Clash Reunion, part I By Merz Kathy gets help tying up loose ends from her Christmas adventure. CHAPTER 1 The storm had been building all year. I questioned my own sanity a couple of times, but in the very depths of my soul I knew it had all been real. Last Christmas I was visited by some sort of spirits out of time. Along the way I set myself a grim mission to accomplish that has obsessed me all year. I lived with the knowledge and never dared discuss my experience with anyone. Quietly I confirmed details I had been shown concerning events in the past I couldn't possibly know about, and my activities that occurred a state away at the same time I supposedly lay sleeping in my loft. It had all been real, and now as clear as thunder I received my call to carry out the assignment I'd taken on. "It's not that big a thing, but it will be fun to visit the campus again." I was only half listening to Betty Hunt's conversation as she gave me an assist for my last couple of chinups. Having her hands on my hips as I tested her strength by momentarily relaxing my fatigued arms was quite distracting. She adjusted easily to the added weight as I twisted my head to watch biceps like ripe peaches swell in her arms. "It's a nice recognition and a chance to play role model, more for the people giving the award than other handicapped people who already know the old stereotypes are obsolete. But mostly it just sounds fun to visit some of my old haunts and see some people I didn't especially get along with. Imagine, Sydney Honeycutt is getting ready to run for the Senate and I always thought he was about the sleaziest person on the earth. Maybe I misjudged him." Sydney Honeycutt. The name hit me like a jolt of electricity, giving me a surge of strength so on my next chin I jerked myself up so far the bar banged my collarbones. Sydney Honeycutt and one of his college friends topped my list of people due to have their careers thrown off track. I'd been wondering how to go about it, how to find an opportunity to enter their lives and leave them shortened or tangled past repair. Now the opportunity was handed over by my dearest friend, an innocent gift to me that I had every intention of desecrating. "Excuse me, could you tell me that again? Sydney Honeycutt is giving you an award?" I used pure adrenaline to crank my burning arms through more reps before dropping back to the floor. "Congratulations. That's a PR for you, isn't it? Sort of. He's endowing a dormitory for 'physically challenged' students off campus and wanted me to be there to look the place over before he turns it over to the college. He wants to name it after me, so I'm supposed to be there to advise on the preliminary visit. It used to be a fraternity house when he and I were students, but it was closed because of a bunch of infractions over the years. It's probably a fire trap and just a tax write off for him, but since he's springing for an elevator it could be turned into something really worthwhile." Betty ran her hand gently up my right arm, tracing the veins that throbbed in angry courses. "God, Kathy, I've never felt you so vascular. You're always making me show off. Flex this beauty to inspire me to work as hard as you just did. You wouldn't be interested in going along would you? Yipes! Like a rock! It'll probably be pretty boring, but you might find some way to amuse yourself." "Don't worry, I'm sure I can stay busy while I'm there. I wouldn't miss this for the world. If you don't stop rubbing my arms I'll have to make a dash to the showers to take care of some private business, to which you would certainly be invited to contribute." She laughed, "We have to find you a man to keep your mind out of the gutter. But you keep breaking all the ones around here so maybe it Is safer to just send you to the showers." Betty left off her sensuous exploration and turned to start her own set of chins. "Trust me, love, I'm sure I'll find one or two men to spend time with on this trip." We flew to the event, a long weekend of homecoming and alumni activities. I didn't go to university so perhaps I romanticize the college experience. Anticipation of my rendezvous and curiosity about Betty's school had me very eager about the opportunity. Naturally I overpacked, but Betty was ready for that. We arranged that she would come to my place and then we'd share a taxi to the airport. She used her stick to feel her way through the maze of clutter that greeted her within two paces of my door. It was worse than usual this time with the usual heaps being joined by clothes I'd considered taking, then set aside, and the safety items I'd pulled out for possible inclusion but figured I could get by without, even if they made it through airport security. The idea that a person would travel so far from home that an airplane is required and bring only the items she could carry into the cabin with her amazes me. If the planes quit flying it might take me a month to walk back home, so I needed enough clothing and other necessities for that contingency. Betty counted out my suitcases and the large shoulder bad I had lined up by the door. "Oh, good," she commented dryly. "You made my job easier by grouping it all together to sort through." And she began opening my bags while I stared in amazement. "Don't need it; you already have one of these; don't need it; this is nice - what is it? Won't need this; you can make the other one work; how many pair of shoes does this make?" She was busily tossing clothes out of my suitcases until she had them emptied while I ran around her making futile protests about colors not matching correctly and the need to expect the unexpected. She ignored me completely, then neatly repacked one of the suitcases with room left over. "Okay, unless you have a smaller bag we can transfer this into we're ready to go." I stared in shock at the tidy mountain of rejected but essential items she had created. Finding my dear friend blithely ready to lead me into the unknown with inadequate supplies stunned me into dumb resignation. The flight came off without incident and we shortly found ourselves in the maze of airport corridors, at once bewilderingly unique and just like all the others in the world. During the flight Betty had had me trace her fingers over the map of the terminal in the little magazine from the seat pocket. Naturally, then, she led the way toward the exit while I followed along trying to focus on direction signs and detours created by the inevitable construction projects. Not for the first time I wondered if Betty and I live in parallel universes that only appear similar: hers is ruled by logic allowing her to calmly deduce the proper direction