The Contender Page 4

  “Took a walk.”

  “A walk?”

  Sandra saved him, screaming that Paula had hidden her hair ribbons. Aunt Pearl got busy quieting them down, feeding them breakfast, helping Charlene make the lunch sandwiches. When the girls finally left for school, Aunt Pearl turned back to Alfred, her eyebrows raised.

  “Now. Where you been?”

  “Just went out. Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Where you been you need the alarm clock?”

  “Took a walk.”

  “You said that already, Alfred. You look at me now. Are you in trouble?”

  “No.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Somebody after you for something?”

  “No.”

  “I ain’t gonna press you, Alfred, you do a man’s work and I ain’t gonna treat you like a boy. But I know something’s wrong. We eat all right, don’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “We ain’t on welfare, the rent’s paid up, we got nice Sunday clothes. We’re doin’ all right. Did your Uncle Wilson get you all upset?”

  “Uncle Wilson?”

  “I heard him braggin’ about Jeff. You do all right, too. You got a job, you…”

  “Big job.”

  “Alfred! You be glad you’re workin’. Streets are full of men hangin’ around, waitin’ for trouble.”

  “I’m gonna be somebody,” he said, feeling his throat tighten up again.

  She surrounded him with her soft arms. “You somebody right now, Alfred. A good, God-fearing boy, minds his aunt, helps…”

  “Somebody special,” he said, pulling away.

  She dropped her arms and took a step back, peering up into his face. “How you mean, Alfred?”

  He shrugged. “Some way.”

  “Alfred,” she whispered, “you wasn’t really fixin’ to go with James that night…Alfred!”

  She was still calling his name as he ran out the door.

  Lou Epstein, the oldest, shortest, and baldest of the three Epstein brothers, barely looked up from the cash register when Alfred entered the store.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said.

  He signaled to Jake, the middle brother, to take over the cash register. He led Alfred back to the storeroom. Ben, the youngest brother, was licking a black crayon and marking prices on soap-flake boxes when they walked in. Lou jerked his bald head, and Ben left the room.

  “Some boys tried to break into the store Friday night. You hear about it?”

  “No.”

  “That friend of yours, James Mosely. The police caught him. Put him in jail over the weekend.”

  There was a long silence, and Alfred studied the green vegetable stains on Lou’s apron. “What are they going to do with him?”

  “They’ll let him go on probation. First offense, and nothing was stolen. You didn’t even hear about it?”

  “I heard something.”

  “You heard something.” Lou rubbed his pale scalp. “You heard maybe who the other boys were?”

  Alfred shook his head and lowered his eyes to Lou’s shoes. They were worn and cracked, with holes for Lou’s bunions.

  “You’re a good boy, Alfred, we all think you’re a good boy. I told the police not to bother you. But sometimes it’s hard to…well, we trust you, but for your own sake there’s no point tempting fate. You understand.”

  Alfred shook his head again, and Lou shrugged his thin shoulders. “We’ll see, we’ll see. Okay. After you get done sweeping up, help Ben with the new crates.” He went back to the cash register.

  They said very little through the morning. Jake kept shooting glances at Alfred out of the corner of his eye. Even Ben was quiet, Ben who always asked Alfred how he had spent his weekend, and then winked knowingly when Alfred said he had seen some movies, watched television, and hung around. There was tension in the store, as thick and heavy as the air before a rainstorm. Aunt Pearl sensed it, too, when she came in on her way to work. She didn’t say anything about Alfred’s leaving without breakfast or forgetting his lunch. She just put the paper bag on the counter and walked out, frowning.

  He ate in the back of the store, alone, chewing sandwiches that tasted like cardboard in his dry mouth. The Epsteins always let him take soda or milk and a piece of fruit. But today he felt too uncomfortable to pick out the rest of his lunch.

  The afternoon was hot. Flies buzzed in through the door, landing on the open water-melons and the sweet corn, climbing up the sweating pickle barrel. Two heavy-set white men, perspiring through their summer suits, came in and whispered with Jake and Lou. They looked like detectives to Alfred. One of them wrote something in a black leather notebook, nodded, and snapped it shut.

