“He had this tape all over his knuckles under his gloves. That’s what they do, so they don’t bust up their hands, but he said his hands are all busted up anyway. He told us how he done it, said he knocked out that Polack with a right to the body that brought his hands down and a left hook to the head. Oh, and he asked how come you weren’t at the fight.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you didn’t care for boxing. He said he was right sorry you wasn’t there.”

“Well, I wasn’t sorry. I’d rather stay home and read a good book. I had my Chekhov stories to read. That beats watching a bunch of sweaty men try to hurt each other, don’t you think?”

“Who’s Chekhov?”

“He’s a Russian writer, honey. He writes wonderful stories. You should read them someday.”

“Aw, Sis. You know I aint much for readin. I might like to try boxing, though. It looks almost as much fun as baseball.”

“Absolutely not! Never! I will not have my little brother getting a broken nose like that Jake McCloskey.”

“But women think he’s a swell-lookin fella.”

“How do you know?”

“There was two of ’em settin behind us. They kept goin on about how handsome he was. When me and Cecil left, they was still waitin outside the dressing room to talk to him.”

When Emaline went to bed, she tossed and turned. She was jealous. Jealous of two women, low creatures who would go to watch a boxing match without a male escort and wait outside a boxer’s dressing room just to talk to him. In spite of herself, she imagined Jake with them at this moment, grinning that grin, sitting there with that handsome cleft in his chin and those green eyes and that shock of black hair. He was good-looking, there was no arguing that, but he was as untutored as a billy goat. Anyway, the fight was over and Jake McCloskey would be headed back to Denver. There was no point losing sleep over a man who lived two hundred miles away, especially one who could barely spell his own name.

18.