“Won’t you be seeing him at the gym?”
Lymie hesitated and then shook his head. “Not this afternoon,” he said. “I’ve got some work to do. I have to study for an hour exam.”
“You aren’t sore at each other?”
“No,” Lymie said.
She sighed and put the envelope in her pocket. “I won’t be seeing him until after supper probably. Do you know, Lymie, when I first knew you, you were different from the way you are now.”
“In what way?”
“Well,” she said slowly, “for one thing, you didn’t tell lies.”
41
Lymie went up to the dorm early that night, knowing that if Spud were coming it would have been before this, because pledges were not allowed out of the fraternity house on a week night after seven-thirty. He was hoping that he could fall asleep immediately and not know when Amsler came, but he turned and turned in the cold bed, without making a place for himself, and after awhile, he heard steps on the stairs. The door swung open and Howard and Geraghty came in.
“It’s the whining,” Geraghty said, as the door swung shut behind him. “If it wasn’t for the whining I wouldn’t care so much one way or the other. But this always wanting to know where you’ve been and who you were with and why you didn’t call her up. It’s enough to drive a guy nuts.”
A bed creaked and Howard said, “Jesus, it’s cold!”
“Somebody must have told her about Louise,” Geraghty said mournfully. “She didn’t say so but I’m pretty sure that’s what must have happened.”
Howard yawned. “Go to sleep,” he said.
So Geraghty had a new girl, Lymie thought. And he hadn’t got the old one in trouble after all, in spite of Reinhart’s prophecies. Or maybe because of them. But why should Geraghty get tired of a girl who was so pretty and loving? Did he just want a change? And what would happen when Geraghty got tired of his new girl?
Lymie was not really interested in Geraghty or Geraghty’s girls; he pulled the other pillow around to his back and waited. In a few minutes the door swung open again. It was Steve Rush this time. Freeman came shortly afterward. Then Pownell marched in, and Reinhart after him. Their beds creaked, and there was a soft rustling of covers as they settled down under the weight of coats and comforters. The wind tore at the corners of the house as if it had some personal spite against it and against all the people lying awake and asleep under the mansard roof. A floor board contracted. Lymie thought of Hope over in the university hospital. He heard the chimes in the Law Building strike midnight and wondered where Amsler was.
Lymie was hanging on the edge of sleep when he heard a step on the stairs, and it was something that he had imagined so many times the last few weeks that he didn’t believe in it; not until the door swung wide open and the step (which couldn’t be anyone else’s) came nearer and nearer. Lymie waited. He felt the covers being raised, and then the bed sinking down on the other side, exactly as he had imagined it. Then, lifted on a great wave of unbelieving happiness, he turned suddenly and found Spud there beside him.
Spud was in his underwear and he was shivering. “My God, it’s cold,” he said. He pushed the pillow aside, and dug his chin in Lymie’s shoulder.
Anybody else in the world, Lymie thought, anybody but Spud would have said something, would at least have explained that he was sorry. But Spud hated explanations and besides there was no need for them. It was enough that Spud was here, whether for good or just for this once; that it was Spud’s arm he felt now across his chest.
Lymie lay back on the wave of happiness and was supported by it. The bed had grown warm all around him. Spud’s breathing deepened and became slower. His chest rose and fell more quietly, rose and fell in the breathing of sleep. Lymie, stretched out beside him, wished that it were possible to die, with this fullness in his heart for which there were no words and couldn’t ever be. All that he had ever wanted, he had now. All that was lost had come back to him, just because he had been patient.
He heard Amsler come in and go to his own bed. Then, managing to keep Spud’s warm foot against his, Lymie turned and lay on his back, so that Spud’s arm would go farther around him. He made no effort to go to sleep, and sleep when it came to him was sudden. One minute he was wide awake thinking, and the next he was lying unconscious, on his back, as if he had been felled by a heavy blow.
BOOK FOUR
A Reflection from the Sky
42
Though it came from human throats the roar was animal Certain voices rose above it screaming
Come on, colored boy but the two fighters exchanging blow for blow didn’t hear. Except when the referee came between them saying
Break it up, break it up they were alone, under the smoky white light from the reflectors. They were in a world of silence and one of them was tired.
Upper cut, Francis … Old Man Upper cut … the head … up … up
He’s tired too, Rudy
The head, not down there … up … up … throw it in his face
Oooh, that dirty nigger
The ice cream man moved in a world of noise, looking for upraised hands, for the quick turn of a head. At that moment all heads were turned away from him, all eyes were on the ring. The crowd moaned and moaned again as the white boy sank from the ropes to the canvas. In the back of the balcony a baby started crying. The referee waved the Negro to a neutral corner. On the count of seven the white boy rose to his knees. At the count of nine he was on his feet again but groggy.