changes without ever seeing the pathway while mine is ruled by chaos and randomness. How they could both exist in the same airport at the same time confounded me, but there we were. We made our way down the corridor to the security screening barrier where I called a halt. Past this point there was really no telling what we might confront. I've gotten used to the hassles of having to remove my metal toed shoes and the weighted belt I wear before crossing the security barriers, and I feel moderately more safe inside them knowing that crude weapons such as those are all I'm likely to encounter until I arrive back on the ground. Outside the security area, however, I'm back to worrying about my welfare for myself again, and I prefer having any advantage I can arrange Seating us out of traffic I drew my change purse from my jacket pocket and emptied it into the middle of the large traveling scarf in my lap. This scarf is a sturdy cotton print measuring three feet on a side and better for my current purpose than a silk one would be. Regardless of what others may say, I am capable of compromise in fashion choices. The coins made a handsome little pile of copper and silver against the paisley and black pattern. "Do you have any change on you?" I asked Betty. "It sounds like you should have enough there to rent a luggage locker for the week. What do you want it all for? Let me check." She rummaged in her purse. "How much do you need?" "As much as you have, and the type of coin doesn't matter." First she pulled out a wallet that I knew would have carefully sorted and compartmented contents. She emptied out a dollar's worth or so of coins into my hand. "Any more?" I asked, and she plucked forth several coins that were rattling loose in the bottom of the handbag. "I don't imagine you want pennies. I always end up with piles of them and they're more bother than they're worth." "I would love your penny horde," and my eyes lit up as a bulging leather coin purse emerged. "Perfect," I assured her as I added its contents to the rest in my scarf. With our collection heaped in the middle I folded my scarf diagonally in half, then rolled it up starting on the long side. When I knotted it around the coins I had a metal lump half the size of my fist and giving a reassuring heft when I gave it a couple trial swings. We were ready to move into the general airport concourse, taking our chances that we were as well armed as one can be in modern airports. "Betty! Betty Hunt!" I kept my hand wrapped in the tail of my scarf, ready to swing as I scanned the crowd for whomever was addressing my friend. "It's me, Sydney. It's great seeing you again." The speaker was a man of average height but above average taste and judgment where his wardrobe was concerned. He was flanked by a pair of equally well dressed gentlemen who must have required custom made shirts to accommodate their necks and shoulders. "I believe I see your Mr. Honeycutt, accompanied by a couple of representatives from the steroid lobby. Shall we run or stand our ground?" Betty, naturally, chose to stand firmly where she was and speak to him as if he were something other than a contemptible human being. Despite my protests she even decided we should ride with Honeycutt to our hotel. To my lights things went downhill from there. At our hotel we encountered that dear companion of Sydney Honeycutt's youth, a fellow named Marlowe. I am told killing men is against the law, except in self-defense. I am told there are severe penalties and the practice is to be avoided in front of witnesses and in broad daylight. Just having Honeycutt and Marlowe in front of me was already testing my ability to observe those niceties. But Marlowe seemed to be taking extraordinary steps to invite that fate. His nonchalance startled me, like watching a man strike a match off an open petrol container. Just where did he think that obscene stick was going to wind up? Surely he couldn't have been surprised by the outcome, yet he carried on just as if seeing tomorrow's sunrise was an experience he could take for granted every day. That stick. When Betty and I debarked into the lobby from Honeycutt's car my jaw nearly hit the floor seeing Marlowe standing there twirling it. Even Honeycutt looked embarrassed by the display of execrable taste. The stick began life as a billiards cue. Marlowe had painted it white with a red band six inches wide at the tip. It looked very much like the lightweight collapsible one Betty had stashed in her bag. As Marlowe flaunted and gestured with his toy he was clearly mocking my dear blind friend and letting everyone but her in on the joke. It was as if he was daring one of us to comment on his behavior or take some action that would just embarrass Betty more than it would him. My response would have carried him far past embarrassment, but as I said, bloody murder is frowned upon in the better hotel lobbies. Betty sensed something because I felt her grip tighten on my arm to the point I found bruises there later. Could she have been aware of his pantomime? Honeycutt and Marlowe exchanged some chit-chat that ended with what sounded like a proposal to have Betty take part in a short boxing demonstration along with an employee of Marlowe's. I studied the woman in question and saw a pale, thickset person of average height wearing a black trench coat and beret. Betty agreed to the proposal in a tone that told me she expected there would be more to it than was being stated, and I scanned the trio looking for a hint of whatever Betty suspected was going on. "Well, I gotta scoot," Marlowe concluded the conversation and led his female companion away, amusing himself by waving his stick to and fro ahead of himself as he went. She trailed behind a few steps, then stopped with fists on her hips to watch his odd progress. "And I must be off myself," Honeycutt told us. "Kathy it was a pleasure meeting you. I look forward to getting together with you this weekend Getting to know one of Betty's friends would be a pleasure as great as getting to know her better. Betty, we have a tour scheduled for nine tomorrow morning. Until then, I hope you enjoy visiting town and looking around the campus again." As we were heading toward our room I spotted Marlowe's assistant being seated in the coffee shop. I detached from Betty and the bellhop and drifted over to the table occupied by the pale, heavyset woman. "I'm afraid we didn't get around to introductions just now. I'm Kathy Davidson. Do you mind if I use this chance to have a talk?" "It's a free country." She glanced about, looked me up and down and sat up straighter with both hands on the table in front of her. "You're the friend of this