The Marrowbone Marble Company by Glenn Taylor

Author:Glenn Taylor
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fiction, Historical - General, Historical fiction, Social conflict, Social conflict - West Virginia, Veterans, 1939-1945, General, Fiction - General, Coming of Age, Historical, West Virginia, American Historical Fiction, World War, Domestic fiction
ISBN: 9780061923937
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2010-08-15T07:00:00+00:00

IT WAS A small, four-square building with a stair-step roofline. Painted above the door were the words Boxing Gym. Herchel and Jerry had built the place, with Paul Maynard’s help, back in ’59. That was the year Paul had boarded up Maynard’s Boxing Gym, where he’d once trained his son Sam to prominence. But Sam was long since dead, and the Maynards no longer had the money to run a gym. Their open shafts whistled empty on the hillside. All the coal had been dug. Everybody had left, save Paul. His nephew Shorty stayed closest to home, moving his family just up the road. Shorty was Paul’s deputy, an arrangement rife with trouble.

Inside the gym, Willy sat down on a dugout bench against the wall. He was heaving, elbows on his knees. Under the bare lights, he dripped sweat and watched it pat against the floor in dark circles. Behind him, the barnwood paneling shone blood red. Jerry had washed down the walls a week prior, dry-locked them, and rolled two coats of the red stuff. Orient Bay, according to the can.

Mack Wells drank water from an Army-issue canteen and breathed hard through his nose. He tugged off his headgear and tossed it into a corner bin. “You’re faster with that straight right,” he told Willy.

“Thanks. You still whupped my ass.” Willy had been regional runner-up at 112 pounds the year before. He liked to train alone, and he liked to spar with Mack.

“Might have more wind if you quit smoking them squares,” Mack said.

“I know it.” Willy stood and stretched. His muscles tightened, outlined in shadow as if cut from stone. “I’ll be seein you,” he said. He walked out shirtless, a wet towel on his head.

Gym rules were posted by the door: You spit on the floor, you go home was one of them. Others were observed and learned over time: no posters, no murals, no music. No talking during the three-minute work sessions. Windex wall mirrors nightly—anyone who’d shadowboxed before them. Get gloved up to hit the heavy bag or get out. Amateurs only, Junior Division only. No pros. No dues.

Paul Maynard walked in at five till five. He stuck his head inside the cramped back office. “Coach,” he said, nodding.

“Coach,” Mack said, likewise. He had his feet on the desk and a notepad in his lap. On it, he’d sketched a crisscrossing marble highway design. He regarded it. Paul hung his hat on a hook. In the corner, an industrial fan with a skin of brown dust ran hard.

Two boys came in the door. There were never more than four on a Tuesday. Never more than eight, no matter what the night. They were all from the area. Country tough and white. Most in Wayne wouldn’t allow their boys to box at Marrowbone. Some called it Nigger Gym. Most could scarcely believe that Paul Maynard was a part of it. They vowed not to reelect him sheriff.

At five-thirty Don Staples walked in and took his spot in the rotten leather barber’s chair.

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