A Book of American Martyrs(211)

“Do you have medical insurance? Hospital insurance? In case you are ever injured—seriously . . .”

“All that kind of thing is taken care of. My manager . . .”

“Does your contract include medical coverage? What would happen if . . .”

Dunphy lifted the water bottle to drink from it, thirstily. There was impatience and rudeness in the gesture and her doughy face had tightened.

Meanly Naomi thought—I dislike you, too. I want you to be hurt. I want you to fail. I am not your friend!

She should end the interview, she knew. What had she been thinking! A documentary film on women boxers—too awful, too filled with pain, exposure. No one would care to see such a film. There was some interest in women’s champion boxers—to a degree. But D.D. Dunphy would never be a charismatic champion. And no one would wish to see the diminished private lives, that are never shown on TV. No one would wish to know about the losers.

“Just a few more questions, Dawn. Do your parents still live in Muskegee Falls, and do you have family there?” Naomi spoke easily, encouragingly.

Dunphy murmured what sounded like Nah. Not now.

“They have moved away? Where?”

“Mad River Junction—it’s called. Where they live.”

“All of your family?”

“My mother is a nurse, she works at a ‘home’ there. My brother has a job with the county.”

“Your mother is a nurse?”—Naomi had not known this, and wondered if it could be true.

But Dunphy insisted yes. Her mother was a nurse.

“That’s some kind of work you can respect—a nurse. But it is hard work.” Dunphy paused, considering what she’d said. The words had seemed to surprise her.

“Would you like to be a nurse, too? I mean—if you weren’t a boxer?”

“Nah.”

Then, relenting: “Well maybe. It’s some kind of work people respect and it is helping people. And—people respect you.”

“And what of your father, Dawn?”

“My father—my father is not living.”

Dunphy had been preparing for this question and answered it bravely. But then, she came to a full stop as if a bell had rung sounding the end of a round.

“I’m sorry to hear of that . . . He would have been proud of you, as a successful boxer, don’t you think?”

Successful boxer caught Dunphy’s attention. She was staring into a dim corner of the banquet room with a faint smile and seemed for a moment to have forgotten the interview.

“Especially if you become a champion, as it looks you will, soon . . .”

Dunphy looked at Naomi, blankly.

“I mean—your father would be proud of you. Especially if you become a champion.”

Dunphy nodded, vaguely. She had been rubbing at the nape of her neck as if to alleviate pain.

“What did your father do, Dawn?”

“He was a roofer and a carpenter. He was a master roofer and carpenter, people said.”

“How did your father die?”

“My father died in a bad car crash.”

Dunphy spoke rapidly now, to get the words out. Her bloodshot eyes were welling with tears and shifting in their sockets like loosened marbles. She was a very poor liar.

Cruelly Naomi continued:

“How old were you when your father died, Dawn?”

For a long moment Dunphy did not reply. With the lack of self-consciousness of a child she lifted her T-shirt and wiped her eyes. Naomi had an impression of a black sports bra solid and tight as a brace.

“I don’t remember too well. Maybe ten, eleven . . .”

“What do you remember of your father?”

Dunphy sat very still. Her face quivered, as if she were about to burst into tears. Her injured eyes continued to well with tears that did not spill over onto her face.

After a long moment Dunphy’s lips moved. Naomi strained to hear her murmur— . . . loved my Daddy.

Naomi waited, but Dunphy said nothing more. In her brightly friendly disingenuous interviewer voice she continued as if nothing were wrong:

“Do you try to get back home as often as you can? It must be lonely—on the road as you are, so often.”

“Yah.” Dunphy spoke tonelessly, without conviction.

“You visit your father’s grave, I guess? When you go home?”

Dunphy nodded yes. A veiled, vague look had come into her face.

“Is your father buried in—‘Mad River Junction’—?”

Dunphy stiffened, and made no reply. Her swollen eyes blinked rapidly.

Naomi wondered at the young woman boxer, that she didn’t rise from her chair, lean across the table and strike the nervy and intrusive interviewer in the face with her rock-hard fist.

“Your mother is a nurse! That’s a very crucial profession. Are you close with your mother?”

Dunphy nodded yes. But she was a very poor liar.

“Any of your siblings?”

Naomi thought—What a foolish word, siblings! She felt a wave of revulsion for herself, and wondered how she could proceed. It was a hateful exercise. Yet, she could not seem to stop.

If your opponent is on the ropes, you continue to punch. Evidently. If you are a professional. That much, Naomi had gathered from the previous night in the Armory.