woman who thinks she's the great boxer. Or maybe you work for her?" Her hands were like nothing I had seen before. They were thick and scarred and powerful. I could imagine them opening a tin can by simply peeling back the top. I could imagine them driving nails and crushing stones without requiring other tools. They were awe inspiring creations that made me wonder what other weapons she concealed. "No, just a friend and traveling companion for this trip back to the Alma Mater, for Betty's award. And Marlowe talked about you as if you were some simple dogsbody around his enterprises. From the looks of your knuckles I should think you have some more specialized tasks. Tasks that might suggest boxing would not be friendly exercise for you." "Dogsbody? I wouldn't know about that, but I don't usually take a lot of name- calling. I do a lot of things for Marlowe." She kept her eyes on my face as shrugged off the trenchcoat to reveal a pair of arms and shoulders that mated well with the hands. "I keep some of the books and negotiate with some of the clients on this and that." "Hence the knuckles. My apologies, I meant no offense. Dogsbody is a term my maiden aunt was fond of. It means a doer of odd jobs, but factotum or major domo sound tonier if you would prefer. From where I sat it appeared Marlowe was manipulating a close friend of mine into agreeing to something that he expected would be hazardous to her health, and there you were ready to help him. I have an abiding interest in her continued health." From my pocket I casually pulled the scarf with its wad of coins knotted into the best weapon I could improvise on short notice. I set it with a thud on the table. It seemed so inadequate as a defense against this white marble creature sitting across from me. But I knew a proper stonecutter could find the right spot to shatter even a boulder as large as this one with a single stroke and hoped I might pick such a spot on her if it came to that. If she had had eyebrows they would have raised as she saw it. "Do you always carry a blackjack or were you just looking forward to meeting me? Marlowe told me about her. Said she was a haughty bitch who thinks she's too good to even look at someone like me. I watched and he was right. She didn't even bother glancing my way. Maybe I'll get her to look at me during our little entertainment." Her eyes narrowed. "On the other hand, you didn't seem to be missing a thing, and you were paying a lot of attention to my boss and his buddy Honeycutt." She kept her eyes on my face as her hands tightened on the edge of the table. Her stare didn't waiver as the waitress delivered a cup of coffee to her. "Call me curious. Forgive my asking on short acquaintance, but are you barking mad? No, she didn't look at you just as she never looks at anything and never has. Betty is blind. She can't see. Marlowe knows that perfectly well." The roughened knuckles grew whiter, ropes of hard muscle stood out on the forearms. "What do you mean blind? He says she's a boxer and she agreed to this matchup." "I mean the optic nerves haven't functioned since the day she was born. Her eyes look normal but I assure you she can't see a thing. She boxes by sound. It's one of a thousand things she does so missing one of the five senses isn't so much a handicap as an inconvenience that she doesn't like people to notice. She and I work out together sometimes and while I'm constantly amazed by her physical abilities she has one exercise she does several times a day that always stops me cold: she blinks her eyes. Many sightless people just let the lids droop because there is no reason to have their eyes open, so the muscles controlling their eyelids atrophy. Betty exercises to be sure her eyes are open as she imagines the rest of us. Over dinner sometimes I catch her blinking and blinking with real determination. Every time it breaks my heart because I know it's just one more thing she's doing purely for me and the others around her, so we won't feel uncomfortable looking at her. At least I don't cry about it in front of her anymore because that would just give her something else to be considerate about." "Blind. Marlowe has me set up to fight a blind woman. I guess that explains that pool cue he's taken to carrying, his idea of a joke. This'll kill my reputation." The thick hands relaxed. I looked to see if she had left dents in the tabletop where she had gripped it. "You don't strike me as the crybaby sort. You sound like Mary Poppins but I'd guess you're more the type that if I did anything to hurt her friend, she'd take it personal and plan some payback. Is that something that's crossed your mind?" "I am exactly that type. Following a dream I came along on this trip with just such a thought in mind, as a matter of fact, regarding a pair of gentlemen from Betty's past who need to be called to account for past sins and sins they still hope to commit. Not that I'm anyone to speak ill of sin, but one should pick and choose more carefully than they have done. Mary Poppins? I fancied myself more a Diana Rigg. Dame Diana, not the earlier leather-suited version, of course." "But you didn't call this fight off?" "No, that would be for Betty to do and for her own reasons. I've seen her box a few times and it fits her ideas of athletics and healthy competition. I might hate the sport and think that the whole notion of two adults following prescribed rules for battering each other belongs in Cloud Cuckoo Land rather than here, but on that basis I'm in no position to deny her a hobby she enjoys. So long as it's a fair competition from her perspective." "Well, sorry about your friend, but she got herself into this match. Marlowe's paying me five hundred if I knock her out and a thousand if I do permanent damage or get her to beg me to stop. Besides the money, a person in my line of work who cheats her boss or ducks an assignment can start counting down her last days. You call it dogsbody and I call it professional bottom feeder." Her shoulders tensed like two alabaster cannonballs, the trapezius muscles loomed like stone bookends supporting her neck between them. "If she shows up I'm going to do my best to put as much hurt on her as I can until she lays down. But I have my standards. When I negotiate it's face to face with all cards showing, like we are now, and I'll do that with her. There are a few modifications I can make to Marlowe's plan but her best bet is still going to be to hit the deck early and stay there." "Highly unlikely. What sort of modifications?" "The gloves he gave me aren't as padded as regular boxing gloves. He owns the ref and the timekeeper so I'm supposed to go at her with less padding than