Following the debacle of the fight Naomi had had the night to compose herself. Back at her hotel she’d had two, possibly three, glasses of wine before falling into bed.
A very long night like all nights on the road. She’d slept poorly. She’d felt her head being hit. Whiplash. The strain in the neck. Broken capillaries in the eyes. Poor Madelena, capillaries bursting after chemo. She’d worn dark glasses. No one could see. Naomi helped adjust the beautiful silver-haired wig. It was so lonely to be away. She could only sleep well now when she was in her bed on the thirty-first floor of her grandmother’s building in New York City because there she’d decided was home.
She wondered if she would tell Madelena about Dawn Dunphy. Of course Madelena knew about Luther Dunphy—she knew of Naomi’s fruitless journey to Muskegee Falls. At least, she knew what Naomi had told her.
But Madelena knew nothing about Dawn Dunphy. Naomi was not sure what there was to be known.
She’d decided yes, she would attempt a documentary on women boxers. She would interview D.D. Dunphy at greater length, and she would interview Siri Aya if she could. She foresaw a project whose merit she would have to argue for. Not boxers who happened to be women but women who happened to be boxers.
“Naomi, dear. We have to talk.”
Madelena had clasped her hand, at last. Naomi hadn’t been able to slip away.
It appeared that she was in remission now, Madelena conceded. The last bloodwork she’d had, her meticulous Chinese-American oncologist at Sloan Kettering had declared her blood “robust.”
But—“Remission does not last forever.”
And—“Please face it, Naomi: you will outlive me by decades.”
Naomi winced at her grandmother’s remarks. It was like adults to embarrass you, under the pretext of being kind to you.
That such remarks were made matter-of-factly, as her grandmother might happen to mention that a friend of hers was coming for dinner, or that she had tickets for Naomi and herself for a Philip Glass concert that evening, made them all the more upsetting.
Naomi said, “You could outlive me, Lena.”
“Want to bet?”
Madelena laughed, heartily. There is a particular sort of gut-wrenching laughter in an older woman, Naomi thought.
Madelena was saying that she intended to leave a “considerable amount of money” to Naomi in her will. In fact, she had named Naomi her executrix—“It will be an educational experience.”
But she preferred to leave some of the money, perhaps most of it, to Naomi while she, Madelena, was still alive. That was so much a better idea. “That way we can both enjoy it.”
Madelena had inherited money from her parents, and this money had grown through investments. She’d accumulated some money in the course of her life, teaching, writing, living an essentially frugal life. In speaking of her estate she brightened, visibly. There was a girlishness in her manner, not often evident since the cancer diagnosis.
Naomi wanted to press her hands over her ears. Please. I don’t want to talk about this.
She’d tried to explain to Madelena that she did not want or need money—really. Her parents had both believed that inherited money was deleterious to the well-being of the young. Gus had always wanted to work. Jenna had always wanted to work. Neither had been happy in the slightest, without work. Of course, work had to be meaningful. Work had to be, in some way, creative.
Madelena laughed at her, not unkindly. “But I want to leave my money to you, Naomi. I have charitable organizations of course. I will establish a scholarship or two. And there is always Karl—the insatiable. But I want to leave money expressly to you.”
Naomi had been deeply embarrassed.
“Well—I—I could use some funding, I suppose. For the documentary. If—”
Madelena said, “Exactly. You are correct.”
FORTY MINUTES AFTER the hour, when Naomi was about to pack up her equipment and leave, Dunphy arrived.
“H’lo.”
Her voice was flat, toneless and unapologetic. Her cracked and swollen mouth drooped downward in a sullen mockery of a smile.
“Hi. Thanks for coming.”
“Yah.”
“My name is Naomi, if you’ve forgotten . . .”
In careful primer sentences she addressed Dawn Dunphy. It was like speaking to a wild creature: feral cat, bird. The slightest misstep, the creature will flee.
The slightest misspeaking, you are left alone and abashed.
“We can continue the interview—if it’s agreeable. Marika said . . .”
“Yah. Fuck Marika.”
Naomi wondered if she’d heard correctly. Dunphy’s battered face was inscrutable. Her eyelids quivered as if with rage.
(Marika was in a corner of the room, talking excitedly on her cell phone. Smoking.)
Apologetically Naomi murmured, “She said it was all right, for a half hour maybe. I realize this isn’t a good time.” Pausing then, and wondering if she’d said something tactless. “Well. I have just a few more questions . . .”