Pound for Pound (6 page)

Riders and stable hands allowed the children to examine the saddlery, to touch the horses’ big chests, to stroke their tender noses. The children had never seen or smelled a live horse, much less stalls and corrals full of them, and the kids’ little fingers danced with excitement and awe as they
signed to each other and played cowboys and Indians beneath corrugated roofs and turned the tubular metal fences into monkey bars.

Outside the arena were well-tended lawns, shade trees, and picnic areas. On the weekends, Mexican vendors stretched their stalls along narrow, curving streets to display everything from serapes to plumbing supplies.

Inside the corrals, Lupe wore boots and jeans, and taught her kids to feed and water the animals. Many of them were scrawny hacks and nags that were mercilessly knocked down during the arena’s weekly rodeos. But there were glistening pintos and curried palominos as well, and big muscular bays and dark chestnuts that twitched and shone in the sunlight. Nearly all had owners who were too busy to groom them. Lupe paid for her riding lessons by grooming such horses there. And, riding sidesaddle in full, ruffled
Adelita
costume, she also appeared at the weekly shows, and broke hearts every time she did.

Lupe, the nickname for Guadalupe, as in
nuestra
Señora de Guadalupe, our Lady of Guadalupe, was just budding into womanhood. She wore her lustrous black hair in a
trenza,
a long, thick braid laced with colored ribbons that complimented her aristocratic features and hooked, Indian nose, her dark skin and almond-shaped eyes. She was a looker, moved with grace and assurance, had her daddy’s straight white teeth.

Lupe lived with her mother, the widow Soledad Ayala, and Lupe’s younger brother, Jesse. Mrs. Ayala’s mother, Rosario, had been a seamstress in Guadalajara. She’d made the tiny white dresses for little girls receiving their first Holy Communion, and the “grown-up” gowns for fifteen-year-old girls celebrating their
quinceañera
rite of passage into adulthood. But Rosario had also specialized in ruffled riding dresses, and the traditional Mexican
charro trajes de gala
for men and women—the studded jackets and tight pants or long skirts—all worn with white shirts and floppy bow ties big as two hands, the fingers laced. They wore their moon-size sombreros like crowns above their dark faces.

Soledad had learned the trade from Rosario as a little girl in Mexico. From her home in Los Angeles, she produced the same Holy Communion
and
quinceañera
dresses, but there was not much demand for the rest. She also worked full-time as a coffee-shop waitress at a major downtown hotel that catered to tourists, working the morning shift so she could be home when her kids got there from school and could be with them at night. She had good benefits from the hotel and made good money, including her tips, but supporting two kids alone, even on the “eastside” was tough. Living without her husband was tougher still.

Soledad daily served
gabacho
girls Lupe’s age, observed how the white girls dressed and behaved, heard how dirty and rudely they talked, saw how many were pregnant but without wedding rings.
Airheads,
the whites had it right, thought Mrs. Ayala. Not her daughter. She didn’t allow Lupe out with boys after nine o’clock, and then only when her deaf younger brother went along as a chaperone. Once word got out in the barrio, Lupe wasn’t asked out much, but it wasn’t because the boys didn’t have their eyes on her. Mrs. Ayala’s rules were unbendable, had to be. Lupe would sometimes sulk, would argue that the other girls got to stay out until midnight, even later.

Mrs. Ayala had lost too much of her family to risk losing her daughter, too. “As long as you live in my house, you will be a lady. You will not be like these little
putas
who give love away like it was a penny, little tramps who behave like boys between the legs, and have all of the disadvantages and none of the advantages of being real whores. Besides, I have to get up before
la madrugada,
before
dawn,
and I’m not losing sleep so you can be just another East Al-Lay
chola.”

Lupe would make faces and huff, but underneath she depended on her mother, knew she needed her tough wisdom, loved her for being strict. And Mrs. Ayala knew that she’d better raise the girl right, or her beautiful husband, Jaime, her sweet Jimmy, would be waiting for her in heaven to divorce her, maybe worse, maybe slit her lazy throat. She wouldn’t blame him.

All of Lupe’s kids from the clinic were Chicanos, boys and girls; two were chubby, all but one was short compared to most white kids the same age. All signed quick as the wind because Lupe was their teacher, and they were inspired to learn because Lupe wanted so badly for them to learn. She herself had begun to sign as a child when her younger brother, Jesse, at six, lost his hearing because of a severe case of mumps.

