The Contender (7 page)

“I can’t.”

“Well, you know you’re always welcome.”

“Thanks.”

He went into the front room and stretched out on the couch. That’s all I got to do, go listen to Jeff count up all his opportunities for advancement. Take a break. Hollis said that, too. Yeah, I’ll take a break. About this time Old Uncle Alfred would be beating at the air in front of a mirror or skipping rope. Like a fool. Good thing nobody ever looked at me much up in that gym or they’d fall over laughing.

He turned on the television and watched it until he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Then he slept.

Tuesday dragged along, too.

“That must of been some weekend,” said Ben, winking.

“Sure.”

Late in the afternoon, while he was sweeping the storeroom, he saw Henry limp in through the front door. Alfred quietly slipped out the back door and waited until Henry left. Why can’t people just leave you alone, he thought.

He didn’t feel like going back to the empty apartment after work. He walked. He passed the clubroom and quickened his stride. If I just could have talked James into going to a movie that Friday night. If I just could have thought of something to say at the party when he was looking at me with the junk in his hand. Some partner I am.

He found a triple feature up on 125th Street, and went in. He had seen all the pictures on television already. So what. See them again, see them a thousand times, the new ones are the same as the old ones anyway.

He came out into the night. There weren’t too many people on the street. Tomorrow is Wednesday, a working day. Get up, go to work, go home and sleep so you can work some more and pay for your fun on the weekend. And then it’s Monday again. Days move so slow. The
stores along the avenue were already advertising back-to-school clothes. The summer went so fast. Where’d the summer go? In the park, up in the gym. He walked faster. What makes you think you won’t quit this, too, Mr. Donatelli said. Smart meat.

He looked up. A dim light flickered through the dirty plate-glass window. How’d I get here? Habit, he thought. He started to walk past the sagging door. Maybe go up for a minute. Might as well clean out the locker.

He took the old steps one at a time, twice stopping to catch his breath. Last time I have to go up these crummy steps. Donatelli was sitting on a folding chair, tipped back, staring out the window. He didn’t turn around.

Slowly Alfred stuffed his sweatshirts, trunks, supporters, socks, his secondhand boxing shoes into a paper shopping bag. Maybe I can sell them back to Bud Martin for some new kid who would really use them. He felt tears in his eyes. He looked at the square head, silhouetted against the flickering neon lights. Turn around, turn around. If you don’t look now, you never going to see me again. He slammed the locker shut. The clang echoed
through the room. The head didn’t turn.

At the door, Alfred said, “Good-bye, Mr. Donatelli.”

The head barely moved. “Good-bye. Good luck to you.”

“Well…So long. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize to me for.”

“Mr. Donatelli?”

“Yes.”

“If…if I had kept going, would I ever have got any good?”

“Who knows?”

“If…if I had wanted to, would I have…you know, been a contender?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Then who?” said Alfred.

“Yourself. Anyone can be taught how to fight. A contender, that you have to do yourself.”

“If I wasn’t giving it up, would I ever have got a chance to spar?”

“Probably.”

“To have a real fight someday?”

“Perhaps.”

“Would you know then?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Only maybe?” The head didn’t move. “When would you know?”

“When you got hurt in the ring for the first time, really hurt. Then I would know.”

“Would you…” He let the shopping bag drop. “Will you tell me then? When you know?”

“I won’t have to, Alfred. You’ll know, too.”

L
EFT
…
LEFT
…
SNAP
it out…drive in…mix it up…don’t let ’im get away, Alfred…press…

Angel kept slipping Alfred’s jab. He cocked his head at the last possible instant and grinned as Alfred’s gloved fist shot harmlessly over his shoulder. And each time Alfred missed, Angel belted him in the stomach. There was no pain, only anger that drove his teeth deeper into the mouthpiece. The air exploded out of his nostrils and sweat ran into his eyes. He closed his eyes and swung wildly, and Angel, laughing, belted the side of his headguard.

“Time,” called Henry.

“You’re not workin’ your combinations,” said Bud, pulling out the mouthpiece. “You been throwin’ one punch at a time and that’s no good.”

“But, I—”

“Time,” called Henry, and Bud shoved the
mouthpiece back in.

