The Song of David

“But this time it was an actual boxing match between two fighters that Tag had heard of and wanted to see fight. Andy Gorman and Tommy Boyle. Tag had actually had a run-in with Andy, believe it or not, when I painted a portrait for Andy’s mother. Andy’s father had passed away the year before, and his mom was pretty desperate to make a connection. Andy thought I was a charlatan—that’s what he called me—and he ran us off. Tag got mouthy in my defense, as usual, and Andy broke his nose. So when Tag told me he wanted to see this match, I wasn’t very excited about the idea.

“Andy won, though. And he won big. He knocked Boyle out in the first round. Apparently people weren’t very happy about that. Andy was supposed to win, but he was supposed to draw it out, keep it close. He owed some people some money. And when he didn’t do as he was told, they cornered him in an alley behind the venue and beat him up. Guess who went running right into the middle of the fight?”

Millie smiled, but it wobbled on the edges.

“He just had a nose for it. Someone was fighting, and Tag was always getting in the thick of it. Tag went running in there as if Andy were his best friend and not the guy who broke his nose a couple of weeks before. We had to leave Ireland. That’s how stupid it was. That’s how dangerous the people were that Tag had pissed off. But Tag doesn’t think about stuff like that. It isn’t important to him. He just saw five against one and went in, fists flying. He and Andy Gorman were fighting back to back, and I had to wade in there too. I was afraid Tag was going to get himself killed.

“Long story short? Andy Gorman and every other guy in that gym owes Tag. Everyone is loyal to him, but it’s only because he was loyal first, because he stuck his neck out for them. Not because they asked, but because they needed help. It kind of became Tag’s purpose. I saw him change, saw him decide to live, to fight, to embrace life. I watched him find himself.”

“And now he’s lost again,” Millie whispered.

“Something happened,” I argued.

“He’s saying goodbye, Moses. It feels like he’s writing his memoirs or something.”

Millie was right. It felt like a suicide note.





I FOUND SOMEONE to work at the bar part-time, and I started training Vince to manage. I still kept an eye out for Morg, but maybe he’d found a better situation. He baffled me. But it was his choice. I sent his check to the address I had on file and kept juggling. I trained for my fight four or five hours a day and was at the bar almost every night. And I kept walking Millie home.

She never wanted to drive. Neither did I. The nights were cold, but not too cold, and I looked forward to having her grab my arm, walk by my side, and talk to me. I made her laugh, and she made me laugh. She impressed me, and I didn’t have to try and impress her.

I liked her so much.

It was a weird sensation, genuinely liking a girl that much and not trying to get in her pants. I know that’s crude, but there’s a reason men are wired the way we are. There’s a reason women are put together the way they are. It’s just biology. Basic biology. But I wasn’t trying to sleep with Millie. I had no designs on Millie. I just liked her. And I pushed the rest of it away. I firmly ignored biology for the first time in my life.

I was relaxed with her. And I found myself continually telling her things that I didn’t comfortably share with anyone. One night, I pulled on a vest to walk her home instead of my jacket, and my white dress sleeves were rolled to my elbows, which was how I always tended bar. For the very first time, my forearms were bare to the touch for the walk home, and when Millie wrapped her hand around my arm she felt my scar.

What’s this, David?” Her fingertips traced the long puckered line on my right forearm that extended from my wrist to my elbow.

“There was a time when I didn’t want to live very bad,” I confessed easily. “It was a long time ago. I love myself now. Don’t worry.” I meant for her to laugh, but she didn’t.

“You cut yourself?” Her voice sounded sad. Not accusing. Just sad.

“Yeah. I did.”

“Was it hard?”

Her question surprised me. Most people asked why. They didn’t ask if hurting yourself was hard.

“Living was harder,” I said.

She didn’t fill the silence with words, and I found myself needing to explain. Not impress. Just explain.

“The first time I tried to kill myself, I held a gun to my head and counted backwards from seventeen; one count for every year of my life. My mother walked in when I reached five. The guns were locked away and the combination on the safe changed. So I resorted to a pocket-knife. It was sharp and shiny. Clean. And I wasn’t afraid. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid at all.”

Her fingers traced the line as we walked, smoothing, as if she could rub the scar away. So I told her the rest.

“But fate intervened again, and they found me before it was too late. They kept finding me, saving me. But I couldn’t save my sister, see. And I felt helpless. Helpless and hopeless. After a week in the hospital I was transferred to a psych ward. My mother cried, my dad was stone-faced. They’d lost one child, and there I was, trying to take myself away too. They told me I was selfish. And I was. But I didn’t know how to be any different. They gave me everything and everything was never enough. And that is terrifying. Emptiness is terrifying.”