MUHAMMAD ALI, 1974
45
JADE
The night of the fight, I’m as tense as a cat on a wire. Rueben’s with me, trying to loosen me up, talk me up and down. There’s been a change in the slate. I’m not boxing Chantall after all, but a woman by the name of Tiger O’Gara out of Denver. The decision was made by the promoters without much reason. Rueben is not happy—we had only two days’ notice. He wanted me to give up the fight.
I dug in my heels. No way. For two solid days, between training, I’ve been looking up stats. Found clips of one fight in Omaha that put the fear of God in me, though I’m not telling Rueben that.
“Tiger,” I say dismissively, pacing. “That’s ego, calling yourself that.”
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go around and see who’s here.”
I love wrapping up in my robe, with my taped hands, to go out in the crowd. I feel a roll in my walk, feel them eyeing me. It feels good.
The neighborhood contingent are sitting together at one table. Trudy is there with Rick, which makes me a little suspicious—he broke his leg and can’t live in his apartment, but he’s getting around well enough to come out to a fight? Still, looking at him I remember why I always liked the two of them together. He has—has always had—that look in his eye for his wife that’ll melt stone. Shannelle is there with Tony, who is holding her hand so tight, it seems like it would break her fingers. I stop. “Girl, I am so proud of you! I heard the news about your book.”
Her glow is something to see. “Thank you.” She holds out her hand. “You have to be Rueben. It’s nice to meet you.”
Tony stands up to shake my hand. “Have a good fight, you hear me?”
“Do my best.”
Which leaves Mama and Grandmama. I don’t see them right away, and I’m sick with nerves that they might have made good on not coming because they purely hate it that I’m boxing in the ring, where I could get killed. Then I see them, two older black women dressed up and out of place, and I rush over and hug them. My stepfather is there, too, beaming at me. “Knew you had it in you, baby. I been bragging about you all over Denver.”
“All right! Thank you.”
I’ve forgotten that they haven’t met Rueben until my mother nudges me. “Oh! I’m sorry!” I draw him forward. “This is Rueben Perry. My coach.”
His deep voice and courtliness nearly put her in a swoon. “How do you do, ma’am.”
I look back at her when we’re walking away, and she gives me a big thumbs-up sign. I grin.
As we’re crossing the room, I see my opponent. She’s standing at the edge of the crowd, one foot propped up behind her against the wall. Her pictures don’t do her justice. She’s not quite my height, but not far off, solidly built. The hair is strawberry blond, French-braided tightly away from a face dominated by very high, prominent cheekbones. A white girl. Big tits. Very good-looking.
Also not stupid. Her mouth twists and she shakes her head. Fuck, the expression says. Now I know why they changed the fight. So does she.
But while the promoters might have discounted anything but the babe factor in selecting the boxers, I see her straighten as she takes my measure. As I take hers. She has the lats of a swimmer, the biceps of a professional bodybuilder, and strong, square, powerful shoulders.
Like a tiger.
I know from the video clips that she’s known for her power. Which is my strong point, too, but she won’t know that looking at me. She’ll think I have speed or dancing on my side, and I have a little of both.
A bolt of challenge rushes through me. “This’ll be a good fight,” I say to Rueben.
“You’ll know you’ve been in the ring tomorrow.”
“So will she,” I promise.
It’s still a long time till my fight and we pass the minutes walking up and down, trying to stay loose without getting tired. I watch part of the first fight, welterweights who are mediocre boxers at best. It means the fight goes on and on, with nothing of much interest happening. But I skip the second, discovering it’s making me nervous to watch them. My whole body feels zingy, ready, pulsing with the wish to get out there, but my mind is worried sick she’s gonna kick my ass and I’ll look like an idiot. I wish I were boxing Chantall. I had a feeling for her in the ring.
