After Mrs. Thomas cleaned the abrasion at the back of Xavier’s neck, she assured him that she would call as soon as she had information about Sam’s condition. Xavier fought the urge to embrace her. She squeezed his arm before she left to return to her duties on the nursing floor. Xavier lingered and gazed at the tree line for a moment longer. Thunder rumbled. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and made his way to the exit.
The rain beat rhythmically on the roof of the Volvo. The passenger seat looked emptier than usual without Loki. He retrieved his phone to check the time, the dash clock broken since he’d punched it after a frustrating training session. He was astonished to see a little less than half an hour had passed since he’d arrived. Funny how the worst things always moved the slowest, he thought, though his father’s decline seemed faster than ever.
He knew he should feel sympathy for Sam’s situation. He didn’t. He knew he should feel guilty for ever bringing him to Maple Grove. He didn’t. Instead, what welled and brimmed over was anger. And for once, the fury was not unwelcome.
That’s right. Fuck that old man. Old racist deserves whatever he gets.
The things Sam had said to that nurse. To those aides. To him. How could he? How dare he? And he meant that shit. 92There was venom in his voice. Those were not the words of a man who hadn’t said those things before.
Tears welled once more, and Xavier’s frustration with himself mounted. His emotions switched as easily as a television channel. Unable to redirect them, he cried tears of confusion and betrayal. He cried for a mistake he’d made that he might never be able to remedy—though maybe now was the time to try.
His phone buzzed. Shot.
Where u at?
Xavier rested his head back on the headrest. It had to be about Lawrence, and it couldn’t be good. The television channel changed once more. Guilt plucked at his nerves. Lawrence was a piece of shit, top to bottom, but Xavier regretted what he’d done. Lying on the mat, his career draining from openings in his face, ones that Xavier had taken joy in creating. He could admit that now—that he’d enjoyed it—but that enjoyment scared the shit out of him. Or so he told himself.
His phone buzzed again.
U got ur read notification on nigga. I know you seen this.
Xavier cursed, changed his settings, and looked at the time again. He could make it to Shot’s before going home. Loki had plenty of food and water. He’d be fine.
On my way.
Xavier turned the ignition and the Volvo chugged to life. The car was stifling, but the rain continued to pour so the windows stayed up. The whine in his ears returned. He turned the fan on full blast and cranked the radio up as loud as he could stand it to drown out the tinnitus. The Scarecrow was off to see the Wizard.
The rain soaked Xavier’s sweatshirt in the brief run from the parking lot to the lobby, and the hoodie hung 93heavy on his shoulders. He gave the front desk attendant a nod, one the man barely returned. His odd look didn’t escape Xavier’s notice. It was the same look he noted on the face of one of Shot’s protégés as they stopped short when they saw him. Xavier’s paranoia escalated. He walked toward the boxing side of the gym.
Shot and Clay trained in the ring. Shot held weathered focus mitts and wore a body pad. He circled Clay, throwing looping outside shots, admonishing the youngster to keep his hands up but his elbows low.
Protect the body and the head.
Get that lead hand up in front of your face.
Stop with that Mayweather shit. You ain’t him and you fitting to get knocked out.
Now counter.
Clay shot out sharp ones and twos. He feinted high then dropped to the body. His skinny arms delivered hooks to the ribs that, when he dug deep, caused Shot to wince; hooks that mirrored those of the man who trained him. And Clay knew it. He spent too much time admiring those punches and Shot made him pay. He brought a powerful uppercut underneath Clay’s lazy guard, a toll for staying in the pocket too long, not hitting him with the flat side, but the hard edge of the focus mitt. Clay stumbled backward.
Xavier cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Stop watching your punches, Clay. They ain’t that pretty.”
Clay looked up and over to Xavier for less than a moment and caught a looping focus mitt from Shot for his trouble. Flat side this time, to the ear. Xavier cringed and mouthed “my bad.” Clay tightened his lips over his mouthguard.
“That timer go off yet?” Shot asked. Clay shook his head. “Then mind your motherfucking business in here.” Clay reset. 94
Xavier loved watching Clay work. He had rough edges but possessed incredible talent for his age. He’d voiced some interest in mixed martial arts and moved effortlessly on the mat when Xavier showed him some of the ground game. Absent were the wild movements of someone new to jiu jitsu. The two of them had a solid rapport as trainer and student, one Xavier feared might have been damaged by his behavior the day before.
The ring timer chimed. Clay returned to his corner, threw off his gloves, and unwrapped his hands. Xavier walked over to him. Clay glanced at him, then looked away.
“You’re still staying inside too long on those body shots. Keep it short, make him drop his hands so you can bring that big left hook over the top.”
“Uh huh,” Clay said. He looked anywhere but at Xavier as he collected his gear, stepped through the ropes, and jumped down off the apron. Xavier went to call after him when Shot gripped his shoulder and spun him around.
