Fair Fight
by Trey D.

 

 

The nurse shows Margaret Bannon into the only empty patient room available.  An oasis of quiet in an otherwise frantic hospital—and the last place left for what needs to happen next.  Margaret sits in the room’s only chair, and the nurse offers her an iPad. 

“When you’re ready, press the red button that says ‘Join,’ okay?” he says.

Margaret nods as she takes the tablet in her wrinkled hands.  On the device’s glass surface, her own image stares back: 

Gray hair, let down from the bun. 

Anniversary pearls, straight and shiny. 

Dabs of concealer over the dark circles.

The lipstick is almost perfect, a minor miracle, considering; she clamps down on the iPad to steady her trembling fingers.  The nurse notices the white-knuckled grip.

“Take a deep breath,” he says.  “Say whatever you like, but realize this is probably—”

Her gaze cuts him off.  “I know what this is,” she snaps, the tone surprising herself as much as the nurse. She softens, then pats the man’s hand before he can retreat to the doorway.  “Thank you, dear.  I appreciate it.”  The nurse nods sheepishly, then closes the door with a soft click.

Margaret sucks in one deep breath, lets it go. 

She presses the button.

Her husband fills the screen, and her heart along with it.  Even in a quarantine unit, wearing a hospital gown, with oxygen tubes plugged into his nostrils, every little bit of Joey Bannon makes her smile.  The snow-white bushy mustache.  The crooked nose, three times broken.  The cauliflower ears, bumpy and misshapen from thousands of sparring sessions, giving him an elfish quality she adores.  And the eyes, bright blue and still clear, even with all the coughing.  The fleshy lids rise at the sight of her, and his mustache curls at the edges.

“Hello, love.  Fancy meeting you here.”

His voice—the deepness of it, the confident rumble—is like a fur throw draped over chilly shoulders. 

“Joseph,” she says.

“Ah, so it’s a ‘Joseph’ conversation.”

“Don’t sass me, Joey,” she says, wagging a finger.  “Serious times call for serious words.”

“Here I was, thinkin’ you wanted to flirt.  Yeah, I noticed your hair’s down.  And pearls!  You’ve got your eye on some young doctor, don’t you?”  He leans closer and whispers as he motions off-screen.  “Hopefully not this guy.  He’s a sadist.  He won’t even let me have Jello.”

She hears a tired, masked voice call out “Not a sadist,” from somewhere else in the room and Margaret smiles in spite of herself.  “Making fast friends, as usual.”

Joey shrugs. “Hey, the guy’s gonna incubate me, figure I might as well give him a little trouble.”

 “Intubate, silly man.”  Margaret shakes her head, and her husband winks.  Her tiny laugh blurts out.  Joey laughs too, and it’s damn near the most beautiful thing she’s heard in weeks—but the effort pulls too deeply from his clogged lungs, and the mellifluous voice collapses into raspy, shattering coughs.  When the coughing stops, his eyes are bloodshot.  Worse, they look scared.  Margaret’s stomach coils and lurches.

“Joey,” she whispers.  “We need to…I want to—”

“Not…fair,” he rasps, struggling to recover.

“I know, baby.  I know.”

Joey clears his throat, then grimaces as he tries to massage the chest pain away.  “No, I don’t mean this,” he finally says, gesturing to the oxygen lines and the room around him.  “I mean life.  It’s not a fair fight, y’know?  If life were fair, we’d live it backwards…start with the rough stuff, then work our way back.”

Margaret wipes her eyes, smiles.  “We had plenty of rough stuff the whole way through, if I recall.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about this, these last few days,” Joey says.  He sucks in one more labored breath.  Focuses on her.  “It’d be a helluva thing, right?  We’d get stronger and healthier as we go, learning the toughest lessons first.  Life would be less complex every decade instead of more.  Over time, get rid of all the bullshit and simplify.  Earn our youth.  And end up how we were in the beginning.”

She tilts her head.  “And how was that, love?”

“Two beautiful kids with absolutely no clue what happens next.”

 

#

 

The clang-clang of a bell.  The TV commentary.  The jubilant cheers of a bloodthirsty crowd.

These sounds coming from Margaret Bannon’s living room are familiar, even comforting in a way.  She joins her husband on the couch, cuddling up to watch Friday Night Fights together.

She weaves an arm through the crook of his, feeling the soft flannel of his shirt, and the still-formidable muscles beneath—how they flex and tense with each on-screen punch, muscle memory demanding to block, jab, hook even though there’s no one left to fight.  His breathing comes in staccato bursts—in-in-in, out-out-out—like he’s in the ring himself, living the fight, feeling it.  Her husband may be present and attentive every night of the week, but on Friday nights, he comes alive.  She smiles because this is the best of both worlds; for three hours Joey Bannon is a fighter again, but he’s also next to her, on a beat-up couch.  Safe.