I’m not going to watch the third one, either, but we start hearing the crowd go nuts in the first round, and I’m curious. It’s a good fight. Well-trained boxers in top condition, both of them with some talent. They trade some good hits, and dance away, and I’m impressed. “He’s good, the one in red.”
Rueben nods, his arms crossed over his chest. “They both are.”
In the fourth round, Sanchez, he’s the one in red, goes down, but he gets back up and keeps fighting. He lands a flurry of cross-punches that leaves his opponent dazed, dances backward.
Sanchez goes down. The crowd murmurs, not sure what’s going on.
“Damn,” Rueben says beside me.
The boxer is still lying there, and my heart squeezes. His hands are flung to his sides in a loose way. “He’s out cold.”
“Yeah.”
The medic leaps up there, and then there’s a crowd gathered around the boxer. The other guy looks stunned, rubbing his face with his glove every so often. It seems preternaturally quiet, then a serious roaring starts in the crowd as everybody asks everybody else what’s going on.
The downed boxer still has not moved, and now his family is rushing the ring, trying to find out what’s going on. A stretcher is brought, and an announcement is made. I see one paramedic lift his head to the other, and there’s a grimness to his face that makes me feel sick. “Rueben, is he dead?”
“I don’t know.” He nudges my arm. “Let’s go. You don’t need to be watching all this.”
In the back, he settles me on the table and rubs my shoulders hard. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” But I’m scared. I really am. I knew, intellectually, that people could get killed boxing. My stomach heaves and I break away from Rueben to rush for the toilet, where I throw up mostly nothing. I ate early today, but will save the big meal for after. Too nervous.
“Jade,” Rueben says behind me. “You don’t have to fight. I can call it right now.”
I rinse my mouth, spit. “I’m fighting, Rueben. You see how they set this up, two pretty girls, but she’s a real fighter and so am I. It’ll be a good match, and I’m not giving that up.”
“You’re a thousand things more than a boxer, Jade.”
“I know that.” I narrow my eyes. “That shook you, didn’t it?”
“I’ve seen it before,” he says, his jaw hard. “But it made me think. You’re both powerful fighters. It might not be you. It might be her. What then?”
“Some coach you are!” I back off. “You’re supposed to be pumping me up, not bringing me down.”
“I should have quit coaching you a month ago. I knew it then, but I wanted to see it through.”
“Then see it through. Stop being my lover tonight and be my coach.”
For a long minute, we square off. Both of us have our hands on our hips, scowls on our brows.
“Jade,” he says gruffly.
“What?”
He purses his lips, narrows his eyes. “I’m with you, baby.”
I heave a sigh of relief. “It matters to me, Rueben.”
“I know.” It’s time to get ready, and he starts checking my taped hands.
“Rueben,” I say then, realizing I want it out there before I go to maybe get knocked senseless or dead. “I love you.”
He smooths some tape with the pad of his thumb. Smiles. “I know.” He gestures for my other hand. “I’m gonna marry you, you know.”
I smile at him. “Oh, really?”
“Give you twenty babies and go to church every Sunday. Think you could do that?”
“Do we get to have sex every night?”
Those big sleepy eyes blink. “Every morning, too, if you want.”
�
��How about three babies?”
“Three’s good.” He picks up my glove. “I knew you were my wife the minute you walked in that gym.”
“It’s weird to be having this conversation without even touching, but you know I can’t waste that energy.”
He grins. “I’m doing it this way on purpose.”
“Surely we can have sex if we’re engaged.”
“Nope.”
“Wedding night?” I say in some despair.
“That’s right.” He ties my glove. “Better be soon, huh?”
A knock comes at the door. “Five minutes.”
I look at him, touch my glove to my diaphragm. “Whoo. I’m scared and thrilled and nervous and pumped. Is that normal?”
“Yeah.” He smacks my butt. “Let’s go kick some ass, girl.”
It feels unreal, walking out there when they announce my name. Out into the brightly lit room, toward the ring. I’m wearing yellow trunks. She’s in red. I climb into the ring and see all those people looking up at us. I want to faint.
