Warrior Angel (8 page)

S
ONNY WOKE BEFORE
dawn, feeling a cold prickle among the hairs on the back of his neck. It was a signal that enemies were about to strike, according to Jake. More Running Braves crap. But he felt a distant anxiety, like a telephone ringing in another room. He went to the bathroom and leaned into the bathtub and ran cold water on the back of his neck. In the kitchen he made coffee and watched the Weather Channel. Might rain later. He pushed away an urge to call the gym, make sure Starkey was all right. He'd be sleeping. Think I'm the crazy one.

He went out for a long run. The suburban streets were empty, hushed, house after house with their windows shaded, their eyes closed. He was glad when dogs barked at him from inside the houses. Everybody wasn't dead.

 

At breakfast Alfred said, “You running too much.”

“Need to get in shape.”

“For a boxing match, not a marathon.”

Lena said, “What Alfred's trying to say—”

“Trying to say?” Alfred sounded cranky. “I said it. He's running too much.”

“That's not good enough,” snapped Lena. They glared at each other, and Sonny thought, Here's two people love each other to death, not afraid to talk tough because they're tight enough to deal with anything. Be nice to have someone like that someday.

“Okay, what am I trying to say?”

“Sonny's running is less about getting physically fit than it is about trying to feel better emotionally, a kind of self-medication. This is dangerous if it means you don't deal with the issues that trouble you.”

“My, my, so that's what I'm trying to say.” Alfred rolled his eyes. “Amazing how these guidance counselors can read your mind.”

Lena smiled and touched Sonny's hand. “It's been a hard time for you. Give yourself a break.”

“Got a fight in three weeks,” said Sonny.

“You might want to talk to somebody,” said Lena.

The girls staggered in, sleep in their eyes,
hugged Sonny, grabbed bowls of cereal, and staggered off to the big TV in the living room.

“Saturday-morning rules,” said Lena. “Only time they can watch TV on their own.”

“She runs this house like Mr. Donatelli ran the gym,” said Alfred.

“Have you ever thought about seeing a therapist?” Lena wasn't giving up.

“A therapist?” said Sonny, stalling.

“A sports shrink,” said Alfred. “Talk about why you can't pull the trigger on combinations.”

Sonny thought about Dr. Gould and remembered what Hubbard had said.
The new mot-to in sports: You gotta get shrunk to get bigger.

“I'm serious,” said Alfred.

“There was this psychologist in Vegas. Hubbard called him.”

“Worked for Hubbard?” Alfred made a face.

“Doctor didn't think so. Hubbard fired him.”

Lena said, “You liked him?”

“He was all right.”

“Maybe he could recommend somebody in New York,” said Lena. “Or I could ask around.”

Sonny tried to sound joky. “I'll come talk to you.”

“I'm sure I could help to a certain extent,” said Lena. The way she was sitting and looking at him, Sonny thought of Dr. Gould, friendly and interested. “There's some things you just have to think about.”

“Like what?” asked Sonny. He was surprised to find that he was interested, too. He thought of all the questions Starkey had asked. Or tried to ask.

“Well, the running away, to begin with. People do that for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes they're scared of being hurt, rejected, so they leave before they can be left. Sometimes they're afraid of being trapped in a relationship. They don't want to be under another person's power. Or they don't want the feeling of people depending on them.”

“This is a little heavy for breakfast,” said Alfred. He looked uncomfortable.

“I don't know when I'll have another chance,” said Lena. “Are you okay with this, Sonny?”

He nodded. His throat was dry.

“A lot of people are afraid of something, Sonny.” She reached out again and put her
hand over his. “Just remember that Alfred and I are with you all the way. If you want us. Just think about it.”

Lena sat back and bit her lip. Out of the corner of his eye Sonny saw Alfred give her a thumbs-up. Lena smiled. “More orange juice, Sonny?”

After a second, Sonny croaked, “Thanks.”

They ate in silence for a while, glancing at the newspaper, smiling at each other, yelling at the girls to lower the TV. There was something in what Lena had said, something he would think about on his own. It could help answer his own questions about himself. But not right now. He wanted to wallow in the sweet comfort of the morning.

They were almost finished with breakfast when the front door banged open and a chubby young black man with round glasses on his owl face burst in. “Yo, Tomahawk.”

