Pearl

The sound of flesh hitting leather was heavenly to me. It was a sound that I had heard all of my life, but it never ceased to send a rush through my veins, like the stroke of a whip.

My father held the medicine ball up and Owen hit it. They danced around the mat, Father moving in and out and Owen jabbing and throwing hooks into his target.

Jane had started hanging around the gym quite often, despite the years that she had claimed boxing was too brutish of a sport. I suspected that her sudden interest in the family business had to do with the arrival of Owen Weaver. She would stare at him as he wiped sweat from his brow, watch as his bare chest shone with sweat in the yellow light. I tried very hard to get her to leave; having a crush on a murderer was not what I had in mind for my little sister.

"Pearl, can you fill the water jug? Owen's running low," Father told me, pointing to the empty blue jug ringside. I nodded stiffly as I walked towards the canvas ring. Owen winked at me as I retrieved the container and I narrowed my eyes.

"Remember our terms, Pearly," he grunted under his breath as he sparred with Jake Merlotta.

I returned with cold water that had been stored in the ice chest in the back. My father clapped me on the back and said, "Oh, honey. Look at him go. I think he may be the one."

I looked up at Owen. He was certainly one of the best to come to the Old Hitter Pit. I could see why my father was so excited to train him. He had potential. He was strong, skilled, and frighteningly fast. A natural born fighter.

I was watching him fight, mindlessly admiring his swift punches, when he locked eyes with me and smiled. It was then that Jake Merlotta hit him in the face.

"Owen! Keep your eyes open! Block it, protect yourself!"

"Sorry, Mr. Wilson. Got distracted for a second," he murmured and then winked at me. I ignored the red patches that crept on my skin. Jane scurried over and gave me a deadly look.

"I'll fill up the water jug now, Pearl," she said curtly.

I rolled my eyes and walked away.

_____

Owen's first fight was against Lenny Kurkowitz and took place in Nashville. My father was quite nervous and so was I. It was difficult for me to have ill wishes for Owen when my father's happiness so heavily depended on his success.

They prepared for hours on end. My father would get up early in the morning when the sun was barely peeking from behind the clouds so he could run with Owen. Then they would come back for breakfast and continue weight training and sparring at the gym. Both of them were dedicated and ready to fight.

I begged to come. My father usually let me tag along for fights, but this one was different. There was a spark to knowing that we would surely win. I begged after dinner every night up until the eve of the match. Finally, my father gave in. He said I would have to stand in the back and keep out of the way. It was a man's sport, he had told me.

Promising that I would be as quiet as a mouse, I helped them pack everything into the car the next day. Owen was calm, collected and focused. He paid no attention to anyone's presence, he just stared off into space the entire ride over.

We arrived at the Mayview Theatre very soon. Owen and my father strode in there with serious looks on their faces. Owen came out of his dressing room in his red shorts and tennis shoes. I didn't know what to say. Everyone around me was so in tune with the gravity of the fight. I just felt like the mindless daddy's girl who had tagged along.

I tugged on my blue dress as they two boxers were weighed Lenny Kurkowitz was just as giant as Owen, with heavy black eyebrows and a snaggletooth. My father whispered in Owen's ear, "That fool has nothing on you."

We walked down again to the room under the ring that had been designated for Owen. I watched carefully as my father dressed Owen's hands. Both of them were stoic and steady, like statues. Owen was incredibly quiet and still. He hadn't looked at me once, which I rather liked.

The crowd formed quickly. And we walked out to the ring. I ran to the back of the seats and bit my lip as the announcer's voice rang through the stadium. "And coming in from Nashville, Tennessee, at 185 pounds, Owen Weaver!"

Owen walked up to the ring and took off his robe. The light shone brightly on the canvas and the wails from the audience were deafening. Lenny Kurkowitz was already in his corner, moving about on the balls of his feet, with narrowed eyes on Owen.

The bell rang and they both set off. They both danced around each other with their red gloves at their faces, waiting for a punch. It was Owen who released a right jab first. It hit Lenny at the corner of his eye and it seemed to send him to a rage because he immediately threw a mighty punch which Owen readily blocked.

Owen dominated. He was faster than Lenny, Lenny who was now bleeding from his nose and had a swollen eye. It was only in the third round that things got complicated. Lenny threw a left jab that landed right on Owen's fair face.

The crowd groaned. But I was horribly conflicted. It was horrible to see someone who my father had invested so much time in receive a blow. But at the same time, I felt a wonderful sense of satisfaction in seeing Owen punished. He killed his mother. He deserved some payback, I thought.

I watched as blood seeped from Owen's brow. The referee blew his whistle and signaled for my father to clean his fighter up. When the next round started, Owen came back with a vengeance. My father must have said something to motivate him because he unleashed a series of jabs and hooks that made Lenny Kurkowitz wither away. I watched as the muscles on his back contracted and released with the effort.

Lenny's knees gave out and the referee blew his whistle once again and stopped the fight. He raised Owen's hand up to the ceiling and the announcer yelled, "And the winner, Nashville's own Owen Weaver!"

I raised my hands in triumph, but still felt the confusion tugging at my happiness. I ran back to the dressing room and waited for the men to get back. I readied the wet towels and water jug for Owen. And soon enough, they arrived.

Owen was still bleeding. My father motioned for me to get his medical supplies. They were all smiles.

"Oh, Owen. You were stellar. I swear to God, you will be a champion," father said.

Owen nodded, "Thank you, Mr. Wilson."

The promoter knocked on the door. His name was Mr. Moz and he had a handlebar mustache and walked with a cane. "Can I talk with you, Eugene?" he rumbled.

My father nodded his head and said, "Of course. Pearly, can you clean Owen up while I speak to Mr. Moz?"

I nodded solemnly and watched him leave. Owen watched me silently as I retrieved the rubbing alcohol and cotton from the table and stood above where he sat.

"What did you think of the fight?" he asked quietly.

I pressed my lips together until I found an answer I was comfortable with.

"I found it very entertaining and worthwhile."

Owen let out a dark laugh. "Oh, Pearl. Keep the amazing commentary to yourself."

Giving him a dark look, I put the alcohol drenched cotton piece onto his wounded skin. He hissed with displeasure.

"You did a fine job, Owen. Is that what you want to hear?"

"From you, yes," he said very seriously.

I looked at his face and he smiled. It was a very strange moment and then he kissed me. He pulled my face down to his own and pressed his lips against mine.

"What are you doing?" I yelled as I pulled away and hit him in the face, "You disgusting mutt."

I wiped his blood and sweat from my face.

"I'm in a celebratory mood, you can't blame a man when he's this happy," Owen said with a smile on his face.

"I can, actually. That was absolutely vile."

"Oh, come on. It wasn't that bad," Owen chuckled as I continued cleaning up his face.

"Yes. It was. Now hush," I whispered.

He laughed again and I continued scowling.