The Contender Page 11

  “Before the summer you didn’t know about boxing neither.”

  “I guess I’ll have some more milk.”

  She leaned over his shoulder and filled his glass. “When I was seventeen, Alfred…don’t look at me like that, I was seventeen, too…a man came by the house. He was from the Apollo Theater. Said he heard me singing in the church choir. Wanted to sign me up for a stage show. No star part, you understand, I’d be in a chorus. Wear a fancy dress. They’d teach me some dance steps.”

  She walked around the table, holding the milk container with two hands. “Was we ever excited, me and Dorothy and Ernestine, your momma. Couldn’t sign a contract because I was underage, and my momma, your grandma, wouldn’t sign for me. She said that stage shows were sinful. Be shameful, one of her daughters struttin’ around, showin’ off. I’d end up no good.”

  She sat down, her fingers tightening on the container. “How I talked with her, and I cried, and Dorothy and Ernestine, they begged her, too. The more we begged the harder she set her face. Sinful. Shameful. No good.”

  “You never told me ’bout that.”

  “No secret. You just always been so closed into yourself, Alfred.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. The man went away. I met your Uncle John, and we went together a long time before my momma would give her blessing. She said he didn’t have enough money in the bank. How that man worked. Night and day he worked. We got married, and he got sick soon after Charlene came along. He never did get to see the twins. Passed on a month before they came.”

  Her hands tightened and twisted on the container, and milk spurted out onto her lap. Alfred came around the table and put his hands on Aunt Pearl’s shoulders.

  “He woulda been real pleased with them. Nice girls,” he said softly.

  She was sobbing. “I don’t say I woulda been a star or anything. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  “But you would of liked to try,” said Alfred.

  “Yes.”

  He held her shoulders until they stopped heaving.

  “Thanks, Alfred. You’re a comfort.” She wiped her eyes and looked up into his. “I didn’t even ask if you won your fight.”

  “I won it.”

  She reached up and stroked his face. “And it didn’t even taste sweet, the winning, did it, honey?”

  “No.”

  “You gonna quit this thing now?”

  “No.”

  16

  GRIFFIN WAS LIGHT and fast, his gloves were a red blur tapping away at Alfred’s face, easy and steady as rain on a roof, pitter-pat, pitter-pat. Alfred’s eyes began to swell and his nose was clogged with dried blood. Donatelli and Henry and Bud were screaming, “Rush him, press, press,” but every time he fired out his jab Griffin brushed it aside. By the end of the first round, his face felt as if it had been stung by a hundred bees.

  “Attack, attack, two hands,” said Donatelli in his ear, and Bud slapped an ice bag against his face. Henry kneaded the muscles of his back. “Go after him, Alfred.”

  He tried to explain into the ice bag about the red blur and Griffin’s speed, but the bell rang. It started again, pitter-pat, pitter-pat, and somebody in the crowd was laughing. He swung wildly, a foot over Griffin’s head, and the red blur was back, tapping away at his chin, his eyes, his mouth, his nose. He tried to remember his combinations, left, left, cross, hook, but Griffin’s skinny arms knocked his punches away, and then the blur again, pitter-pat, pitter-pat, until he was sure that Griffin had three, maybe five hands at work, all needles and pins stabbing at the bee bites.

  The bell rang.

  “This is it,” said Henry, tilting the water bottle. “Go for the KO, only chance to win, knock his head off.”

  Pitter-pat, pitter-pat, not quite so fast now, there were only two red gloves, and sometimes he could see them before they tapped against his face. Griffin was breathing hard. He’s tired, Alfred thought, tired from hitting me so much. One red glove grazed his ear, the first time Griffin missed all night.

  “Rush him, rush him,” they screamed from the corner. Somewhere Alfred found a little extra strength, he reached all the way down for it, and the next time the red glove missed he threw his weight behind a short right uppercut.

  Griffin stopped cold, a pink blotch on his chest. Alfred swung the hook, everything behind the hook. It slammed into Griffin’s jaw. Thunk. Pain shot up Alfred’s wrist and exploded in his shoulder. Griffin went down and flopped over like a rag doll.

