The Real Thing Page 29

Brooklyn is in the house.

  Ding!

  Tank charges from his corner, so much stronger, so much quicker, so much more talented than Dante, but Dante slips to the side and throws out five consecutive jabs.

  He’s using his jab.

  Lelani says what I’m thinking: “He’s using his jab!”

  Dante listened to me.

  “He’s actually boxing!” Lelani shouts.

  He’s dancing. He’s dancing as he danced with me, as if he’s just out there shadowboxing up in Canada, kicking up dust and mirroring me.

  “He’s actually not getting hit for a change,” Lelani says.

  Dante isn’t putting a dent in Tank, but at least Dante’s cut man isn’t going to get arthritis tonight.

  Lelani grabs me. “This is so exciting!”

  I can’t speak. I’m watching an Italian matador at work. He’s bobbing. He’s weaving. He’s circling. He’s jabbing, sliding, pivoting, and turning. I want to shout, “Olé!”

  Ding!

  “He won that round,” I whisper to Lelani.

  “You don’t win rounds by dancing and throwing a few jabs,” she says.

  I don’t reply. Dante’s waiting. He’s watching. Those eyes…

  He listened to me. He is actually following my advice. What does that mean? Whatever it means, it is working so far. I look up toward the ceiling. Thanks, Granddaddy. I was always listening to you, especially when you didn’t think I was.

  The rounds roll by with much of the same, Dante the matador versus Tank the bull. Dante’s jab pops Tank’s face with increasing regularity. It snaps out like a hammer, and Dante follows it with crisp rights to the body. Dante’s chopping wood. Tank can’t get inside and resorts to throwing hay-makers over the top. I cringe at every bomb Tank throws, but Dante blocks them without backing up, snapping that hammer jab in Tank’s confused and frustrated face. Tank resorts to some “rough stuff”—low blows, hitting on the break, holding and hitting, leading with his forehead—and the referee has to warn him constantly to “knock it off, champ.”

  I hear people all around me complaining. “This isn’t the fight I came to see!” they shout. “Where’s the left hook?” the drunk behind us mutters. “I came to see the left hook!”

  After round ten, I am as sweaty as Dante is. I’ve been throwing little jabs and right crosses, doing a boxing “chair dance” for ten rounds. At least my hands have something to do. My legs and feet have yet to stop running in place.

  Lelani turns to me. “Why isn’t he throwing the hook, Christiana? What’s he waiting for?”

  I want to tell her what I told him, but she might not believe me. Her man, Red, is Dante’s trainer, not me. “Maybe he’s waiting for the right moment. The right time.”

  “But he’s running out of time,” Lelani says, obviously as flustered as Tank has become. “Tank’s throwing the heavier punches.”

  I smile at her. “And here I thought you’d become jaded by boxing.”

  She grabs my hand. “Not tonight. Dante has to win. He just has to.”

  “I know that.”

  She shakes her head. “For another big reason.”

  Another reason? “What?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  From the opening bell of the eleventh round, the fight really begins, and the noise is deafening. Tank and Dante stand toe to toe in the center of the ring, the proverbial “phone booth,” punching the living hell out of each other. It’s almost a repeat of their first fight, and the folks around me stand and shout. They are so fickle. Both boxers are taking punishment now, sweat and blood flying.

  But I can’t look away.

  Dante’s face puffs up, his eyes becoming slits, and it’s magnificent, utterly, truly magnificent. Blood streams from both of their faces, cuts open and ooze, the white parts of their trunks turning pink. Tank Washington bleeds. He’s human after all. Their arms fly faster than even a computer can count, and I swear I can feel the sweaty breezes from their punches. And when the Garden’s famous bell rings at the end of the eleventh round, a primal, joyous roar shakes the building.

  I can’t just sit here.

  Without a second thought, I move down our row saying “Scusi!” to all the toes I’m stepping on, bumping into Johnny Sears, Dante’s old trainer.

  “I never woulda believed it,” he says.

  “You’re late for your reservation,” I say, but I don’t have time to chat, old man.

