I am.
But ain’t no girl tough enough to be out here all alone with a baby. Don’t you have a man?
Just this little one here.
Nicolette felt uneasy. Foolish. Saying too much had gotten her hemmed up so many times. She lied: I’m meeting some people in town.
Water? He passed Nicolette a large jug and she took a long swig followed by another long swig.
Thirsty, huh? Bet you hungry too, mama?
She smiled at the man. The firelight flickered across his face, casting shadows and orange light. His nose was twisted and his upper lip slashed; his eyelids looked puffy and his skin lay thick and leathery. He touched his face, trying to obscure the ruddy splotches on his swollen cheeks.
Gotta be careful out here. Every nigga you meet ain’t on the up and up. I’m only telling you this ’cause you’re young. Girls trust niggas too much when they young. I may not look like it, but I used to be a tough guy. Greatest slapsmith the Southside ever saw. Used to brawl with the best.
The man showed off his red, thick, scarred hands. Nicolette looked down at her son. He had turned toward her chest and fallen sleep.
Look at these. Ever seen this, huh? That comes from twenty years of slapboxing. I won the World Brawl four years running. Got knocked slapdrunk in the fifth match. Ain’t never recover. They call me Slapfest. Heard of me, huh?
Nicolette shook her head, still eyeing his hands. Once upon a time, a man’s hands flew toward her face. Slaps and punches. They looked nothing like the slapsmith’s hands. Those hands were soft and thin. A manly vein bisected the backs of both of them, but the nails always stayed bright and clear, neatly and obsessively polished, rounded and filed. Sometimes grabbing hold of the baby was the only thing that could make those hands stop swinging, and then later when he was onto her, even that couldn’t stop him. What kind of woman am I, she would think, using a baby for a shield?
Girl, you never heard of Slapfest? Know what the World Brawl is? No? Well, I guess that makes sense. You on the train, so I guess you coming from out of town. It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me where you coming from or nothing about you if you don’t want. I ain’t nosy.
Yeah, I’m a tough guy. Only lost the World Brawl that one time ’cause the nigga cheated. He punched me! Punched me four times in the face and nearly knocked me the fuck out. Ref said he ain’t see it. Can you believe that? You not supposed to be punching nobody when you slapboxing! In the papers they called it some win-at-all-costs shit. Said any professional woulda done the same thing, but to me it’s a matter of integrity. Who you is is shown by what you do when you desperate. I was getting him. He only punched me ’cause he was desperate than a mu’fucker. Pardon my language.
He stood and swung his arms wildly, ducking his face from a rain of imaginary blows. Blap! Smack! Blap! I slapped that nigga like, Smack! Blap! Blap!
The child turned and cried in his sleep. Nicolette bounced and shushed him to make sure he didn’t wake to see all this.
A man approached. An even older man. He had friendly features, and his cheeks and chin were dotted with scraggly gray hairs. The slapsmith paused. Then he held up a frying pan. Like my pan?
It looked old and gritty, flaky and burnt, a veteran of many fires, cast-iron heavy. Nicolette nodded again and looked around for an out. She eyed the approaching man cautiously. He was tall and skinny like one of the men from the train. Perhaps she could break for it. Up the grade and back to the tracks. But with tired limbs and a baby? There was no cause to run yet, anyway.
Hey Daf, the slapsmith called to the man, who sat and rested a cloth bag next to the fire.
Hey there, Daf replied. And who is the lovely lady?
Why, I never got her name, the slapsmith replied.
Nicolette. And this little guy’s Gabriel. I say Gabby, though.
Gabby’s eyes opened slowly and he blinked and blinked and yawned and blinked. The baby stretched and watched everyone with suspicion, which made Daf and his friend smile. Gabby’s eyes shut — slowly like little falling curtains — and he settled into a shallow sleep.
Gabby’s a nice name, Daf said. Real nice. Hello Gabby and Nicolette. My man isn’t bothering you guys, is he? No? That’s good. You guys hungry?
As ever, Nicolette said.
Daf rested the cast-iron pan atop the fire and began laying out bacon strips. Nicolette said she would feed Gabby while Daf prepared the food. She walked off to get some privacy, lifted her sweater, and pressed the drowsy baby to her nipple.
What a pleasant surprise, she heard Daf say. He cracked an egg atop the sizzling meat. How often do we get to entertain guests?
Remember that guy who knocked me down in the fourth match during the last World Brawl and I couldn’t get up again? She and that guy share features, don’t you think, huh?
That was a long time ago, ’Fest. Those days are gone.
She felt the men watching her as they chattered back and forth. She shut her eyes and sucked in a wisp of air. Fully in the moment, just her and Gabby. She imagined herself and the baby as the shadows that exist for only an instant near a flickering flame. But then the men’s chattering threw her from the moment. Daf’s friend made little sense. Nicolette looked about at the menacing trees. Peacefulness, she realized, was synonymous with vulnerability. She became sad and then scared. And she asked herself why again she had failed to heed her mother’s words.
Though Gabby wasn’t finished feeding, she removed him from her nipple, lowered her sweater, and returned to the fire. Gabby whined and Nicolette shushed him. The men had begun eating. Nicolette dipped bread into the bacon grease and chewed slowly. The three of them sat in the quiet of stirring insects, flickering flames, labored breaths, and smacking lips. She noticed for the first time a chorus of crickets and, in the distance, the lapping of the river.
Nicolette asked for another slice of bread. Daf reached into the bag.
The Breadsman, the slapsmith said. That was his name. Owned a bakery in Cleveland and slapsmithed on the side. I was good at talking shit. I said to them cameras that any fight between me and him would be The Death of a Breadsman. That pissed him off, so that’s why he punched me.
The World Brawl. One day, twenty-five matches. Like a tournament and shit. Lots of money riding on me. But that don’t matter when you up there in the moment fighting. When you in that ring it’s just you and another warrior. That’s all that matters, and eventually when you start slapping, it’s just you. Everything else disappear. And then you disappear. And that’s when I’m most alive, when I disappear. People come from all around to fight. They got slapsmiths everywhere, but mostly here. We invented that shit. Tournament of emperors, not kings. They give you a purple cape and a crown when you win. Fuck a belt. Who need a belt? I want the damn crown! Four years in a row I’m the champion. And the only way I get taken out is when they cheat me. You about as slapdrunk as a mu’fucker when you get to the end of that thing. I done seen people start it a genius and they fucking retards by the end of the day.
Now, Slapfest, Daf said. I don’t know if our guest wants to hear all that.
The slapsmith started yelling. The Breadsman, he cheated. He punched me. You a slapsmith or a bitch?
Slapfest stood, bounced on the balls of his feet. Again he dipped and ducked from imagined blows. Slapping and backslapping the air. Emitting a soft hissing sound with every slap he threw. He glared at Nicolette. Come on. Come on.
His eyes turned to glass. He was staring at an invisible enemy and everything else disappeared. Shadows danced to the rhythm of the fire. Nicolette imagined an audience, lusting and crying for violence.
She flinched each time the slapsmith swung his hands. The baby cried with a new rhythm. The sounds echoed through the night.