flash of red. He grips the seat of the chair, prepares for worse. But worse does not come, and after a minute or so, he begins to relax, thinking about the money, slipping back into the peace of morning in the gym, with the starred light shining from on high and the enthusiastic shouts of the young fighters and the slap of leather making a rhythm like a river slapping against a bank and the fat man who is not his friend beginning to breathe easier now beside him.
When Mears phones his ex-wife, Amandla, the next night, he sits on the edge of the bed and closes his eyes so he can see her clearly. She’s wearing her blue robe, slim-hipped and light-skinned, almost like a Latin girl, but her features are fine and eloquently African and her hair is kept short in the way of a girl from Brazzaville or Conakry. He remembers how good she looks in big gold hoop earrings. He remembers so much sweetness, so much consolation and love. She simply had not been able to bear his pain, coming home with butterfly patches over his stitched eyes, pissing blood at midnight, having to heave himself up from a chair like an old man. It was a weakness in her, he thinks, yet he knows it was an equivalent weakness in him, that fighting is his crack, his heroin—he would not give it up for her.
She picks up on the fourth ring, and he says, “How you been, baby?”
She hesitates a moment before saying, “Aw, Bobby, what you want?” But she says it softly, plaintively, so he’ll know that though it’s not a good thing to call, she’s glad to hear his voice, anyway.
“Nothin’, baby,” he says. “I don’t want nothin’. I just called to tell you I’ll be sendin’ money soon. Few weeks, maybe.”
“You don’t have to. I’m makin’ it all right.”
“Don’t tell me you can’t use a little extra. You got responsibilities.”
A faded laugh. “I hear that.”
There is silence for a few beats, then Mears says, “How’s your mama holdin’ up?”
“Not so good. Half the time I don’t think she knows who I am. She goes to wanderin’ off sometimes, and I got to—” She breaks off, lets air hiss out between her teeth. “I’m sorry, Bobby. This ain’t your trouble.”
That stings him, but he does not respond directly to it. “Well, maybe I send you a little somethin’, you can ease back from it.”
“I don’t want to short you.”
“You ain’t gon’ be shortin’ me, baby.” He tells her about Nazario, the twenty thousand dollars, but not about Vederotta.
“Twenty thousand!” she says. “They givin’ you twenty thousand for fightin’ a man you say’s easy? That don’t make any sense.”
“Ain’t like I’m just off the farm. I still got a name.”
“Yeah, but you—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says angrily, knowing that she’s about to remind him he’s on the downside. “I got it under control.”
Another silence. He imagines that he can hear her irritation in the static on the line.
“But I do worry,” she says. “God help me, I still worry about you after all this time.”
“Ain’t been that long. Three years.”
She does not seem to have heard. “I still think about you under them lights gettin’ pounded on. And now you offerin’ me money you gon’ earn for gettin’ pounded on some more.”
“Look here—” he begins.
“Blood money. That’s what it is. It’s blood money.”
“Stop it,” he says. “You stop that shit. It ain’t no more blood money than any other wage. Money gets paid out, somebody always gettin’ fucked over at the end of it. That’s just what money is. But this here money, it ain’t comin’ ’cause of nothin’ like that, not even ’cause some damn judge said I got to give it. It’s coming from me to you ’cause you need it and I got it.”
He steers the conversation away from the topic of fighting, gets her talking about some of their old friends, even manages to get her laughing when he tells her how the cops caught Sidney Bodden and some woman doing the creature in Sidney’s car in the parking lot of the A&P. The way she laughs, she tips her head and tucks her chin down onto her shoulder and never opens her mouth, just makes these pleased, musical noises like a shy little girl, and when she lifts her head, she looks so innocent and pretty he wants to kiss her, grazes the receiver with his lips, wishes it would open and let him pour through to her end of the line. The power behind the wish hits his heart like a mainlined drug, and he knows she still loves him, he still loves her, this is all wrong, this long-distance shit, and he can’t stop himself from saying, “Baby, I want to see you again.”
“No,” she says.
