Fight Card Presents: Battling Mahoney & Other Stories

by Jack Tunney

  Isabelle’s eyes widened. She had a cousin she had not known about. Her Aunt Mary had borne a child. Her Aunt Mary. Aunt Sylvia. Two more aunts besides. But Mama was speaking again.

  “I’m ashamed to say I did not pay heed to her feelings about the happy occasion. I was quite cross with her. She lived with us, you see, and I hated her for growing a belly without a husband at home. It seemed shameful to me, and it also increased the work I was obliged to do.” Mama balled the lint and tucked it into her pocket. “Mary was very young. Mother said she was not old enough for... conjugal relations. She couldn’t abide the thought that the two of them – Mary and Rulon – had bred the child in the bedroom upstairs.” She sighed. “I believe a bit of Mother’s attitude colored my own.”

  “I imagine Aunt Mary found it uncomfortable to live at home in those circumstances.”

  “I suppose so. I know I was glad to have my own home once I married, even though at first our existence was quite nomadic. At least I didn’t share a house with my parents and sisters.”

  Isabelle sat back. How fascinating it was to know she had a cousin. Perhaps she had more? “Did Aunt Mary have other children?”

  Mama sighed. “At least one that I know of. It seems she crossed the Great Prairie with what Mr. Owen would have called ‘a bun in the oven.’”

  “Was her husband so crass? Uncle Rulon, I mean.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have said Mr. Roderick Owen, Rulon’s father. He was the leader of our party, although Papa should have taken that role.” She hung her head, as though in shame for her father.

  The mention of the Owen surname again made Isabelle curious, but cautious. She waited a moment, then asked, “Was your beau related to this Owen family?”

  Mama seemed to choke. She finally looked up, but quickly turned her face away.

  Isabelle pressed her for the knowledge. “Was he their kin, Mama?”

  “Rulon had several brothers. One of them was... Carl.” She whispered his name.

  Seeing her mother’s pain, Isabelle was sorry she had asked. But something pushed her to know more about this long-ago relationship.

  “Did you love him, Mama? Would he have treated you differently than Papa did?”

  A harsh, keening sound came from Mama’s throat, and she sprang to her feet and left the room. Isabelle seemed frozen in place, ashamed of pushing, but excited by the intense emotion she had drawn from her mother. Carl Owen must have been a man of honor. She took a moment to review the conversation. Mama never did answer my question, but perhaps I do not have to entwine my life with Percy Egmont’s. Perhaps I can determine my own future. Perhaps I will find a man like Carl Owen for myself.

  ***

  Percy called in mid-afternoon. He was, as Papa had said, expecting Isabelle’s company for that night’s pugilistic entertainment.

  Isabelle refused several times.

  Percy came and stood over her in what she perceived as a threatening posture. “I really shall insist, Isabelle.” His eye had a spark of belligerence that bespoke possible violence on his part.

  She didn’t dare rise to leave the room or to give him further argument. “Very well,” she murmured, clutching her hands tightly together. Her stomach clenched. She did not want to attend, but she feared that Percy was agitated enough to do her damage, should she continue to object. “I will accompany you tonight.”

  When he had left, she decided that since the dress she had worn on the previous occasion was already ruined, in her estimation, she would do it again for this night’s torment. As long as she kept him company, as he had commanded, Percy was unlikely to notice what she wore.

  She was ready at the appointed hour, and Percy came for her in a horse-drawn cab. As they sped through the streets, Isabelle focused on the white-gloved hands resting in her lap, letting Percy’s monologue about the expected outcome of the evening’s matches flow over her head and out the window. She hid the soiled fingertips of her third-best gloves. Why ruin another pair when these were already slated for the garbage bin?

  “Here we are,” Percy said, and handed her down from the cab. He dismissed it and took Isabelle’s elbow to escort her into the venue. “I expect a delightful time,” he said, and hustled her through the door and into the smoky room.