Finish him off, Francis
Not there… up … up… atsa baby … a little higher and he’s through
Come on, Francis … bring it up… up … that’s it … cute … more
Good-by, Rudy
What hit him
Fall down, Rudy, you’re through
Stop the fight
Come on, Francis … finish up fast
In the belly
That’s it … downstairs, Rudy
He don’t know where it came from … he still don’t know
In the belly, Francis
It’s all yours, Francis
The fight was not, as it turned out, all Francis’s. At the end of the third round, the fighters broke apart. The Negro went on dancing until the decision was announced. Then the handlers stepped through the ropes, bringing robes and towels. Rudy’s handlers congratulated him. There were several voices from the balcony assuring Francis that he had been robbed, but nothing was done about it. He and the white boy faded into the darkness, into the thick fog of cigar smoke, and two other fighters took their places.
The announcer moved up to the microphone.
Ladies and … gentlemen… this contest three rounds
One of the fighters was towheaded, with very white skin. His weight was distributed in chunks over his body, giving a look of boxlike squareness to his back and shoulders, his thighs, and the calves of his rather short legs.
From Chicago’s West Side … wearing black trunks … weighing one-forty-seven … Larry Brannigan Junior
At the first sound of applause the towheaded fighter doubled up, as if from a stomach cramp, and with one arm held out stiffly he wheeled around backward in a complete circle—the favorite accepting homage from his admirers.
From the University of… wearing purple trunks … weighing a hundred forty-six and three quarters pounds … Spud Latham
Again applause. Spud raised his glove to his father, who was watching from the door to the dressing rooms. Mr. Latham saw the gesture, but didn’t realize that it was for him. The past four nights, taking on all comers, Spud had wiped out his father’s failures, one after another. Mr. Latham was no longer the same man.
The two fighters, their seconds, and the referee stood in the center of the ring under the glaring white light. The referee was heavy-set and had bushy black eyebrows. He was wearing gray trousers, a white shirt, a black bow tie, a black leather belt, and boxing shoes. His face suggested no particular nationality. Neither Brannigan
nor Spud heard his instructions. They were sizing each other up. There was a cut over Spud’s left eye which had three clamps in it. This caught Brannigan’s fancy and he smiled. Hit properly, the clamps could be driven straight into Spud’s head. The referee looked at the cut before he checked their hands and wrappings.
In his corner, waiting for the fight to begin, Spud suddenly felt limp. His handlers were hovering over him, telling him to feel Brannigan out in the first round. Spud nodded, wondering what they would say if he leaned forward now and confessed to them that he didn’t have any stomach. His knees were moving all by themselves, and his hands, inside all of that tape, felt soft as putty. The whistle blew. He got up and scraped the soles of his shoes in the resin box. Then he stood with his gloves on the ropes, waiting. The rubber mouthpiece was forced between his lips. It was wet and it tasted wonderful. At the sound of the bell he swung around and saw Brannigan coming toward him fast. Spud crouched and let Brannigan have one—a left hook that caught him under the heart. The crowd moaned. Brannigan missed a wild left swing and took a left and right to the jaw. They went into a clinch and the referee separated them.
Atta boy, Brannigan, give it to him … open up that eye
Lefty Latham
Keep punching that eye
There … that hit him
That’s all right… Junior’s taking it easy … he’s not getting excited
Jab it… keep your left hand up, Latham, lead with your left hand, not the right … the left hand … keep the left hand in his face
Look out for your chin, dear friend
Go way from that
Keep your head, Junior … take it easy… three rounds
Ooh
That hit him … that’s the only one that hit him
What a headache
What happened … what happened
Come on, Latham … let’s go
Keep that left hand out there … left in his face will knock him out
He needs more than a left … he needs a left and a right for that boy
What happened … nothing happened … don’t worry, Brannigan
He’s a murderer
Hit him, with a wet glove … a good one … a wet one
Spud backed Brannigan against the ropes and slugged him twice before the referee, for what reason it was not clear, came between them. There were boos and hisses from the crowd.
Go on … get out
Go way from there
He had no right to stop him … they were both on their feet
Right … right … so what
So he should leave him alone … the fellow was on the ropes
Maybe the referee has got bets on him
Use the left hand
Off the ropes, Junior
All of a sudden the referee they got him from Halsted Street
Keep away from those ropes, you fool
Shut up
Why should I shut up? I paid my admission … didn’t I? … The guy had the fight in the first round and the referee steps between them
Keep it in his face, Latham … the left
Eh, Brannigan … what happened?
Between the first and second rounds Spud leaned back with his legs sprawled out in front of him and tried to relax. He felt the cold water being poured over his head and spilling down his chest. His gloved hands were taken from the ropes and placed on his knees. One of the handlers held the elastic away from his belly and massaged his chest and solar plexus. The other bent over him, talking earnestly. Spud was too keyed up to pay any attention. All he wanted was to get back in the center of the ring. This fight and one more and he’d have the Golden Gloves. The whistle blew. Spud pushed the mouthpiece back in, with his glove, and got to his feet. The stool was removed. The handlers crawled out through the ropes and went on talking to him, from outside the ring. Then the bell. Then he was fighting.
Apparently it made no difference to the referee that he was unpopular with the crowd. He continued to move quickly in wide circles around the fighters, coming between them frequently and forcing them apart with his hands. His face was extraordinarily serene, as if he knew the outcome of each fight before it began. He saw Brannigan graze Spud’s chin with the lacing of his glove, and warned him about it, but most of the time he was looking at Spud and the expression in his eyes was sad.