she'll be firing back with, and we won't have any interference for as long as it takes. I can trade the gloves out and he's none the wiser. And I think he has something in mind that has to do with some bells, but we haven't talked details yet. What I'll do is I'll give her as fair a fight as I can, but it's still going to be a fight with me doing what I can to give her a beating. If you're interested I have an idea for evening her odds. Marlowe pays my bills but I don't have to love him. Keep in mind that now that I know the score I'll be looking for you if things go bad for her. I won't be waiting around for you to try something on me." "No, I shouldn't think you would be the waiting sort. Your proposal sounds eminently fair. And I have a reliable wristwatch so I can help the timekeeper with his job, should he lose track. Regardless of what the evening brings, may I say I look forward to meeting you again when this match is over? If you're willing to make this a fair fight my advice is that you take care of yourself, I'll take care of myself, and we both trust Betty to take care of herself. Perhaps we can arrange tea for three at this time tomorrow." I pocketed my loaded scarf and prepared to leave. But I just had to feel some part of this incredible creature, if only to assure myself she was real and not a figment of my imagination. It was a need for confirmation I had felt from the beginning of this adventure. I held out my hand for a formal shake and was thrilled that she hesitated only a moment before accepting the invitation. I covered her solid, dry right hand with my left to make the most of this brief contact and met her surprised eye. Rather than offer some witty parting comment I simply winked to let her know I had felt the same jolt of electricity pass between us. If I was losing my mind it seemed I had a partner with whom to share my madness. She stammered a bit as I took my leave. "My name's Cathie, too. If I didn't mention it." Then she sank into her private reverie. CHAPTER 2: BETTY HAS HER RENDEZVOUS I think about darkness a lot. What it must look like, what it is, how it means so much to most people and nothing to me. When I was a little girl my father explained there was nothing bad about darkness, that half the time the earth faced away from the sun and things rested and got quieter. And that the lightest it could be was to look right at the sun, and that would also make it so people couldn't see anything. Because I'm blind I have always been able to get around in darkness as easily as when it's light. When I know where I am and what's around me I feel safe whether the sun is out or not. I make my own safety by knowing where I am, and by staying close to things that are solid and dependable when I have to move into the unknown. I knew I was in a roped-off square fifteen feet six inches on a side, because I had stepped it off. At the corners were solid wooden pillars with padding wrapped around them, but not very much and not wrapped very well. I knew there were thin mats under my feet and the ceiling was low enough to touch if I stretched, but high enough I wouldn't bump it even under the beams. In the middle with me was a woman I estimated to weigh two hundred pounds, give or take ten. She was about my height and was wearing boxing gloves like I was. A referee, a man, was also there. He weighed about fifteen pounds less than the woman and was a few inches taller. Around our boxing ring were a couple dozen people including Kathy and two men I used to know a long time ago. I knew where I was and what was around me. I keep my body solid and dependable. All in all I was as safe as I ever am. But Kathy was lost. Sometimes to feel safe she needs me, to help remind her where she is and what's around her. I felt her slipping away at the airport when we ran into Sydney Honeycutt. She got tense, her breathing got faster. I knew she had fashioned a sort of club out of her scarf and some coins, and I felt when her hand tightened on it in her pocket like she was ready to pull it out and start swinging. She resisted the idea of accepting a ride to our hotel with Syd and his two employees, and only went along when I told her I was going to ride with them even if she didn't. On the way to our hotel she relaxed enough to exchange a few words, but in the lobby she got even more spooked. "Hey, look, there's Marlowe. You remember him, don't you Betty?" I could hear Honeycutt was lying even when stating a simple fact. And I could feel Kathy start trembling like a plucked wire. "Marlowe, you old rascal. You remember Betty Hunt don't you?" It's been almost twenty years since the three of us were students here, but we had some encounters that none of us could possibly forget. I was guessing these two had talked several times about those old days and about this surprise reunion. I wanted to hug Kathy and pet her until she could get control of herself again, until she could face these snakes and know that any fangs they had were no match for her. They were, as she would have put it in other times, just men. They were not worth her notice. "Of course I remember. How could I forget, the way you cost us a bundle over that boxing match we put you in? God, we sure learned our lesson there!" If there's anything Honeycutt and Marlowe didn't do in college it was learn. Where I was squeezing it with all my strength to hold her in place Kathy's bicep was tensed like a baseball. I don't have a guide dog because I don't work well with animals. They get excited around me and the couple of times people have tried to introduce me to one it seemed to lose focus on its job. It isn't in me to calm a wild thing like Kathy so I concentrated on holding her while wondering what was going on. "Say Marlowe, do you think we could do it again? For a good cause this time? I mean if Betty is willing and is still in shape maybe we could put on a little boxing demonstration for some of our friends. Strictly a demonstration, of course, not a real match like we tried before. We'd ask a few bucks donation and give the money over to the fund I'm setting up. She showed us that blindness isn't the end of the world if a person has what it takes inside. That's the whole spirit of the award and the fund, after all." "We should have her go against a woman this time, though. I mean, women's boxing is becoming a real sport but the world might not be ready for the sort of coed bout we put on back then. Where are we going to find another woman who'd be willing, though? Maybe my bookkeeper would be willing to give it a shot. She seems to be in pretty good shape. I don't know if she's ever seen a boxing match, but it's a demonstration, right? Nobody's