Hope Takes Flight (4 page)

The huge boxer looked the part—battered lips, scar tissue over his eyes, shoulders bulky under the robe. He grinned, exposing broken teeth. “I ain't had a preacher to whip in quite a while!” he said loudly. “Bring the reverend on back.”

It was a barker's dream, for everyone within hearing distance clambered forward to buy a seat. “Well, ordinarily the price is fifty cents for admission,” he said, seizing his opportunity. “But seeing as how we have the governor here, I'm afraid we're going to have to charge a dollar.”

A cry of protest went up, but there was no shortage of takers. The ticket taker handed out tickets until he finally had to say, “No more room!” And still the people surged forward to get into the tent.

“I'll be your second,” Amos told Owen. “Don't drink anything if they offer it to you. It'll probably be doped.”

He gave his family the tickets he had bought for them, then he and Owen accompanied the barker back to a small dressing room, barely big enough for the boxers with the show. But they were already dressed, and Owen quickly stripped down and put on a pair of rather smelly trunks he found and shrugged on an equally ripe bathrobe.

“I'm not sure,” he said uneasily, as he slipped the robe on, “that I'm doing the right thing.”

“Well, I'm not either,” Amos admitted. “That pug looks pretty tough. Don't let him mess you up. If he gives you too much trouble, just go down for the count.”

“Take a dive?” Owen smiled. “I never took one in my life, Amos, and I'm not going to start now.”

In the large tent where the fight was to be held, Logan and Pete had used their considerable height and strength to muscle their way to good seats down at the front. The seats themselves consisted of rickety folding chairs that swayed dangerously when one sat on them. But the family found themselves places, and talked excitedly of the fight.

The men—Will, Logan, Peter, and Gavin—were all bright-eyed with anticipation. Will especially had taken great pride in his son's pugilistic career and now leaned forward, his face alive with excitement. “I bet he floors that gorilla in the first round,” he muttered hopefully.

“I don't know, Pa,” Gavin said, shaking his head. “Owen hasn't fought in a long time. That fighter looks pretty tough to me.”

“We shouldn't have let him do this,” Lylah said nervously, but she knew stopping Owen would have been a difficult task.

Behind the crowd, Governor Benning had drawn the manager to one side and was whispering in his ear. “I sure hate to think of having to sit in church five nights in a row,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a folded bill and showed it to the thin entrepreneur. “There's a hundred here if your man puts the preacher away so I don't have to do that.”

The barker grinned. “Don't worry about it, Guv,” he said confidently. “I'll put a bug in Morgan's ear. He'll flatten the preacher so fast it'll make your head swim!”

The manager was a good showman, and he began the event with the lightweight and a smallish young man with no skill, but with great enthusiasm, who lasted four rounds with the fighter called Jackie Smith.

The second fight was shorter. A burly farm boy, stripped to the waist and bulging with muscles, plodded after Cole Kelly, who toyed with him for three rounds. Then the fighter sent a thunderous right to catch the young farmer in the jaw and put him out like a light.

Finally the barker stepped to the center of the ring. “Ladies and gentlemen, we now have the feature presentation of the evening. In this corner, the Reverend Owen Stuart, weighing in at 183 pounds. And in this corner, we have a contender for the heavyweight championship of the world, at 210 pounds, Killer Morgan. Come out, gentlemen, and get your instructions.”

Owen slapped his gloves together and strode out into the middle of the ring. He stared across at the beetle-browed Morgan. “Good afternoon, Brother. I hope you are well.”

Morgan grunted, and his thick lips curled into a snarl. “Better say your prayers, Preacher. I'm gonna tear your head off!”

The manager muttered the usual instructions. “Break clean. Go to your neutral corner in case of a knockdown.” Then he sent the two men back. Owen shook off his robe, and the bell sounded.

Morgan, with the hundred-dollar bonus in his mind, rushed across the ring like an enraged bull and threw a right at Owen's head that, had it landed, would have ended the fight right then and there.

Owen simply moved his head to one side and allowed the burly heavyweight to go rushing by him. He had such grace that it was like a matador allowing the ponderous bull to go by, following the motion of the cape.