  Griffin twitched once, then lay very still on the canvas.

  “…nine…ten…winner by knockout…”

  Bud and Donatelli were holding his arms, and Henry was hugging him, but he felt alone and sick. He swallowed back the bitter taste, broke free and ran across the ring.

  “Where you goin’?” asked the referee, blocking him.

  “Want to see him.”

  “Later, next bout’s coming right in.”

  “Now,” said Alfred, dodging around the referee. Griffin was being pulled to his feet.

  “You okay?”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m sorry I hit you so—”

  “Forget it, kid,” said one of Griffin’s handlers. “Lucky punch.”

  “Come on, Alfred.” Donatelli’s fingers were on his arm, pulling him back across the ring. Alfred kept looking over his shoulder as they slapped Griffin awake and helped him down the ring steps.

  All the way up the aisle, people stood up and shook their fists and tugged at his robe and cheered. He kept his eyes straight ahead, and his mouth tightly closed. He was afraid he might throw up.

  “Let’s look at those eyes,” said Donatelli, pushing him down on a dressing-room bench.

  “Just swollen,” said Bud, pressing the ice bag against them. “No damage.”

  “Beautiful hook,” said Henry. “Was that ever a beautiful hook.”

  “He just lay there—” said Alfred.

  “That’s part of it,” said Donatelli.

  “—like a dead man.”

  “It’s happened, Alfred.”

  Bud took the ice bag away, and looked at Donatelli. They stared at each other for a long time before Bud shook his head, and Donatelli shrugged.

  The sound of the hook against Griffin’s jaw, the dull, meaty thunk, echoed in his mind all the way home in Spoon’s car. He heard it in the kitchen, trying to sleep, trying not to see the rag doll flop endlessly to the canvas. He didn’t sleep. He left the apartment early, before Aunt Pearl woke up. He didn’t want to talk about it over breakfast. He walked through the park, careful to avoid the two policemen. But there was no way to avoid Lou Epstein when he finally went to work.

  “Two wins in a row, Alfred.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t look so good. You want the day off?”

  “No, I’m all right.”

  There were only a few customers that morning. It was hard to concentrate. His fingers were stiff on the cash register keys, and every time he looked up, Griffin was flopping off a shelf of canned goods. Thunk. Lucky punch, beautiful hook. Pitter-pat. NO SALE. Pop-pop-pop, and there was Rivera, and the crowd was screaming, get in there and fight, black boy, coward. Twice, he rang up wrong totals and had to call Jake over to unlock the cash register and correct the receipt roll. All the hate was out in the crowd, he thought, screaming for blood, for a knockout, and the crowd didn’t really care who flopped over like a rag doll, Griffin, Rivera, Brooks, anybody.

  “Go on, Alfred, take the rest of the day off.”

  “I’m all right, Mr. Epstein.”

  “Argue I don’t, Alfred. You’re fired until tomorrow morning, eight-thirty.”

  He felt a little better on the street. A brisk November wind tugged at his jacket, and he pulled his cap down over his forehead. It was nearly noon, but the sun was neither warm nor bright. The few people on the street were moving quickly. Across the street, in front of a school gate, two heavily dressed figures were handing out leaflets. One of
them waved.

  “Brooksy, hey Brooksy. Over here.”

  He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and strolled over. Harold was smiling, his eyes were friendly behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Lynn seemed very small and slim, bundled into a tweed coat.

  “Hi, Alfred,” she said. “We were just talking about you.”

  “How’s that?”

  She handed him a leaflet. “Harold was saying how much he’d like to get you involved in our new recreation program.”

  “That’s right,” said Harold. “The kids would really look up to a boxer.”

  “Only had two fights.”

  “That doesn’t matter. At least you’ve done something.”

  “Don’t have much time now.”

  “Think about it anyway,” said Lynn. A bell rang inside the school.

  “I will,” said Alfred, but Harold and Lynn had already turned and begun handing their leaflets to the children streaming out into the street.