going to get hurt. You wouldn't take advantage of an amateur would you, Betty?" I needed hip waders. These two morons were shoveling manure back and forth so fast I could practically smell it. They had never been able to judge people. They were assuming I was as stupid as them, maybe because I have a handicap. And somehow they couldn't see I was barely holding a raging wolf that was about to slip her leash and leap for their throats. They seemed oblivious to the danger that seemed to engulf the entire room, so I played it low-key as well. "I don't have any objections, but I'm not as young as I used to be. Last time it was three rounds. I wouldn't want to do more than that, and if it's just a demonstration we should be able to make the point in one round. Especially if the other person isn't experienced. It's just a demonstration of good exercise, and it would have to be kept safe. Where did you have in mind?" My father took us kids fishing a few times. I remember feeling when a fish was nibbling the bait on my hook. These two were dangling bait, but it remained to be seen who would get caught, just like that time before when they had to pay me fifty dollars after a boxing match. "Well, we could do it in the basement of the old house, just like before. Maybe tomorrow evening after we all tour the place and after the award ceremony. Say six o'clock? That will give us time for dinner afterward. Marlowe, our Betty might have some real surprises in store for your bookkeeper. I hope you're paying her enough for this!" "I pay her plenty. Besides, I think she's the type who'll enjoy it. Well, I gotta scoot. I need to check on a couple things before the ceremony. I'll see you all at the tour tomorrow." As Marlowe and another person walked away I realized Honeycutt hadn't introduced Kathy, and Marlowe hadn't asked about her either nor introduced whoever was with him. Marlowe was never the sort to let someone as attractive as I think Kathy must be get away without trying for a phone number, and Honeycutt must have been pretty preoccupied not to be minding his well-bred manners and taken care of it himself. Something was going on with those two but I was willing to move carefully ahead to find out what it might be. I knew where I was and with Kathy beside me I always felt safe, even though she had become a ticking bomb about to explode all over them for no reason I could guess. * * * The bell rang and I moved forward in the ring. It wasn't really a bell, it sounded more like somebody banging on a sauce pan. They said the other woman was in shape, but I could guess her weight from the sound when she mimicked my jumping up and down on the wood floor above us earlier in the day, from the sounds her feet made coming down the creaking stairs with the rest of the people, from how solid she stood when I gave a push when we touched gloves. Two hundred pounds and in shape. This was going to be an interesting match. The fight was nothing special, really. The other woman was inexperienced in boxing just as Marlowe had said. But before the bell she told me she'd be coming at me with everything she had and that nobody would think less of me if I quit early and just took a ten count. The ref told her he might not feel like counting that high, that numbers weren't in his contract but she said she might have a way to help him with his math if he didn't count right. I might have been offended that they both thought I couldn't handle the situation. But I've had a lifetime of proving that blindness is different from helplessness, and showing companies and individuals in court that "reasonable accommodation" like putting bells on boxing gloves can be a fair and simple way of allowing handicapped people to do the same job other people can do. This would just be one more chance to make the point. I started out testing her strength and abilities. Plenty strong, practically like fighting my brother Ernie, but absolutely no skill. After I'd gotten in half a dozen good counterpunches that didn't seem to faze her at all, I just decided to help her work on her boxing and not worry about her getting hurt. She didn't seem to care about it, so I followed her lead to make this educational as Marlowe and Honeycutt had suggested from the start. At first when she threw a punch it sounded like a slow moving freight train. I could track it from when she'd first cock her arm by pulling her fist back before throwing it at my head. She didn't get the message when I jabbed a couple of times before her glove even started forward, so I described the problem to her. She got better after that, and was a fairly fast learner. This was no time to do more than demonstrate a combination after describing it for her, so she never really developed one. And she wanted every punch to be a knock-out which just assured none of them would be. To be honest it wasn't completely one sided. It took about two battering ram straight rights to convince me I didn't want to get fully in the way of one. Now and then I'd be too slow or she'd throw me off with a little hesitation and one would break through or get around my guard. I'd love to work with her again sometime and see what she'd really be capable of. Kathy said she felt herself tip over the edge when she glanced back just before shorting out the second plug. We had been fighting for almost a minute by then, and I probably already had my cut. She probably thought I was being murdered, while I figured things were going pretty well. The lights in half the basement were already out so we were lit from one side, casting shadows over everything. Kathy said the contours of our bodies cast shadows on us, which was an odd illusion. Shadows. That's where there isn't any light, so it looks like nothing is there. I imagine parts of two women with missing sections where the shadows fell - half an arm hitting against a stomach that had gaps in it between the abs. It seems very weird and might have been enough to affect anyone. The crowd noises were all different from what I'm used to. They wanted blood and violence, not a good clean boxing match like we were giving them. That was obvious from the start. Then there was all that yelling and confusion when Kathy turned out half the lights and real pandemonium when the other half went out. We just kept on with what we were doing, though, not particularly counting the minutes and relieved that damned referee wasn't getting in our way anymore. If I were pacing myself for a real fight, having it go more than three minutes would have been a problem. But this was a demonstration and we both could have kept it up twice as long as we did. The blood bothered me. Not mine, hers. My cut