  This time, Percy seated her in a row on a different side of the ring than before. When she looked around, she discovered that the person seated beside her glared at her out of slanted eyes. What horror! Percy had placed his intended bride beside his mistress!

  Isabelle could scarcely keep her supper down. Was this an intentional insult to her, or was her fiancé so short-sighted that he didn’t realize the implication of his action? Either way, she was powerless to call the mishap to his attention now since the despicable woman sat so near.

  “I will never release him,” the woman hissed in perfect English.

  Isabelle dared not respond. She would not acknowledge the woman, no matter what vile things she said.

  “He revels in the great pleasures I give him,” purred Madame Wu.

  Shriveling inwardly, Isabelle stared at the ring.

  The fighting commenced as before, with much clamor from the audience and the bell ringing at intervals. The clangor still startled Isabelle, although she knew well by now it did not signal an alarm for a fire. Men’s fists landed on their opponent’s bodies with great thuds, accompanied by cries of rage from opposing pockets of fans. Blood flew from cuts on the fighter’s faces and smeared their gloves.

  The woman at her side, wrapped in a cloud of Oriental scent and muttering evil suggestions, was an ever-present reminder of Percy’s perfidy. As the fighting continued, Isabelle grew more determined to find a way out of marrying the man. Let her keep him. I won’t have him.

  During the introduction to the third match, it occurred to her that if ever Percy tried to strike her again, she could make use of one of the countering blows she was seeing first hand. She sat back, stunned at the clarity of the idea. Almost immediately, the arena took on the aspect of a school room. She sat forward again, intensely focused on how the fighters held their fists, how they placed their feet, and how they swung at their opponents.

  She found herself mimicking the movements in miniature, but when her elbow accidentally ended up digging into Percy’s side, he called out, “I say! Have a care!”

  “Pardon,” she said, somewhat brusquely, and restrained her motions.

  That did not prevent her from drinking in the various techniques demonstrated so ably by the pugilists before her. At length, she decided she would focus on one blow, the uppercut identified by her last seat-mate. In fact, if Madame Wu said one thing more to her this night, Isabelle meant to try it out upon the woman’s pointed chin.

  Percy grabbed her arm, and Isabelle blinked, her concentration broken. The matches had ceased. She put on her cloak and followed Percy out of the sports club and into the sweet air of the street.

  Almost immediately, Percy began a tirade based on the belief that she had struck him intentionally during the course of the evening.

  Caught unaware, Isabelle drew back as the man flung his arms about in anger. Her stomach tightened. She didn’t dare respond to his verbal outbursts, for fear of making matters worse. So far, he had not made a fist, but she didn’t want to provoke him to physical violence.

  She heard footfalls behind her, and shrank into her cloak.

  “Is everything all right?” a baritone voice asked.

  Isabelle turned. A young man stood before her, balancing himself as though ready to launch into action, should there be a need.

  “Shove off,” Percy snorted. “This is my business.”

  “Are you in any danger, Miss?” the newcomer asked.

  Before she could answer, Percy yelled, “Danger? I’ll give her danger.”

  His hot breath seared Isabelle’s neck as he grasped her about the waist.

  She turned, shrugging out of his arm, placing her feet just so, balling her hands as she took a guarded
stance, and then she brought up her leather-gloved fist with all her might and landed it underneath Percy’s chin.

  He went down into the gutter with a grunt.

  “Miss?”

  Isabelle turned to respond to the stranger’s question. She noticed the concern in his eyes, then the frank admiration. A strong sense swept over her that he was a man of honor. “Yes?”

  “I’d look at that hand, Miss. You may have done it damage.”

  She glanced down. Blood did indeed seep through the kid leather above her knuckles, and she became aware of the sharp pain. She straightened her hand and tried to remove the glove, which had grown tighter in the last few seconds.

  “May I help with that?” the man asked.

  At her nod, he bent and eased the glove off her hand. When he had finished, he drew in a sharp breath. “Miss, may I call a cab and see you home? Someone should tend to that hand right away.” He doffed his hat and swept it in a half circle as though he were a southern cavalier. “Roderick Rulon Owen, at your service, Miss. My family has a horse ranch up the country.”

