Though Marika did linger in the doorway for a minute or two listening to the interviewer’s initial questions, long enough to ascertain that the interview would be an altogether conventional one following a familiar journalistic form: what made you decide to be a boxer, what are your hopes for your career, is it exciting to be a part of the “revolution” in women’s boxing?
These questions Dunphy answered slowly, with care, like one making her way across a plank above an abyss. At times she ceased speaking completely, though she was easily prodded to continue by a few words from the interviewer. Her shyness, or her reticence, or perhaps it was her bovine stubbornness, did not allow her to lift her eyes to meet the interviewer’s frank friendly gaze. Not so easy to establish a sisterly rapport here.
Astonishing to Naomi and not altogether real, that she was being allowed such access to “D.D. Dunphy”—virtually no questions asked about her credentials, and not a moment of doubt or skepticism on the part of the PR woman. Since arriving in Cincinnati the day before she’d been feeling not altogether real; she’d felt both conspicuous in her white skin at the Armory, and invisible. It was like crawling through a mirror into a looking-glass world in which, if she was perceived at all, it was as someone other than herself.
Naomi had positioned her camera on the table between them. She’d explained that it was a “recording” camera but Dunphy did not seem to hear. Answering her questions Dunphy spoke so softly, Naomi had to ask her politely to repeat what she’d said.
Dunphy looked startled, perplexed. Repeat what she’d said?
Naomi thought—Has she forgotten? So quickly?
She wondered if the young boxer had suffered a concussion. Or rather, concussions. So many blows to the head, just the previous night . . .
Gently saying, “You might look into the camera lens also, ‘D.D.’ This is a visual medium, not just audio.”
Nervously Dunphy swiped at her nose with the edge of her hand and murmured what sounded like OK.
“You’ve been interviewed before? For TV? For video?”
Vaguely Dunphy nodded yes. She was having difficulty lifting her bruised eyes to the interviewer, or to the camera lens. Naomi thought—Is she ashamed? But why?
Naomi had approached the interview with a feeling of strong repugnance for the task. A faint nausea of dislike stirred in her bowels, that Luther Dunphy’s daughter existed, and was sitting, slightly hunched, her wounded mouth working silently, just a few feet away from her across a table.
The tabletop was very plain, and looked to be made of some cheap material like cork. Presumably, white linen tablecloths would be draped over such a table on the occasion of a banquet.
“Well, ‘D.D.’! That was a terrific fight last night—an excellent performance. All three judges . . .”
Dunphy appeared to be listening. But she did not smile.
“Are you—not happy with the fight? You won.”
Dunphy shrugged. A look of faint embarrassment crossed her face, as if she were enduring gas pains.
“Nah. It was OK. Ernie says, I got work to do.”
“‘Ernie’—your trainer?”
But Dunphy had fallen silent. Marika had left for her a bottle of spring water, from which she now drank, thirstily, somewhat clumsily with her swollen mouth. Naomi saw that the young woman’s nose was mottled with fine, broken capillaries. Her teeth were uneven, the color of weak tea. It was unsettling when she lifted her eyes, for a moment, and Naomi saw how bloodshot the whites of the eyes were, nearly hidden by the swollen and discolored eyelids.
The coarse hair, cut short and razor-cut at the sides and at the nape of the neck, had been matted flat, in need of washing. The streaks of color were the more incongruous, clownish, in the bleak light of day.
“You have been examined by a doctor, I hope?”
Dunphy murmured what sounded like Yah.
“Is it more than a cursory exam? Does a—an actual—doctor examine you? X-rays, a brain scan?”
Dunphy murmured again, this time irritably. Roughly she wiped her running nose with the edge of her hand.
Naomi was recalling the intense, exacting physical examinations of her childhood. Bloodwork was essential: you could not avoid the needle drawing blood out of a delicate vein. A badly bruised and aching rib would have to be X-rayed—of course. Insect-bite infections and infections caused by childhood accidents were to be treated with antibiotics immediately. There was no taking a chance with Lyme disease. To grow up in the household of a doctor is to become aware of the slovenly-wide range of what is called “medical care” by the world. Gus Voorhees was egalitarian in every respect except medically: either a doctor was good, or a doctor was not-good.
You avoided the not-good. Unfortunately, the not-good were everywhere except at principal medical centers and medical schools.
“Well, ‘D.D.’! Or—is your name ‘Dawn’? Someone said . . .”
Dunphy shifted in her chair. The sound of her name was unexpected and startling to her but she did not deny it. Rather, she smiled just slightly, glancing up abashed at her interviewer.
Naomi thought—She has been found out. There is nowhere for her to hide.