Girl Punches Out Page 2

  In her examining room she discovered a pretty girl with jet black hair in a dressing gown. The chart in her hand told her to expect someone sixty seven inches tall and a hundred thirty eight pounds. Ordinarily that would be a healthy combination. But the girl she glimpsed through the gap in the back of the dressing gown seemed rather thinner than she expected. Interestingly, though, she didn’t seem overly muscular. When the girl turned around, she was struck by her dark eyes and serene face. Her name suggested she was Japanese-American, though perhaps a bit taller than one might expect of a Japanese girl.

  It was a routine exam. She asked the usual questions. How was her appetite? What was her diet like? Was she sleeping well? Was she a smoker? Did she take drugs? Did she have a regular period? Was she sexually active?

  “You seem to be in perfect health, Miss Tenno. Can I call you Michiko?”

  “Most people call me Emily.”

  “Okay, Emily. I’m a little concerned by how thin you are. Your weight is in the right range, but you have so little body fat...”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Well, apparently not at this moment. I suppose it’s okay for an eighteen year old. But as you get older there may be adverse health consequences. You say you’re not a vegetarian.”

  “No. I eat meat and fish. But probably not every day. Is that unhealthy?”

  “I suppose not. It’s a little harder to get enough protein from a vegetarian diet. But you’re not a vegetarian, so that’s not really a worry. There’s nothing wrong with you as far as I can see. But I’d be happier if you had a little more meat on your bones. Just be careful you don’t lose any weight.” She smiled and said “I guess that’s a problem most women would love to have.”

  “I suppose. To tell you the truth, I don’t think about food much, but I also don’t starve myself. I eat pretty much whatever I feel like.”

  “I see bruises on your arms and legs, and a swelling on your jaw line. Some of these look pretty recent.”

  “I guess I lead a pretty active life.”

  Dr. Tarleton smiled warily.

  “Do you have any other bruises I should know about?”

  Emily undid her gown and let it drop to the floor. The doctor looked her over pretty closely but didn’t see any other suspicious bruises. What she did notice was how comfortable this girl was with her body. She seemed to have no qualms about standing naked in a strange office. That was a little odd, but not for that reason an unhealthy sign.

  “You can get dressed again.”

  There was on the whole something unsettling about her, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. She wanted to look at her eyes again. She flashed a light and peered through the magnifier, but saw no abnormalities. Her eyes seemed so crisp, so clear, so dark. She found herself staring into them… a little too long. As she searched the depths of that darkness an idea began to suggest itself. Was it something serene? Or perhaps turbulent? She couldn’t quite decide.

  “Doctor…?”

  “How did you get those bruises?”

  “Most of them came from a karate tournament I was in last week.”

  “You know, you can tell me anything.”

  “Is there something in particular you have in mind?”

  “Did your father do that?”

  “My father’s dead. I’m on my own.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said, a little embarrassed. “A boyfriend, then?”

  “Maybe this will clarify things for you,” Emily said, with evident reluctance.

  She went over to the computer terminal and typed a couple of search terms into the browser. A moment later a video opened up. The title read “Black Belt Kumite semi-finals at Norfolk.” It took a few seconds for Dr. Tarleton to recognize Emily in the video. She was sparring with a large, quite muscular man, perhaps a Marine from one of the nearby naval stations. But it wasn’t just a pantomime fight. It looked like full contact. As she watched the match unfold, her eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open until finally, with a faint whisper, she mouthed “Oh… my…God….”

  At the beginning of the video, before the match had actually begun, Emily’s opponent swung his fist into the side of her head. He failed to land another kick or punch in the match. At one point he assailed her with blows of every description. She blocked or parried all of them before landing a devastating short strike, a reverse punch to his solar plexus that staggered him. In the final point of the match, his frustration palpable, he launched himself at her as if to tackle her. With a quick step to the side, she took control of his wrist and twisted him down into an awkward crouch, then up and back into a throw that sent him sailing across the ring. He lay motionless on his back for a few moments, as Emily knelt next to him. The match was over.

  The doctor stared in stunned silence and tried to digest what she had just seen.

  “That’s how you got that lump on your jaw. He hit you hard. How could you come back from that?”

  “It didn’t really connect. You can see if you look closely. I turned away from most of the force of it.”

  “Still, it must have hurt like hell.”

  “It did. You saw how pissed I was. I really let him have it after that. I didn’t hit anyone that hard in the entire tournament.”

  “But at the end, you sat next to him and even seemed to be consoling him. It almost looked like you were caressing him. How could you do that after what he did?”

  “What else could I do? He was beaten. He knew it. There was nothing to be gained by staying angry at him.”

  “But he…”

  “Yeah, he was a jerk. But there was more to him than that. I just reminded him of it at the end.” The doctor sat speechless for a moment, and gazed at Emily.

  “How long have you been doing martial arts?”

  “Pretty much all my life.”

  “So, are you like the champion now?”

  “I won that one tournament, but there are lots of those every year.”

  “You’re not going to any more like that one are you?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever go to another one.”

  “Are you done with martial arts then,” she asked hopefully.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be done with it. But martial arts isn’t really about competitions, or even about fighting.” The doctor looked puzzled.

