Bedford Sty ‘Till I Die

Laura Kilgore opens the door to the palatial mansion she shares with her husband, heavyweight champion Kellin Kilgore.

Pierre Cerdan takes off his beret, smiling sheepishly as he steps inside. The anxious manager can already feel himself starting to sweat. “It’s been two months. I think it’s time Kellin did an interview. How are you doing, Laura?”

“Coping.”

“Thank you for doing that piece for 60 Minutes. They used a lot of past footage of Kellin, so it was like he was being interviewed live too. You made him look very sympathetic.”

“I wanted the people who hate him to understand him,” Laura replies. “I wanted them to know about the pressure we’ve had to endure being a mixed-race couple. That Kellin earned a degree in business in college while he was learning how to box. And I wanted people to know that he helped me make the transition from being a model to being a photographer.”

“That story about you waking up after your heart surgery and realizing he’d slept in the chair all night really moved the needle. One thing though. You made it sound like the Smack Walden bout was his last fight.”

“It had better be. You’ve kept him in superb shape. That’s why he hasn’t been hurt too badly and he’s still unbeaten. But Father Time is the only one who stays undefeated. He’s thirty-six. I want him to get out before he winds up like…,” Laura says, her voice trailing off.

Pierre stops to admire the large photograph of Kellin the night he won the championship. Kellin stands at the center of the ring with the World Boxing Organization belt draped over one shoulder and the World Boxing Council belt over the other, with the World Boxing Association belt wrapped around his waist. Laura wears the champ’s International Boxing Federation belt around her waist, her arm draped lovingly around Kellin’s neck. Their blissful expressions, coupled with Kellin’s formidable physique and Laura’s wholesome looks, turned the photo into one of boxing’s most iconic moments.

“Happier times,” Laura says.

“How is he, really?” Pierre asks.

“Kellin’s been having the same nightmare over and over. The other night he woke up screaming, ‘Get up, Walden! Get up!”

“Is he getting out at all?”

“We sneak out for a walk once in a while the neighbors are at work and the paparazzi are out to lunch.”

“I suppose that’s a start.”

“I’m worried about him, Pierre. He cries a lot,” Laura says, wiping her own tears away from her bright blue eyes. “He goes out on the deck when he thinks I’m asleep and I can’t hear him.”

Pierre walks down the hallway, glancing at a photo of Laura in an evening gown featured on the cover of Cosmopolitan a decade ago, “You’ve still got it, Laura,” he comments. “We need to get Kellin back in the public eye to tell his side of what happened and to save his legacy. The magazines and sports shows have been lined up for weeks to interview him.”

“Not while he’s like this.”

“Maybe he’ll feel better when I tell him the majority of them are on his side.”

“It’s the ones who are out to crucify Kellin that have kept him huddled up in here,” Laura replies. “If you want to bring back the charming, charismatic champ everyone loves, you’ll need to start small.”

“It’s Corrine’s birthday tomorrow. What say we all go to Ciro’s like we used to before all this madness happened?”

“I like the idea. I know Kellin’s fans may have good intentions, but I know he’s not ready to face his critics.”

Pierre winks at her as he heads down the hall. “We’ll have our privacy. I’ve reserved a table outside.”

Pierre finds Kellin in the den slumped on a sofa, a cigarette in one hand and a potent glass of whiskey in the other. His once vibrant brown eyes look dull and defeated as he watches Smack Walden’s three-hundred-fifty-pound manager, Galen Pugh, rant about the fight.

“It was wholesale murder, nothing less. The referee, the four boxing commissions, and the fans all let Kilgore get away with it. Well, I’m not sitting still for it. Smack wouldn’t want me to. He deserves justice. That’s why I’m heading the effort to charge Kellin Kilgore with manslaughter.”

Pierre turns the television off. “Don’t listen to Jabba the Hut, he’s just blowing smoke. Speaking of which…” He pulls the cigarette out of Kellin’s hand, snuffing it out next to the half dozen butts already in the ashtray.

“Those things’ll kill you.”

“Very funny.”