Jab-jab-hook…jab-hook-right…jab…hook to the body…cross to the chin…body…head…jab…jab…jab…

August, gasping for breath, melted into September. It was cooler in the park at dawn now. But it was hot in the gym, always hot in the gym, the leather headguard squeezing his temples, the metal protective cup pinching his thighs. The 16-ounce sparring gloves felt like lead pillows. Angel slipped the jab, and Denny slipped the jab, while Henry screamed and Bud yelled, and sometimes Donatelli watched and sometimes he didn’t.

When Alfred remembered his dreams the next morning, they were always the same: A fly was sitting on the tip of his nose, and every time he reached to brush it away he saw he had no hands.

“Ten seconds left,” called Henry.

Angel’s face, framed in the headguard, bobbed up, mocking him. Last chance for today, thought Alfred. Now. He snapped out a left jab, straight at the moving head, just as he had for weeks. And Angel, as he had for weeks, cocked his head and let it shoot by, never both
ering to watch Alfred’s shuffling feet. Angel didn’t see the right until it was almost too late. When he jerked his head away from the right, a left hook slammed into his face.

Angel’s head snapped backwards, his face twisted with surprise. His gloves automatically flew up to his face. Alfred dropped his right shoulder, took a quick step forward on his right foot, and slammed a short right uppercut into Angel’s belly.

Alfred plunged forward, the months of shadowboxing taking over now, left…left…right to the face…hook…and Angel was reeling against the ropes, a drop of blood oozing from his nose.

“Time,” called Bud. Jelly clapped. Pete leaned over the ropes and slapped his shoulder.

“You’re thinking,” said Donatelli. “Not bad.”

Not bad, thought Alfred, spitting the mouthpiece into Henry’s hand. That’s like a medal from anyone else.

Jose began unlacing Angel’s gloves. “Alfred really catch you one, ay?”

“I do it so he feel good,” said Angel.

“Nex’ time he feel so good he knock you out,” said Jose, winking at Alfred. Angel began
chattering in machine-gun Spanish.

“You did real good,” said Henry, unlacing Alfred’s gloves. “That was the best hook you ever threw.”

“I’m not sure I know what I did right.”

“You been taking a little step before you threw the hook, made you off balance. This time, you pivoted. Like this.” Henry threw a slow hook, and pivoted on his left leg. The crippled leg.

“Yeah,” said Alfred, practicing it. “Yeah. How’d you know?” He tried to keep his eyes from staring down at Henry’s leg.

“I’m learning, too, man,” said Henry. Then he noticed Alfred’s stare, and limped heavily away.

Stick and move…in and out…jab-jab-right…jab-jab-hook…jab-hook-right…mix ’em up…press…press…

Denny’s hands were quick, but his footwork was slow. Stand and fight with him, he’ll spin your head around. Stick and move, he doesn’t have a chance. Sorry, Denny, thought Alfred, my head’s not a punching bag for you.

“Time,” called Bud.

“You have nice moves, Alfred, very nice moves.”

“Mr. Epstein!”

Old Lou smiled. “I have to hear from the neighborhood how good you’re getting? So I came up to see.”

“Hey, Lightning,” said Bud, raising his fists. “You ain’t been up for years.”

“Don’t talk about years. How’s my boy doing?”

“Gettin’ there, he’s gettin’ there. You look good, Lou, ready to go ten.”

“Ten steps, maybe.”

“Sure.” Bud clapped him on the shoulders. “Saw Kid Ryan last week, he was askin’ for you.”

“A rematch I won’t give him, even after forty years. A tough one, remember that night…”

When Alfred came out of the shower, Bud and Lou were throwing slow, creaky punches in the air, and laughing. He was dressed and half out the door when Lou called, “Wait just a minute, Alfred.”

Lou took a little black purse from his pocket, counted out some bills, and pressed them into Bud’s hand. “Don’t tell Ryan where it comes from, pride he always had.”

“Thanks,” said Bud. “Take it easy, Lou.”

“How else can I take it?” He put a hand on
Alfred’s shoulder, bracing himself as they walked slowly down the steps.

On the street, Lou said, “You didn’t take my advice.”

“Well, Mr. Epstein, I—”

“You should have your own mind, do what you want. Ben tells me it takes you half the time to sort the new stock Monday mornings. How come you suddenly have more energy now?”

“Well, I—”

“Let me figure it out, I have to keep my mind active. You know how to work the register?”

“No. But I could learn.”

“Sure you could learn. Maybe come in a little early tomorrow, before we get busy. I’ll show you some things.”

“Thanks, Mr. Epstein, I’ll—”

“Don’t thank me, Alfred. I’m not giving you anything you won’t have to work for.”

