A Yawning Gap In His Life

The car moves through the darkness on the Schuylkill Expressway toward the Belmont Avenue ramp, and there's a quiet moment. Then Michael Spinks speaks: "That's where the car came on the highway and hit Sandy. Every time I pass there I try to think what Sandy was thinking and picture what she was doing. I try to think why she didn't see the car....

"It wasn't until the next day that I went to see her car. They took it to a lot on City Line Avenue. I looked at it and I couldn't take it. I fell down and cried. That was too much."

It's late January, only three weeks after the death of Spinks's common-law wife, Sandra Massey. The ramp, which Spinks passes every day on the way to his workout at Joe Frazier's gym on North Broad Street in Philadelphia, recedes from view. Spinks leaves the expressway, drives along Belmont Avenue and soon comes abreast of West Laurel Hill Cemetery.

"That's where Sandy's grave is," he says. "Right there near the opening in the fence." He pauses. "After the crash, I just wanted to be by myself, to get away. I didn't want to deal with the hurt, but I couldn't make it go away. I wanted to sleep. I'd drink some beer. I'd get stuffed, and I'd keep drinking just to be tired. I wanted to be exhausted to the point where I couldn't keep my eyes open."

In O'Hara's restaurant that night, Spinks is recognized by fellow diners, and some come to his table to shake his hand and talk about boxing or about his brother Leon. The waitress continually stops by to inquire how Michael likes the clam chowder. Two women at an adjacent table ask for an autograph. More people come over to say hello, and they all turn away smiling, which is ironic because Spinks is on the point of crying.

"I try to explain it to my baby all the time," he says, referring to his and Sandra's daughter, Michelle. "I don't think she understands it yet. She's only two. The first time I brought her to the apartment after the crash she looked for Sandy. In the bedroom, there's a picture of Sandy and me in which we're looking at each other out of the corner of our eyes. Michelle saw it and said, 'Who's that? Who's that?'

" 'That's mommy, baby. That's daddy.'

" 'Where's mommy?'

" 'Mommy's gone, babe. Mommy's not with us no more. But mommy left...left...left you with daddy, and daddy's gonna always be with you, babe. Daddy's gonna always be...."

The words turn into a cry that sounds like an air-raid siren, just loud enough to be heard over the disco music blaring in the background. The women at the adjacent table look up, quizzically, and then one stares down at her plate. The waitress stops abruptly, pivots and walks in another direction. Spinks sits at the table, his face contorted. He has led a solitary existence for most of his life, but he has never been more alone.