A Book of American Martyrs(207)
“D.D. Dunphy”—that was the disguise.
Wondering: did Dawn Dunphy know her, as intimately as she knew Dawn Dunphy?
FORTY MINUTES were allotted for the interview, the next morning. In a drafty utilitarian space described as a conference banquet room at the Cincinnati Marriot near the airport.
“Hello. My name is—”
Glibly the name rolled off her tongue: Naomi Matheson.
(And what a beautiful name it was! Never had Naomi uttered this name aloud before.)
“—and I am preparing a documentary film on women boxers.”
Pausing then to add with a friendly sort of frankness, smiling at both the abashed-looking D.D. Dunphy and at a dyed-blond woman of about thirty-five who’d introduced herself as “Marika”—chief of public relations at Dayton Fights, Inc.: “Only the preeminent women boxers who are champions, or leading contenders for titles. The film is financed by”—glibly too the name rolled off her tongue: The New York Film Institute—“which is a private institute that has prepared documentaries shown on PBS and other TV channels as well as at film festivals like Sundance, Telluride, and Lincoln Center.”
The dyed-blond woman seemed impressed. D.D. Dunphy blinked and stared at the floor with her bruised eyes, that were nearly swollen shut. The wound above her right eyebrow seemed to have been stitched tight and one side of her mouth was swollen and bruised.
She wore a dark gray sweatshirt and sweatpants that fitted her stocky body loosely, and these were unadorned. Naomi looked about for the black hat with gilt letters Jesus Is Lord but did not see it. She said:
“My partner and I have made a number of films focusing on women pioneering in fields traditionally belonging to men. There has been much interest in women boxers and there is a possibility that ESPN would help finance the film . . .”
Nothing uttered by “Naomi Matheson” was in the slightest implausible. Nor was it impossible that, one day soon, a documentary might be made of women boxers in the United States, including D.D. Dunphy, to be aired on PBS, or indeed ESPN.
It was clear that D.D. Dunphy and Marika would believe anything that was flattering to them. Or rather, Dunphy would cooperate with anything Marika approved that might advance her career for Dayton Fights, Inc.
“You will make a video available to us of the interview with D.D., Ms. Matheson?—for our own use, also?”—the dyed-blond Marika spoke shrewdly; and Naomi said, with the warmest sort of sisterly sincerity, “Certainly, yes.”
To Dunphy the woman said, as one might speak to a child, “Just forty minutes, D.D. I’ll come back to make sure it doesn’t go longer. Are you OK with this? You’ve been interviewed before for video. Or do you need me to stay with you?”
Gravely, bravely D.D. Dunphy shook her head no. A plaintive expression in the young woman’s face, in her somber bruised downlooking eyes, would have suggested to a more perceptive protector that no really meant yes; but the dyed-blond woman, already on her feet, an unlighted cigarette in her fingers, chose not to perceive this.
Though Marika did linger in the doorway for a minute or two listening to the interviewer’s initial questions, long enough to ascertain that the interview would be an altogether conventional one following a familiar journalistic form: what made you decide to be a boxer, what are your hopes for your career, is it exciting to be a part of the “revolution” in women’s boxing?
These questions Dunphy answered slowly, with care, like one making her way across a plank above an abyss. At times she ceased speaking completely, though she was easily prodded to continue by a few words from the interviewer. Her shyness, or her reticence, or perhaps it was her bovine stubbornness, did not allow her to lift her eyes to meet the interviewer’s frank friendly gaze. Not so easy to establish a sisterly rapport here.
Astonishing to Naomi and not altogether real, that she was being allowed such access to “D.D. Dunphy”—virtually no questions asked about her credentials, and not a moment of doubt or skepticism on the part of the PR woman. Since arriving in Cincinnati the day before she’d been feeling not altogether real; she’d felt both conspicuous in her white skin at the Armory, and invisible. It was like crawling through a mirror into a looking-glass world in which, if she was perceived at all, it was as someone other than herself.
Naomi had positioned her camera on the table between them. She’d explained that it was a “recording” camera but Dunphy did not seem to hear. Answering her questions Dunphy spoke so softly, Naomi had to ask her politely to repeat what she’d said.
Dunphy looked startled, perplexed. Repeat what she’d said?
Naomi thought—Has she forgotten? So quickly?
She wondered if the young boxer had suffered a concussion. Or rather, concussions. So many blows to the head, just the previous night . . .
Gently saying, “You might look into the camera lens also, ‘D.D.’ This is a visual medium, not just audio.”
Nervously Dunphy swiped at her nose with the edge of her hand and murmured what sounded like OK.
“You’ve been interviewed before? For TV? For video?”
Vaguely Dunphy nodded yes. She was having difficulty lifting her bruised eyes to the interviewer, or to the camera lens. Naomi thought—Is she ashamed? But why?
Naomi had approached the interview with a feeling of strong repugnance for the task. A faint nausea of dislike stirred in her bowels, that Luther Dunphy’s daughter existed, and was sitting, slightly hunched, her wounded mouth working silently, just a few feet away from her across a table.