  Isabelle’s breath caught in her throat. She muttered “Isabelle Gilbert” in a daze, feeling somewhat lightheaded with the pain. Or perhaps it wasn’t from the pain.

  Percy groaned in the gutter, and Isabelle looked over her shoulder at him. He was just where he should be. Madame Wu could have him.

  She cradled her bruised, bleeding hand. She really must go home and put it in cold water. Looking up, she met Roderick’s concerned gaze.

  “Shall I hail that cab, Miss?”

  Isabelle smiled, said, “Yes, please,” and took her cousin’s arm.

  MARSHA WARD

  Marsha Ward was born in the sleepy little town of Phoenix, Arizona, and grew up with chickens, citrus trees, and lots of room to roam. She began telling stories at a very early age, regaling her neighborhood chums with her tales over homemade sugar cookies. Visits to her cousins on their ranch and listening to her father's stories of homesteading in Old Mexico and in the Tucson area reinforced Marsha's love of 19th Century Western history.

  After over fifty years in the city, Marsha now makes her home in a tiny hamlet under Central Arizona's magnificent Mogollon Rim. When she is not writing, she loves to spoil her grandchildren, travel, give talks, meet readers, and sign books.

  ON THE WEB:

  http://www.marshaward.com/

  ROUND 11

  HEAT OF BATTLE

  A BOXING BOOTH TALE

  CLAY MORE

  WONJU, KOREA, JUNE, 1953

  Despite the heat of the almighty battle that we were putting up, I could hear the screaming and shouting from all four sides of the ring.

  Who would ever think that a bunch of medics would give up their time off, cram into a clearing beyond the hospital, the bivouacs and the camouflaged ambulance shelters and gamble their money away on a couple of heavyweights like the limey and me. And they were braying for blood. Not just the guys, but the nurses as well. You’d have thought that they’d all have seen enough blood with all the dead and wounded that me and the other ambulance drivers brought in each and every day.

  But heck no, they wanted blood and they wanted a win.

  The limey came at me again and jabbed at my head, teasing, fast little jabs aimed at my ears and designed to make me mad. I swatted them aside easily and he danced back. He was good at that; he was light on his feet and balanced. A good mover for a heavyweight.

  But so was I.

  I had learned from one of the best when I was a kid, back at St Vincent’s Asylum for Boys in Chicago. Father Tim Brophy, the fighting priest had taught us the sweet science to toughen us up for the big bad world outside. Maybe toughen us up wasn’t quite the right description, because a lot of us already felt that we were tough enough. After all, we were all orphans so the big bad world had already shown us its darker side. Sister Elfreda and her coterie of nuns reminded us every minute of the day that the world was full of sin and that we had been fortunate to have been saved. Fortunate to have been sent by the Lord to St. Vincent’s for them to look after us and educate us in the way of the faith.

  No, come to think of it, Father Tim didn’t just tell us it would toughen us up, he used to tell us that boxing was character building. During those sessions in the old hall with its makeshift ring, punch-bags and medicine balls he drilled the rudiments into us. He taught us how to punch, block, guard and move out of trouble. He inculcated into us a sense of self-belief that was a terrific antidote to fear.

  “The world has not been kind to you, lads, but if you can box and stand up for yourself, then you are as good as the next man.” He’d say this as he stood in the ring with one or other of us, teaching us all at once, yet directing his words at the boy facing him as he invited him to try and hit him. They were great lessons that went far deeper than any of us were aware.

  “Don’t let your opponent get you angry, lad. As soon as you get mad, you fight badly and you’ll probably lose.” Then he would duck and weave, never breaking into a sweat. “Sure, you’ll get annoyed by him, but don’t lose your temper. Channel that emotion, use it and direct it. If you just go in trying to outhit him, you’ll beat some, but if he’s as good as you, you’ll only win half the time. If you outthink him you’ll win most of the time.”