  “We’ll stay in touch, Lou. Bet you’re glad now you took our advice on that new alarm.”

  There was plenty of work to do, and he could pretend to concentrate hard on peeling the rotten leaves off the cabbages or sponging the spilt milk from the refrigerator floor. He was arranging the fruit in the front window, half-watching Lonny, the sixty-year-old delivery boy, park his bicycle, when he first saw James. The round face, swollen and grim, was framed between hand-printed window signs advertising the week’s special sales.

  “Hey,” Alfred called, starting toward the door. He stopped at the cold, hard look in James’ eyes. James turned and swaggered away. Like Major.

  At quarter to three, Lou Epstein banged open the lower cash drawer and counted the big bills into a brown envelope. Alfred went to the back to wash his hands while Lou filled out the deposit slip. When he came out, Jake was stuffing the envelope into a pocket. Sure, thought Alfred, now I understand about no point tempting fate. They don’t even trust me to go to the bank anymore.

  There was little to do in the late afternoon. Alfred swept and reswept the dark wooden floor just to keep moving, his head down, avoiding the Epsteins’ sad, distrustful looks. He kept remembering how good he had felt in the park, jogging over the gravel, the wind in his face, his muscles heating up. Hold it right there, said the cop. He kept seeing James’ face on the wooden floor, cold eyes in a swollen face.

  He swept his way into the back room, jamming the straw broom into nooks and crannies he had already swept clean. The tiny wires of the new burglar alarm snaked along the molding of the back door, and for an instant he thought of sweeping them loose, one good, hard swipe should do it. Come back at night, get in the back…Wait until next Friday when there would be a lot of money in the register….Come back with James, then he’d know I didn’t purposely let him walk into a trap. He swept his way out among the shelves. Can’t do it. Maybe never be able to do anything but sweep up this crummy store.

  Nothing’s promised you, that’s what Mr. Donatelli said. Why’d I have to go up there, listen to all that foolishness, get excited about it like a little kid? Glad nobody but those cops saw me running this morning, that was foolishness, too. Hold it right there, said the cop. Slave, said Major. Good boy, said Lou.

  Alfred felt in his pocket. Enough for a nice dark movie, he thought, sit and watch it forever.

  “Hey, Alfred.”

  He looked up, startled. “Henry.”

  “What time you comin’ by?”

  “Where?” He stared at the ever-grinning face peering in through the door.

  “The gym.”

  “Gym?”

  “Yeah. Mr. Donatelli said you was up Saturday night. He asked me about you.”

  “What you tell him—”

  “Gotta run. See you later.”

  “Henry.” But he was gone.

  6

  HE BOUNCED UP the steps two at a time, friendly old steps, trying not to grin like a fool because Mr. Donatelli would give him that blue-eyed once-over and you better look tough and all-business on day number one. He hit the door and stepped in, and his jaw dropped. The gym looked like Reverend Price’s Hell.

  Half-naked bodies were jumping and twisting and jerking around, bells rang, the peanut bag went rackety-rackety-rackety, ropes swish-slapped agains
t the squeaking floorboards, someone screamed, “TIME,” gasping voices, “Uh…uh…uh-uh,” and an enormous black belly rushed past, spraying sweat like a lawn sprinkler. Alfred shrank back against the door.

  Slowly he picked out objects he had seen before. The heavy bag was swinging wildly on its chain as the boy with the enormous belly battered it with fists as big as cantaloupes. The peanut bag was rattling against the round board as a skinny white boy with hunched shoulders beat it into a brown blur. Near the medical scale, two Puerto Ricans were jabbing at their reflections in full-length mirrors. They were quick as cats. Other boys were jumping rope, jerking up and down like mechanical jacks-in-the-box, or straining on leather floor mats until their neck cords popped, or slamming medicine balls into each other’s stomachs. In the ring, their heads encased by black leather guards, two fighters danced around each other, ducking, bobbing, bouncing on and off the quivering ropes. A stick-thin old black man with white hair was yelling at them, “Faster, faster, pick it up.”