Stick and move…double-jab…double-hook…cross with the right…hook over the jab…slip and stick…break clean…move ’im, Alfred.

Jose was not as fast as Angel or Denny, but he hit harder. Twice, he fired straight rights
through Alfred’s guard, stinging, rib-bruising rights that took Alfred’s breath away. It wasn’t until the third sparring round that Alfred timed the rhythm of Jose’s attack, and dropped his left arm, catching the right on his elbow. Jose’s face was unprotected and Alfred pumped a fast right into his mouth. He pivoted on his left foot, and threw the hook in a smooth, short arc. Jose dropped like a sack of potatoes. He was back on his feet immediately, but Donatelli jumped into the ring and grabbed Alfred’s gloves.

“Better go downstairs,” he said softly. “It’s time you were fitted for that custom-made mouthpiece.”

A
T
5:30
A
.
M
.
HIS
eyelids snapped open. It was gray and chill beyond the kitchen window. For a moment he wished it was just another day, get up, out to the park, suck in the cool October air, and listen to his sneakers crackling over the fallen yellow leaves. He tried to close his eyes. He rolled over on his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. A bird somewhere, lonely and lost, called for its friends. He turned over on his back. The green plaster over the kitchen sink had finally cracked loose, leaving a powdery-white hole as big as a fist. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it in four months.

After a while the apartment began to stir—first Aunt Pearl, turning heavily in bed for the last few minutes of sleep, then the girls, drowsily untangling their arms and legs. An automobile horn blared downstairs. Garbage can covers clanged. A policeman, bored and
tired, dragged his nightstick along the bars of an iron fence. A skinny shaft of sunlight came through the window.

“You sick, Alfred?”

“Feel fine, Aunt Pearl.”

“Ain’t you gonna run this morning?”

“Not this morning.”

“Oh?”

She washed and dressed and woke up the girls. They began wandering between the front room and the bathroom, their eyes half-shut, bumping into each other. Such nice little girls, he thought, warmth spreading through his stomach. See that they get some real cute dresses one of these days.

“You gonna stay in bed all day?”

“For a while.”

“You be late for work.”

“I’m off today.”

“How come?”

“Just like that.”

“You ready for breakfast?”

“Just some tea.”

“I suppose you want your tea in bed.”

“No, I’ll get up for it.”

“What’s going on, Alfred?”

“Nothing.”

She let two pots clatter to the floor. Alfred’s head jerked up. “Just wanna be sure you’re alive,” she said.

He put his hands under his head and watched them eat breakfast, smiling as the girls kept peeking at him over their cereal bowls.

“Is Alfred sick?” asked Charlene.

“Alfred has retired,” said Aunt Pearl.

“Is Alfred gonna stay in bed all the time?” asked Sandra.

“Why don’t you ask Alfred?”

“Today,” he said, slowly, “Alfred Brooks is resting himself for his big opportunity for advancement.”

“What he say?” asked Paula.

“He don’t know himself,” said Aunt Pearl. She dropped a tea bag into a cup and poured hot water over it. She placed the cup on the table.

“You been doing so good at the store. They didn’t fire you?”

“They did not.”

“You didn’t hurt yourself with all them exercises?”

“I did not.”

She shrugged. “Guess you just a lazy boy.”

“Don’t you have any more questions?”

She pressed her lips together to stop a smile. “Us busy people don’t have time for quiz shows in the morning.”

They cleared the table and put on their coats. Aunt Pearl leaned over the bed. “You got a secret?”

“I do.”

“Okay.” She smiled down at him. “I hope it’s something good. Tell me later?”

“Tonight.”

“Fine.” She touched his forehead. “Don’t let your tea get cold.”

He got out of bed very slowly, stretched, and took the tea cup into the front room. He turned on the television set, and sprawled out on the couch. He watched two cartoon programs and part of an old gangster movie. He was still sipping at the tea, watching an exercise program for women, when Henry knocked on the door.

“You ain’t even dressed yet.”

“It’s only ten o’clock. We don’t have to meet Mr. Donatelli till twelve.”

“Yeah, I know. But still.”

“C’mon, Henry, I’ll make you some tea. Relax you.”

He did not begin to feel it himself until they were on the street. His stomach tightened. His lips moved mechanically to smile back at people he knew. They stopped in front of Epsteins’ and waved at Lou through the plate-glass window. The old man left the register and came out.

“You feel good?”

