“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.
You will never guess . . .
Oh but I am so—ashamed . . .
Her hands were so shaky, she nearly dropped her camera onto the floor inserting it in its snug black leather bag.
Outside in the parking lot the dyed-blond Marika, chief of public relations for Dayton Fights, Inc., was smoking a cigarette and speaking on a cell phone.
“Oh. The interview’s over? How’d it go? D.D. Dunphy’s not a great talker, is she? We can send you pictures if you need more. Like, ‘The Hammer of Jesus at the heavy bag—in the boxing ring. There’s maybe going to be a local Dayton sponsor for her, a sports store—we could have some pictures there. Ernie says, she takes after Joe Louis. Meaning—I guess—they don’t talk much but they hit hard.”
Marika gave Naomi her card, and did not seem to notice that Naomi had no card to give her.
“Send me the video—Natalie, is it? Please. Next time D.D. fights, could be a title match. She could be the next women’s welterweight champion of the world. You won’t want to miss that.”
“FAMILY”
It was true. A prediction.
You won’t want to miss that.
SHE’D GONE AWAY, back to New York City. She wasn’t going to recall anything about Cincinnati. She wasn’t going to recall D.D. Dunphy for in so doing she would be forced to recall how cruelly, how crudely, even viciously she’d behaved in contriving to interview the naive young woman boxer. How unethical Naomi Voorhees’s behavior.
Fortunately, no one knew. She had not called Darren to gloat over her audacity—hardly.
Neither Gus nor Jenna could know. That was the great relief, that they be spared such knowledge. Your daughter is disfigured, warped in some way. Your daughter lacks humanity, charity, decency. Mercy.
She had not told her grandmother much about the trip, and she had not told Kinch.