“Too soon? You look like crap, champ.”

“My appearance matches my mood.”

“I reserved a table for us at Ciro’s for tomorrow night. Don’t say no just yet, it’s my wife’s birthday,” Pierre says, observing Kellin’s bloodshot eyes and five o’clock shadow. “It’s strange, most guys who feel sorry for themselves gain weight. Not you, you lose weight. You need a power shake, a good steak, and lots of potatoes.”

“I still see Smack’s last moments, Pierre. I see him sliding down the ropes as he takes his last breath.”

“Every fighter knows that could happen to them whenever they put on the gloves.”

“It hasn’t happened to every fighter. It happened to Smack Walden. I threw the punches that killed him. According to the internet, I hit him with thirty-four unanswered power shots.”

“The internet also claims Winston Churchill was an alien. Tolan Belle, the referee, should have stopped the fight sooner.”

“I was blocking his view…on purpose. I wanted to kill him, Pierre.”

Pierre can feel a nervous sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Everybody has a moment when they lose it. Yours happened to be in front of fifteen million pay-per-view customers and a full house at Caesar’s. This is nothing new, Kellin. Over two thousand fighters have died in the ring.”

“I’m only concerned about one in particular.”

Kellin looks around the room at the championship belts hanging on the wall. “All that savagery, for what? I bet those aren’t even real diamonds in those belts.”

“Most of the fans and the sports talk shows get it. They know how dangerous boxing can be. If you tell your side of things…”

“That I wanted to kill him?”

Pierre wipes the sweat from his upper lip. “Leave that part out. You’re one of the most beloved sports figures of all time. You’re undefeated in forty-eight fights. Your name’s mentioned in the same breath as Ali, Liston, Monzon, and Duran. You beat the toughest foe you ever faced.”

“Yeah, I beat him to death. Galen Pugh is right. I’m a murderer. And now I don’t have the focus, heart, or desire to face the next hungry pup who wants my title. Smack was younger, but he was slow and ponderous. He telegraphed his punches, yet he hit me with plenty of them.”

Pierre waves his beret, cooling his heated brow. “What are you saying?”

Kellin downs his glass of whiskey. “I’m done, Pierre.”

“Think about it. No matter what you decide, you still have to protect your legacy. You should start talking to reporters about what happened. I can’t. I’m not sure I understand it myself.”

“It started at the weigh-in…”

Flexing his muscles, Samuel “Smack” Walden poses for the crowd. At 6’ 3”, 225 pounds Smack practically matches Kellin’s height and weight, but he’s bulkier, with facial scars around his eyes and cheeks that accentuate his toughness. Smack is equally known for his biting criticism of his opponents, whereas Kellin has been praised for his gentlemanly manner. Both men’s personalities pale in comparison to promotor Eric Monarch, boxing’s version of P.T. Barnum on steroids.

Monarch grins, the jewel in his front tooth gleaming against the lights, his spikey grey hair standing straight up like exclamation points as he talks about the fight.

“Both these warriors are unbeaten. Two strong, determined black men fightin’ for pride. One is a cagey, polished veteran. The other’s raw and hungry. Only one is gonna be the champion of the people.”

Smiling, Kellin points to himself, drawing a round of laughter from the gallery of reporters.

“You’ve fought nobody but bums, Kilgore,” Smack snaps.

“Well, it looks like I’m about to fight another one,” Kellin replies.

Smack flashes a gap-toothed smile. “Listen to Uncle Tom. You hear the phony way he speaks?”

“This fight has nothing to do with how we talk. If it did, Walden, they wouldn’t let you in the building.”

“So says the Oreo. I got the people behind me, Kilgore. I got the hood, I got the rappers, I got the real folks. I’m from Bedford Stuyvesant. Bed Sty ‘till I die! Who you got? That blond Barbie doll you call a wife? She was what, Miss Rhubarb, 1941? How many lap dances did she have to give to get her little trophy?”

Kellin shoves Smack. “You mention her again and you’ll be gumming your next Happy Meal.”