Now twelve, Jesse had started at the CFD four years earlier, when Lupe was almost thirteen. In the process of helping her mother and brother learn to sign, Lupe became deeply involved in the world of the deaf. She took advanced courses in high school, and planned to study audiology and speech pathology in college. She worked part-time at the clinic, and attended seminars at the various facilities throughout the Los Angeles area. Her grades were excellent, and she was sure to get scholarship offers from the various Cal state universities to which she would apply. Her life was good, but it was also hard. When she grew weary, she drew strength from the little children, born forever trapped in silence, who struggled so bravely to learn to speak with their hands, who worked so hard to develop skills that others often squandered.

Aside from loving the horses, Lupe liked the arena because she could show what a good horsewoman she was. She could also flirt. She liked the way some of the older riders looked at her, how some tried to plant a little kiss on her neck. She liked
piropos,
too, the respectful ones, flirty compliments made in Spanish while a young man might clutch his heart tragically—
¡Ay-yai-yai, no me dejes así morenísima de mi alma!
—Oh, don’t leave me like this, darkest beauty of my soul!

She would, of course, continue on her way, giving no sign that she’d heard, or that she was flattered, but she’d heard, all right, and was flattered. The
piropos
were said in fun and mostly by boys and young men who had known her as a little girl—and knew the great sadness that clutched at the heart of Lupe’s family.

D
an and Tim Pat passed through the heavy downtown traffic, then switched from the Harbor to the Hollywood Freeway. Traffic was still heavy, but the Melrose-Normandie exit wasn’t far.

Tim Pat said, “I sweated up good, didn’t I, Grampa?” “You sure did.”

Lupe and Jesse and Billy Tucker were also in heavy traffic, and Lupe drove extra carefully, not being accustomed to this part of the Hollywood Freeway. Billy had drawn a map, but Lupe checked it against the Thomas Guide, a book of street maps of Los Angeles County.

Billy signed that the Cahuenga exit was just ahead. As Lupe merged right, faster drivers honked at her, made her wish she was closer to home. Once at the exit, Lupe turned right, then headed south on Cahuenga. Dan’s house was located some four miles down the way. Lupe ran into some traffic on Cahuenga, but there was virtually none on the residential side streets.

Lupe had to stop for lights at Hollywood and at Sunset Boulevards,
but made it through Santa Monica Boulevard. Billy directed her to keep going south.

Dan and Tim Pat proceeded west from the Melrose-Normandie exit, turned right at the corner of Melrose and Wilcox, then headed north a half block. Dan parked under the splayed old eucalyptus tree in front of the gym. Most of the fighters had already finished up. Tim Pat raced inside and leaped into Earl’s arms.

Earl said, “Lord a mercy, I been attacked by a grizzly fox!” Earl saw Dan’s smile, saw his victory nod. Earl pretended to be a ring announcer, held a water bottle up to his mouth for a mike. “In this cawnah, fightin outta da Hard Knocks Gym in Hollywood, Califahnya; weighin in at two hundred an’ toity-tree an’ tree-quahtah pounds; wit a record of fifty-seven wins an’ no losses, an’ fifty-seven KOs; known troo-out da world as da White Fahx!; ladies’n’gen’lemen, da heavyweight
champion
of da worl! TimateeeePat-rickMahkey!, Mahkey!”

Earl made the roaring sound of a crowd, then tickled Tim Pat’s ribs; he gave the kid a big kiss on his swollen left eye, and hugged him again. Momolo, who worked in the shop and was being trained as a fighter by Earl, came over to shake Tim Pat’s hand gently and ruffle his hair. Momolo was a young middleweight from Liberia with miniature tribal scars across his shoulders and around his face. The name on the African’s passport was Covenant Buchanan, Momolo his tribal name.

“You are a warrior,” Momolo said.

His teeth were white and perfect, and his body had the incredible muscular definition of many West Africans. Earl liked to use the name Momolo instead of his given Christian name, Covenant, because of the African sound to it. Dan also liked the fact that Momolo had a Scots last name. Once they had seen how dedicated Momolo was in the gym, Earl and Dan gave him a job in the shop, where he’d proved equally conscientious. Besides, Dan liked the way Momolo talked.

“A warrior,” Momolo repeated.

Tim Pat relived the fight. “I set him up, Momolo, made sure my feet were right, and then I went in there and I got ‘im.” He turned to Earl.