Spud was certain that the first two rounds were his. He went into the third determined to win by a knockout. He could see that Brannigan’s arms were so tired that it was all he could do to lift them. He himself felt fresh as a daisy. When Brannigan finally left himself wide open, Spud had the knockout blow all aimed and ready. Brannigan fell on his knees and Spud, in his excitement and haste, before he could stop himself, hit him again.
Standing there alone in the center of the ring, after the referee had stopped the fight, Spud heard the crowd for the first time. It took him several seconds to realize that they were booing at him.
43
Two figures rose up from where they had been sitting, their view of the ring partly cut off by a large pillar, and made their way through the aisles. One of them was a girl. Her coat was thrown open and she was wearing a bunch of purple violets pinned to the collar. The young man with her was about nineteen. He carried his overcoat and a Scotch plaid muffler over one arm, and the same distress that was in the girl’s face was also in his, like a reflection from the sky.
To get from the arena to the dressing rooms it was necessary to go through a lounge which had orange wicker furniture in it. Around the green walls were framed autographed pictures of boxers and wrestlers. From the door of this room Mr. Latham had watched Spud making his way to the ring. He was there waiting when Spud came back, his blue bathrobe tied around him and the sleeves hanging empty at his sides.
Disaster was something that Mr. Latham had had to contend with all his life. It didn’t astonish him any more. But he was sorry, standing there in the doorway with a dead cigar in his mouth—that the run of bad luck was beginning now for Spud. When Spud’s eyes met his father’s for a second, Mr. Latham shook his head in sympathy and understanding.
Spud sat down on a wicker settee. His hair was soaking wet. The sweat was running down his forehead, down his chest, down the insides of his arms and legs. He had a headache and his mouth felt as if it were filled with cotton. He sat with his shoulders hunched, his wrists crossed under the folds of his bathrobe, handcuffed together by what had happened to him. The clumsy boxing gloves were resting on his bare knees. Another fight had already started in the arena, but Spud was involved in the last one. He couldn’t get out of that moment when Brannigan had left himself wide open. From there things could have gone quite differently. He slugged Brannigan and then he waited. That was how it should have been, and how he kept making it be, over and over.
Although Mr. Latham seemed to be watching the fight, his look was inward. Lymie and Sally were almost close enough to speak to him before he saw them and stepped back from the doorway, so they could pass through it. When Spud saw them coming toward him across the room, he rose to his feet, ready to defend himself against both of them with his life’s blood. They were there. They had seen it. But then he felt Sally’s arms around him, hugging him, and he looked into her eyes and after that it was all right. That he had lost the fight with Brannigan didn’t matter in the least.
It mattered to Lymie, though. “That dirty, double-crossing referee,” he said. “You had the fight won in the first round.”
Spud turned to him and smiled. “Pulled a fast one, didn’t you?”
“We didn’t know we were coming,” Sally said. “I just couldn’t stand it any more. You don’t know what it was like having to wait for the next day’s paper, and not being able to concentrate on anything for more than two minutes. I thought I was going crazy. So this morning Lymie and I looked up the train schedule and cut all our classes and came.”
“What did your mother say?”
“She didn’t say anything. She didn’t know we were
coming. I told Hope to call her after the train left.”
Spud glanced uneasily at his father, while she was talking. When she finished he said, “Dad, this is Sally Forbes.”
Sally took her hand away from Spud and put it in his. They smiled at each other and were, from that moment, friends.
“What happened to your eye?” Lymie asked.
“I got a bad cut,” Spud said.
“When?”
“Last night. It bled all through the last round. After it was over they put some clamps in it.”
“I’m glad I wasn’t here,” Sally said.
“I would just as soon have been somewhere else myself,” Spud said. “That guy Brannigan, he kept trying to open it up but he didn’t touch it once.” His face lengthened. He was back in that moment when Brannigan left himself wide open. There was no hurry now.
“Don’t worry,” Sally said, with her cheek against his. “Don’t even think about it.”
Spud brought his arms out from under the bathrobe, and folded them around her.
“It seems as if you’d been away for years,” she said sadly.
“Five days,” Spud said. “It seemed like a long time to me too.” He felt something soft and drew away from her. It was the violets. They had touched his bare chest. “Where’d you get the flowers?”
“Lymie bought them for me,” Sally said. “He thought I ought to have some violets. I said this wasn’t any symphony concert we were going to but he bought them anyway. And then we had dinner at a place called the Tip-Top Inn, where they have pictures of nursery rhymes on the walls, and an orchestra—all for eighty cents.”
“It’s across from the Art Institute,” Lymie explained.
Spud took his arms away from Sally and appeared to be concerned with the lacing of his gloves. “I have to go back in there,” he said, jerking his head toward the arena. “As soon as this fight is over.”
Sally looked at him in bewilderment but he avoided her eyes.
“I’ll get something out of it anyway,” he said, “even if it’s only third place. You better go back to your seats.” His tone was harsh. He might have been speaking to strangers.