But this particular Friday, things are different.

Joey peels off Margaret’s arm and leaps to his feet, crouching into his old stance.

“Noooo,” he whines at the television.  “He’s dropping his left.  Block the jab and…”  He throws a shadow hook.  “…BAM! Nighty-night, baby.”  He looks down at the carpet, apparently imaging a vanquished opponent.

“Well, someone’s heavily invested tonight.”

“Y’know, I beat this guy once,” Joey mutters, pointing at the screen. “Kolinsky.  Fifteen years ago.  And he’s still fighting.”  He turns back to her.  “And winning.” 

Margaret pauses, considering if the words need to be spoken.  When her withering stare doesn’t make him sit back down, she decides.

“Fifteen years ago, Edgar Kolinsky was 19 years old.  You were 35.”

Joey’s chin drops and his hands go to his hips.

Her tone softens.  “What’s this really about, baby?”

His gaze drifts back to the television.  She can see the vibrant colors of the arena, the fans, and the boxers, reflected in his face. 

“George Foreman regained the heavyweight title last weekend.” he says finally.

Her lip twitches.  Goddamn George Foreman.  He should’ve just kept selling grills.

“He’s 45,” Joey says.  “That’s like, a biscuit younger than me.” 

“That’s five years younger.  And Foreman didn’t have a detached retina, did he?” 

“But I’m a cruiserweight.  Cruiser’s not nearly as competitive as heavy.  I could train for a few months, maybe try a couple of warm-up bouts before I go up against anyone halfway decent.”

To her horror, Margaret realizes this is happening, it’s not a nightmare.  It’s real—an actual conversation about awful things, things she’d thought were long gone from their lives.

How did I miss this?  How could I not see that Friday night excitement and nostalgia had twisted into something far more dangerous? 

She sees it in his face now, though.  Longing. Desire.  Regret.

She rises, hands at her sides curled halfway to fists.  Her chin juts forward and Margaret says only one word.

“No.”

“But what if it’s just some sparring?  Just to see if I can still cut it.  What would you say to that?” 

It’s full-on negotiating, but Margaret’s not interested in buying anything that involves Joey lacing up boxing gloves. 

“What do you say?” Joey repeats.  “Just sparring.”

Her fingers curl the rest of the way.  “I’d say I’m certain your next wife will be your biggest fan.”

The verbal uppercut makes Joey blink, then step back.  After a beat, he says “So, it’s like that.”

“It’s like that.”

His gaze drops toward the carpet.  Margaret can’t tell if he’s angry, frustrated, or both—but when he finally looks up, his eyes are watery. 

“I was so close, Maggie.  This close,” he says, finger and thumb almost pinched together. 

She rushes to him.  Touches the side of his face.  Feels the rough stubble against her palm.  Before he can say anything else, she takes him into an embrace where the tears finally come—from both of them.

 

#

 

Victor Rodriguez is killing Joey Bannon.  Literally.

The champion pummels the #1-ranked challenger as he stalks him around a ring which is far too small for Margaret’s tastes.  What began as a night full of promise is now purely a fight for survival. If Margaret had been in Joey’s corner, she would have thrown in the towel and ended the bloodletting five rounds ago.  But Joey’s not a quitter, never has been, and he seems determined to make it through the fight—no matter how badly he loses—and his cornermen are willing to let him take the beating rather than face his wrath afterward. 

When the bell mercifully rings at the end of the 11th round, she looks into the rafters of Madison Square Garden and prays for Joey to make it through one more round.

He collapses onto his stool for the sixty-second rest, and like every break period tonight, Joey looks into the first row for her.  She’d made herself easy to spot: her flame-colored hair, worn down the way he likes it, and a Kelly green form-fitting dress to ensure that she’d stand out in any crowd.  Every round, he’d found her—smiling and cheering, even as her smile got more forced as the fight progressed.

But now, with one eye swollen shut and the other looking like an open wound, he obviously can’t see her.  Margaret screams “I’m here, baby!  I love you!!” so loudly that the fan next to her shrinks away while covering his ears. 

Joey nods, lifts one glove a couple of inches.  It looks like it takes all the strength he has.

The cornermen hop out and Joey rises off the stool to face his last three minutes of hell.

Rodriguez goes right back to work.  One minute in, Joey is floored by a savage right, but he scrambles to his feet. Rather than flee and play defense the rest of the way, Joey charges forward, going toe-to-toe with a clearly superior fighter.  With twenty seconds left, Rodriguez lands the finishing blow—an uppercut that wobbles Joey’s knees.  He crumples to the canvas as the referee begins the inevitable ten-count.

