A Book of American Martyrs(210)

Strange, Dunphy had lapsed into black vernacular. Her voice had become throaty, musical. She’d murmured these words with a look of pained adoration.

“‘Jamala Prentis’—‘The Princess’? No, she lost her last fight. She’s lost three or four fights and she’s ranked below ‘D.D. Dunphy.’ I’ve done my homework. Midwestern Boxing League, World Boxing Association. On both lists you’re ahead of Jamala. You’re the best.”

Naomi spoke with a wild sort of extravagance as if daring Dunphy to believe her.

But Dunphy stared at Naomi uncomprehending. Possibly, she had not known that Jamala Prentis had lost recent fights.

“Nah, Jamala is the best. ‘The Princess’—she got style.”

Though the banquet room was chilly Dunphy seemed to be overwarm. With a little grunt she removed her sweatshirt, tugging it roughly over her head; Naomi had an impulse to help her, but did not. Below the sweatshirt Dunphy wore a T-shirt of some thin synthetic material, tight across her hard, heavy breasts, and cut high on the shoulder, so that the bright lurid tattoos on both her arms were revealed.

On one muscled bicep a cross of what appeared to be crimson flames, and on the other bicep a cross of white lilies. On Dunphy’s left forearm, a purple hammer—Hammer of Jesus.

What a sight! Doesn’t she know what she looks like . . .

She is so naive! So pathetic.

Wanting to believe that she is important.

Wanting to believe that anyone would want to interview her. That anything in her pitiful life matters.

“What striking tattoos!”—Naomi spoke with convincing admiration.

“Yah. I guess.” Dunphy smiled shyly. Tucking in her chin to look at the tattoos in a way that suggested she often looked at them. Naomi thought—She looks at the tattoos instead of looking into a mirror. The tattoos are her mirror.

Badly Naomi wanted to end the interview. She believed that her parents would disapprove of what she was doing, if they could know. Yet she was transfixed, and could not seem to stop.

“Please tell me a little more about your background, Dawn. Your hometown is said to be Dayton but—that isn’t where you were born, is it?”

Dunphy shrugged ambiguously as if to say Guess not. Maybe.

“I read on the Internet that you’re from Muskegee Falls, a small city in central Ohio.”

Was this a question? Dunphy frowned, warily.

“What was it like, growing up in Muskegee Falls?”

“What was it like?”—Dunphy seemed perplexed by the question.

“Did you have a happy childhood?”

Happy childhood seemed to confound Dunphy, who did not reply for a long time.

“Well—did anyone in your family encourage you?”

“N-No . . . They did not want me to be a boxer, I think.”

Dunphy spoke haltingly, with a look of yearning.

“No one? At all? Where did you get the idea, then?”

“I guess—watching TV. With my brother Luke.” Dunphy laughed suddenly. “He never thought I could make it!”

“What attracted you to boxing, when you were watching TV? Assuming that there were other things to watch—including other violent sports . . .” Daringly Naomi spoke, but Dunphy did not register any irony.

“I guess—hitting. If somebody hits you you hit them. I guess—maybe—that was it.”

“‘Boxing is about hitting’—is that it?”

“Nah. Boxing about hitting and not being hit back.” Dunphy laughed, surprising herself. These witty words in a quasi-black idiom were not her own but had been memorized and recited now and this pleased her.

“Can you tell us—(just speak to the camera naturally, as if you are in a conversation)—(my voice will be edited out)—in a fight, what are you thinking? What goes through your mind?”

Dunphy frowned, trying to think. Almost Naomi thought you could see bulky-sized thoughts moving through the young woman’s brain, just slightly too large for the space, as through narrow arteries, making her wince.

“In a fight, it’s like drowning. I mean—you feel that you are drowning and the only thing is to save yourself. The only way you save yourself is by hitting the other boxer, hurting her, knocking her down so she can’t grab you and pull you down. It’s her, or you. My trainer’s voice is in my head. Jab jab jab. Get inside. Go for the right cross. Get inside. Left hook. Counter punch. Get inside. Keep your gloves up. Keep your left glove up. Get inside. LEFT GLOVE UP.” She laughed, and wiped her perspiring face on the sweatshirt. “ ’Cause my arms are short, that’s why he says—Get inside.”

“Isn’t it dangerous? I noticed—the other boxer continuously retreated, and you advanced. But you must get hit a lot.”

This was a sly understatement. But Dunphy did not register slyness.

“Like I said, if you’re good you don’t get hurt. ‘Hammer of Jesus’ can take a punch. That is well known.”

This too was spoken with the air of a memorized remark. And spoken with pride.

“Really, you aren’t afraid that you will be hurt? The head, the skull, the brain seem so vulnerable in boxing . . .” Naomi’s voice trailed off, with a pleading sound.

But Dunphy shook her head, stubbornly. For someone had assured her Hammer of Jesus can take a punch.