What if I lose?
Then I look across the ring to my opponent. To another woman who wants to be strong. I see her muscles, the lift of her chin. I feel my gaze level, feel the power in my shoulders. Shifting my head, I feel the bareness of it.
I think of Dante, how proud he would be of me right now. I think of how my anger led me here, to a strong and mighty place, and I’m glad he was in my life. I’m also glad he’s out.
The bell rings.
I dance forward.
Be wicked, be brave, be drunk, be reckless, be dissolute, be despotic, be an anarchist, be a religious fanatic, be a suffragette, be anything you like, but for pity’s sake be it to the top of your bent—Live—live fully, live passionately, live disastrously au besoin.
VIOLET TREFUSIS TO VITA SACKVILLE-WEST, OCTOBER 1918
46
TRUDY
My heart stops when the bell rings for Jade’s fight. Without realizing it, I grab Rick’s hand and hold my breath for the first few seconds. “Look at her,” I breathe.
“I’m looking, I’m looking,” Rick says with a chuckle, then sits straight up as Jade throws a punch, and her opponent, Tiger, counters. “Whoa.”
I can’t breathe the whole time. My heart is in my throat, out of both fear and admiration. By the end of the first round, the crowd is on its feet, cheering wildly. Both fighters go to their corners, breathing hard, and I hear the murmurs around me.
Damn, this is gonna be the best fight of the night.
Shee! You see that black girl hit?
What about the other one?
And my favorite: Either one of them could fight a man, I bet.
Round two gets a little darker. Jade takes a hit to her left eye, the same one that got hurt at the gym, and I see her stagger, but she counters and Tiger jumps back. There’s blood on Jade’s face and I put my hand to my eye, wondering if I could do that. Take a punch like that.
Near the end of the second round, there’s an instant when I see something come over Jade. Suddenly, she shimmers through a cloak of stillness. The other woman sees it, too, and brings up her gloves, narrows her eyes. She keeps her distance for a moment, but Jade advances, throws a series of little punches that mostly miss, then when Tiger is off center, she swings her right hand up—I almost see it in slow motion—and it hits the other woman right at the corner of her jaw.
“Holy shit!” Rick says, and he whoops.
Tiger drops to the ropes, clinging, and I’m holding my breath. It’s scary because of what happened earlier, with the other boxer, and I don’t want Jade to—
The crowd roars as Tiger shoves herself up, throws her arms around Jade for a second; then the referee is breaking them up. The bell rings.
Shannelle says, “Oh, my God!” She holds out her arm. “I have goose bumps. This is so exciting!”
“Me, too!”
I look toward Roberta, who is sitting with her daughter, and I nudge Rick. “Look at her!” I say, laughing.
Because mild-mannered, sweet-voiced Roberta, in her black dress and neat stockings, is on her feet, hollering along with the rest of the crowd. When the bell dings again for the third round, she throws a fist in the air and yells something. Probably like Go, baby!
Rick laughs.
But the rounds follow each other excruciatingly. The women are well matched and fierce. They swing and hit and rally, duck and roll and connect and embrace. This minute, that one’s down. The next, it’s the other. It’s six rounds long, and by the end of the fifth, I’m not sure I can stand another minute. Rueben’s talking hard to Jade, who is covered with sweat dripping from every pore in her body. Her shirt is soaked. Her eye is swollen, but not closed, which I gather is the way they decide whether to call the fight. She’s nodding at Rueben, listening intently, wipes sweat off her face. He pours water on her head, wipes it down, talking, talking, talking.
Across the ring, I see the other woman spit blood into a bucket, see them squirt water into her mouth, and she spits out more blood. She has a black mark along one side of her face, and her lip is split, but she’s scowling fiercely at the obvious pleadings of her coach. When the bell dings, she stands up, shakes out her arms.