  The limey was good, as good as me, I reckoned. And that meant that it was pointless trying to outhit him. I needed to outscore him and outthink him.

  We traded a few more blows, enough to keep up the enthusiasm of the crowd, which seemed to be predominantly behind me. That was to be expected, of course, since the medics were all for me while the guys from the Duke of Wellington Regiment were predictably all for him. There were a heck of a lot more of us.

  We had gone five rounds so far and we both sported bruises, a few cuts and were lathered in perspiration.

  It was a relief when the bell went for the end of the round and we went to our corners.

  ***

  Although Father Brophy taught us to box and he and Sister Elfreda and the nuns educated us as best they could, yet none of us felt that we had a happy childhood. For one thing, everyone was conscious that World War II was raging. And Chicago was still ruled by the Outfit. Only the year before Dago Lawrence Mangano, who ran the Outfit’s Near West Side interests was gunned down with his bodyguard at Blue Island Avenue. No one could doubt it was a dangerous city if you got involved with the ungodly.

  I was sixteen when the war finished and I felt confused. Some of my buddies made the best of the skills that Father Tim had given them and started training to enter the professional ring, while others were seduced by the lifestyle and money that could be obtained by aligning themselves with the Outfit.

  I was determined to make something of myself, but I didn’t know what. I was already six foot tall and still had another four inches to add and I was tempted to be a boxer. After all, I was among the best at the Asylum and had always been able to punch above my age. Father Tim dissuaded me, however.

  “You’ve got a brain Oscar, and you’ve got good hands. I’ve seen that in the first aid training I’ve given you. You might try something medical.”

  So I did just that and got a job as a hospital orderly. Then a few years later the North Korean dictator Kim II - Sung decided to cross the 38th parallel and grab a piece of South Korea so I eventually found myself, Corporal Oscar Morris, driving an ambulance in the 559th Medical Ambulance Company based at Wonju, fifty miles southeast of Seoul.

  And as the 559th heavyweight boxing champion that was how I found myself pitted against Bombardier Jack Brodie of the Duke of Wellington Regiment. He and his regiment had just the week previously won the Battle of The Hook. Jack’s platoon had been detailed to protect a convoy of wounded to our base. When it became known that he was his regiment’s heavyweight boxing champion, the inevitable happened. A couple of self-proclaimed promoters organized a boxing match, pitting me against the limey.

  There was a lot of heavy gambling laid on the
match. That meant there were a lot of guys putting money on me. And a lot of them, knowing that I could handle myself pretty well would not just have a flutter, but would put their shirt, boots and socks on as well.

  Father Tim had always advised us to find out as much as you can about your opponent. He said that the more you understood him, the more likely you would know about his weaknesses.

  “Everyone has an Achilles heel, lads. Look for his. That’s the way that Paris overcame the invulnerable Achilles during the Trojan War.”

  And he would break off to take the opportunity to educate us about Classical Greek mythology. Ever the opportunist was Father Tim.

  But it was valuable advice. Before the match I endeavored to get to know Bombardier Jack Brodie.

  ***

  I would have liked to have had a couple of beers with him, but of course, there was no chance of that. Instead we played checkers and drank tea.

  That’s right, I supplied the checkers board and he produced the tea. Like all Brits he never went anywhere without a supply of tea. Not the green tea that you got in Korea, but what he called “proper black tea.”

  “A proper cup of char, that’s what we like, Oscar, my old mate,” he said as we sat on the ground opposite each other in the shade of a tree behind the ambulance area. I liked his quaint sing-song accent and his use of the term “mate.” And in truth, without meaning a pun, we hit it off like a house on fire right from the start.

  We were the same age, both had grown up around boxing and we both had plans after the war.

  I clicked my way across the board and made a king.

  “You see, Oscar, names can be funny things, can’t they?” he said. “Take this game for instance. You call it checkers and we call it draughts.” He sipped his mug of tea and then held it up. “And this drink. We both call it tea when we want to be posh, but when me and my mates are talking about it we call it char. As you know, here in Korea they also call it cha.”