It is such a terminal, door-slamming no, he can’t come back with anything. His face is hot and numb, his arms and chest heavy as concrete, he feels the same bewildered, mule-stupid helplessness as he did when she told him she was leaving. He wonders if she’s seeing somebody, but he promises himself he won’t ask.
“I just can’t, Bobby,” she says.
“It’s all right, baby,” he says, his voice reduced to a whisper. “It’s all right. I got to be goin’.”
“I’m sorry, I really am sorry. But I just can’t.”
“I’ll be sending you somethin’ real soon. You take care now.”
“Bobby?”
He hangs up, an effort, and sits there turning to stone. Brooding thoughts glide through his head like slow black sails. After a while he lifts his arms as if in an embrace. He feels Amandla begin to take on shape and solidity within the circle of his arms. He puts his left hand between her shoulder blades and smooths the other along her flanks, following the arch of her back, the tight rounds of her ass, the columned thighs, and he presses his face against her belly, smelling her warmth, letting all the trouble and ache of the fight with the Cuban go out of him. All the weight of loss and sadness. His chest seems to fill with something clear and buoyant. Peace, he thinks, we are at peace. But then some sly, peripheral sense alerts him to the fact that he is a fool to rely on this sentimental illusion, and he drops his arms, feeling her fading away like steam. He sits straight, hands on knees, and turns his head to the side, his expression rigid and contemptuous as it might be during a staredown at the center of a boxing ring. Since the onset of his blindness, he has never been able to escape the fear that people are spying on him, but lately he has begun to worry that they are not.
For once Leon has not lied. The fight with Nazario is a simple contest of wills and left hooks, and though the two men’s hooks are comparable, Mears’ will is by far the stronger. Only in the fourth round does he feel his control slipping, and then the face of a hooded serpent materializes where Nazario’s face should be, and he pounds the serpent image with right leads until it vanishes. Early in the fifth round, he bulls Nazario into a corner and following a sequence of twelve unanswered punches, the ref steps in and stops it.
Two hours after the fight, Mears is sitting in the dimly lit bar on the bottom floor of his hotel, having a draft beer and a shot of Gentleman Jack, listening to Mariah Carey on the jukebox. The mirror is a black, rippling distance flocked by points of actinic light, a mysterious lake full of stars and no sign of his reflection. The hooker beside him is wearing a dark something sewn all over with spangles that move over breasts and hips and thighs like the scattering of moonlight on choppy water. The bartender, when he’s visible at all, is a cryptic shadow. Mears is banged up some, a small but nasty cut at his hairline from
a head butt and a knot on his left cheekbone, which the hooker is making much of, touching it, saying, “That’s terrible-lookin’, honey, just terrible. You inna accident or somepin’?” Mears tells her to mind her own damn business, and she says, “Who you think you is, you ain’t my business? You better quit yo’ dissin’ ’cause I ain’t takin’ that kinda shit from nobody!”
He buys her another drink to mollify her and goes back to his interior concerns. Although the pain from the fight is minimal, his eyes are acting up and there is a feeling of dread imminence inside his head, an apprehension of a slight wrongness that can bloom into a fiery red presence. He is trying, by maintaining a certain poise, to resist it.
The hooker leans against him. Her breasts are big and sloppy soft and her perfume smells cheap like flowered Listerine, but her waist is slender and firm, and despite her apparent toughness, he senses that she is very young, new to the life. This barely hardened innocence makes him think of Amandla.
“Don’t you wan’ go upstairs, baby?” she says as her hand traces loops and circles along the inside of his thigh.
“We be there soon enough,” he says gruffly. “We got all night.”
“Whoo!” She pulls back from him. “I never seen a young man act so stern! ‘Mind me of my daddy!” From her stagey tone, he realizes she is playing to the other patrons of the place, whom he cannot see, invisible as gods on their bar stools. Then she is rubbing against him again, saying, “You gon’ treat me like my daddy, honey? You gon’ be hard on me?”
The Best of Lucius Shepard Page 37