didn't seem as deep as it turned out to be, and I've had cuts like that before. But I could smell her blood. She wouldn't slow down or call for a break or do anything to acknowledge she was hurt even when I asked about it, but I could smell her blood when we got together, toe to toe, and exchanged punches. So finally the bell rang and we were done. Kathy was the first one into the ring and something about the way she hugged me told me she'd been up to something. I didn't know about her trick with the lights, and still don't entirely understand what she thought she was doing. But her hug felt so desperate, like she was grabbing on for dear life. At first I thought it was because she had been afraid for me, even if it was just boxing. Later I realized she was the one in trouble, like a drowning person grabbing something to keep herself from being swept away forever. CHAPTER 3: KATHY HAS HER OWN RENDEZVOUS IN THE DARK I had slept the sleep of the virtuous and dreamt of being an animal with long teeth and sharp claws let loose among the sheep. Two sheep in particular. I awoke refreshed and ready for whatever climax to this visit might unfold. Betty and I breakfasted and stood ready in the lobby for our tour of the facility Honeycutt proposed to make over for disabled students. I kept having to remind myself that my dear friend Betty would have been considered to be one of those. Ten times as smart and much better educated than I, perfectly capable of getting along in her professional life, but somehow considered disabled simply because she couldn't see. The building itself was unimpressive, a rambling three story frame building with a full basement. I tried to look interested as Honeycutt pointed out where he would install an elevator running top to bottom that would allow those in wheelchairs to roam freely about the place. I was more interested in other features, and I took such notes as I would need later to find my own way about without eyesight. My new friend and I studiously avoided meeting eyes or speaking as we wandered about, but when we parted I slipped her a scribbled note about my improvised plan of action. Later back at the campus Betty and I endured a self-congratulatory speech by Honeycutt and the presentation of a plaque to Betty. He praised her simply for being about half of all I knew she was in life, but even that half merited recognition in my estimation. Afterwards we strolled about and she pointed out the library where she hadn't been able to read the books, the trees she enjoyed without seeing the leaves, the handsome architecture of some old buildings she could have explored as high as her hands could reach on their walls. I had to insist she take me past a trophy case so I might find a couple of plaques her rowing team had won and a tiny cup she had led the women's weightlifting club to winning. Then it was a matter of biding time until our rendezvous with the boxing gloves. Again, Honeycutt collected us in company of his two beefy but well dressed shadows. Again it was all I could do to restrain myself from leaping on him then and there rather than await the unspooling of events. When the small crowd of two or three dozen had gathered in the basement I helped Betty off with her warm-ups, taped her hands and laced on her gloves, and led her to the ring. I tried to make myself inconspicuous as I drifted to the back wall of the place where I could best survey the whole scene. Betty's opponent made a show of shedding her own inconspicuous exterior. She arrived in the same raincoat and beret I had seen her in previously. She pulled off the coat, glared about, and went into a wc off the basement to make her preparations. The crowd had gasped at the removing of the coat, as I expected they would, because her arms were so obviously powerful. I had steeled myself for that sight and was able to maintain an air of nonchalance. She emerged wearing a leather halter and matching shorts combination that only emphasized the fact that here was a woman who had spent years strengthening every muscle in her body, not just the arms. She swatted away one of Honeycutt's helpers who tried to do something to the bells she wore on her wrists, just as Betty wore them. Betty would need the bells to keep track of those gloves and the fists of stone they contained. Glaring around at the crowd the woman swept off the beret and used her clumsy gloves to push up straight a gelled Mohawk style haircut that had been concealed by the hat. Now this was new to me! Quite an exotic look, and one I debated made her more appealing to me or less. She entered the ring and listened to the preliminary discussion about the recreational purpose of the event. The audience snickered when told it was all in fun. They had paid good money for a brutal exhibition and fully expected to have it delivered to them. With a wave of his hand the referee called upon a scruffy man in a cheap suit at ringside to bang on a kettle with a hammer to start the action. I pulled on my gloves. It was time for my move. I slipped along the back of the hall and drew from my pocket the pencil I had prepared. I had pushed a straightened paperclip through the eraser and bent it so two prongs extended upward. After a quick glance about to be sure all attention was on the action in the ring, I pushed the wires into the electric outlet I had selected. Sparks arced from the receptacle and half the lights in the basement blinked out. One circuit down, one to go. Racing across the room to my other target I passed alongside of the ring. Betty's opponent gave no sign that she even noticed the change in the lighting of the room. Long shadows danced across the floor as the two women maneuvered and fought. The light fell on them from an angle now with none coming from overhead. The effect was to emphasize the sculpting of the two muscular bodies, each chiseled abdominal and tricep standing proudly out from the rippling whole, the wide backs writhing in complex tides of brawn. The sight brought me to a breathless halt, ignoring the protests of the spectators sitting behind me. The powerful attacker lurched toward Betty and slammed thunderous punches toward her head and midsection. Betty caught one overhand right on her crossed arms, the force throwing her bodily backwards. I turned away in horror and moved quickly through the milling crowd, some staring about at the darkened half of the room but most remaining focused on the fight, hoping they would see my best friend beaten bloody and senseless. I didn't recognize the man standing in front of the plug I needed to short out, but he reacted as if he recognized my improvised electrical tool. