In the giddy aftermath of her victory there were several other photographers taking pictures of D.D. Dunphy. A barrage of flash photos. Naomi was grateful for the anonymity. She had to suppose that a boxer is a kind of public property and that Dunphy’s handlers were happy for her to be photographed if it meant publicity.
Naomi heard herself ask one of the corner men if their boxer was available for an interview and was told—“Maybe. Depends.”
Another told her, over his shoulder, “Contact Dayton Fights, Inc.”
Dunphy and her retinue disappeared into the interior of the Armory where no one unauthorized was allowed to follow. Naomi saw that one of the photographers, whom they seemed to know, probably with a local newspaper, had been allowed to accompany them to Dunphy’s dressing room.
Ridiculous, Naomi thought. Why would I want to interview her?
She was feeling just slightly dazed, light-headed. Her heart pounded with excitement and also a kind of chagrin, or shame. She had never witnessed anything quite like the “eight rounds of boxing” between Pryde Elka and D.D. Dunphy.
Quickly then, for she was feeling as if she might faint, Naomi left the Armory, and stood for some minutes out on the avenue, breathing deeply, fresh air, or rather a fresher air than inside the Armory, though tinged with something metallic and yeasty—a smell of the Ohio River not far away. In her confusion and disorientation she scarcely knew where she was. She could not stop thinking about the fight—she could not stop seeing the fight—she had only to shut her eyes and immediately images of the female boxers and their swinging gloves, their stricken faces, assailed her like dream images loosed from some primitive nightmare.
“D.D. Dunphy”—that was the disguise.
Wondering: did Dawn Dunphy know her, as intimately as she knew Dawn Dunphy?
FORTY MINUTES were allotted for the interview, the next morning. In a drafty utilitarian space described as a conference banquet room at the Cincinnati Marriot near the airport.
“Hello. My name is—”
Glibly the name rolled off her tongue: Naomi Matheson.
(And what a beautiful name it was! Never had Naomi uttered this name aloud before.)
“—and I am preparing a documentary film on women boxers.”
Pausing then to add with a friendly sort of frankness, smiling at both the abashed-looking D.D. Dunphy and at a dyed-blond woman of about thirty-five who’d introduced herself as “Marika”—chief of public relations at Dayton Fights, Inc.: “Only the preeminent women boxers who are champions, or leading contenders for titles. The film is financed by”—glibly too the name rolled off her tongue: The New York Film Institute—“which is a private institute that has prepared documentaries shown on PBS and other TV channels as well as at film festivals like Sundance, Telluride, and Lincoln Center.”
The dyed-blond woman seemed impressed. D.D. Dunphy blinked and stared at the floor with her bruised eyes, that were nearly swollen shut. The wound above her right eyebrow seemed to have been stitched tight and one side of her mouth was swollen and bruised.
She wore a dark gray sweatshirt and sweatpants that fitted her stocky body loosely, and these were unadorned. Naomi looked about for the black hat with gilt letters Jesus Is Lord but did not see it. She said:
“My partner and I have made a number of films focusing on women pioneering in fields traditionally belonging to men. There has been much interest in women boxers and there is a possibility that ESPN would help finance the film . . .”
Nothing uttered by “Naomi Matheson” was in the slightest implausible. Nor was it impossible that, one day soon, a documentary might be made of women boxers in the United States, including D.D. Dunphy, to be aired on PBS, or indeed ESPN.
It was clear that D.D. Dunphy and Marika would believe anything that was flattering to them. Or rather, Dunphy would cooperate with anything Marika approved that might advance her career for Dayton Fights, Inc.
“You will make a video available to us of the interview with D.D., Ms. Matheson?—for our own use, also?”—the dyed-blond Marika spoke shrewdly; and Naomi said, with the warmest sort of sisterly sincerity, “Certainly, yes.”
To Dunphy the woman said, as one might speak to a child, “Just forty minutes, D.D. I’ll come back to make sure it doesn’t go longer. Are you OK with this? You’ve been interviewed before for video. Or do you need me to stay with you?”
Gravely, bravely D.D. Dunphy shook her head no. A plaintive expression in the young woman’s face, in her somber bruised downlooking eyes, would have suggested to a more perceptive protector that no really meant yes; but the dyed-blond woman, already on her feet, an unlighted cigarette in her fingers, chose not to perceive this.