The crowd yelled and Morgan turned, his face red with anger. He'd been slow. This time he came in more carefully. “Don't worry, Sweetie-pie,” he taunted. “I'll catch up with you yet. You can run but you can't hide.”

Owen, up on the balls of his feet, moved backward, easily catching the punches the big man threw at him on his gloves, or else flipping them. His feet whispered sibilantly on the canvas floor and he was aware that he was enjoying himself, which was a little strange, he thought, considering he never liked fighting all that much. However, he
was
pleased at the opportunity to get the governor to one of his meetings, and for the first round, he thought about what he might preach to such an august member of his congregation.

The first round ended, and Morgan went back and slumped down on his stool. “What's the matter with you!” the barker hissed. “Quit playing around and put this guy away!”

“He's slippery,” Morgan growled. He spat out a mouthful of water and glared across the ring at Owen. “Pretty good, too. But I'll get him this time.”

But it was not that easy. In the second round, try as he might, he could not land a clean blow on the weaving, dodging, shadowy form of Owen Stuart. Around and around the ring they moved, Owen throwing light lefts that connected sharply and effortlessly sidestepping Morgan's punches.

The crowd began to cheer, and by round four, the barker was desperate. “You've gotta spike this guy, Killer!” he said. “It's gonna make us look bad if you don't and, besides, we'll be out a hundred bucks!”

“I'll get him this time,” Morgan muttered. “I'll rough him up and get him to lookin' down…then I'll nail him.”

The bell sounded for the final round, and Amos was ecstatic. “Just three more minutes, Kid! Keep on dancing around that big ape!”

“Okay, Brother, I'll do what I can.”

Owen went out once again, but had barely reached the center of the ring before he was met by another mad bull rush, Morgan throwing leather from every angle. Owen was caught off guard, and a hard left caught him high on the head. It made the stars dance before his eyes and put a metallic taste in his mouth, a sensation he remembered clearly from the old days. He was driven backwards, and for thirty seconds, the bully Morgan threw every punch he had. Some of them were landing below the belt, which brought a sickness to Owen's mouth.

Owen, confused and half unconscious, forgot that he was a minister, forgot everything. In that moment, instinct took over.

His wide lips twisted in a snarl and he leapt forward, throwing a deadly right that caught Morgan squarely in the chest. The power of it sent the breath whooshing out of the fighter's body and drove him back across the ring. He had time only to set himself before Owen was on him again like a panther, throwing blows, one after the other. Morgan tried to ward them off, but one, delivered to the stomach, doubled him over. A second caught him across the bridge of the nose, sending a shower of blood down across his chest.

Morgan tried to get his guard up, but there was no hope. The smaller man was all over him, raining punches. And then, as he lunged to the left, Owen's powerful right cross caught him in the center of the forehead. The blow snapped his head back and he fell to the floor, completely unconscious.

Owen stood over the big man like an animal. Slowly, as reason returned, he took a deep breath, shook his head, and walked back to the corner. As the crowd yelled and screamed and stomped the floor, everyone standing, Owen waited for the count.

The barker counted as slowly as possible, giving Morgan a full extra five seconds. But when he saw it was no use, he motioned Owen to the center of the ring and lifted his hand. “The winner, Reverend Owen Stuart,” he muttered in disgust. He shot one look at the fallen fighter, shook his head, and walked away.

Owen went at once to the center of the ring where Morgan lay still and called back, “Come on, Amos. Give me a hand with him.” They lifted the heavy figure, carried him back to his corner, and propped him up on the stool. “Wash his face, will you Amos?” Owen said, then shook off his gloves and took the sponge from his brother, wiping the blood and sweat from the fighter's face himself.

After a few moments, the boxer came to and opened his eyes. “You put up a good fight,” Owen said, relieved to see that he was conscious.

The battered face of Killer Morgan was a study. He had been beaten before, but never so thoroughly in such a short time. He shook his head and muttered, “You ain't like no preacher I ever saw!”, then got to his feet shakily.

