A Book of American Martyrs(178)

D.D. blushed to hear these words. She knew what a Mohawk was—a haircut that some guys wore.

“Well, maybe not fun. Because you are a serious athlete—of course. But some connection with, like, Indians—your manager Cassidy can say you have ‘Indian blood’—like Lorina Starr except that poor bitch really is from some damn Indian tribe that gets special tax breaks.” Mickey laughed scornfully. “Lot of good it did her!”

D.D. wondered why Mickey was so derisive speaking of Lorina Starr. Hadn’t it been enough for the woman to have been knocked out in the ring by a first-time boxer, and to have lost the fight? D.D. had begun to see how in boxing there was ridicule and a kind of fury associated with losers as if putting distance between yourself and them was a way of protecting yourself from them.

“Did you ever box her?”—D.D. asked impulsively.

“Fuck her. Never mind her.”

Mickey seemed annoyed. Probably yes, she’d fought Lorina Starr, and probably she had lost. D.D. wasn’t going to pursue the subject.

“It’s you we’re talking about, girl. ‘The Hammer of Jesus’—that calls for something special.”

D.D. was mesmerized by this new friend whom she scarcely knew speaking so matter-of-factly and familiarly about her. Since she’d been Dawn Dunphy living at home she’d never considered that she was a person about whom others might have opinions, let alone strong opinions. Streaks in her hair? Mohawk?

Only the most asshole guys she knew, working at the mall at Safeway, Walmart, Walgreen’s, Target, wore their hair in Mohawks and these were short, abbreviated Mohawks you could almost mistake for just ordinary spike-haircuts.

“Let me take you to the beauty salon where my cousin works, and see what they can do for you. Maybe not a Mohawk but something sharp and cool. Ernie says you win your next fight you’ll be on TV probably. You know Ernie never exaggerates. Some color-streaks in your hair will be terrific. Plus tats.”

“‘Tats’?”

“Tattoos. You need some great tattoos, to go with your great body.”

D.D. laughed, shaking her head. She would never consent to a tattoo. It would be the final break between her and Edna Mae and all of Edna Mae’s church-friends, if she did. There was nothing more savage and heathen than tattoos, her parents had believed.

“I don’t think so, Mickey. That would not be good.”

“Why’n hell not?”

“Because—it’s like a heathen thing. It isn’t Christian.”

“Christ spoke against tats? Like hell He did.”

D.D. laughed, shocked. She could not recall that Jesus had ever spoken of tattooing the body but it was not like Jesus to restrain or scold.

“I just think—my church—my kind of church—where my family goes—would not approve . . .”

But she spoke tentatively. Mickey scowled and laughed at her.

“There’s all kind of Christian tats. Some of the best tats. There’s Christian rock music, did you know? There’s Christian heavy metal bands. It’s way cool. Fuck, it’s hot. Have some of my beer. You’re not in training every damn minute.”

“Ernie wouldn’t like it . . .”

“Fuck Ernie. What’re you, engaged to him? Shit.”

D.D. was stunned to hear these words. She could not believe that her friend had said such things about Ernie Beecher.

“See, girl—Ernie doesn’t have to know.”

Mickey poured water out of D.D.’s water glass and into her own water glass, and poured the remainder of her beer into D.D.’s glass.

“Go ahead, drink it. It won’t kill you.”

D.D. lifted the glass reluctantly. The smell of beer had always been intriguing to her. Edna Mae had been upset when Luther drank beer, when she could smell beer on his breath; but others in the Dunphy family drank beer, she knew. Luther’s brothers.

D.D. took a small taste. Her nose crinkled. The taste was so strong, something flamey ran up her nose. Seeing her friend regarding her so closely D.D. laughed, and hiccupped.

Mickey’s eyes were mascara-smudged. Often she looked sleepy, as if she’d just wakened from a deep sleep. The dark roots of her hair had grown so that the straw-colored hairs seemed to float an inch or two above her head like a halo. Mickey had a way of licking her lower lip that made D.D. feel shivery as she felt when a cat licked her hand.

“So, we’ll get your hair cut and streaked, just a little. And a beautiful cool tat. You can pick it out yourself.”

Blushing D.D. shook her head no. That could never happen.


MICKEY TOOK HER to the Golden Arrow Tattoo Parlor on Division Avenue.

This was downtown Dayton where D.D. had not yet been. At the edge of downtown in a neighborhood of taverns, nail salons, pawnshops, tattoo parlors. Division Avenue was a wide windswept littered street, they had to run to cross before the light changed like two high school girls—laughing and shrieking as traffic advanced upon them.

“Marco, h’lo! Here’s my friend D.D. Dunphy—‘The Hammer of Jesus.’ Next God-damn women’s welterweight champion of the world.”

Mickey swaggered into the fluorescent-lit tattoo parlor in which the girls were mirrored on the walls in distorted, distended versions of themselves. D.D. saw herself and quickly looked away. Her face was so coarse and plain, her eyebrows so heavy, she felt a pang of loathing.