  He walked on, surrounded by skipping, laughing children. He thought of Rick, the white college boy he and James had liked so much. Alfred half-closed his eyes, okay you little kids, gonna do some push-ups and trunk-twisters, then James here is gonna tell you some funny stories. But James was trembling in the clubroom corner, ripping open his heroin bag, and the crowd was screaming for him to kill Rivera, and Griffin was flopping over like a rag doll. It was too early to go up to the gym, and he didn’t feel like watching afternoon television. He dropped Lynn’s leaflet into a trash barrel, and headed toward 125th Street and a warm movie.

  17

  UNCLE WILSON WAVED his drumstick. “Two in a row, now that’s progress, real progress.”

  “When’s your next fight?” asked Jeff.

  “In a week,” said Alfred. “And another one a week before Christmas.”

  “You don’t tell me nothing anymore,” said Aunt Pearl.

  “You worry so much,” said Alfred.

  “Now, she’s got every right to worry,” said Aunt Dorothy. “Every day I read in the papers about—”

  “Can’t hold the boy back,” said Wilson. “Top fighter can make contacts with big people, get opportunities.”

  The room was warm with the nine of them around the table and heat still rising from the turkey, the sweet potatoes, the small mountains of stuffing and green beans. Alfred felt good. Best Thanksgiving ever, he thought, everybody so easy and pleasant, even Wilson. And Jeff was all right, none of those slick, smart-meat college ways he had expected. Lightly he punched Jeff’s arm.

  “You oughta come up the gym, make a light-heavy out of you.”

  “I tried it, we had a boxing club in college—”

  “You been boxing?” Wilson’s drumstick came down in a mound of cranberry sauce. “Get your brains scrambled, waste all that—”

  “Wilson.” Dorothy pointed at the cranberry stains on his white shirt. The four girls giggled through stuffed mouths, and Pearl raised her napkin to cover a smile.

  “I didn’t last very long,” said Jeff.

  “Be glad to show you a few things,” said Alfred.

  “You forget about that,” said Wilson, getting up. He stamped into the kitchen.

  “I’d like to be able to handle myself better,” said Jeff.

  “For Africa?” asked Alfred.

  “For anything.”

  “I hear you talking about Africa?” Wilson came back into the dining room, dabbing at his shirt with a damp towel. “You got accepted and didn’t tell me?”

  “I haven’t sent in the application.”

  “You better get on with it, boy. Even with your qualifications you can’t wait till the last minute.”

  “I’m not sure I want to go.”

  “Fine with me,” said Dorothy. “I read how they got some tribes running loose over there and—”

  “Thought you had your mind set,” said Wilson.

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Jeff. “All I really wanted to do was see Africa. Now if I really want to do something positive, I can do it right here in this country.”

  “Didn’t bring you up to be no street worker,” said Wilson. “You got the chance to go on out and—”

  “Okay. Let’s say I go to Africa. Then what?”

  “Get a job with a big corporation that—”

  “That hires one Negro a year to look good and—”

  “Don’t you shout at me, Jeff. I know what’s best for—”

  “Now you’re shouting, Wilson,” said Dorothy.

  “That boy just doesn’t understand about—”

  “Maybe you don’t understand,” said Jeff.

  “Can we go upstairs?” asked Diane.

  “Please, please,” said the twins.

  “Go on,” said Dorothy. The girls jumped off their chairs and clattered away. “You men go on inside and behave. No more shouting. Pearl and I gonna clean up the table. We’ll call you back for dessert.”

  Wilson wandered away after his pipe, and Alfred and Jeff went into the front room. They sprawled out on the couch. Jeff wasn’t quite so big as Alfred had remembered. Looks a little like Spoon without the broken nose, he thought.

  “Are you going to turn professional?” said Jeff.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Do you really like to box?”

  “Well—”

  “I don’t mean to be personal.”

  “You’re my cousin. If you can’t be personal—” Alfred shrugged.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t be doing it if you didn’t like it.”