Owen and Amos retired to the dressing room, and Owen changed clothes as quickly as he could. Outside, they found the family, along with the governor, who was speaking to a gathering of his constituents. “Well, Brother Stuart,” said Benning, a weak smile on his face, “it looks like you've got me. You let me know when you're at the capitol, and I'll be in the front row. Take your best shots at me and all the rest of the sinners.”

“I'll do that, Governor.” Owen smiled and shook the big man's hand.

“Let's go celebrate your victory,” Amos suggested.

Owen held up one hand. “Just a minute.” He walked over to the barker and put out his hand to collect the prize money.

Grimly, the barker slapped a few bills into his outstretched palm. “Don't come back, Reverend. We don't need fellas like you in my business.”

Owen grinned and went at once to where Lenora and Christie were standing. He counted out the money, putting half the bills in each of the girls' hands. “Now go do some shopping. Allie, you and Rose and Lylah take the girls to town. Buy them the best outfits to be found, and take them to a fancy place to eat. We'll catch up with you someplace.”

Lenora and Christie, their eyes big as silver dollars, left with the others, as excited as children.

“Now, let's get out of here and have us a time,” Amos said. “You all right, are you, Pa?”

Will Stuart had a broad smile on his lips. “I never was so proud,” he said, looking at Owen, “except, of course, when you went into the ministry.”

Owen laughed. “Oh, come on, Pa. You weren't all that happy about me becoming a preacher!”

Will Stuart looked at this big, broad-shouldered son of his, and spoke slowly, “Well, I may have been a little bit disappointed at first—” He paused, looked down at the ground, and a long silence ensued. When he lifted his eyes, they shone with pride. “But I want to tell you right now, son, I'm right proud of you…more'n I've ever said.” He glanced at Amos and nodded. “You too, Amos. You been a good son.”

To break the embarrassing silence that followed, Owen reached over and cuffed Logan and Peter on the shoulders. “Wait 'til these two get going. They'll put us both in the shade.”

Amos, in turn, caught Gavin by the nape of the neck and gave him a little shake. “
This
is the one we've all got to watch. No telling
what
he'll wind up doing.” There was a roar of laughter, and when it died down, Amos went on. “By the way, Gavin, I've got a surprise for you.”

“A surprise? What is it, Amos?”

“I'll have to show you. But not until two o'clock. In the meanwhile, let's just wander around for a while. We'll see if we can knock over some of those milk bottles and win some Kewpie dolls for the ladies.”

They went to the midway and paired off, Amos taking care to walk with his father. “Where's Agnes?”

Will shook his head. “I dunno. Gone off with some friends of hers, I reckon.”

Amos said nothing, but thought to himself,
Pretty typical of Agnes to leave the family and go find her “friends.”
He changed the subject at once. “Pa, I've never had so much fun. We ought to have a family reunion twice a year.”

“I reckon that's right. It's been good for the young'uns,” Will said. They walked around slowly, talking amiably, and finally Will asked, “Son, what's going to happen about this war business over in Europe?”

Amos paused and let his eyes roam around the crowd. The tinny song of the calliope sounded harsh in his ears and the cries of the barkers carried faintly on the afternoon breeze. There was a smell of popcorn and hot dogs and sawdust. Finally he shook his head. “It's coming, Pa,” he said. “No way this country's going to stay out of it.”

“Hate to hear that,” Will said. He looked ahead to where the boys were walking along, watching the crowd, and said, “I guess maybe you and Owen might be too old. But Peter and Logan and Gavin, they'd be right in the middle of it. Couldn't keep them boys out, could you, Amos?”

Amos shook his head. “I don't think so, Pa. I don't like to think about it…what it would do to us, to all the families in this country.”

They stopped and watched as the boys began to toss rings, trying to win the cheap dolls on the rack at one of the booths, laughing, shoving each other playfully.

“They act like a bunch of little kids, don't they, Amos?” Will said proudly. There was a wistful light in his eyes as he said, “I remember back when I was their age. Everything was fun. And later, too. Remember how we used to go to all the parties, me playin', and sometimes you singin'? You always could sing pretty, Amos. You ever sing anymore?”