Chapter 24: The Last Bout

On Saturday night, the line to get into the Cellar went around two city blocks.

Beto had to turn people away at the stairs.

I stood in the back office with my wraps on and no mask, and I listened to the noise grow through the wall.

Beto came in with his towel on his shoulder and looked me over.

"You nervous, mija?"

"A little."

"Good. It keeps the hands honest."

He tapped the old black mask on its hook on the office wall.

"Last time you wear that?"

"Last time I wear anything over my face," I said.

He nodded slowly.

Then he picked the mask off its hook and handed it to me.

"Carry it out yourself," he said. "It's yours."

At eight, the lights in the Cellar came up on a full house.

Every bench was packed, and people stood along the walls and sat on the stairs.

The reporter in the plain coat had a seat on the aisle, with her phone resting on her knee.

The front row was full of strangers.

All except the middle.

I walked out of the corridor with the mask in my left hand, and the crowd noticed me, and the sound stopped.

Then the Cellar began to shout.

They did not shout NOBODY.

They shouted DALIA, over and over, until the pipes rang.

I stopped in front of the center chair.

Joaquin was standing behind it, in his gray coat, with his hands in his pockets.

Beside the chair was a wheelchair.

My father sat in it with a blanket over his knees and his good hand lifted an inch from the arm.

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