Monarch steps between the two big men. “Whoa! Save it for the pay-per-view, fellas! That’s why we’re callin’ this fight ‘The Battle of the Brothers’. It’s two bold, brave, Black men colliding. One hip-hop, one rock n’ roll, one from the ‘hood, the other from Beverly Hills!”

“I’m gonna enjoy showin’ the world you ain’t black enough,” Smack snarls.

“And I’m going to love killing you,” Kellin replies.

When the opening bell rings, the two fighters charge across the ring at one another, trading jaw-jarring power punches. The fight stays even until the fifth round when Smack shows signs of wilting from the blistering pace.

Gasping for air, Smack pulls Kellin into a clinch.

“Where’s that trophy wife of yours, bro? She pole dancin’ for dollars?”

Kellin pushes Smack away, breaking Smack’s jaw with a blow that spectators would later say sounded like shattering glass.

The hardest punch of the fight drops Smack face-first onto the canvas. Smack manages to roll over on his back and stand at the count of eight. Rubber-legged, he leans against the ropes, shaking his head.

The bell rings as Kellin charges across the ring to finish Smack off.

Smack’s cornermen guide him back to his stool.

“Whatever you said to him, don’t repeat it,” Monk Monahan, Smack’s eighty-year-old trainer says.

A ring doctor attempts to check Smack, but Monk and his corpulent manager box him out.

“Where are we?” Monk asks Smack.

“Tuesday.”

“Well, that’s certainly not the right answer, is it?”

“Close enough,” Galen Pugh wheezes.

“How do you feel, Smack?” Monk asks.

“I see three of everything.”

“Hit the one in the middle,” Pugh suggests.

“Are you kiddin’? We can’t send him back out there!” Monk protests.

Smack shakes his head. “I’m good. Let’s start the fight.”

The bell rings. Smack slaps his gloves together, moving forward.

“See. He’s as good as new,” Pugh says.

“I ain’t so sure. He thinks the fight’s just startin’.”

Kellin hits Smack with two scorching rights, knocking him backward. A left hook breaks three of Smack’s ribs. Instinctively lowering his gloves to protect his side, Smack exposes his chin.

Fueled by his rage, Kellin lands thirty-four unanswered punches to Smack’s head and is ready to fire more, until referee Tolan Belle grabs him from behind, peeling him away from his unconscious foe.

His arms dangling uselessly at his side, his trunks splattered with blood, Smack slides downward, dead before he hits the canvas.

Kellin is sitting on the couch, remembering Smack’s lifeless expression, when Laura comes into the den.

She leans in front of him, gently placing her hands on his shoulders.

“We can still cancel.”

“No. It’s Corrine’s birthday and you deserve a night out.”

“Good, because the limo’s here.”

“I can’t drive. I’m….”

“Ossified from drinking all day? Got it. And I intend to get too bombed to drive back, so a round-trip limo ride it is. And bring a pen.”

“For what?”

“Autographs.”

Durkin Tulane, Ciro’s tactful owner, makes his way to the table.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, champ. May I suggest you have your limousine meet you in the back?”

“Why? You throwing us out, Durkin?” Pierre jokes.

“No. One of our guests posted a message saying Mr. Kilgore was here. There’s a crowd of people in front of the restaurant carrying signs and chanting.”

Tossing back his drink, Kellin walks toward the front of the bar, passing tables of couples whispering and pointing at him. Laura, Pierre, and Corrine quickly follow, catching up to him at the restaurant’s front window.

A thunderous roar of applause envelopes the street as Kellin gazes out at the crowd.

“Kilgore! Kilgore! Kilgore!

Laura reaches for his hand as he reads the signs aloud.

“WE’RE WITH YOU CHAMP”

“IT’S NO MYSTERY… KELLIN KILGORE IS THE GREATEST IN BOXING HISTORY!”

“HE STOOD UP FOR LAURA. THAT’S LOVE.”

“THE PEOPLE’S CHAMP!”

“See, they love you,” Laura says, hugging him. “You still have that pen?”

Kellin moans in his sleep.