  I rush to Dante’s corner where Dante sits on the stool, smiling, his high cheekbones bruised, his nose bloodied, the cut man working on his nose and eyebrows simultaneously.

  Red merely gives Dante some water while DJ rinses Dante’s mouthpiece.

  Why is no one saying anything? This could be Dante’s final round for the rest of his life!

  I guess it’s up to me.

  I have to put my mouth into Dante’s life one more time.

  Chapter 33

  “Win this round and you’ll win it all,” I say, perched on the ring apron. I notice a microphone taped to the post. Geez, I’m on pay-per-view. Millions of people just heard me say that. Do I care? Hell, no!

  “I am behind on points,” Dante wheezes.

  “What fight are you watching?” I say. “You’re up one round at least!”

  “He needs a knockout,” Red says.

  DJ nods. “Papino, you need to put him down.”

  Dante nods, a dribble of blood dropping off his chin. “Yes, Christiana. He must go down. Fare non preoccupazione. Do not be afraid. No matter what happens, Christiana, DJ, Red, fare non preoccupazione.”

  The referee appears. “Seconds out.” He stares at me. “Hey, she ain’t official.”

  I ignore him. “What are you going to do?” I whisper to Dante.

  Dante winks at me. “I am the teacher.”

  Every square inch on my body bursts into goose bumps, tears rolling down my face.

  Now millions of people have seen me cry.

  I am a mess.

  Dante rises to another impossible roar while Michael Buffer says, “Let’s give these two warriors a Madison Square Garden round of applause!”

  As if he needed to say that.

  I look around me and don’t know what to do. I do my best to avoid Evelyn’s eyes, but I can’t help it. I can’t read her eyes. Why isn’t she jumping up and shouting? Red tugs my elbow and helps me off the apron, placing me in a chair next to the post with DJ.

  “Can he do it, Red?” I ask, wiping my tears.

  “He’s been doing it,” Red says. “He’s already set it up. Just hope we have enough time for him to finish it.” He puts his nose in my ear. “No coaching, now. We have to be quiet or he can be disqualified.”

  “I know how to be silent, Red,” I say. I doubt anyone could hear me anyway above all this noise.

  They touch gloves again, and Tank dives in a millisecond later with a crushing right to Dante’s jaw. Dante’s red, white, and green mouthpiece sputters to the canvas.

  My heart drops into my stomach.

  Dante falters, hits the ropes, his hands clawing in the air in front of him. Tank crushes him again, this time with an uppercut, and Dante rolls toward his corner where Tank pummels Dante’s body again and again and again.

  Please do something! I shout in my head.

  Then Dante turns his head toward me as Tank hits that gentle face.

  Dante winks.

  His eyes are clear.

  He is the teacher.

  My goose bumps have sprouted goose bumps.

  Red grips my arm. “That sly old fox,” he says.

  “He is the teacher,” I barely whisper.

  “What?”

  Dante wobbles out of the corner toward Tank, his legs looking like mine probably looked that day he hit me. Tank throws several rights and lefts followed by a devastating left uppercut. Tank unleashes an arcing right—

  And Dante leaps aside and pounds Tank flush on the jaw with a cannon of a right, a howitzer, a, well, a runaway
tank of a punch!

  Tank staggers left.

  I squeeze the hell out of DJ’s arm.

  Dante leaps to the other side, showing that pericoloso left hook. Tank raises his right to block it, and Dante uncorks another brutal right flush on Tank’s jaw.

  I am now squeezing the hell out of Red’s arm.

  Tank’s legs wobble, then stiffen, as if he’s walking on hot sand with stork legs, his hands limp against his sides.

  Tank…is…toast!

  Dante pulls a right uppercut all the way from Carroll Gardens and drives Tank’s jaw up through his nose. A hard left to the ribs, a blistering right to the chest, and—

  There’s the hook, and it’s a green, white, and red hook, you son of a—

  Tank’s down.

  Tank’s down!

  “He’s not getting up!” Red hollers, hugging DJ and me.

  “Class,” I say, as the Garden shakes, the roars echoing all the way to Brooklyn. I smile. “Class is dismissed.”

