Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [69]
The lights dimmed and Billy in white shorts ran down an aisle toward the arena. Another small boxer wearing black trunks kneed his way through the ropes from another aisle.
I turned to Cain, who was negotiating money business with his cronies.
“It's Billy. Why aren't you watching?”
He glanced up at the lightened square and turned back to the sheaf of money in his hands.
He mumbled, “That's just the prelims.”
The referee held up both men's hands, and the gong rang. The boxers crouched with their arms tucked into their sides. They began to inch a circle on the floor leaning in and over as if they were trying to identify the different brands of aftershave lotion. Black Shorts, with a rude immediacy, thrust his left fist into Billy's ribs.
Whump.
He withdrew, and while Billy was adjusting, shot his right fist against Billy's cheek.
My scream lofted high and made no indentation on the room's boisterousness.
Billy wobbled for a second, looking for a wall or shoulder to lean against.
“Hit him, Billy.” I was standing and ready to climb in the ring.
Black Shorts bounded away and then moved in close. As if responding to a public announcement, the fight fans began to give their attention to the action. Their low thunder diminished and I could hear the boxers' feet sliding across the mat. Sh-h-h, sh-h-h-whomp. There is no sound in the world like that of a man storing his fist in the chest of another man. Lions may roar, and coyotes howl, but the vibrations of two human beings struggling for physical superiority introduced to me a nauseating and new terror.
Whump! Whomp! Shi Shi Shi Oool
The breath was being pounded out of Billy's little body and I knew it could have been Bailey up there dancing his waltz under the cold eyes of gamblers.
“Stop them, Cain.” I turned and leaned over my boss and Billy's owner.
He regarded me as if I were a stranger just gone mad before his eyes.
“What? What? Sit down and cool off.” The edges of his teeth showed and his fat face glimmered in the dark.
“Stop them, I said. That man is beating Billy to death.”
“Shut up.” I was embarrassing him in front of his friends. “Shut up and sit down.”
“You dog. You sadistic dog freak!” The words were accented by the whomps and shs from the ring. “Freak!” I screamed it and turned to run.
Cain grabbed at my arm but I had moved away. The other men were questioning:
“What's the matter with her?”
“She go crazy or what?”
Cain ordered, “Sit down, dizzy bitch.”
I was nearly out into the aisle, but I turned and straddled a patron who was by now more interested in our row than in the public contest above.
“Marquis de Sade son of a bitch.” I threw my suede purse at Cain and lifted a leg over the patron, freeing myself to reach the aisle. I ran up the corridor to the front door, expecting at any moment to be caught and dragged back to be forced to watch poor little Billy be whomped to death.
I paused to catch my breath and consider the number of pursuers on my trail. The divisions between the rows were empty and the faces, which I expected to have swiveled in my departing direction, still faced forward.
I noticed that the roar was growing and from where I stood I saw the figure in white shorts fold down, knees first, to the canvas. Black Shorts' feet might have been mired in concrete, he stood so certain.
Billy's head crashed forward and the audience screamed its approval. I was right and wrong. Cain was a sadistic bastard. But he wasn't alone. All the bloodthirsty fans were sadistic, too. And so was Billy.
I walked the streets to my house and comforted myself with the knowledge that although my brother was small and agile enough to be a featherweight fighter, no one would ever sit eating hot dogs while he was beaten to death. He shadowboxed and danced down cruel streets, and his opponents made Black Shorts look less threatening than Papa Ford. I was proud that my brother was living a