  “Then what is it about?”

  “Why don’t you come down to the dojo and find out.”

  Dr. Tarleton smiled. She was worried about Emily’s health. She still couldn’t say exactly what was troubling her, but the low body fat, the minimal bruising… after what she had just seen in the video, she would have expected her to be black and blue all over. Even blocking punches and kicks should leave bruises. It was just a little odd. She seemed more like a weapon than a girl, no extra fat, no extra muscle, just sinewy strength emanating from every pore. She thought it was unhealthy to be that fit. The body needs a little extra fat to maintain hormonal balance. And yet, she showed no ill effects. She shook her head.

  The results would take a few days to come back, a PAP smear, a few blood tests, but she assured her they were only routine.

  -back to top-

  Chapter 3

  A Cup of Tea

  Emily went back to her apartment in Warm Springs, where she ended up sitting in her pickup truck in the driveway musing about the doctor. She was so nosy, so insistent on tests. What was she not saying? Maybe that’s just how doctors always behave. What would those tests show? They might provide answers to her own questions. It hadn’t occurred to her beforehand that a routine doctor’s appointment might become an existential inquiry.

  She needed to talk to her mother again. But Yuki and the Cardanos were still in New Zealand. She missed them all, and not least Anthony. He was definitely a boy’s boy, which suited her just fine since she was something of a tomboy herself. After the death of her father she was hungry for family connection. They couldn’t return soon enough to suit her. But she was p
erplexed about her friends. Should she bring them to meet her family, such as it was, when they got back? The prospect of introducing them to her mother was tantalizing. Then there would be no more secrets dividing them. They would know all there was to know about her. She so wanted to bring them close. And yet she wasn’t certain it could ever be safe. If the family was under surveillance, a visit might make her friends into targets. Did she still need to dissemble for their sakes?

  There was a soft tap at the driver’s side window. She had lost track of time.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Mrs. Rincon asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’ve got the kettle on. Why don’t you come in for a cup?”

  Emily acquiesced. She had nothing else to do, and sitting in her landlady’s kitchen could be a relief.

  ~~~~~~~

  Laura Rincon and her son lived in an old wood frame house with a large front porch. Emily’s studio apartment occupied the second story over the detached garage. As she walked across the driveway behind her, Mrs. Rincon sighed. She couldn’t help but admire this pretty girl. She was a classmate of her son’s. They had been in school together since kindergarten, though they had only become friends since he joined the dojo. Danny was infatuated with her. How could he not be?

  Initially, she was reluctant to rent the studio to a teenager, even one as responsible as Emily looked to be. Of course, it seemed hardly likely to enhance her son’s ability to concentrate on schoolwork having the girl of his dreams so close. And yet, contrary to all expectations, his study habits had improved. In the end, she let her have the apartment because she needed the money, and the girl paid cash for several months in advance. Much was mysterious about her, but Laura didn’t care to inquire. She was good company. It was soothing to sit with her from time to time.

  “You’re home early.”

  “I had a doctor’s appointment.”

  “Nothing’s wrong, I hope.”

  “Just a physical. I needed one for the Academy.”

  “So you’re still thinking of going there?”

  “Yeah. Mrs. Telford is gonna help me put together a packet for Congressman Harmon’s staff.”

  “Who?” Mrs. Rincon couldn’t help asking. “He’s not from this end of Virginia, I think.”

  “No, I guess not. He’s from Wyoming. A friend of the family, I suppose you could say.”

  ~~~~~~~

  Emily couldn’t hold back a self-satisfied smile as she said this. Harmon was on the House Armed Services Committee, and would probably be able to get the Naval Academy to pay attention to her nomination, even though it arrived a little late in the season. Michael Cardano contacted him on her behalf, and enlisted his support. That is to say, he called in a favor. Now she had a feeling it might not really be necessary. Her grades and scores were good. She had also made the acquaintance of an instructor at the Academy who saw her spar at Norfolk—in fact he experienced it first hand—and encouraged her to apply.

  These should have been good times for Emily Kane. She was officially Michiko, but she was happy for her friends to think of her as Emily. Both names resonated. Kane was her father’s name. Using it honored his memory. But Michiko was the safe identity her parents had contrived for her. It was an enduring symbol of their love. Her friends just called her “Em,” and she relished the ambiguity.

  Danny would be home soon. They’d probably go over to the dojo together later.

  “Is it final? Is that where you want to go?”

  “I also applied to Charlottesville. They have a pretty good History department, and I’d be close to family and friends.”

  “I’ve been noodging Danny to go there. But he doesn’t think he’ll make the team.”

  “It’d probably be better for his studies if he didn’t make the team. Football takes up a lot of time.”

  Of course she was right. But she also knew how preoccupied Danny was with paying for college and worried his parents couldn’t afford it without some sort of scholarship.

  “Have you applied anywhere else?”

  “A couple of schools up north, Harvard and Yale. I don’t think I’d like it up there, but my mom wants me to consider them. I also applied to Stanford and Berkeley. At least it’s warmer out there.”