  The room began to shrink, and the noise pounded against Alfred’s head. He looked around for Mr. Donatelli or Henry, but neither was in the room. He saw an old sign on the wall.

  * * *

  Amateurs—$2 weekly

  Professionals—$5 weekly

  PAYABLE IN ADVANCE

  * * *

  He felt for his wallet. There would be at least two dollars in it, but there was no one around to take his money or tell him what to do. No one was even looking at him. Leave now, he thought, come back some other time, when it’s less crowded, when Henry’s around. But something told him if he left now he would never come back. He waited, watching the thin man unstrap the fighters’ headguards and shake a black pencil of a finger in their faces. He watched the enormous belly move lightly across the room toward the peanut bag, and take over when the skinny white boy dropped his arms and shuffled away. The Puerto Ricans climbed into the ring, and the rope jumpers began shadowboxing. Everyone seemed to know what to do. Some other time, he thought, edging backwards out the door, turning so quickly that he never saw the chubby little man until his elbow banged into a soft chest.

  “Uhh.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I—”

  The little man held up a small hand. “That’s an illegal punch.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “If the referee saw that you’d lose the round. Automatically.” He was smiling, his reddish cheeks puffed out like a squirrel’s.

  “I wasn’t looking.”

  “No harm done. Your first day?”

  “Yes, Mr. Donatelli said—”

  “He’s not here today, one of his boys has a fight at the Garden tonight.”

  “I’ll come back some other—”

  “Today’s better than tomorrow. What’s your name?”

  “Alfred Brooks.”

  “I’m Dr. Corey.”

  “The dentist downstairs?”

  “Aha. Alertness.” The little red face moved closer, and tiny gray eyes blinked behind thick spectacles. “For that I will offer you a pearl of wisdom. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” said Alfred, feeling his jaw relax.

  “The stomach is more important than the chin. Hit the chin and you may break your hand. Kill the belly and the head will die. Do you read me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The dentist shrugged. “I am too far ahead of my time. Start with sit-ups, Alfred. Make your stomach like a rock.” Huffing slightly, he walked over to the ring. The thin man smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

  Alfred walked over to the floor mats. Two boys, in gym clothes and boxing shoes, were balancing themselves on their shoulders, kicking their legs up in the air. One was the skinny white boy, the other was well-built with light skin and reddish hair. Alfred waited until they finished the exercise before he lowered himself to a corner of a mat.

  “You gon’ work out in street clothes?” asked the redhead.

  “All I got,” said Alfred.

  “Let any trash in nowadays,” he grumbled, rolling over and starting push-ups.

  Alfred stretched out on his back, putting his hands under his head and pointing his toes. He jerked up fast, went back down, and jerked up fast again. In high school gym class he had always been good at sit-ups.

  “What you call them?” asked the redhead.

  “Sit-ups.”

  “Haw. You hear that, Denny? He calls them sit-ups.” The redhead laughed and poked the white boy.

  “So show him how to do it, Red,” said Denny, looking annoyed.

  “Don’t waste my time with trash,” said Red, getting up and walking away.

  “Let me show you,” said Denny, rolling over on his back. The scrawny body came up very slowly, quivering with the strain, folding over until the face and the knees were almost touching. Then Denny went back down again, even more slowly.

  “Thanks,” said Alfred.

  “You bet,” said Denny.

  Alfred tried it, coming up slowly, inch by inch, fighting to keep his legs straight and his heels on the mat as his shoulders began to quiver and the muscles in his stomach tightened painfully. Up and then over, toward his knees, feeling the long muscles in his thighs pull and his back muscles tear, until the blood flooded his head and he couldn’t go any further. Then slowly back down again, his body shuddering, till slowly, gently, he lowered the back of his head to the mat. He took a deep breath, and the pain faded away.

  “That right?” he asked, but Denny was already on the other side of the room, skipping rope.