“The hell you wearing a hoodie in this heat for?” He peered at Xavier’s face. “And what the fuck happened to your eye?” He then called past Xavier to Clay. “Did I tell you to unwrap your hands? Go practice them body shots on the bag. Keep going until I tell you to stop.” He turned back to Xavier with a look that asked why he hadn’t received an answer yet.
“The eye, cuz, is one long-ass story.”
“That need stitches? It better not. Man, if you messed around and got cut—”
“Nah, no stitches. Why, what’s the deal, man?”
“My office.”
Shot unstrapped the body pad and dropped it and the focus mitts to the floor. He turned and made for his office. Xavier followed, anxious. He looked back over his shoulder for Clay, and saw him absentmindedly hitting the bag, watching him. 95Once caught staring, Clay went back to unleashing combinations as he’d been told. Xavier frowned and looked forward again as he followed Shot, who asked him to close the door behind them.
“This day couldn’t possibly get any worse, so just tell me how bad it is.”
“Huh?” Xavier asked.
“Isn’t this about Lawrence?”
“That chump. Yeah, you messed him up real bad. Quarter inch separation in his jaw. They had to plate and wire that shut. Going to be drinking his food for a while. Which honestly don’t much matter since he won’t be able to taste it, because his nose is all packed up from the surgery to move it back to the middle of his face.”
Xavier ran his hands over his head. “Christ.”
“Plus, they had to put plates around his eye socket to hold it together. I’m saying, why couldn’t you do this in some of your other fights? You’d have motherfuckers ducking you left and right. Would have gotten that title shot with the quickness.”
“Is he going to fight again?”
“Who?”
“Who? Lawrence, man.”
“Hell nah, he ain’t fighting anymore. Not for me, anyway. He’s no use to me broken like that. I can’t have somebody in there afraid to pull the trigger.”
“Fuck, Shot.”
“Nigga, what do you care? Why we still talking about this, anyway?”
Xavier’s eyelids narrowed to slits. “Are you out your natural born mind? ‘What do I care?’ The guy that did all that to him?”
“You should be in here upset over the fact that you have, yet again, put me in a fucked-up position that I still ain’t figured out yet, and while you crying for someone who ain’t 96earned one of your tears, what I don’t hear is solutions as to how I’m supposed to fix this shit.”
Xavier sat quiet. Shot let the silence hang heavy, staring at his cousin. Xavier looked at Shot’s mouth, his hair, his ear, anything to keep from looking down while also not looking him in the eye. He was a scolded child, one who knew good and well that he’d done wrong and was fresh out of excuses.
“You’re right,” Xavier said.
“I know.”
“It’s just these past couple of days, man. They’ve been rough. And what happened with Pop today. You wouldn’t believe.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t really care about all that, neither.”
“What?”
“That man’s no kin to me.”
Xavier blinked in disbelief. “He’s your uncle.”
“By marriage, which don’t mean a thing. You know good and well I ain’t ever been treated like family in your house by anyone but you. Not by Auntie Evelyn and damn sure not by your pops.”
“No, that’s not true.”
“You know it is.” Shot sat back and folded his arms. “In fact, I think you know more now than you did then.”
Xavier couldn’t settle the tremor in his voice. “He didn’t know me today. He came out of the bathroom and thought I was stealing his stuff.” He breathed deep. “He called me a nigger.”
The hard lines around Shot’s mouth softened. “I forget how old I was. Seven or eight, maybe. Moms had dropped me off at your house for the afternoon and Auntie Ev had gone out for groceries or some such. We was tearing ass all over the house like the knuckleheads we were.” Xavier smiled weakly. “At one point, you were hiding somewhere, and I was running all over 97looking for you. Your pops was watching the Eagles’ game, and when I ran past him, he stuck his foot out. Tripped me.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I went ass out. Fell right on my face. Funny thing was, I laughed. I thought he was playing with me, but when I stood up, wasn’t no smile on his face. I won’t ever forget what he said. ‘Stop running around my house like a Goddamned monkey.’”
Xavier winced. “Come on.”
“No bullshit, X. I just stood there at first. I mean, I was a kid, right? What was I going to say? I couldn’t even process it. I’m not even sure I really knew what he meant at the time. I remember that look on his face, though. Dead serious. I was straight up scared. I just said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and then went to find you. And I walked. I damn sure didn’t run.
“I thought about that day a lot. When I got old enough to understand what it meant, that shit pissed me off so bad. I couldn’t get my head around it. Here he was married to your mama, had you, a Black son, but he was fitting to trip my ass and say some shit like that to me.”
“That’s why you stopped coming around when we were in high school.”