And what I notice is that the crowd is absolutely enthralled. Not by their beauty. By their heart, their strength, their power. It feels like the round lasts ten thousand years, and it has to feel like twenty thousand to the two of them, but they’re still throwing punches. The crowd is whooping and yelling and pounding their feet.
At the very end, the bell dings. And I don’t know if everybody sees it, but I know Jade. She stands still, holds out her glove. The woman across taps it. They go to their corners.
It’s a split decision. A draw. And the crowd is thrilled.
* * *
Rick is truly exhausted by the fight. He needs help getting back up the porch steps, leaning on me hard, and his face is gray with pain. I get him settled on the couch and get some pain pills. “Are you okay?”
He does a man toss with his head. “I’ll be all right. It’s only been a couple of days.”
“My arm didn’t hurt after the first day or two. It’s worrying me that this is still obviously excruciating.”
“Excruciating.” He gives a dull nod. “Yeah, that’s a good word.”
I sit down next to him. “Maybe I should call the doctor.”
“Nah. He told me it might be pretty bad for a couple of weeks, even.”
“You didn’t tell me that!”
“You can’t make it stop, can you?” he says with a shrug. “I’ll get out of your way tomorrow. You don’t have to keep putting me up.”
I meet his eyes. “It’s too soon for us to live together, Rick. I think it would hurt us in the long run.”
It’s not the answer he wanted. He lowers his lids. “You’re probably right.”
I take his hand. “There’s a lot to work out, my love.”
“I know.” He tightens his fingers around mine. “I just …” He sighs, meets my eyes. “I guess I’m a little depressed tonight. It’s sinking in that I lost my bike. I rode that baby for more than thirty years.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.” I rub his hand with my free one. “Maybe it’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“No, I saw it.” He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take my little happy pills and go to sleep and it’ll all look better tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” I say, “what you really need is a good cry.”
“Or a big bottle of whiskey.”
I remember the night I bought the bottle of wine to mourn our marriage after Edgar’s funeral. I lift my eyebrow. “Or both.”
“Maybe.” He falls back on the couch. “For now, I’m going to sleep.”
“Call me if you need me.”
* * *
Somewhere in the middle of the night, I get up to check on him. He’s fallen asleep with the television on, and the light drifts over his face, flickering on his wh
ite forehead. The mask of pain has fallen away. I tiptoe in and pick up the remote to turn off the television. His voice, rough with sleep, stops me. “Leave it on, if you don’t mind. Keeps me company.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” I put the remote down and come around the coffee table to kneel by the couch, touch his face. “How you doing?”
“All right.” He moves his hips sideways, groans a little, pats the space he’s cleared. “Sit with me?”
The smell of him is rich in the air, the mingled scents of his skin and hair, a fragrance so heady that it’s always made me dizzy. I breathe it in as I settle next to him, put my hand on his arm. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
He shakes his head, picks up my left hand, the one I broke, presses a kiss to it. “That was the worst day of my life.”
“Mine, too,” I say quietly.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since the other night, Miss Gertrude.”
I brush my fingers over his face, touch the new lines at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah? About what?”
He clears his throat. “I don’t know what it’ll take to put this all behind us, Trudy, I really don’t. The counselor says it’s hard to tell who’ll get through an infidelity and who won’t, but it’s gonna take a lot of work from both of us.”
“I guess I can see that’s true.” A question boils up from my heart, the one that’s been burning me from the first discovery. “I wish I could …”
“What?”
“I was going to say understand why, but I think I’ve worked that out.” In the soft dark, with the quiet of our home all around us, I feel free, and put my palm against his beloved cheek. “I think we both just got lost in the losses. Your mother, and then the boys were leaving home, and then Joe died.”
His fingers curl in mine, warm and tender. “It was a lot.”
“It all made me start looking at my life, Rick. At all of it—what choices I made, what I wanted. I don’t want to be a secretary. I want to teach and study and travel.”
The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue: A Novel Page 32