  A pained look spread across Laura’s face. Emily could hardly avoid noticing, or understanding it. She was obviously worried about her son and how he’d feel if she left him behind for the very different sort of life those schools could make possible.

  “But I’m mainly thinking about Annapolis or Charlottesville these days,” she offered nervously.

  Danny’s steps thumped up the front steps and across the porch. The front door slammed shut as he slung his backpack onto the couch.

  “Hi, Mom. Hey, Em. Missed you today. You disappeared before lunch.”

  “Yeah, I had an appointment this afternoon.”

  “You goin’ to the dojo,” Danny grunted from behind the refrigerator door.

  “Yeah. I’ll give you a lift. I’ve got a little homework. I’ll be downstairs around six to get you. Thanks for tea, Mrs. Rincon.”

  Upstairs in the studio, Emily prepared a little dinner while reading through a history textbook. This was her favorite subject, especially Asian history. Her mother wished she would major in a science, maybe biology or chemistry. Emily would love to oblige her, but her heart just wasn’t in it. She lay down on the couch and thought about Dr. Tarleton. When she awoke, it was almost time to go. Danny was waiting in the driveway.

  ~~~~~~~

  The dojo was a festive place these days, despite Marty and Jeff’s mischief. Sensei had all the trophies his students won at Norfolk on display in the front window, along with assorted photos. The biggest trophy was Emily’s, and it was huge, almost five feet tall, with four little columns forming the base and a little metallic figure on the top in a fighting pose. She thought it looked silly, but her friends loved it, almost as much as they enjoyed teasing her about it. The little kids were constantly sneaking over to touch it during the afternoon class.

  Danny was already wearing his gi when they arrived. Emily wore black tights and a black sports bra under a loose black tank top. No belt. She cut an odd figure in the dojo. Students were required to wear a gi to class, except her. She used to train in street clothes—“training for real life” she called it. Her street clothes used to be camo cargo pants, work boots and a sweat shirt: the standard high school invisibility outfit. But recently she had developed an interest in a finer style of dress. Her friends noticed. So did everyone else at school. But her new clothes were unsuitable for training. Now she came to class in a variety of form fitting running suits, dance outfits, etc.

  Sensei didn’t seem to mind. Emily was his best student, and her father was his oldest friend. He let her do whatever she wanted. She was the unsurpassed martial personality in the dojo, deferred to sometimes even by him. To the other students, she was a dominating figure, an intimidating sparring opponent, even a little scary. Of course, she was always kind to them, even compassionate. But when they sparred with her, they couldn’t help but focus on the other side of her personality.

  She and Sensei tried to help the other students see past their fears, to approach sparring in terms of their own inner forces and those of their opponent. But they still tended to see sparring exclusively in terms of fear and aggression. They charged in recklessly, hoping to intimidate an opponent, or they were overly cautious, ceding the initiative to the opponent and hoping to be able to counter effectively. In neither case did they control the fight. It controlled them.

  As Sensei would say, they had no access to sen, the initiative. Without sen, one could only be passive, even when charging in aggressively. In order genuinely to take the initiative in a fight, one first needed to find one’s own qi, the inner force of one’s own personality. Sensei tried to show them how to find their qi through meditation, through listening to their own breathing. But this was a hard lesson, especially for young men. In quiet
moments, he occasionally admitted that in forty years, only three students had truly understood this most important lesson.

  This evening, class began with basic drills: step forward and punch from a back stance, step forward and block, then punch, and so on, working one’s way across the floor in each exercise. Sensei emphasized little details: shift the hips with each punch, keep both heels on the floor, retract the block on one side to initiate the punch on the other. For Emily, focusing on basic mechanics was deeply satisfying. It was another way to connect with her body, with a profound musculo-skeletal logic.

  The class was learning a traditional form of karate called shotokan, a flamboyant style, very forceful, with an emphasis on decisive action. Each block is also a strike. The goal in any encounter is typically to create an opening through a sharp block, to step inside the opponent’s defenses and deliver a quick, devastating blow, often a short reverse punch delivered from a back stance.

  Sensei’s knowledge was much broader than shotokan, as was Emily’s. Her first training was in aikido, which focused on grappling and joint manipulation. A gentler art, it teaches control and resolution: deflect and defuse the force of an attack, instead of delivering a decisive blow. Much later, he taught her what he sometimes called kung fu. For the most part, this emphasized fluid, circular motions. She learned to spin away from an attack, to block strikes across an opponent’s body, tangle him up in himself, and then strike from an unexpected direction.

  There was another dimension to Sensei’s kung fu, an ancient form called wing chun. This compact style operated almost entirely within the space of her opponent’s shoulders. It could be sharp and jagged, or circular and deceptive. Although in her heart Emily favored the gentleness of aikido and the fluidity of Sensei’s kung fu, her mind seemed much more attuned to the patterns of wing chun. It is sometimes said to be a woman’s style because of the legend of its origin. To escape the attentions of a bandit chief, a young woman sought refuge in the Shaolin temple, where a monk taught her to defend herself. She returned to her home, defeated the bandit and lived to pass on her style. Sensei teased her about this story from time to time, implying that it explained something about her abilities. Sometimes it must have seemed like she took him more seriously than he intended.