  “I like it all right, especially the running and the workouts. I like the guys at the gym. But sometimes in the ring, I’m not so sure.”

  Wilson came into the front room, puffing out clouds of pipe smoke. “How you doing at the store, Alfred?”

  “Fine. They’re real nice to me.”

  “Might be thinking about the supermarkets, more money, good benefits, chance for advancement.”

  “I’m not sure I want to work in a store all my life.”

  “People always gonna need food, Alfred,” said Wilson, pointing his pipe stem. “Can’t go wrong working in food.”

  “Sounds like Jelly Belly,” said Alfred.

  “Jelly Belly?” asked Jeff.

  “Friend of mine at the gym. His real name is Horace Marshall Davenport, Junior, but he’s so fat everybody just calls him Jelly Belly. Told me once he’d work at Epsteins’ for free if he could eat on the job.”

  Jeff laughed, but Wilson shook his head. “That’s the kind of foolishness gets you nowhere, you got to show them you—”

  “Come on in,” called Dorothy.

  There was ice cream and cake and milk and coffee on the table. Wilson sat down and watched his pipe go out. “Always got to be planning for the future, thinking ahead. Wake up one morning and you find the world passed you by.” He looked straight at Jeff. “Right, Alfred?”

  Alfred leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been thinking. I’m gonna continue my education.”

  “Remembered what I said about trade schools?”

  “Finish up high school at night,” said Alfred.

  “You didn’t tell me about that,” said Aunt Pearl. “When you decide that?”

  “Some time now. Spoon says, more you know, more you want to know.”

  “Spoon?” asked Jeff.

  “Alfred’s schoolteacher friend,” said Aunt Pearl.

  They finished their dessert quietly, and watched Wilson clean and refill his pipe. He lit it and puffed out two quick clouds of smoke. He shook his head. “Sometimes I’m not sure I understand this new generation.”

  “They got to find their own way,” said Aunt Pearl. “Same as we did.”

  “Times are really changing,” said Wilson.

  “Men like you started the changing,” said Dorothy. “Now it’s their turn.”

  “Couldn’t do it without you, Dad,” said Jeff.

  “Maybe so,” said Wilson, leaning back. The smoke clouds rose, slowly and evenly.
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  Aunt Pearl looked at her watch. “We better go. I have to work tomorrow.”

  “I’ll drive you home,” said Jeff.

  “That’s real nice, but—”

  “No, I’d like to, Aunt Pearl. It would give me a chance to talk with Alfred some more.”

  By the time they dragged the girls from upstairs, and thanked each other for the third time, it was past eleven o’clock. Aunt Pearl, Charlene, and the twins piled into the back of Jeff’s old Ford, and fell asleep almost as soon as the car started moving.

  “Were you serious about finishing high school?”

  “Not until I said it tonight. I’m going to try.”

  “You’ve changed a lot,” said Jeff.

  “What way?”

  Jeff stared out the windshield at tiny flakes of snow caught, swirling, in the glare of the headlights. “Well, you always seemed so…so negative.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You sort of seemed to, if you don’t mind my saying so, seemed to just drift along.”

  “Yeah. Sweet old Uncle Alfred.”

  “Sorry, Alfred, I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “I guess I had no ideas about anything, what I wanted to do, anything like that. Didn’t seem like any reason to stay in school. And I wasn’t doing good. But Spoon says—”

  “The teacher?”

  “Right. He used to box. He said if you can concentrate on learning to box, you can concentrate on learning anything.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “You were talking before about doing things in this country instead of Africa. Like what?”

  “For one thing, a lot of groups are trying to organize self-help programs in the black communities. Parents’ groups, tenants’ groups….”

  “Recreation centers for young kids?”

  “Very important. White people have always run those centers and they don’t always understand the problems. Black children need to look up to black adults.”

  “They’re working on that around our neighborhood.”

  “You’d be a natural for something like that,” said Jeff. “You have all that athletic background.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  Aunt Pearl stirred, and leaned forward. “Better turn here, Jeff.”