He was what you’d call a light-skinned black man or (she thought) some kind of Hispanic mixed with black. Seeing him with others in the gym who were dark-black Ernie Beecher did not look “black” especially but seeing him with so-called “whites” (like herself she supposed) he did look “black”—what they called “African-American.”
Later on she’d hear that Ernie Beecher had every kind of “mixed” blood—black, Jamaican, Hispanic, Native American, Asian (Cambodian). How accurate this was she could not know. Or that he was fifty years old, or more!—this was a surprise to her, she’d thought he was much younger given how he sparred in the ring with some of the guys and how tireless he was with her trying to drum into her head defense strategy. He had a wife it was said. He had children by several women it was said. He’d been a light-heavyweight a long time ago—you could see his name in small letters on a frayed poster headlined TOMMY HEARNS VS. PIPINO CUEVAS. That had been August 1980, Detroit.
So long ago!—1980. D.D. tried to imagine what Ernie Beecher had looked like then.
He was not a normal-looking man. There was something intense and alert about him, in his eyes like the eyes of a hawk. His face had a twisted look like tree roots that have grown together. Eventually, she would perceive that his face was badly scarred.
She’d have liked to ask this man about his boxing career. Liked to have seen some photos.
But she knew better. She would never ask. She feared losing his goodwill. His patience with her.
It was amazing to her, he’d been so kind. He had not allowed her to pay the full amount for gym hours but a “discount.”
He did not ask questions. If the name Dunphy meant anything to him—(she had no reason to suspect that it did: no one remembered)—he gave no sign. He was gentlemanly. He did not tolerate bullshit, rowdy behavior, any kind of disruptive or disrespectful behavior in the gym. He would kick you out, you merited it. She had witnessed this with her own eyes. She had heard him speak critically to a young gym instructor, one of his own relatives. He did not forget but he might forgive.
His eyes were soft liquidy-black. His voice was so soft for a man’s voice sometimes she could not really hear him but could only murmur Yes. Yes Ernie.
The smell of him was such, so defined, his smell. Alone in the place she rented on Post Street a few blocks away in the bed that was her bed where often, so tired, she slept in most of her clothes and on cold nights her woolen socks she would wake suddenly in the night smelling his smell and in her confusion not know where she was.
She loved him so much! She wanted to tell him of her father who had given his life for the lives of innocent babies who could not protect themselves. She wanted to tell him how badly she missed her father and also she missed her mother and her family in Mad River Junction where she could not return for she was not welcome.
And he would ask Why are you not welcome, D.D.
And she would say Because my mother believes that I am a daughter of Satan.
But she was shy. And when she was in any proximity to him she was likely to be winded—panting to catch her breath, and her heart beating crazily in her chest. The worry was constant—Am I strong enough? Maybe I am not strong enough.
She recalled how Luke had laughed at her. Dawn Dunphy, thinking she could box.
She had to smile. It was—well, it was weird. Anybody would laugh at her. She would laugh at herself if she hadn’t been herself. But Jesus had faith in her, she was sure. As Jesus had had faith in her rising against the high school boys who had hoped to shame her but had only shamed themselves.
The hammer of Jesus she’d wielded in her hand! When she’d finished with her enemies the hammerhead had been slick with their blood.
“ONE-SIXTY-ONE.”
He’d weighed her, like a steer. By the expression in his face she saw that he was not happy.
“What’m I s’posed to be?”—her question was piteous.
“One-forty-seven. Welterweight.”
Welterweight! It was the first he’d named what she would be.
Her heart flooded with what felt like warm blood. Her eyes flooded with tears. She could not bring herself to look at him, at his face, for fear of betraying what was in her heart.
“Yah. OK. I c’n do that. I guess.”
She was a heavy girl. “Stout”—her aunt Mary Kay said of her, and of herself.
Much of it was muscle. But not all.
Had to stop eating any kind of junk food in her hand, food out of Styrofoam boxes, sugary sodas, fries. Her weakness was French fries so greasy-salty her fingers stung as she ate ravenously. The appeal of those fries in the strip mall Wendy’s you could douse as much catsup on them you wanted, nobody to stop you or even notice.
The sharp taste of catsup, mustard, diced onions she liked. A lot.
Also she loved doughnuts. Dipped in fat, fat-saturated. Plain doughnuts, white-powder sugar doughnuts, cinnamon doughnuts, cream doughnuts, doughnuts sprinkled with gritty brown sugar—D.D.’s mouth filled with saliva at just the thought.