“Yessir.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because we had so much damn fun together, man. We weren’t just cousins, we was boys. And it just didn’t make sense to me, you know? I saw the way he was with you and the way you were with him. Y’all two were tight. I couldn’t understand how he could be racist and still show you all that love. So, I left it alone. I didn’t want to mess that up because I didn’t want to mess up our thing. I guess I felt like if it came down to a choice for you, if it had to be me or him, I was losing that one every time. I figured if he was really like that, 98he’d show that to you eventually. Then y’all would have to work all that out on your own.”
Xavier shook his head. “I’m sorry, man.”
“For what?”
“That he did that to you.”
“Did you tell him to trip me? To say that to me?” Xavier wiped at an eye. “No, you didn’t. Don’t apologize for things you ain’t got be sorry for. Go cry on your own time.” Xavier lifted his eyebrows and Shot smirked. “I didn’t bring you in here to talk all this sad stuff, anyway.”
Xavier smiled back. “Well you the one running your mouth. What did you bring me in for then?”
Shot laughed and picked up his cell phone from the table. He wiggled it in the air, then tapped at it and pressed the speaker function on the screen. Xavier leaned forward as the phone rang. When the voice on the other end answered, Xavier sat back in his chair and covered his mouth with his hand. He hadn’t heard Carson Davis’s voice since the day he’d told him the commission had suspended him for a year. And that year was up. Xavier stared wide eyed at Shot.
“What’s up, Shot? You got the Scarecrow there?”
“Sitting right across from me.”
“Xavier, how are you, kid?”
Xavier bit his lip. The last time they’d spoken, Carson had told Xavier in no uncertain terms that a yearlong suspension at his age meant his career was over and asked how dare he embarrass the organization at a time when they were working to convince the public that the sport was clean.
The tone of that conversation was gone now. Xavier knew too well what he heard now in Carson’s voice. Need. Carson needed him. Knowing that, Xavier pumped his legs up and down like an overeager child. He pressed his hands against his knees, as much to stop his frenetic motion as to dry his palms. 99
“I’m good, Carson.” His voice was nearly an octave higher, he cleared his throat and stepped it down. “What’s up?”
“I won’t beat around the bush, I’m sure you’re a busy man.” Xavier rolled his eyes at the patronization. “Here’s the deal—we got this guy who’s got some heat behind him. He strung together some wins on the regional circuit, and he had a big knockout in his debut with us. Still a prelim fighter, but I’ve got a feeling he’s going places. Anyway, we had a pretty exciting fight lined up for him and the guy dropped out.”
“How come?” Shot asked.
“As far as the press knows, it’s an undisclosed injury. Let’s leave it at that.”
“And?” Xavier said.
“And? What do you think? You want the fight?”
“When?”
“Saturday.”
“As in this Saturday?”
“As in this Saturday.”
“Carson, it’s Tuesday, man,” Shot said.
“Yeah, my phone has a fucking calendar on it, too, Shot. Congratulations.”
Shot gave the phone the finger.
“What’s the upside?” Xavier asked.
“The upside is you’re back in The Show after not having fought anywhere for a year, that’s the fucking upside.” Carson took a deep breath. “Look, there’s a redemption arc in this for you, right? Aging fighter, disgraced for pissing hot, takes a last-minute fight against some brash up and comer right after his suspension is up. You can’t write that shit. Is he good? Yeah, he’s got some raw talent, but he doesn’t have your experience. This is a tune-up fight for you, at best.”
“And I’m a steppingstone at worst,” Xavier said.
“Minimal chance at that, kid. Minimal. Plus, the guy said 100he’d meet in the middle for a catchweight. A hundred ninety-five pounds.”
“Fuck that,” Shot said. Xavier furrowed his brow and made the sign for Shot to stop but he ignored it. “One eighty-five or nothing. I don’t want your guy having any excuses for a loss.”
Carson’s grin was audible. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“What’s the terms?” Shot asked.
“Fifteen to show, fifteen to win.”
“Bullshit,” Xavier said.
“You’re crazy, Carson,” Shot said. “We was getting thirty and thirty before the suspension.”
“Key word is before, Shot.”
“It’s a last-minute fight, no catchweight,” Xavier said. “Come on, Carson.”
“Hey, your manager there is the one turning down the catchweight, kid. Look, at best this guy’s got a puncher’s chance. KO him or submit him and there’s a good chance of a bonus coming your way, though we both know your chances are a lot better if you knock him out. Or hell, create some heat at the weigh-ins, get more people to tune in, maybe your prelim gets televised, and then I’ll see what I can do. Bottom line, I shouldn’t have to sell you boys on this shit. Opportunity of a lifetime, here, fellas. Maybe your last one, X. Take it or leave it. I’ve got like six thousand other calls to make.”
“He’s in.”
Xavier’s eyes widened.
Carson clapped once. “Beautiful. Soon as our guy signs, I’ll shoot the paperwork over to your email, Shot. Smart move, kid. See you in Atlantic City.”