  The second sit-up was harder than the first, and the third was harder still. But by the fourth his muscles began to get warm, like a car engine heating up on a cold morning, and they stopped struggling against each other. He did twenty sit-ups before he fell back exhausted. Not bad, he thought, been such a long time. He sat up and looked around. Dr. Corey and the thin man were talking at ringside. Boxers were grunting away all over the gym. No Henry.

  He turned over and started on push-ups, slowly, concentrating on keeping his body straight. After thirty-four push-ups his arms felt rubbery.

  “Hey, Alfred, been here long?” Henry dragged up, a box under his arm. “Had to go downtown, pick up something for Bud.”

  “Who’s Bud?”

  “Bud Martin, Mr. Donatelli’s assistant,” said Henry, pointing at the thin man. “See you later.”

  “Hey, Henry.”

  “Yeah?” Henry turned impatiently.

  Alfred tried to think of something to say, anything to keep Henry from leaving. His eyes fell on the sign. “Do I have to pay my two dollars now?”

  “No. When you can spare it easy. If you can’t pay, Mr. Donatelli won’t throw you out.”

  “Henry,” called Bud Martin.

  “Right there.”

  Alfred did a few more sit-ups, but the sweat running under his street clothes began to itch. Some of the boxers were weighing themselves, and joking, and drifting off into the shower room behind the rusty lockers. The gym was quieting down. The peanut bag was silent. Dr. Corey passed him on the way out, but didn’t look down. Henry was over in a corner, helping Bud Martin pack a black satchel. Alfred was alone again. He felt another urge to leave, but he forced himself to stroll over toward Henry and Bud, his hands in his pockets, casual, so no one could tell he felt out of place.

  Up close, Alfred could see Bud Martin’s ribs pushing through his tattered T-shirt. But the bony hands were sure and quick as the old man stuffed small jars and rolls of tape into the valise.

  “Hey, Bud,” shouted Red, shouldering past Alfred.

  Bud didn’t look up. “Need some more cotton tips, Henry.”

  “Sure.” Henry disappeared back into the dressing room.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, Bud,” said Red.

  “Talk,” snapped Bud.

  “I need my hands taped.”

  “You learn to do it yourself.”

  “Willie Streeter don’t have to do it himself.”

  Bu
d looked up, his black eyes hard in the skull face. Muscles all over his face twitched underneath the drum-tight skin when he talked. “But Willie knows how, and there’s a difference right there.”

  Red mumbled something and walked away, again brushing Alfred.

  “Some people,” said Bud, “think this is a nursery school. Henry?”

  “I got the cotton tips,” said Henry, putting a cellophane package in Bud’s hand.

  “Better bring me another jar of Vaseline.”

  “Right.”

  “Always use a lot of Vaseline on Willie’s face,” said Bud, talking mostly into the black satchel. “He’s got dry skin that cuts so easy. Sometimes even the grease don’t help.”

  “What happens if he gets cut?” asked Alfred.

  Bud reached into the satchel and pulled out a small jar of yellowish paste. “Stops the bleeding, keeps the cut clean.”

  “What is it?”

  “Clarence Martin’s Magical Potion. Patent Pending.”

  “What’s in it?”

  Bud winked. “I got doctors call me from California ask what’s in it.”

  “Do you tell them?”

  “You crazy, boy? Only Donatelli and me knows what’s in it, and even he don’t know exactly how much of each special ingredient I use.”

  “Like a trade secret?”

  “Exactly.” Bud grinned, showing pink, toothless gums. “I invented it forty-one years ago. Had this lightweight, skin so thin would start bleeding if his mother kissed him. Lightning Lou Epp, real good little—”

  “I need a headguard,” said Red.

  “I’ll get it,” said Henry, limping up with the Vaseline jar.

  “Stay where you’re at, Henry,” said Bud. “Now, what you need a headguard for?”

  “Gon’ spar.”

  “You know the rules, boy. No sparring unless the boss or me is watching. He’s not here, and I ain’t got time.”

  “Don’t be an old woman,” said Red.

  “If you don’t know the rules maybe you don’t belong here.”

  “I pay my dues. I belong here more than a lot of people.”

  “Rules the same for everybody,” said Bud.