  I can’t shout anymore.

  I can’t make a sound.

  The noise is so deafening that I’m deaf.

  I see Dante, his hands up and ready for battle, waiting in the opposite corner looking not too much different from that little boy in that baggy T-shirt and billowing shorts, flashbulbs blitzkrieging the ring.

  I’m blind.

  I’m deaf.

  I’m mute.

  The referee counts it down along with the crowd.

  The referee waves his arms and raises Dante’s right hand.

  Victory.

  He did it!

  I can’t believe I’m crying. I can’t believe I have any tears left to cry!

  I cannot move as I watch only DJ running into the ring to embrace his papino. I look at Red, and he’s weeping, both his large, dark hands gripping the bottom rope. I turn to see Evelyn, and she seems to be muttering to herself.

  Oh yeah.

  Evelyn.

  I watch DJ removing Dante’s gloves while camera crews spill into the ring. A gold blur then sneaks past me into the ring.

  Evelyn.

  Oh no.

  Oh no, no, no.

  I don’t want to see this!

  Chapter 34

  I turn to run, God only knows where, but Red grabs me.

  “Wait, Christiana. Don’t go. It ain’t over yet.”

  “Che?”

  “The fight ain’t over yet, Christiana,” he says. “Stick around.”

  “But, Red, I—”

  “Stick around,” he says again. He holds both my shoulders. “I think you’re gonna like what you see.”

  Dante embraces Evelyn, and the crowd roars. My legs buckle and I try to run, but Red holds me still.

  “Just wait, Christiana.”

  Dante smiles and kisses both of her cheeks. He motions to DJ, and it looks like they’re having a family conference, not that I would know anything about that. My heart slows a little, but then Evelyn kisses Dante on the cheek, the crowd roars, and I try to pull away from Red.

  “For the last time, Christiana,” he says, “be still.”

  I start to cry again. Granddaddy used to say that to me all the time.

  Then DJ throws Dante’s gloves over his shoulder and escorts Evelyn off the canvas, his arm around his mother.

  What just happened?

  The crowd is quiet, even restless.

  Then Dante motions to me, smiling.

  Dear Jesus! I know I don’t talk to you like I should but…Dear Jesus!

  Why can’t I move? I wanted to move a few seconds ago.

  “You’re on, Christiana,” Lelani says in my ear. I didn’t even know she was standing next to me!

  “Lelani, Red—”

  Red lets go of my shoulders. “I know you’ll keep him happy,” he says, his voice hoarse, tears streaming from his eyes. He hugs me. “I knew there was something…something good about you. Take care of our boy, okay?”

  “You’re leaving?” I ask.

  “Retiring,” Red says with a smile. “Gonna open up a restaurant in Brooklyn Heights. You’ll never have to pay.”

  “Yes, she will,” Lelani says. “I want big tips.” She waves a ring at me. “I am surprised you didn’t notice this.”

  “I’m sorry, Lelani, I—”

  “You were focused on your man. I understand.” She kisses Red on the lips. “I really do. Ciao.”

  Camera crews, reporters, and even Harry surround Dante, but he’s still beckoning to me. I roll onto the apron and under the bottom rope, standing jelly-legged and almost out on my feet by the time Dante pushes through the cameras and takes me into his arms.

  Another roar.

  Flashbulbs like lightning.

  “Dante, are you sure?” is all I can manage to say.

  “Sì,” he says. “You are done ignoring me.”

  I hug him hard. “I will never ignore you again.”

  I’m sure we’re confusing the hell out of these people. I mean, I’m not the woman they think he was fighting for.

  Or was I?

  Was I?

  “Dante, were you fighting for me?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  This is unbelievable. “The whole time?”

  He smiles. “No. Not the whole time.”

  I have to know when. I have to know when…when he fell in love with me. “When did you decide that you…when did you decide to fight for me?”

  He kisses my forehead. “It did not happen all at once. From the day we met, I liked you. You impressed me. I am not easily impressed. Then you hurt me but I forgave you. I told myself, Dante, you cannot forgive this woman. But I did. You came many miles to tell me to box, not fight. Use your jab, you said. It worked, yes? Then you send a nice picture, one I did not burn, and this morning I read the most amazing article. You wore me down. You worked my body and my heart. I could not resist.”

