Rare Objects. Kathleen Tessaro

laughing and blowing kisses at me.

      I ignored them, walked on. But the emptiness in my chest grew and spread.

      I could still remember the first time Mickey kissed me, in the alleyway behind the cinema; the soft, warm pressure of his lips on mine and, most of all, the way he held me—gently, as if I were made of delicate glass he was afraid of breaking. No one before or since had ever thought I was that precious. It was a pure, uncomplicated affection, almost like siblings, based on unquestioning loyalty.

      Of course Ma didn’t like him. He was black Irish, she said, with his thick dark hair and brown gypsy eyes. He’d been taken out of school and would never amount to anything.

      But I didn’t want anyone Ma approved of.

      Then Mickey’s brother started boxing, and Mick took to hanging out at the Casino Club. As luck would have it, he turned out to be even better than his brother; just the right combination of height, muscle, and speed. And there was money to be made, a lot of money, for just one night’s work.

      Everyone knew all the best boxers were Irish. Kids from nowhere could rise to the top of the boxing world in no time—going from brawling in basements and back lots to Madison Square Garden in a matter of months. We watched their breakneck rise to stardom on the newsreels every week—Tommy Loughran, Mike McTigue, Gene Tunney, and Jack Dempsey. Punching their way out of tenements straight into movie careers and Park Avenue addresses.

      The first time I went to a fight, I was terrified. But Mickey won that night, and my fear became excitement. Soon I looked forward to the sweaty, raw nerves that snapped like electricity moments before the bell sounded; to the fighters, dancing in their corners, skin glistening, muscles tense. All the chaos, the smells, the din of the crowd, the rickety wooden chairs, the hot roasted peanuts and calls of the ticket touts; gangsters smelling of French cologne sitting cheek by jowl with old-money millionaires; the blood, the fear, the speed, the unholy fury of it all, I came to relish every bit. And Mickey, at the center, fighting, conquering the world.

      Overnight he had a manager and a nickname—the Boston Brawler. His face appeared on fight posters, and his name climbed up to the top of the listings. And afterward, in the pubs and clubs, we drank and danced and felt the glorious relief of those who’d outwitted fate. With our pockets crammed full of bills from Mickey’s winnings, the future was ours for the taking.

      Mick was my champion, punching his way out of this drab, relentless grind into a new life of unfettered possibility.

      Only it turned out Mick was a good boxer, not a great one. Someone else came along, an Italian; they called him the Boston Basher, and Mick couldn’t seem to get out from under his shadow.

      And then I got pregnant. Suddenly our limitless future shrank to the size of a one-bedroom walk-up in the South End and a dockworker’s pay packet.

      He would’ve married me, had I told him. But I never did. I didn’t tell anyone.

      I went to New York instead. There was more work there, I said; better opportunities and a chance to really make something of myself.

      We talked about what we would do, how we would live when I got back. But we both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

      And Mick was such a stand-up guy, he even loaned me the money to leave him.

      The Casino Athletic Club on Tremont Street was located up a steep flight of stairs on the second floor of an old grain warehouse. It smelled of generations of young men, training nonstop, in all seasons; of sweat, fear, and ambition. As soon as I stepped inside, a thick sticky wall of perspiration engulfed me. There were four rings, one in each corner, weights, punchbags; the sound of fists slamming against flesh and canvas beat out a constant dull tattoo. It was a familiar sound; I’d spent hours here, smoking and watching Mick train. Pausing in the doorway, I scanned the hall. Then I spotted him.

      Mickey was in the far left-hand ring, sparring with a tall Negro man. His trainer, Sam Louis, was hunched over the ropes, shouting, “Look out, Mick! Come on! Look lively!”

      And seated on a folding chair and wearing a molting chinchilla wrap over a cheap red dress was Hildy.

      Of course.

      Poor old Hildy was a permanent fixture at the Casino Club and something of a running joke. When she was younger, she’d worked in the office. With her blond German hair and blue eyes, she broke her fair share of hearts. But as the years passed, her sharp tongue and ruthless gold digging earned her the nickname Sour Kraut. Now she moved from man to man, shamelessly latching on to anyone she could. I looked around and wondered which of these saps she’d been bleeding dry lately. It had to be someone new, someone who didn’t know her game.

      I watched as the other boxer, a big man, landed a heavy right to Mickey’s jaw. Sam blew the whistle and they stopped, heading back to their corners for water. Mickey spat out a mouthful of blood into a bucket and Sam mopped him down.

      Now was my chance. As I moved through the gym, men stopped and a few catcalls and whistles followed. I knew better than to take it personally—it was just because I was a woman in a place women didn’t go—but I flattered myself into thinking that I was still worth whistling at.

      Across the room, Hildy looked up, irritated that someone else was getting attention. And when she saw me, her eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted tight. Tossing the magazine down, she flounced over, barring my way. “What are you doing here?”

      “Hi, Hildy.” I looked past her to where Mickey was doubled over, hands on knees, catching his breath. He hadn’t seen me yet. “I need to talk to Mickey.”

      “What for?” She had a honking Boston twang and far too many facial expressions. Right now she was glaring, gaping, and smirking, all at the same time.

      “What’s it to you, anyway?”

      Across the room, Sam gestured at us, and Mick looked up. Surprise spread across his face. I gave a little wave.

      He said something to his partner, who nodded, and climbed out of the ring.

      “I’ll tell you what it is to me: you owe us money!” Hildy spat the words out.

      Now she had my attention. “Us?”

      “Yeah, us!” Her upper lip curled in triumph. “What Michael earns is my business now too!”

      I felt like I’d taken one of Mick’s left hooks straight to the kidney.

      He was behind her now, staring at me like I was the Ghost of Christmas Past.

      No longer the golden boy, Mickey wore his history on his face; resignation weighted his brow, and his nose was flattened out from being broken too many times. But if anything, it only added interest to his dark eyes, black hair, and well-muscled physique. Although handsome, Mickey was and always had been slightly unsure of himself, self-deprecating and shy. It was the most attractive thing about him. But now his battered features bestowed a gravitas that had been lacking before.

      With one look, I’d always been able to win him back. I searched his eyes. “Us? Really, Mick?”

      He laid a hand on Hildy’s shoulder. “I’ll deal with this,” he said in his soft, lilting brogue.

      My heart disappeared through the bottom of my stomach. I hadn’t been sure what I was doing here, why I’d come. But now I knew I’d been kidding myself, imagining that after all we’d been through, he might still want me.

      Hildy flashed him a warning look.

      “Let me deal with it,” he said again.

      “I know you—you’ll end up giving her more!” she hissed.

      It was charming the way they both talked about me as if I weren’t standing right in front of them. “Actually”—I pulled my chin up—“I just stopped by to pay you back, Mickey.”

      “See?” He gave Hildy a gentle push, back toward the chair. “I’ll handle this.”

      “Well,