“Martin Malcolm Witherspoon, the Writing Brave,” said Sonny. He wondered if this was a setup. He felt too relaxed to care.

“How many eggs?” asked Lena.

“How many you got?” said Marty. He gave Sonny a light punch on the arm. “How you
doin', man? Great interview on ESPN. I loved that line of yours, ‘Do I look crazy to you?' Right up there with ‘Go ahead, punk, make my day,' and ‘You lookin' at me?'”

Sonny could tell that Marty was talking so fast because he was nervous. After a few minutes they started talking about Marty. He had transferred to a college in the city but was thinking about dropping out again to write for a new magazine that would send him overseas. Sonny was surprised that it was Alfred who urged him to stay in school, get his degree, and Lena who said take a chance if the assignment was good enough.

Sonny tuned out, let his mind go blank and open. He thought of Starkey and the calm feeling began to drain away. He began to feel restless, jittery. Maybe he was edgy from overtraining. He had run at least ten miles this morning. But Starkey's face and then his voice were pushing into his mind. Calling him back.

“I got to go,” he said.

“We thought you'd stay the weekend.” Lena sounded disappointed.

“People waiting on me. I'll be back.”

“Wait'll I finish,” said Marty. “I'll drive you.”

“I can take the—”

“Let Marty drive you,” said Alfred. Sonny could tell that Alfred wanted Marty and him together again. That might be okay. Like Lena said, just think about it.

Marty had his father's car, an old brown Volvo that moved through traffic like a little tank. Every other car beat it at light changes, even the SUVs.

“Jake's pickup,” said Marty, “could blow this clunker off the road.”

“Truck was modified,” said Sonny. “Jake raced it a few times when he was younger.”

“He never told me that.”

“You were too busy with the Redskin hoodoo.” From the corner of his eye he saw the round brown owl face wince. “Running Braves. Stonebird Mountain.”

Marty laughed. “Yeah, Stonebird. I was going to go with you on the solo.”

Sonny laughed. It wasn't that funny, but it helped break the ice between them. “So, you gonna stay in school?”

“Thought I might start hanging with you again.”

“Write another book?”

“Bring it up-to-date for the paperback.”

“That's why you showed up?” He could hear the annoyance in his voice.

“Alfred invited me,” said Marty. “But I wouldn't have come if it wasn't all right with you.”

“How'd you know it was all right with me?”

“Got the e-mail from your…assistant trainer.”

“What are you talking about?” Even as he said it, Sonny figured it out. The Warrior Angel pulling strings. Helping him again.

“You didn't know?”

“Forgot,” said Sonny. He didn't think it sounded convincing.

“Kid sounds like a certified nutjob.”

Again he felt he needed to defend Starkey. “He helped me out, got me in gear.”

“‘The Warrior Angel is on his way.' Sounds like stalking by e-mail.”

“Who told you that?”

“Malik.”

“You talking to him?”

“For the update, yeah. You know, it's really quite common, fan becomes fixated on a celebrity.”

Sonny wondered if Marty was afraid Starkey would get in his way. “You'll get a chapter out of him.”

“You think I'm just here for that?” When Sonny didn't answer, Marty kicked the Volvo into speed.

 

When they got to the gym, Starkey was rolled up into a ball in a corner of the couch, his knees against his chest, hugging his elbows. His face was hidden by the bill of a ratty old red cap.

“He been like this, won't talk,” said Johnson. “Kid's a lunatic. Don't want him around no more.”

“Let me alone with him,” said Sonny. He waited until Johnson left. “You okay?”

Starkey looked up. “Who's that?”

Sonny realized that Marty had come into the room behind him. “Marty Witherspoon.”

“The man who wrote The Book?”

Marty puffed up and patted Starkey's shoulder. “We're here now—everything's gonna be fine.”

“Starkey, what happened?”

“Cobra's friends. I…kind of lost it. Where were you?”

Everyone wanted a piece of him. Just like always. “Just stay here, be cool. I'll talk to Johnson.” When he saw Starkey squinting at Marty, he said, “Talk to the great writer. The two of you deserve each other.”

He couldn't keep the anger out of his voice.

T
HE
V
OICES WERE
soft but insistent, murmuring from the faces on old fight posters, whispering from the peeled patches on the ceiling, warning Starkey to be watchful, to be ready to run. He couldn't trust anyone anymore.

