Sadie looked at his face with the serious concentration she used on math problems. “Is this stupid?”
He could have lied. Instead he let the question stay between them a moment.
“It might be,” he said. “And if I do it, you’ll be allowed to tell me that afterward.”
She had not expected him to say that. A small, helpless smile flickered and went away. He slipped off his jacket and settled it around her shoulders. It hung almost to her knees.
“See that light pole by the lemonade stand?” he asked. “You stay with the vendor in the yellow apron. Her name is Grace; I heard somebody call her that. Tell her who you are. If you get scared, ask her to call for help. Don’t come near the cage.”
Sadie caught the jacket closed. “What if you fall?”
“Then I’ll get up if I can. And if I can’t, the medic will help me.”
“I don’t want the medic.”
“Neither do I.”
He squeezed her shoulders. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“More than this money. You understand that?”
“I know.”
He stood. What he did next was his choice, not hers. Later, when guilt came, he would need to remember that clearly. He could not put the weight of this decision on a child by pretending she had approved it.
George walked to the lemonade stand. Grace was a stout woman with a gray braid and forearms sticky with sugar syrup. She recognized immediately that the girl in the oversized jacket was frightened. When George explained what he needed, her expression hardened.
“You don’t have to prove anything to that fool,” Grace said.
“I know.”
“You sure?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I need her here where somebody can look after her.”
Grace studied him. The admission seemed to affect her more than a boast would have.
“All right,” she said. “Sadie stays with me. But I want you to listen to me, mister. If you’re hurt, you stop. A fight is not worth your little girl’s father.”
George nodded. He could not promise the outcome, only that he had heard her.
At Denny’s table, a line of fine print covered the waiver. George read enough to understand it was designed for somebody who would never have the resources to challenge it. He asked where the medical attendant was, what the stopping rules were, and whether the payoff applied to a knockdown or a full stoppage. Denny answered too quickly.
“You’re asking a lot of questions for a guy who was leaving five minutes ago.”
“Questions are cheaper than hospitals.”
“Put him down and you get the money. That’s what I said.”
George reached into his wallet and produced a crumpled ten. The note felt thinner in his fingers than it should have. He had not yet forgotten there were only thirty-two dollars in the wallet, nor that the four dollars he had promised Sadie for ice cream would have to come out of what remained.
He placed the money on the table. Denny flattened it with his palm.
“Name?”
“George.”
“George what?”
“Mercer.”
“Age?”
“Forty-two.”
Denny looked up. “Seriously?”
“Every day so far.”
Denny scribbled a number and pushed the clipboard across. George read the form. He signed because he had already committed himself to the thing he knew he should avoid. He did not mistake the signature for wisdom.
The skinny referee, Tommy Vale, pulled the chain-link gate open. He could not have been more than twenty-five. His eyes flicked from George’s cane to the swelling beneath the right pant leg.
“You got a brace under there?” Tommy asked.
“A knee.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“If you need me to stop it, tell me. Don’t wait for a tap.”
George looked at him for the first time with something like gratitude. “I will.”
He entered the enclosure and felt the noise close around him. The crowd pressed toward the fence. Halogen lights made the canvas bright and unforgiving. His cane’s rubber tip left a dark circle of dust each time he planted it.
Vincent came forward with his gloves raised, broad shoulders shining with sweat. Up close, the fighter looked less like a monster and more like a large, angry young man who had learned that cruelty made people look at him.
“You should’ve kept walking,” Vincent said.
“Probably,” George answered.
The response confused him. He expected fear or fury, not agreement.
“I’m going to make you regret coming in here.”
“I already regret it.”
Somebody near the fence laughed. Vincent’s face changed. He wanted his opponent frightened; an opponent who admitted foolishness without appearing afraid threatened the performance.
George did not raise his fists in a theatrical pose. He kept his shoulders loose and his weight arranged to protect the injured leg. Beneath his calm, pain traveled steadily through the joint. It was not courage. It was the body sending an accurate warning that the brain was choosing to ignore.
