A Book of American Martyrs(212)

“‘Siblings’—I mean, your sister—or your brothers. Are you close?”

Belatedly she worried that Dunphy would be suspicious, the interviewer seemed to know a good deal about her family. But Dunphy only shrugged, pained. Her forehead, that was creased with faint lines, creased more visibly now. She muttered she was OK with them.

“Are they proud of having a professional boxer in the family? With an undefeated record?”

Dunphy shook her head yes. But without conviction.

“Do they come to see your fights?”

Dunphy considered. A look came into her face, almost of cunning.

“Yah sometimes. They do. My aunt came. To Cleveland. She was scared for me real bad but she was proud of me when I won, she said.”

Dunphy fell silent. It did not seem likely that she had told the complete truth here, but the interviewer would not pursue it.

“Is there any discrepancy, d’you think, between being a Christian and hitting other people? Hurting other women, in the ring?”

Dunphy frowned. Roughly she wiped her nose with the edge of her hand. For a long time it seemed that she might answer this question but finally she said nothing, staring at the floor.

“Well. I guess it is a sport. And that is the point of the sport.”

Dunphy nodded yes, vaguely.

“Are you friendly with other women boxers?”

“Not too much . . .”

“You don’t know any? Or—you are just not friendly with the ones you know?”

Grimly Dunphy explained: “You don’t be friends much with somebody you’re gonna fight. You don’t be friends with any of them.”

“Is it a lonely life, then?”

“No. If you have Jesus you are not ever lonely.”

These words had a brassy sound of having been memorized and many times recited. And now a look of defiance came into Dunphy’s face.

“And what is your religion?”

“I am a Christian with the Zion Missionary Church in Dayton.”

“Is that—Baptist?”

“Christian Zion Missionary Church.”

“That is a Protestant church?”

“Y-Yes . . . I guess so.”

“Is your religion helpful to you, as a boxer?”

“‘Helpful’ . . .?”

“Does your religion inspire you?”

“Jesus is my religion. Yes, Jesus inspires me.”

“In what way?”

“Jesus is my friend. I dedicate all my fights to Jesus, and Jesus helps me.”

Dunphy spoke proudly, passionately. This was the one thing that seemed certain to her.

“Jesus helps you. But Jesus does not help the other boxers, your opponents?”

Dunphy frowned. She had not considered this.

“Maybe. Maybe Jesus helps them. Or maybe He helps us both to do the best we can do.”

What a good answer this was! Naomi had to concede.

“So what Jesus helps you is to realize your own talent and potential. He does not sway the fight.”

“I guess not.” Dunphy seemed wary of agreeing.

“Jesus is fair-minded, he does not play favorites.”

Naomi spoke clearly and simply as if to a small child. Truly she was not being ironic now but wanting badly to know what Dawn Dunphy would say.

Dunphy surprised her by saying sharply: “Why don’t you ask Him, you want to know?”

A quick hard jab. Naomi felt the sting of the jab. Yet with a cool smile she said: “I’m afraid I am not on close speaking terms with your Jesus.”

Thinking—Take care! If you mock her god you will be mocking her.

You will not want Dunphy to know you are the enemy.

In a sudden angry voice Dunphy said: “My fights are for the glory of Jesus. So the heathen will know His name.”

Her jaw was trembling. Her fists clenched as if she’d have liked to punch someone in the face.

Saying, as if someone were defying her, or laughing at her, in a quavering voice like one in pain: “My fights are for Jesus. That is all they are for—for Jesus. If they are not for Jesus but only for me then—God will punish me, and send me to Hell.”

Why was Dunphy so upset?—why was she crying? Naomi was astonished.

It had happened so swiftly. One moment Dunphy had been proudly defiant, the other agitated, her face shining with tears.

“Is something wrong, Dawn? What is wrong? I’m sorry . . .”

Impulsively Naomi reached out as if to take Dunphy’s hand but the young woman was too quick for her and drew both hands back as one might shrink from a snake.

“I guess—I don’t want to talk anymore. I’m going now.”

Dunphy rose to her feet unsteadily. She was breathing audibly, panting. Her savage bloodshot eyes were wet with tears, not of sorrow but of rage. Naomi steeled herself—She could kill me with her fists. She could pound me to death. I would not be able to lift a finger to defend myself.

“Of course—the interview is almost over anyway. Thank you so much for—”

“Yah. G’bye.”

Agitated, Dunphy strode away. Without a backward glance pushing through a set of double doors that led into the hotel.

Naomi switched off the camera. She was shaken. Excited. Still it seemed unreal to her, that she had contrived to “interview” Luther Dunphy’s daughter. Her first impulse was to call Darren, to gloat and jeer.