uninformed about boxing and knew the might of Jim Jeffries and that at his fighting weight he outscaled Ketchel by sixty pounds, and she was aware of Ketchel’s veneration of him. She was delighted by the dream. She said she believed the only reason he always woke up before the punch landed was that he respected Jeffries so much he wanted to spare him the humiliation of a knockout, even in a dream.
“You think so?” Ketchel said. “Boy, wouldn’t that be something? To knock out the Boilermaker! I mean, that man is a goddamn killing machine.”
“Well, so are you, Mr. Michigan Assassin.”
“Yeah, but…Jeffries! He’s the biggest of them all.”
Kate smiled and kissed him. “Oh baby, he’s no bigger than you, he’s just taller and weighs more.”
Since Kate’s death, he had not had the Jeffries dream nor occasion to recall her response to it. But when he got the word of Jeffries’ retirement, he remembered. He lay in bed that night and remembered the dream and remembered telling Kate about it and remembered her wonderful kiss and bold green eyes and confident insistence that he was no less powerful nor even smaller than Jeffries, the physical difference between them be damned.
The recollection was akin to recovering from a brief but unsettling episode of amnesia, a return to full awareness of who he was, and he suddenly felt like both laughing and crying. And did both. Then slept soundly.
H E HAD SIX more fights in the rest of that spring and summer and won them all by knockout, fighting as fiercely as ever. And in two of those fights he had his opponent on the ropes and beaten to helplessness, at which point he both times ceased his attack and let the man fall for the count.
Miss Molly Yates
H e met Molly Yates one morning when he took breakfast in the Silver Hill Café for the first time. Along with the family house, she had inherited the business after her parents were killed in a train derailment returning from a trip to Denver. She was tall and auburn-haired and twenty-five years old. She knew who he was before he introduced himself, having seen his picture in the local newspaper and heard her customers talk about him.
He went to the Silver Hill for breakfast every morning thereafter, and they would converse for an hour or two every time. He learned she’d had a high school sweetheart she planned to marry, but two months after graduation and going to work in the mines he was killed in an explosion, and for almost a year she thought her heartbreak might kill her too.
He’d known her for three weeks when she invited him to supper at her home on the following evening. He arrived freshly barbered and in a new suit. After they dined they repaired to the parlor and she played the Victrola and they danced. He thought she might slap him for his sudden kiss and was instead surprised by the fervor and finesse of her own kiss in return. She unpinned her hair and let it spill onto her shoulders in a dark abundance. And then they were naked in her candlelit bed.
She afterward told him she had known several men, as she phrased it, since the death of her betrothed, though never again a miner. She had discovered the particular enjoyment of physical intimacy without emotional investment. She said she hoped he did not think her wanton.
He said he thought she was just what the doctor ordered.
“Well, in that case,” she said, rolling atop him, “I believe it’s time for your medicine.”
I N N OVEMBER HE became an uncle when a daughter named Julia Josephina Kaicel, who’d been nicknamed Julie Bug, was born to John and Rebeka. Although the farm continued to provide a living for his mother and his brother’s family, Ketchel had in recent months been sending cash in his letters to her, and he now enclosed even more than usual, directing her to use the money to pay the legal costs of a divorce from Kaicel, who at this point had been missing without word for almost a year. He had spoken with an
“You think so?” Ketchel said. “Boy, wouldn’t that be something? To knock out the Boilermaker! I mean, that man is a goddamn killing machine.”
“Well, so are you, Mr. Michigan Assassin.”
“Yeah, but…Jeffries! He’s the biggest of them all.”
Kate smiled and kissed him. “Oh baby, he’s no bigger than you, he’s just taller and weighs more.”
Since Kate’s death, he had not had the Jeffries dream nor occasion to recall her response to it. But when he got the word of Jeffries’ retirement, he remembered. He lay in bed that night and remembered the dream and remembered telling Kate about it and remembered her wonderful kiss and bold green eyes and confident insistence that he was no less powerful nor even smaller than Jeffries, the physical difference between them be damned.
The recollection was akin to recovering from a brief but unsettling episode of amnesia, a return to full awareness of who he was, and he suddenly felt like both laughing and crying. And did both. Then slept soundly.
H E HAD SIX more fights in the rest of that spring and summer and won them all by knockout, fighting as fiercely as ever. And in two of those fights he had his opponent on the ropes and beaten to helplessness, at which point he both times ceased his attack and let the man fall for the count.
Miss Molly Yates
H e met Molly Yates one morning when he took breakfast in the Silver Hill Café for the first time. Along with the family house, she had inherited the business after her parents were killed in a train derailment returning from a trip to Denver. She was tall and auburn-haired and twenty-five years old. She knew who he was before he introduced himself, having seen his picture in the local newspaper and heard her customers talk about him.
He went to the Silver Hill for breakfast every morning thereafter, and they would converse for an hour or two every time. He learned she’d had a high school sweetheart she planned to marry, but two months after graduation and going to work in the mines he was killed in an explosion, and for almost a year she thought her heartbreak might kill her too.
He’d known her for three weeks when she invited him to supper at her home on the following evening. He arrived freshly barbered and in a new suit. After they dined they repaired to the parlor and she played the Victrola and they danced. He thought she might slap him for his sudden kiss and was instead surprised by the fervor and finesse of her own kiss in return. She unpinned her hair and let it spill onto her shoulders in a dark abundance. And then they were naked in her candlelit bed.
She afterward told him she had known several men, as she phrased it, since the death of her betrothed, though never again a miner. She had discovered the particular enjoyment of physical intimacy without emotional investment. She said she hoped he did not think her wanton.
He said he thought she was just what the doctor ordered.
“Well, in that case,” she said, rolling atop him, “I believe it’s time for your medicine.”
I N N OVEMBER HE became an uncle when a daughter named Julia Josephina Kaicel, who’d been nicknamed Julie Bug, was born to John and Rebeka. Although the farm continued to provide a living for his mother and his brother’s family, Ketchel had in recent months been sending cash in his letters to her, and he now enclosed even more than usual, directing her to use the money to pay the legal costs of a divorce from Kaicel, who at this point had been missing without word for almost a year. He had spoken with an
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