  Here come the tears.

  Harry the Human Cliché thrusts the microphone into Dante’s face and says something stupid like, “How’s it feel to be champion again?”

  Dante takes the microphone from Harry and taps it. Nothing. “I want everyone to hear,” he says to Harry.

  Harry goes to the ropes and makes the request. Dante taps the microphone, and huge booms thunder into the Garden. The crowd quiets.

  “I have fought…”

  The crowd goes crazy again.

  Dante waits until the noise dies down. “I have fought my last fight.”

  “No!” howls through the Garden. Amazing. Fifteen thousand New Yorkers just had the same thought I have.

  “It was a good fight, yes?” he says.

  They cheer.

  “It was a good fight. But…” He smiles at me, and I get all gooey inside. “It is time to retire. I want to be able to breathe and think when I am old.” He pulls me closer and looks into my eyes. “I have won this match for love.”

  I am lost in his eyes, and I hope no one but Dante ever finds me.

  “Love for you, Christiana.”

  Fifteen thousand people ooh and ahh. I’m glad I’m wearing pants and this jacket. My goose bumps would cut everyone around me to shreds.

  “I do not have a ring for you yet, Christiana.” He looks around me. “Is this ring big enough for you?”

  My heart can’t possibly get any bigger. “Yes,” I say softly. “Yes.”

  Applause.

  “All this canvas, the ropes. It is hard to wear.”

  Laughter. I’m crying again. He kisses a tear away.

  “Are you sure you want to retire, Dante?” I ask.

  The Garden folks don’t want it to happen, shouting, “Don’t retire! Keep fighting!”

  Dante smiles at the crowd. “I am sure. I want a daughter to train. We will help her be champion.”

  “Yes.” A daughter. A family. What I’ve always wanted. What I’ve always needed. What I had until I was two but can’t and don’t want to remember. What I had with Granddaddy and can never forget. For once in my life,
sadness won’t be able to hurt me anymore.

  For once in my life, I won’t be alone.

  “I will still fight, though,” Dante says.

  The Garden becomes silent.

  He winks at me. “Christiana, I will fight you for the remote control. I will fight you for the covers. I will fight you for the right to cook in my own kitchen. I will fight for air when we…” He raises his eyebrows.

  Have you ever heard a thousand catcalls? Now imagine a thousand New Yorkers making them. It’s a good thing this fight was pay-per-view. HBO will have to edit this part for the replay next weekend.

  “I will fight you when we work out together and make our daughter,” Dante continues. “I will fight to hold back my tears when we are married and when I hold my daughter for the first time.”

  I am having this man’s baby, and we are making her tonight.

  “We can get married here, yes?” he asks.

  Laughter.

  “Are you kidding?” I whisper.

  He hugs me fiercely. “See, we are fighting already. It is the sure sign of a healthy marriage. Whatever fights you get into, make sure they end in a tie.” He kisses me deeply to glorious applause. “Making up is a good workout, too.”

  Dante gives the microphone to Harry.

  Harry fluffs his hair and says, “Okay, champ, how does it—”

  “No,” Dante says. “No interview. It was not put in my contract because I was not supposed to win. I do not have to talk to you.”

  “But—”

  “No. This interview is over.” Dante guides me to the corner, waving at the crowd. He picks me up and puts me on the top rope, gripping my legs tightly. “Our interview is over, too.”

  Say what? “Che? What interview?”

  “The interview I have been having with you since I met you,” he says. “The interview that began the very second I saw you in that boat taking my picture. This is the last interview I will ever give. You were a hard interview. So temperamental.”

  My mouth drops open. “Me? You…you…”

  He puts his forehead on mine. “What? You think I do not have giornalista skills? I have, as they say, mad skills, yo. I was interviewing you almost the entire time.”

  This can’t be, can it? “Oh, no, you weren’t.”

  He nods. “Think back. You will see. It started on the dock when I was only the thirteenth sexy man.”