His hands become pistons, pumping out shot after shot against Smack Walden’s body.

Kellin can feel Tolan Belle pulling at his shoulder yelling, “STOP! THE FIGHT’S OVER! STOP!” Remembering what Smack had said about Laura, Kellin continues to batter his opponent until he collapses.

“Get a doctor in here, now!” Belle yells.

Kellin leans over Smack, surveying his torn features and his blood-spattered trunks.

Smack’s swollen eyes slowly open.

Kellin offers him his hand, helping him up.

“…Paula… Paula Youngblood…” Smack whispers softly.

Kellin sits up in bed, gulping for air.

Laura puts her arm around him, holding him close.

“That dream again?”

“No. It was different this time. He took my hand.”

“That’s good. Maybe your conscience is coming to grips with the reality that what happened to Walden was an accident.”

“He spoke to me. I know what he wants from me.”

“I know you’ve got a lot of ideas swirling around in that head of yours, but this shouldn’t be one of them,” Laura says, trying to pull Kellin back to the car.

“You don’t have to come.”

“You might need someone to protect you from her… Or yourself.”

Kellin rings the doorbell. A white woman with short brunette hair and a stunned expression comes to the door holding the hand of a caramel-colored young boy.

“How did you find me?” she asks. “Even the reporters don’t know about me.”

“That’s because they haven’t been looking for you,” Laura replies.

“Smack told us to look for you.”

Laura quiets Kellin with a frown. “What he means is, after the fight, I wondered what had made Smack so angry toward Kellin. I started searching to see if something or someone in his past had affected him. I stumbled across a picture of him after his first fight. There was a woman standing next to him with her arm around him. You. You know those websites where you can get someone’s telephone number as well as all the places they’ve lived? They also tell you who they lived with. One of the sites listed your name along with his. So, here we are.”

Paula Youngblood lets them inside. Kellin and Laura are surprised by the home’s modest décor and notice the telltale photo of Paula and a fresh-faced, grinning Samuel Walden on their wedding day.

“We met when we were students at Greenwich Country Day School, a private school in Connecticut. Sam’s father ran a hedge fund. Sam played tennis. He got it in his head when we were seventeen that because he was black, he was supposed to be tough. He turned pro a year later. We got married when we were twenty and divorced three years later when Davey was born. I went back to using my maiden name, and as far as Sam’s past history was concerned, Davey and I didn’t exist.”

Champ’s gaze focuses on Davey, who is playing with a Kellin Kilgore action figure.

“Privately, he said he still loved me, but Davey and I were a liability. Sam became Smack, a free-wheeling gangbanging bachelor with a shady past dotted with arrests for assault, carrying a concealed weapon, and drug dealing.”

“Boxing is the only sport where having a rap sheet is a good thing,” Laura comments.

“The real Sam liked rock music, had never even gotten so much as a parking ticket, never took drugs, and didn’t even know what a ‘forty’ was.”

“I think I understand him now,” Kellin says. “As he got closer to the top, he felt more and more like a hypocrite, and he was worried what people would think if they found out his image was a lie.”

“Sam was especially worried about what you would think. He idolized you. He wanted to be you. So, he was ashamed that you stood by your wife while he abandoned his. Sam also knew he couldn’t beat you if he didn’t get inside your head.”

Kellin continues to look at Davey, his features lined with melancholy.

“Why don’t you play in your room, Davey?” Paula says.

She waits to continue until her son is out of earshot.

“Davey’s behavior is what really upset him. Davey is a huge fan of yours. He admired you more than his own father.”

“One of the reasons we came here was not only to see how you were doing but to let you know Davey’s education and your mortgage will be taken care of,” Kellin says. “Laura and I have started a not-for-profit to help former fighters, their widows, and families in need.”

“So, you’ve retired?” Paula asks.

“Sam convinced me it’s time.”

“Funny, Sam wanted to call off the fight against you. His manager forced Sam to fight, even though Sam was sure he’d lose. He said he’d had a reoccurring dream. He was convinced he was going to die during the fight.”