opened. He wanted to slow down. Carney had been right to die.
Jude told Watson he would hang on to the money, maybe wait a year. Watson sweated, tried to make him see the possibilities of boxing left-handed. Jude barely heard, distant with pain. The next day, when he returned to theclub, padlocked chains and signs from the bank were on the doors. Only a note, from Watson, that the club was ahead of its time: People aren’t ready for the plan. Watson had absconded with the money from the fight. As for what Carney had left, a few days after the funeral, his son, Champ, a flat face Jude had never heard of, had shown up with a truck, loaded everything and left. Jude agreed to his last fight. Later, in the booker’s office, contracts scattered on the desk, Jude struggled to make sense of all these words. He recalled Isa-Marie writing his name for him to trace, and he signed where he was told.
The contender was Leon Brown, big bucks, another undefeated on the fast track to the heavyweight title. It was impossible to play him the way Jude had the Italian. After Jude took a beating in the first round, he tried to use his right but it hurt him more than it did his opponent. He felt the stitches split, the glove growing heavy. By the sixth round the referee was on the verge of calling it short. Jude’s face was swollen, his lips ruined, one eye shut, and Leon had taken just a few mean shots. Jude’s right shoulder was tired, the glove a solid weight on his hand. Only when Leon delivered five driving punches, his guard down because he was sure the fight was over, did Jude strike. The soaked glove was like a stone. Leon’s head snapped back. Blood ran along Jude’s arm, sprayed the audience that leapt up, unsure of what had happened, of who had died. Later the rumour was that Jude had struck hard enough to break his hand and Leon’s jaw. The papers picked it up. In the locker room the doctor cut the glove away as if it was something living,revealing the embryonic fist. Jude collected his money. It was more than enough.
He’d been given painkillers and hadn’t eaten in days. Louise had told him the baby was a girl but he didn’t go look. The hatchlings were growing, lifting startled gazes at all who passed. What do you want to do now? she asked. The pills made his stomach raw. His throat burned each time he burped.
Dormir
, he said —just sleep. Her expression softened. From the way she looked at him she cared what had happened to his face.
He stayed in bed, his hand plastered into a club. Sometimes she lay next to him though she soon got up to breastfeed or do chores or walk in sunlight. He didn’t approach the cradle with its mobile of beads and feathers.
I used to think I had to heal everyone, she told him, not checking to see if he was awake or listening. When I grew up, things were bad, but we weren’t so poor. My grandfather —my mother’s father—had a lot of French blood. I think he chose my grandmother for her beauty. I felt guilty for not being raised like other coloured people. I didn’t feel coloured …
He lay there. She went to the crib and lifted the baby, a bare tinge of honey. He felt something odd, a spark of memory, those summer days coming down from the fields into the cool shadow of the house so that he could see Isa-Marie in her room studying Bible passages. He waited for Louise to go out to the garden. At the crib he tried to control the trembling in his good hand. Helowered his swollen face. He wanted to touch his daughter, to bring his cheek to the calm, sleeping child.
That night he got up. He dressed and went outside. His fist ached. He’d taken three painkillers. The summer dark was hot and impersonal. He wondered briefly where he could go and be just another man. Thinking of the tiny girl, he was afraid that he might stay.
Fields were mowed and fragrant, and as he walked, the moonlit roofs of farmhouses and a few lights floated out across the dark. Eventually the road dipped to
Jude told Watson he would hang on to the money, maybe wait a year. Watson sweated, tried to make him see the possibilities of boxing left-handed. Jude barely heard, distant with pain. The next day, when he returned to theclub, padlocked chains and signs from the bank were on the doors. Only a note, from Watson, that the club was ahead of its time: People aren’t ready for the plan. Watson had absconded with the money from the fight. As for what Carney had left, a few days after the funeral, his son, Champ, a flat face Jude had never heard of, had shown up with a truck, loaded everything and left. Jude agreed to his last fight. Later, in the booker’s office, contracts scattered on the desk, Jude struggled to make sense of all these words. He recalled Isa-Marie writing his name for him to trace, and he signed where he was told.
The contender was Leon Brown, big bucks, another undefeated on the fast track to the heavyweight title. It was impossible to play him the way Jude had the Italian. After Jude took a beating in the first round, he tried to use his right but it hurt him more than it did his opponent. He felt the stitches split, the glove growing heavy. By the sixth round the referee was on the verge of calling it short. Jude’s face was swollen, his lips ruined, one eye shut, and Leon had taken just a few mean shots. Jude’s right shoulder was tired, the glove a solid weight on his hand. Only when Leon delivered five driving punches, his guard down because he was sure the fight was over, did Jude strike. The soaked glove was like a stone. Leon’s head snapped back. Blood ran along Jude’s arm, sprayed the audience that leapt up, unsure of what had happened, of who had died. Later the rumour was that Jude had struck hard enough to break his hand and Leon’s jaw. The papers picked it up. In the locker room the doctor cut the glove away as if it was something living,revealing the embryonic fist. Jude collected his money. It was more than enough.
He’d been given painkillers and hadn’t eaten in days. Louise had told him the baby was a girl but he didn’t go look. The hatchlings were growing, lifting startled gazes at all who passed. What do you want to do now? she asked. The pills made his stomach raw. His throat burned each time he burped.
Dormir
, he said —just sleep. Her expression softened. From the way she looked at him she cared what had happened to his face.
He stayed in bed, his hand plastered into a club. Sometimes she lay next to him though she soon got up to breastfeed or do chores or walk in sunlight. He didn’t approach the cradle with its mobile of beads and feathers.
I used to think I had to heal everyone, she told him, not checking to see if he was awake or listening. When I grew up, things were bad, but we weren’t so poor. My grandfather —my mother’s father—had a lot of French blood. I think he chose my grandmother for her beauty. I felt guilty for not being raised like other coloured people. I didn’t feel coloured …
He lay there. She went to the crib and lifted the baby, a bare tinge of honey. He felt something odd, a spark of memory, those summer days coming down from the fields into the cool shadow of the house so that he could see Isa-Marie in her room studying Bible passages. He waited for Louise to go out to the garden. At the crib he tried to control the trembling in his good hand. Helowered his swollen face. He wanted to touch his daughter, to bring his cheek to the calm, sleeping child.
That night he got up. He dressed and went outside. His fist ached. He’d taken three painkillers. The summer dark was hot and impersonal. He wondered briefly where he could go and be just another man. Thinking of the tiny girl, he was afraid that he might stay.
Fields were mowed and fragrant, and as he walked, the moonlit roofs of farmhouses and a few lights floated out across the dark. Eventually the road dipped to
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