“Fine.”

“You look good. Get a good night’s sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I don’t want you should stand around on the street. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Why not?” said Lou, squeezing Alfred’s biceps.

Donatelli was waiting for them at the gym. The room, empty of fighters, seemed huge.

“You have your card?”

“Right here.” Alfred opened his wallet and pulled out the amateur card with a postage-stamp photograph.

“Let Henry hold it.”

They followed Donatelli downstairs, stopping at the second-floor dentist’s office.

“I have a patient now, you better eat without me, Vito,” said Dr. Corey. He handed Henry a small box. “I made Alfred a second mouthpiece in case he swallows the first.”

“That’s not funny, Arthur,” said Donatelli.

“So I’m not a comedian.” He winked at Alfred. “Don’t let these two make you nervous.”

Donatelli led them to a small luncheonette around the corner. He ordered sandwiches for himself and Henry, two soft-boiled eggs, toast, and tea with honey for Alfred. The counterman brought the food to their booth.

“You’re gettin’ to be a stranger, Vito. How’s the Streeter kid?”

“I don’t handle him anymore.”

“Too bad. Got any good ones?”

“They’re all good ones.”

“Yeah, sure.” The counterman laughed.

They picked at their food. “Do you feel butterflies in your stomach?” asked Donatelli.

“No. Like a cold spot.”

“That’s good. Means you’re on edge. The tea will help settle your stomach.”

“Henry better have some tea, he’s got the butterflies.”

The thin lips parted. “That’s even better.”

On the street again, Donatelli hailed a taxi. He gave Henry a key and three dollar bills. “I’ll be up in a few hours. Just make sure Alfred rests.” He said something to the driver, and the cab lurched into the uptown traffic.

“Where we going?”

“Spoon’s place,” said Henry. “Be nice and quiet there.”

Alfred relaxed into the back seat. “This is all right. What happens when you turn pro? You get a Cadillac and a chauffeur?”

Henry shook his head. “When Jelly had his first fight, he came back from the weigh-in by subway.”

“Hm. Is Jelly gonna fight again soon?”

“I don’t know. Just between you and me, Mr. Donatelli ain’t so high on him anymore.”

“But he knocked the guy out in one round.”

“Yeah, but Mr. Donatelli says anybody can’t control himself with food can’t go all the way. He said that to Jelly’s face.”

“What Jelly say?”

“He just made a joke, you know Jelly. And then he went out and had a whole chicken. Said he wanted to get an appetite for dinner.”

Alfred looked out the cab window. A breeze
had sprung up, whipping flecks of white on the Hudson River. The cold spot grew.

“Where’s Spoon live?”

“Washington Heights.”

“That in Manhattan?”

“Yeah.”

Across the river, on a hill, the Ferris wheel of an amusement park stood motionless against a hazy gray sky.

“Henry?”

“Yeah?”

“You know this is the first time I ever rode in a cab.”

“When I was a kid, I rode in a lot of cabs.”

“How come?”

“My mother used to take me to the clinic in a cab.”

“Oh.”

“For my leg. I had polio,” said Henry.

“Yeah, I know. I been watching you lately, you don’t drag your leg so bad anymore.”

For the first time Alfred could remember, the grin completely disappeared from Henry’s face. He turned away. “Sometimes it gets a little better. Just temporary.”

The cab stopped in front of a six-story brick
apartment building on a quiet, tree-lined street. Henry paid the driver and limped heavily to the lobby elevator.

There were more books in Spoon’s living room than Alfred had ever seen in a home. The walls were covered with book shelves up to the ceiling. Magazines and records were neatly stacked around the room.

“You think he’s read all these books?”

“I don’t know,” mumbled Henry, lowering himself into a soft chair.

“How you feel, man?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. All I got to do is fight tonight. You, the assistant trainer, got to do all the worrying, right?”

Henry brightened a little. “Spoon says he’d never get to read all these books if he lived to be a hundred, but when him and his wife have an argument all they got to do is look it up and see who’s right.”

“What do they argue about?”

“I was here one time before and she said the first American to get to the North Pole was black, and he said, No, the black guy and the white guy stepped on it the same time.”

“I never even heard about that in school. Who was right?”

“I don’t know. They were still looking it up when I had to go.”

Alfred laughed. “Some argument. One time I was over this guy’s house and his folks got to arguing about cigarettes, and first thing you know they were throwing bottles.”

“Bottles?”