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded and grabbed for me. I ducked under his reaching arm and heaved him up, right off the ground, and flipped him onto his back on the concrete floor. While he was suspended there momentarily in space it occurred to me I could bring him down across my leg rather than flat on the concrete floor and break his back. Instead I let him crash hard, then gave him a kick behind the ear - not so hard that I would crack his skull, but hard enough to keep him there for the rest of this evening. It had been only a momentary delay but when I glanced back at the ring everything had changed. Betty was bleeding freely above her right eye, and another shattering blow sent her staggering backward. The oblique lighting continued to create bizarre shadows in the contours of the two muscular bodies, making them seem even more perfect works of art than had the normal lighting. As Betty caught her balance again and prepared for the next onslaught the man playing referee grabbed her left arm and pulled it downward, breeching the defense she needed to survive this fight. Before I could take my first step back to her rescue the incredible woman with the Mohawk haircut slammed her glove into the face of the referee. He toppled like a tree into the corner. Betty gamely stood waiting for the massive woman to follow up and I saw them exchange words, then resume their fight. I turned and plunged the wires into the outlet and held it there as sparks fired a foot from the wall. Darkness swallowed the entire chamber as the audience began shouting louder in protest. I count that as the moment I slipped on the narrow ridge between sanity and madness. Standing still to recover my bearings and figure my course to the fuse box it was as if I could see in ways no one has before. As clearly as if it were daylight I saw in my mind the path to the stairway. And in the same instant I saw more. Someone from this crowd would be sent to fix the problem, and I knew as surely as I knew anything that person would be Marlowe. It was as if I could see the thread of his life leading into the darkness, a glowing filament leading along the same course as the thread of my own life. I saw only one of our threads returning down the stairs. Marlowe would travel into the darkness and he would find me waiting. I stepped off the pre-counted steps one direction and then another to the bottom of the stairs. Up the stairs, through the doorway and into the hallway. I found the lights for the hallway and the adjoining rooms and flicked them off. Now the interior hall was even darker than the basement, and I tried to feel as at home in the dark as Betty might. Taking my place next to the fuse box I waited for my prey to arrive. Was I ready, I asked myself. I stripped off my leather jacket, trading freedom of movement for the loss of padding and protection. I realized my blouse was white and would surely show the signs of what would follow my impending encounter as well as make me more visible. I pulled it off as well, thinking the darkness would protect whatever modesty a stranger might attribute to me. Frankly, I was quite pleased with the black flowered camisole I wore underneath. Then I heard the steps on the stairs. I hastily stuffed my weighted scarf into my back pocket and waited. When the men stepped into the hallway it took me a moment to realize I should have anticipated the flashlight they carried. Marlowe carried the obscene cue stick painted like Betty's cane, and the man at his shoulder shined a torch along the floor as they came. He became my first victim. I imagine now I saw only the two threads of life leading to this point because this person was inconsequential to me or to future events. It was with an icy detachment that I sprang upward to kick him squarely in the face. He yelled and the swung light madly as I swarmed behind him. Only then did I realize I had encountered a two hundred pounder of my own, one of Honeycutt's steroid posterboys. No matter, I felt sure it was my thread that led safely away from this place and the rest would be details. The first detail was a fast blow to his kidney, then an arm around his neck and a hard twist to try pulling him backward and off his feet. No going; he stood quite firm and instead reared backward to smash me against the wall. He stepped forward and tried spinning about to face me, but I had moved with him. As he stopped to stare stupidly at the dimly lit wall where he expected to find me flattened, I had my loaded scarf out and gave him one of my best behind the ear. He stumbled forward so I sapped him again and then a third time to send him crashing face first onto the floor. Before I could congratulate myself on a successful bit of dirty fighting, a smashing pain lit up my right arm from the shoulder to my fingertips. My weapon clunked to the ground and I spun about to see Marlowe winding up for another swing at me with his painted stick. "So, it's the freak's seeing eye bitch. She's going to be looking pretty good compared to what I leave of you." He started to swing but I leaped forward to intercept him before he got any momentum. "Oh shit, you're another of those damned muscle bitches." "If Betty and your employee are the muscle bitches you mean, you may consider me their bloody queen," I snarled as we stood wrestling for possession of the cue stick. "Thank you for bringing this along. It saves me the trouble of hunting it up so I can plant it where it belongs." I'd been quite religious in working out all year, since my encounter, as I prepared myself for this climax. In the light from the abandoned torch even I was impressed at the nice definition showing in my shoulders as I began driving him backward, and I was quite pleased that even with one arm aching from his blow I felt quite strong enough to match Marlowe. I gave a big push, then jerked him towards me when he compensated. I fell to my back and put up a foot to carry him over me and hard onto the floor. Hand it to Marlowe, he was up much quicker than I expected, getting to his feet at the same time I did, the wooden prize in my hand. He was just as quick drawing his shiny pistol from under his coat and thrusting it toward my chest. "Let's see you muscle your way out of this!" Among my minority statuses over here is the fact that I have never fired a gun. Perhaps that disqualifies me for citizenship, but there it is. But I understand the mechanics of guns quite well. Marlowe was about to shoot me in the heart with a thirty-eight calibre revolver. The rational response would have been panic, but I chose to stop the weapon from firing. I grabbed it with my left hand, gripping across the cylinder and staring directly