He meant Doyle. I know my son. But . . . I can't be sure. Ray used to take care of me. I used to know him. To me, Millie is a Johnny-come-lately. I don't know much about this last marriage.

She got her son named Robinson. But when little Ray ((Ray Jr.)) went out there, he was pushed to the back. Just like Leonard. Just took Ray's glory. Millie doesn't care who doesn't like what. She keeps Ray shut away because somebody would see how bad off he is. Evelyn says it's bad. My chances of ever seeing Ray again are poor. If I didn't have Jesus, I wouldn't survive. I would lose my mind. It would hurt me not to be able to even talk to Ray. It brings tears to my eyes just to think about him. I want to do what's right, but what is right these days?

It was 104 degrees that night. It was 130 degrees ringside, that's what they said. I was there. It felt like it. Whatever you call 'great' nowadays, I guess Ray was that then. I went to his fights. I wasn't superstitious. When Ray sat between rounds that night, I dropped my head. People said, 'Why do you drop your head? You crying?' I was praying.

Now, for four or five years, I don't get nothing, I don't hear nothing. And I don't ask why. Ray had been sick only one day in his life. Pneumonia. Maybe food poisoning. It was before a fight. I had to go to Philadelphia because he wouldn't go to the hospital. He called the hospital a good place to die. He didn't ride elevators, either. Ray is not a man to be trapped.

He wanted to buy me a Cadillac. But I only saw hard men and rough women in those cars. So he bought me a Buick.

Ray had promised me back in 1940 that I would never have to work again. And I never had to. My son always took care of me.