“But I missed you in my corner, Earl. I told our waitress about you and me and Grampa.”

Earl said, “I’m proud of you, Tim, and I’ll be in your corner tomorrow when you win that trophy.”

“Last night I fought for you and Grampa, Earl. Today, I fought for my mom and dad. Tomorrow, I’m fighting for Grandma,” Tim Pat told them.

Earl said, “Ain’t nobody better.”

Dan turned away, swallowed hard, and then turned back to the kid. “Show Earl that hook.”

Tim Pat pranced up to a big bag, fired a one-two and came zinging back with the left hook.
Bang!
Tim Pat threw both hands in the air, did a champion’s skipping jig.

Earl looked at the boy from Liberia. “See that? Now let’s see you do it.”

Earl held the mitts, but Momolo’s hook was an arm punch. It was thrown with his weight on his front foot instead of the back. It was a hard shot because Momolo was so strong, but it was still an arm punch, which meant he was working too hard and would tire before his opponent. The hope was that he would learn, and that once he had it, it would feel so good that he would always have it.

Dan saw it. “He’s not switching his weight.”

Earl said, “That’s what I figured, but I can’t watch his hands and feet at the same time and maybe get hit. You show him.”

Dan took the mitts, lined the African’s feet up.

Billy Tucker directed Lupe past Santa Monica Boulevard. He signed for her to turn right at Willoughby, and signed again for her to go two blocks west, to Wilcox. At the Wilcox intersection, he signed for her to turn left and to park at the second house on the right. As Lupe pulled over, a candy-striped pink-and-white ice-cream truck passed her on the left as it headed south toward Melrose, the truck’s loudspeaker blaring its signature
invitation to kids, “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” What Lupe couldn’t know was that the ice-cream truck’s usual route was from Melrose north, not south, that it should have passed an hour ago.

Momolo couldn’t get the hook. “It is most difficult, this move. Is it so for all?”

“It is like a Ferrari,” Dan said, mimicking Momolo’s formal way of speaking. “If they were effortless to obtain, everyone would have one.”

Momolo and Earl slapped their thighs and squealed with laughter.

Dan laughed with them. “Now we try it the other way around. Watch me. Instead of
movin forward
a step, this time I want you to go
back.
Push off your left toe, like me, see? But you gotta move both feet back the same short step, same as when you move forward. As you take the step, turn your hip like this. As your hip begins to turn, see it? As your hip begins to turn,
then
let the shot go.
Whip!
”

Momolo listened, moved slow as a sleepy snake until he felt it. He nodded and smiled that big smile. He executed at the speed of light, and
Boom!,
it was the best hook Momolo had ever thrown.

Dan said, “Now all we gotta do is get you to do it goin forward.”

“Mr. Cooley, sir, I am indebted to you.”

Momolo practiced moving backward and forward until he no longer had to think about his feet. Now the shots came like a drum out of Africa.

Mary had a little lamb …

The music came faintly into the gym, then grew louder. Tim Pat had heard it hundreds of times—at home on Cahuenga, and here at the gym. He was still thirsty, the fight having drained him of fluid and energy. Dan would feed him soon, and then send him off for a nap.

Tim Pat said, “Grampa, can I get another lemon-lime from the ice-cream man?”

Dan gave Tim Pat a five-dollar bill. “Here. But be careful when you cross the street, and don’t forget the change.”

“I won’t.”

“Then we head for home and some sack time. I want more ice on that eye.”

Lupe delivered Billy Tucker to his mother, checked the van’s rearview mirrors for cars, saw no one, and then edged carefully away from the curb. Down the way, she would pass the parking lot of the Department of Motor Vehicles, on the corner of Waring. Melrose was just a short block farther. She slowed from twenty-five to twenty at Waring, checking both ways for cars, then continued on at twenty. She’d noticed that the pink-and-white ice-cream truck had pulled to the right halfway down to Melrose, but her immediate focus had been on checking Waring for cars. Lupe felt happy. She’d soon be back on the Hollywood Freeway, and into familiar parts of
Al-Lay.
Her horses were less than an hour away. Thinking of them, she had to smile, could see Bobby and Tessie waving their heads for carrots.
Relámpago,
Lightning, would be sulking because she’d taken so long to get there. He’d make up once he got his carrot. Lupe smiled again.