“Yeah. Whiskey bottles. They didn’t hit each other, but they hit this guy and he had to get nine stitches in his head.”

“Was that James?” said Henry.

“How’d you know?”

“I heard it around. You see him anymore?”

“No. I tried to call him a few times but his folks don’t know where he’s at,” said Alfred.

“You were real tight.”

“Yeah. He used to be my best friend.”

“What happened?”

“You know how it is. Get older.”

“What do you mean, Alfred?”

“Forget it. You ever go down the clubroom?”

“Don’t you know what happened? Thought you did. They were having a party down there,
couple of weeks ago, making a lot of noise and somebody called the cops. They busted in there and found marijuana and heroin—”

“Was James there?”

“Yeah. Everybody beat it except Sonny, he’s so dumb. And some kid named Justin. They got arrested. My father kicked them out. It’s just an extra storeroom now.”

“Where they all hang out now?”

“They scattered.”

Alfred pretended to study the books. Many of them were worn around the edges, as if they had been handled often.

“What you thinking about?” asked Henry.

“Huh? Nothing much. Let’s see what’s on TV.”

Henry got up. “I’ll turn it on. You gotta rest.” He snapped it on. A woman was giving a lesson in French. “You want to watch this?”

“Why not? I might have to fight a Frenchman someday.”

“You don’t have to talk to him, just hit him.”

“Yeah.” Alfred pointed a finger at Henry. “You better watch it. You might have to talk to his trainer or something.”

Spoon came in a little after three-thirty, a briefcase under his arm. “I always found the worst part of fighting was those long afternoons, just waiting and killing time.”

“You must of read a lot of books then,” said Alfred.

Spoon shook his head. “Wish I had. No, I used to play solitaire. There was one fighter in those days, a pretty good light-heavyweight named Junior Ellis, who used to sing along with country and western records before a bout. He said it got his fighting juices worked up.”

“What happened to him?”

“He had a fight with a top contender, an Italian kid, and lost. The next day, in the papers, the contender said he won because he sang along with opera.”

They were still chuckling when a plump, sweet-faced young woman came in. She was carrying a briefcase, too. Spoon got up and kissed her.

“This is my wife, Betty. You remember Henry Johnson, and this is Alfred Brooks.”

“I’m glad you came up.” She shook their hands. “You men sit still. I just have to put Alfred’s steak on, and I’ll be right out.” She
went into the kitchen.

“This is a nice place,” said Alfred. “Thanks for letting us use it.”

“We like it here. Betty can walk to school, and I drive to mine in about twenty minutes.”

“Did you get your permanent license?” asked Alfred.

“You remembered. Yes, I did. I’m taking some courses at night for my master’s degree now.”

“You teach school and go to school?” asked Alfred.

“The more you learn the more you want to know. You ought to think about night school for yourself,” said Spoon.

“I didn’t graduate from high school,” said Alfred.

“You can go to high school at night.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. When you’re ready, give us a call. Either Betty or I could find out the night school nearest your home. Or you can do it yourself.”

Soon, Betty came out in an apron. “It’s ready.”

The table was set for one. A large steak
sizzled on a plate. There was a bowl of salad, two slices of toast, and tea with honey.

“Go ahead, sit down, Alfred. It’s for you.”

“What about everybody else?”

“We’ll eat later,” said Spoon, “while you’re taking your nap. If you eat a big meal too close to a fight there isn’t time for proper digestion. Makes you sluggish and slow, and one good punch to the belly and—”

“Billy!” said his wife.

“She’s not the world’s greatest fight fan,” said Spoon.

The steak was thick and rare. He felt funny eating alone, and offered Henry a piece. But Henry just shook his head, and watched him eat, and once told him to chew more carefully. The Witherspoons chattered about school, and about some boy in Betty’s class who suddenly quit doing his homework. When Betty called his mother into school, she found out there was trouble at home. Alfred was surprised that a teacher could care so much about some kid not doing his homework.

“You certainly took care of that piece of meat,” said Spoon.

“Are you still hungry, Alfred?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Witherspoon. That was real fine. Thanks a lot.”

Spoon stood up. “We’ll take a little walk now, give your body a chance to work on that food.”

Alfred, Henry, and Spoon strolled around the neighborhood. Men and women were coming home from work in the early twilight. Most of the men were wearing suits and ties.

“A lot of white people live up here,” said Alfred.

“This is a fairly well-integrated neighborhood,” said Spoon.