A Book of American Martyrs(169)

She recalled how Luke had laughed at her. Dawn Dunphy, thinking she could box.

She had to smile. It was—well, it was weird. Anybody would laugh at her. She would laugh at herself if she hadn’t been herself. But Jesus had faith in her, she was sure. As Jesus had had faith in her rising against the high school boys who had hoped to shame her but had only shamed themselves.

The hammer of Jesus she’d wielded in her hand! When she’d finished with her enemies the hammerhead had been slick with their blood.


“ONE-SIXTY-ONE.”

He’d weighed her, like a steer. By the expression in his face she saw that he was not happy.

“What’m I s’posed to be?”—her question was piteous.

“One-forty-seven. Welterweight.”

Welterweight! It was the first he’d named what she would be.

Her heart flooded with what felt like warm blood. Her eyes flooded with tears. She could not bring herself to look at him, at his face, for fear of betraying what was in her heart.

“Yah. OK. I c’n do that. I guess.”

She was a heavy girl. “Stout”—her aunt Mary Kay said of her, and of herself.

Much of it was muscle. But not all.

Had to stop eating any kind of junk food in her hand, food out of Styrofoam boxes, sugary sodas, fries. Her weakness was French fries so greasy-salty her fingers stung as she ate ravenously. The appeal of those fries in the strip mall Wendy’s you could douse as much catsup on them you wanted, nobody to stop you or even notice.

The sharp taste of catsup, mustard, diced onions she liked. A lot.

Also she loved doughnuts. Dipped in fat, fat-saturated. Plain doughnuts, white-powder sugar doughnuts, cinnamon doughnuts, cream doughnuts, doughnuts sprinkled with gritty brown sugar—D.D.’s mouth filled with saliva at just the thought.

At Target in the food department with your employee discount you could buy doughnuts marked down for quick sale, that were no longer fresh or were broken into pieces . . .

He was talking to her about diet. He’d given her a printout listing foods to eat and foods to avoid. She would try but she could not afford most of the foods to eat (fresh greens, lean meats) as he might’ve known.

But already she was beginning to lose weight even as she was adding muscle, and feeling better, stronger even as she was (often) feeling allover aches and pain and numbness and a ringing in her head like church bells at a distance. And her heart filled with jubilation of all that was to come.

Welterweight was one-four-seven or under. That was the ideal weight for D.D. Dunphy at five feet eight inches in gym shoes.

Her dream was within the year having her first fight and soon then—(she was vague about how this would come about: her trainer would know)—making enough money to quit Target or work part-time. If things went well—(if she won her fights)—she would be matched with contenders Angel Diaz, Pryde Elka (“The Squaw”), Yolinda Crowe. If she won these fights she would be matched with the WBA women’s welterweight champion Ilse Kinder if Ilse Kinder was still the champion.

In Mad River Junction they’d see her. On the TV. Maybe not Edna Mae who never watched TV but her great-aunt Mary Kay, her brother Luke, Anita, Noah, neighbors, kids from school, and teachers.

Miss Schine would see her! Miss Schine would be happy for her.

And in Muskegee Falls, they’d see her. People who’d known them in that place where her father Luther Amos Dunphy had lived and worked and where in the courthouse he’d been found guilty and sentenced to death.

She would speak quietly. She would give thanks to Jesus in a voice of pride. She would reveal to the interviewer that her career as a boxer was in memory of her father Luther Amos Dunphy.

“And I want to thank my teacher Miss Schine . . . She had faith in me, too.”


SHE WOULD OVERHEAR him. His voice.

She didn’t eavesdrop. She did not ever eavesdrop.

She had not eavesdropped as a girl though knowing (guessing) that her parents were speaking of her little sister Daphne in their lowered worried voices. For it was being said (by certain of the relatives) that the little girl was not right in the head.

Badly she wished to hear. But she did not hear.

For she was worried about Daphne too. She and Luke would exchange a look, when Daphne could not seem to stand without being held upright but tumbled onto the floor as if her spine had broken.

Dropped objects onto the floor as if her fingers would not function.

And there were other times, she’d wanted to hear what adults were saying. When her father’s brothers came to the house to speak of what Luther has done. And what must be done now.

So too in the Dayton gym, she wanted to overhear what Ernie Beecher might be saying. The hope was so keen it was a dread that he might be speaking of her.

For Ernie was on the phone often. It was a mobile phone, he carried it with him out of his office. He spoke, and he listened, frowning at the floor. Sometimes his mouth twitched and he was laughing. Sometimes he scarcely spoke at all. The mystery of another’s life, inaccessible to her, yet riveting to her, filled her with an anxious sort of wonder.

She liked to hear him giving boxing instructions. There was a comfort in the familiar words spoken in a familiar voice, in familiar rhythms. She did not feel jealousy—much.

Put your weight into it. Lean in.

OK. Again.

Not bad. But not great.