Shot tapped the “end” button. He put his hands behind his head with a self-satisfied smile. Xavier did not smile back.
“What was that?” 101
“X, you been talking about nothing else for the last year except getting back in there. No, the deal ain’t great, but we know that cat. He was about to pull that deal. Now you got the chance to fight again, and not on one of these janky regional jawns. We both know those smokers don’t feel the same once you been under the big lights. So, you asking me what that was? You’re welcome, that’s what that was.”
“Fifteen and fifteen, Shot. That’s insulting. You know after expenses that doesn’t amount to jack. That’s if I win.”
“You act like you going to see one red cent of that money, anyway.”
“What?”
“What you mean, ‘what?’ Do I really got to explain this to you? Is your brain that scrambled?”
“Fuck you, Shot.”
“I think I’ve made it clear you already done that.”
Xavier’s cheeks flushed. “I told you that wasn’t my fault.”
Shot’s jaw muscles pulsed. “Not your fault. Not your fault? Okay, so how about the ‘tainted supplements’ bullshit you spouted off when you pissed hot? Was that your fault, or were you all messed up in the head then, too? I sure as hell hope so because, otherwise, I would love to know what you thought was going to happen. Who did you think they were going to look at when you said your supplements had steroids in them?”
“I said I was sorry for that.”
“You stay thinking ‘sorry’ fixes everything, huh? X apologized and he feels better, so everything’s copacetic. Do you know how much I had to go through to handle that?” Xavier opened his mouth but Shot cut him off. “No, you don’t. Know why? Because I saw how it crushed you to lose your license for a year. So, I took care of my business even though it was your mistake, even if it meant your shit rolled downhill into 102my open mouth. And then just when I thought I was out from under that, you go ahead and put Lawrence in the hospital. Now I—check that, we—are in the deepest shit imaginable with people who do not play, X. Do you feel me? But I’m keeping you out of the deep end the best I can because you’re my boy. So, if doing that means every dollar of this fight purse goes to keeping you and me out of the ground, then you best believe I’m going to give it to them.”
Xavier rested his forearms on his legs. His ears rung. Shot had laid bare Xavier’s selfishness in a way no one else in his life ever had. It surprised him to find that as much as all that truth hurt, he was grateful to his cousin for delivering it.
“I’m sorry, Shot. I know the more I say it the more meaningless it sounds, but I don’t know what else to say.” Xavier stood and walked around the front of Shot’s desk to stand in front of him. He extended his hand for a shake but Shot kept his gaze toward the door to his office.
“For real, you need to get out my sight. I can’t even look at you right now.” Xavier dropped his hand and nodded, defeated, then headed toward the door. Shot called out to him. “Seven in the morning tomorrow. Don’t be one minute late.”
The distance from the gym to his car felt longer than any he’d ever traveled to the cage. For every one of those fight walks, he’d been as prepared as he could be, whether he’d taken a fight on short notice or if he’d had a full training camp. No matter the circumstance, he knew he’d done everything possible. Primed himself for every combat scenario, every battle permutation in the time permitted to ready himself.
But nothing had, nor could have, prepared him for what had happened in the span of just a few hours. The truths that caromed inside his skull made his head heavy, his neck 103weary, and his legs leaden. He was weighed down, dragging a training sled loaded not with iron plates, but with the realities brought to bear in the space of less than a day. The truth about his father, what he’d done to Lawrence, and to Shot, all compounded by his own deteriorating mind—he hadn’t the first clue how to reconcile them. And now he had a fight.
In the car once more, he gripped the steering wheel. Rain pelted the rear windshield as another gust tore through the parking lot. The sky flashed white. He’d been terrified of storms as a child, and though he now found a certain beauty in their ferocity, he still felt a mild jolt of adrenaline in anticipation of the loud crack that followed the white veins running through the clouds.
During storms like these, his father had sat him on his lap and when the lightning lit up their living room, he told Xavier to count.
One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand.
Rumble.
How many seconds did you get? That’s how far away the storm is. The longer you count means it’s almost gone. Then you won’t have to be afraid anymore.
He remembered the moment often, during storms both real and imagined. While Xavier loved the fight, he’d never been blessed with the steely resolve other fighters seemed to possess, or at least claimed to. In the locker room, he was anxiety personified. He made multiple trips to the stall to empty his stomach, his throat strained and burned by bile. His fear began a dialogue within him. Told him to quit. Told him nothing was worth this overwhelming dread that made him feel as though he might actually die from it. Rather than answer his fear, he’d wait for the voice to stop. And then he’d count. The longer it took for the voice to come back, for the thunder 104to roll, the less fearful he’d become. By the time they called his name, he could make the walk to the cage without hesitation.
Seated in his car now, Xavier counted the seconds between the strike and the rumble. He only made it to one.