The Real Thing (29 page)

Chapter 33

“W
in 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.

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.”

“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?

“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.”

I can't believe this.

“That night I let you take fish from my plate, and later, I let you take my heart.”

“You . . . let me?”

He winks. “I have better defense than you think.” He hugs me.
“Andiamo,”
he says. “I must say thank you to New York one last time.”

We move to the center of the ring and wave, yelling,
“Tante grazie!”

After one final bow, it takes a phalanx of New York's finest to get us through the throng into the dressing room, paparazzi taking shot after shot of me.

Little old me from Red Hook, the little girl with no parents, the little girl who learned how to box and ended up with a boxer.

I am a story waiting to happen.

I'll never write it. I mean, who would believe it?

I get a scary thought. I'm a celebrity now. I wonder if they'll ask me to say anything wise.

Nah.

They know I'll make sense. They won't quote me. Wisdom doesn't sell magazines.

I lean on Dante's legs as he sits on an examination table in the dressing room unraveling the tape on his hands. We're waiting for the ringside physician to check him out, and it's taking forever.

“Where is Red?” Dante asks.

This might be hard for him. “You don't need Red anymore.”

“He is my friend,” he says. “I will always need him. I love his cooking.”

I tell Dante about Red's restaurant.

“Brooklyn Heights.” He smiles. “No wonder he was on the phone so much the last two weeks. He even sneaked off with Lelani. He said they needed some time together.
Bene
. It is about time the world tastes his cooking. We will go there often.”

I pout. “I
can
cook.”

He puts his hands on my shoulders. “We will cook together, remember?”

“Yes.” I crawl up on to his lap and kiss his puffy cheeks. “You dropped your left, Mr. Lattanza.”

He shrugs. “Bad habit. But I had to bleed a little to make the lesson I taught real.”

“He'll want a rematch.”

He captures me with those eyes. “I no longer do rematches, Christiana. No more rematches. Never again.”

That's when I, um, suck the life out of him. I know his lungs are empty after that kiss.

“Where is that doctor?” I complain.

“Tank is hurt.” He looks toward the mop closet. “We do not have to wait out here, do we?”

In the closet, the only light floats up from the sliver of a crack at the bottom of the door. While a mop handle gets fresh with my booty, I wander my hands all over him.

“This has been so . . . so . . . myth-magical,” I say.

His hands are wandering, too. “It is not a word.”

“It is now,” I say. “I may have it trademarked.”

He puts his hot hands under my sweater. “What does it mean?”

“It's what love is,” I say, almost out of breath. “Love is full of myth and magic. Myth-magical.”

He massages my back. “It is a good word. I will use it in my book.”

I lean back. “
Your
book?”

“
My
autobiography.”

I smile, not that he can see my smile. “And who taught you how to write?”

“No one,” he says, massaging lower and lower. “I can talk. I can type. Therefore, I can write.”

I tap his cup with a knuckle. “It's not as easy as all that, Mr. Lattanza.”

He slides his hands between my underwear and slacks. Ah. My booty is happy again. “What?” he says. “You jab at the keys using your left more than your right.”

“Che?”
Oh, that feels so good.

“The keyboard,” he says. “The left hand does most of the work. I have made a study of this. I have a good left hand. Therefore, I will be a good writer.”

I take that left hand and move it around my slacks to a very special, very needy, seriously wet place. “You have a good left hand, Mr. Lattanza. And now, if you'll be so good as to drop it a bit lower . . .”

“You tell me to keep my left up, and now you tell me to put it down. You have a hard time making up your mind, Christiana. We will have to work on this.”

I put his finger under my underwear. “Drop it, okay?”

His finger starts to stroke me. “But now that I have dropped my left, you will hit me.”

Oh yes. “As hard and as fast as I can.”

For the rest of my life.