through his eyes and into what passed for his soul. The way the machinery works, you see, is that pulling the trigger simultaneously rotates the cylinder and cocks the hammer back so the gun can fire. If the cylinder can't turn the weapon won't cock. Marlowe was futilely tugging the trigger but finding things jammed up solidly as I held the cylinder in place, my hand strength versus his finger strength: no contest. I waited the second or two until fear flared up in his eyes before swinging the stick held flat against my forearm into the side of Marlowe's head in a powerful roundhouse blow. As he sank to the floor I debated a slow, careful dismemberment or a methodical beating of his entire body into jelly. I wished to demonstrate that while not in the strength class of Betty or her boxing partner downstairs, I was in the best shape of my life and completely capable of ripping a creature such as Marlowe limb from limb. Muscle bitch, indeed. Instead, I watched him gather himself onto all fours and begin crawling away from me, beginning to whimper for mercy. It was a pleasant enough memory to carry away so I put a quick end to our proceedings. Taking a stand like a harpooner in the bow of a whaleboat, I thrust the pool cue dead center in the seat of Marlowe's trousers. I got my entire body behind it, arms, back, legs, all acting like a single steel spring to propel the shaft exactly where it belonged and followed through for a good yard. First he screamed, an octave higher than I would have believed him capable of. Then he began uttering a series of guttural squeals like a fat, injured hog. He continued crawling forward on his stomach, moving spasmodically. While the glowing thread of his life seemed to stop at that point there's no telling how far he might have got or how long he might have carried on so, and I had things to do. I stepped up, grabbed the stick and lifted his back half clear of the ground as if he were a pig on a spit, then stamped hard where the shaft protruded. The stick snapped, he fell back to the ground and at last lay quiet, emitting only gasping wheezes. As I turned away from him I kicked a fat envelope that must have fallen from his pocket when I gave him the toss onto the floor. Impulsively I grabbed it up and stuffed it into the waistband of my pants. I retrieved my clothing and improvised blackjack, deposited the handle of Marlowe's billiards stick next to his unconscious companion, and finally got to address myself to the fuse box. When we had toured the place that morning I had opened the panel to see what sorts of fuses it used. I couldn't spend the time then to identify which ones served the basement, so I had brought a sampling of all the sizes represented. Now I had to look closely to see which two were burnt, and cursed that they were both the same size. I had brought only one of each sort. Nothing to do but switch out a bad one with the next smaller size. That done I hurried back down the stairs as the fallen man began regaining his wits. The group had been on their feet the whole time, jostling and groping in the darkness. A few had groped their way toward the exits, but most had stood in front of their seats, waiting for the lights to come back on so their entertainment could continue. Above a constant jangling of bells those close to the ring must have heard the heavy breathing inside and the sporadic slam of leather on flesh and knew the fight was going on unseen. Now they were trying to figure out what they had missed. Blinking at the sudden glare the audience was focused on the two women fighting in the ring before them. Minutes before they had appeared as an attractive if muscular blonde and an even more muscular woman with a black Mohawk style haircut. Now both women were disheveled and panting. Blood ran down from a cut above Betty's eye and in a trickle from her nose. It had dripped onto her cotton shirt, wet with her sweat, and spread in a pink design across her broad chest. The woman with the Mohawk looked as if she had just pulled her face out of a fresh carcass she had been devouring, her mouth ringed with blood that dripped from her chin. The fighters gave no evidence of having noticed the change in lighting but continued their battle. Betty bobbed and weaved, slipping away from most of the heavy punches thrown at her or catching them on her forearms and shoulders. Her responses came as fast, crisp jabs and combinations that showered punishment on her opponent's face and body. The dark haired woman bore in as if she didn't notice the leather gloves that slammed into her, bore in through the assault firing one powerful blast after another as Betty retreated methodically before her onslaught, moving around the ring and avoiding being pinned in any of the corners. In one of those corners the referee was now sitting but mostly seemed intent on staying out of the way. The audience began cheering the fighters after assessing the progress made during the long minutes of darkness. They didn't turn as I hurried through the basement to the shabby fellow who was supposed to have rung the bell after three minutes. I snatched up the pot he had used to initiate the action, but he grabbed the hammer before I could. Seeing my intention of sounding the final bell, he swung the hammer at my head. I raised the kettle in defense and nearly laughed when the resulting crash accomplished my purpose for me. Still raging with adrenaline from my tussle upstairs I discarded the pot and gave him two fast jabs on the point of his nose before he could try again with the hammer, then slammed the heel of my hand into his chin, putting him down flat if not entirely out. In the ring the fighters froze at the sound of the bell, dropped their fists to their sides, then collapsed forward into one another's arms, the blood from their faces mingling as they tightened their embrace of respect and admiration. The crowd milled in confusion, looking for the men who had staged the contest and taken their money with the promise of an entertaining exhibition, watching one powerful woman beat and humiliate another. They had expected to see a professional thug beat a blind woman to unconsciousness or drive her begging to her knees. They had seen only a few moments of the actual fight, and would have to mark the outcome as a draw from the evidence before them. Honeycutt was busily invoking Marlowe's name to explain why nobody had had quite the show they expected. I moved quickly into the ring to extricate Betty while her powerful opponent invited any spectator who thought there had been too little entertainment to join her in the ring. I learned she later found all the action she could handle.