Marty Witherspoon had asked too many questions yesterday. It was more like an interview than a conversation. Why? What had Sonny talked about with Alfred? He had talked with Johnson for a long time before he'd come back to the office and said that Starkey could stay, but one more outburst and he'd have to leave.

They want to get rid of you, Starkeeeeee.

Mopping helped. He poured extra disinfectant into the water so the fumes were needles in his nose. He scrubbed the grimy wooden floor until his back and shoulders ached, until his thighs quivered, welcoming the pain that wiped out all other thoughts. He focused on rubbing
out the old brown bloodstains until the floor-boards rose and went snaky and the Voices slipped up from the cracks.

Starkeeeeee, they want to send you back to the Family Place, baaack to Whitmore, baaaaaack to Stepdad's slammer.

He tried a trick that sometimes worked, squeezing the Voices out of his brain, like wringing the mop, squeezing them to the inside of his skull, then pushing them out his ears by silently chanting, I am on a Mission for the Creator, I am a Warrior Angel on a Mission for the Creator.

“That some kind of song?” asked Johnson. Starkey hadn't seen him come up.

“Helps me mop.” What else could he say?

“Just so it ain't rap.”

If he could concentrate on something else, he could keep the Voices at bay. Out on the bike following Sonny at dawn today was good, but the long morning until the professional trainers and fighters filled the gym was hard. It got better when they stomped in, shouting, crowding the room with their busy noise, heavy bags thumping, the
slap-slap-slap
of jump ropes, the
rat-a-ta-ta-tat
of the peanut bags, bells, buzzers,
the amped music all filling his mind with rhythms that pushed the Voices and the shape-shifters into the nooks and crannies of his skull.

The boxers were mostly black and Latino, and some of them looked him over with narrow eyes, as if they wondered why a white kid was scrubbing the floor. When they tossed him a towel or a water bottle to fill, they just grunted. But every so often Sonny would pass by and say something to him, which made him cool to everyone and he felt good.

You think he really cares about you? the Voices asked.

He knows I'm here to help him.

Help him clean the gym? He left you alone as soon as he could.

He passed Cobra shadowboxing. The reflection in the mirror glared at him, and the two snakes on his chest opened their mouths wider. Their fangs dripped. He hurried toward the washer and dryer with a mountain of towels.

 

Hubbard's voice filled the gym before Starkey saw him. “No fear, I'm here, at the camp of the champ. I come in peace.”

Cobra growled, “You could leave in pieces.”

“Always liked that mean streak of yours, Rasheed. Tells me I can count on you in the late rounds when the going gets tough.”

The snakes relaxed on Cobra's chest, smiled. Starkey thought, Hubbard's the snake, world's fattest snake. He recognized the two young men, one white, one black, trailing behind him. The idiot managers, Boyd and Malik.

Hubbard in person was bigger, shinier than he appeared on TV. Trainers and boxers flocked around him. Nobody was going to dis the most important promoter in the sport. Even Johnson grudgingly shook hands with Hubbard.

“You doin' a fine job, Henry,” boomed Hubbard. “You are keeping up the standards of Mr. Donatelli.”

“Some of the old dirt still here, too,” said Malik, toeing the inlaid grit on the wooden floor.

Starkey snapped, “That old dirt knows more about boxing than you do.”

Malik looked up, eyes furiously red, his teeth growing. Starkey's hands tightened on the mop handle as Malik's body swelled and he
started toward him.

“That mop boy is right,” said Hubbard. “There's history in this dirt, ambience we call it. Where's Sonny?”

He sauntered across the gym floor to where Sonny was pounding the heavy bag and carefully ignoring him. “You okay, Sonny? Anything we can do for you?”

Don't look at him, thought Starkey.

“Bygones are gone by, champ. I just want you to know I got no hard feelings.”

Don't answer him, thought Starkey.

“I got hard feelings.”

“I'm counting on that, and you will express them when you tear down The Wall.” Hubbard flapped his arms to create a space around himself and Sonny. Everyone backed away. He lowered his voice so Starkey couldn't hear.

But he could imagine what Hubbard was saying: You got to get rid of that mop boy. Warrior Angels are trouble. They are crazy. They will drag you down.

Starkey went into the laundry room and held on to the dryer until the heat and the throbbing metal drove everything else out of his head.