But, by the count of eight, Joey Bannon somehow, someway, manages to grab a rope and pull himself to his feet.  The crowd around Margaret is going insane—screaming for the champ to go in and finish Joey off, knock him straight out of the ring.  But Rodriguez hesitates. 

He looks at Joey in disbelief as the beaten man stands, gloves down, completely unable to defend himself.  The referee commands “Box!” but Rodriguez doesn’t move.  The champion lets the last ten seconds tick off, allowing Joey to survive until the final bell. 

The ringside blow-by-blow commentator says “Bannon’s guts and determination are astounding.  He’s earned the champion’s respect!  I’ve never seen anything quite like it—” 

Margaret pushes the announcer aside as she drives her way up into the ring, tight dress be damned.  She gets to Joey before the trainers do, and he drops to his knees while she holds him.

“Where are we going for dinner tonight?” he deadpans.

Margaret bursts out laughing.  “The hospital, you beautiful moron.”

Joey nods. “Good.  I really love Jello.”

 

#

 

Maggie McCarthy and Joey Bannon were friends the night before.  Now, something…else.

Two coffee cups sit on the table between them, steam curling off the surface of the beverages—untouched since the waitress filled them.

“So, last night…” Maggie starts, looking out the front window of the diner.

“…was fun,” Joey finishes.  “Lots of fun.”

The image of his stomach muscles rippling as she removed his shirt flashes in Maggie’s mind.  And the feel of his calloused hands on her thighs.  The way he whispered her name in the dark: Maggie.  Oh god, yes, Maaaaagggieeee.

“Um, yeah. Definitely fun,” she manages. “Still, you know what my dad would do if he found out, right?”

Joey brushes his sweatshirt hood back off his head, gives a long exhale.  “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t let me train at his gym any more.  Probably blacklist me all over town.  Kill my boxing career before I even get a chance to turn pro.” 

He looks up for her answer.

“I was thinking he’d just kill you.  Personally. Just sayin’.” 

Joey squirms in his seat and it makes her grin.

“Still,” Maggie continues.  “We’ve been friends since we were nine.  Best friends.  I don’t want that to end, Joey.  And sleeping together will screw all that up.  You know it will.”

Joey nods grudgingly.  “Yeah,” he says quietly.  “It probably would.”

They reach for their cups in tandem, each taking a long drink.  Joey stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans back in his chair.  “Last night was something, though, right?  Wow.  I mean, just wow.

Maggie nods, takes another sip.  The two friends stare at the table for a solid minute, until Joey’s blue eyes find hers.

“Wanna do it again?” he whispers.

Maggie turns and yells “Check, please!” 

A little louder than intended.

 

#

 

The red-haired girl slips the first punch, just like her father had taught her.  The boy’s wild swing goes over her head, so she pops back up and lets him have it: one quick jab to the nose.  It lands solid, stunning the kid.  He stands there, flat-footed, staring at her like Did a girl really just hit me?  Total surprise.

So, she hits him again.

This time he goes down.

“Owww,” he whines while grabbing his nose, writhing in the playground dirt.

“Say it again, jerk.”

“Say what?” comes the nasally reply.

She blows a wisp of fiery hair out of her eyes, then looms over him.  “Say, ‘Girls can’t fight.’  I dare ya!”

The boy squints up at her, wipes the tears from his eyes.  “Okayokayokay….I take it back.  I take it back.

She relaxes, then extends a hand—the only way to end a fair fight. The boy takes it.

“How did you learn to fight like that?” he asks. 

“My dad. He was a fighter.  Golden Gloves.”

The boy’s eyes bulge.  She notices the pretty color for the first time. 

“Oh man! I wanna be in Golden Gloves one day,” he says.

She shrugs.  “Then stick with me.  I’m a fighter too, y’know.  My name’s Maggie.”

The boy nods.  “That’s cool. I’m Joey.”

“Nice to meet you, Joey,” the girl says.  “As long as you don’t say stupid stuff, I’m pretty sure we’re gonna be good friends.”

 

#

 

 

Ten days after intubation, she gets the message.

Come to the hospital.  Nothing else.

There’s no makeup this time, no pearls.  Just a ponytail, a sweatshirt, and dread.

Within ten seconds of entering the ICU, Margaret sees the doctor—Joey’s doctor. And recognizes the look on his face.  

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it…” he starts, and she already knows. 

When Margaret sees her husband’s droopy face on the iPad again, hears the hoarse yet tender voice say, “I’m not dying until you give me a rematch”—she can’t fight back the spontaneous cries.  Six decades of laughter, fear, loss, and love fill her tears. 

And Margaret Bannon knows without a doubt, that she and Joey are still exactly like they were, long ago on that dusty playground. 

Two beautiful kids with absolutely no clue what happens next. 

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