The Sweetheart (12 page)

“Hey,” you say, rubbing the spot. “What was
that
for?”

“I think you know,” says Mimi, her brow and mouth two horizontal lines. Kay's reception contrasts quite starkly with the treatment you and Mimi receive. Later in the evening, when the two of you step into the aisle, you are greeted with the fiercest disapproval of your short career. This goes beyond the usual tunnel of booing spectators; for the first time, the crowd dares to make its threats physical. Mimi is pelted with an egg, and then a beer can. Most of their hatred is directed at her; it seems you might reach the relative safety of the ring unscathed, until, just steps away from the apron, you take a tomato in the chest.

You should know better than to stand there, dumbfounded, staring with disbelief at the wet stain on your suit. If you're going to make yourself a target, then don't act surprised when someone takes advantage of it: in this case, a teenage girl—one or two years younger than you, by the looks of it—with an aisle seat, who is perfectly positioned to give you a fierce push. There's not much to it (in addition to years, you've got some inches and pounds on her, too), but it's hard enough to force you back a step and leave you standing there with a dumb look on your face. That leaves everything up to Mimi, who steps in front of you and gives the girl a quick lesson in the art of the shove, sending her straight to the floor, before grabbing your elbow and leading you to the ring.

“Was that necessary?” you ask, hoisting yourself onto the ropes.

“Please,” says Mimi, rope in hand. “I gave her exactly what she came for.”

Once you are both in your corner of the ring, Mimi explains your role: to give her short, occasional reprieves, and then to tag out as soon as you get her signal. You might be insulted by this reduction of faith if your stomach hadn't been colonized by leg-thumping rabbits. This is the big one, after all. Tonight, you could go home with a belt. So you stick to the plan, and Mimi pins Kay in the first fall while you lift nary a finger. But during the second fall, Vera launches her over the ropes, and when you see Mimi hit the front-row spectators, a party of red-faced, soft-bellied Kiwanis club types who push her off and onto the floor, you know it's time to make the switch. You jump down to help her up.

“Stay in as long as you can,” she whispers. “I hurt all over.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, and climb over the ropes. There, waiting in the ring, isn't Vera but Kay, wiggling her fingers at you. “Hello, fresh meat,” she says.

What a relief. Vera is a monster, but Kay—if you can't handle Kay, then you can't handle anyone. She confirms as much with her first hit, a paltry open-handed slap to the head. So go ahead, Gwen: show her what you're made of. Knock the wind out of her with a judo chop. Grab her by the hair; toss her over your shoulder. While she crawls around on the mat, trying to catch her breath, climb to the top of the turnbuckle, and the minute she's on her feet, fly at her. Take her down.

After you both hit the mat, you are sure you hear a noise of real misery issue from beneath you. When the ref begins to count, you whisper, “You okay?”

“Gee, Gwen,” says Kay. Her face registers pain, yet her hushed voice drips with playfulness. “I thought we were friends.”

You shouldn't care about being Kay's friend, of course—not here, not now—but for a moment, this gets to you, and, however unconsciously, you ease off a bit. It is only a moment, but it costs you big: before the last count, Kay works her shoulder off the mat, and then kicks out of the pin. You hurry onto your feet, but she's ready for you, first with an elbow to the stomach.

“You really shouldn't make it this easy,” she says. While you are still doubled over, she grinds your toe into the mat with the heel of her heavy-soled boot.

That toe. The left one, the one you told her about last night. Kay never wanted to make nice, you moron. She wanted to disarm you, and she succeeded because she is a master at falsifying a connection. She knows how to leverage her assets and create the illusion of love. Usually, she relies on those bedroom eyes and pouty lips, but for you, she shifted her tactics ever so slightly, putting away the come-hither stare in favor of a friendly smile and a compliment. She saw a lonely girl in need of a friend, and she played the role. And you fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

Now, you hit the mat, reverberating with pain from the elastic of your ponytail down to your battered little toe. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mimi at the ropes, her arm stretched out. You summon all of your willpower to get to your knees so you can crawl over to her, but before you get anywhere close, Kay kicks you once, hard, in the stomach. You fall over onto your back, and she's on you in seconds.

That's it for this fall, Gwen: you're toast.

After the ref calls it, you return to your corner. Mimi spits over her shoulder. “What the hell just happened?” she says, and you lie through your teeth: “I have no idea.”

•    •    •

Meanwhile, across the ring, Vera throws an arm around Kay's neck and pulls her close, knocks Kay's forehead with her own. This is as much public affection as they allow each other, as you will ever see between them. You don't think anything of it, but I have heard every rumor. I know history. For me, that gesture has only one meaning:
I love you
.

It is a hard way to live, getting paid to publicly roll around with other women for the pleasure of an audience who would condemn you for doing the same behind closed doors; to make sure those doors stayed firmly closed. And yet they will do it. They will love each other as quietly and invisibly as possible, insisting they are only friends, only roommates. It's instinctive kayfabe, deeply ingrained by a lifetime of fear and reprisals.

If you ask me, the secret to Kay Pepper's success is linked to this secret. It all boils down to one word: survival. She doesn't want to work the boys into a frenzy; she has to. These are track-covering, throw-off-the-scent tactics. This role has been the longest acting gig of her life. This is what I wish you could see, Gwen. I understand why you admire her sex appeal and self-possession, but it is not as simple as it seems. It never is.

•    •    •

It could go either way now. One more fall and you will either go home with a belt or with your empty hands stuck in your pockets. You are in bad shape, but you are angry and in need of redemption. Before Mimi can climb back into the ring, you grab her arm.

“Let me lead this time,” you beg.

She makes a face and pushes you off. “Not on your life.”

That's as much action as you see for the rest of the match. Mimi does not let you off the ropes. Instead, you are left to stew in your own juices while she wins the fall and the match herself with her new finishing move, grabbing Vera behind the knees, knocking her onto her back, lifting her from the mat, and swinging her repeatedly in circles before dropping her and covering her for the pin. Even in your self-involved state, you can admit that it
is
an exquisite move. Still, it's hard to watch from behind the ropes, knowing what it means. She has won this match all by her lonesome. You were more hindrance than help. When it is all over, you let the ref lift your arm along with hers, but you feel like a hypocrite.

The crowd denounces the verdict with a chorus of scoffs and heckling, which only grows louder as you head up the aisle. A grandmotherly woman in a floral-print dress even has the gall to strike you with her cane. Another day, you might just stand there blinking. Not today. You reflexively snag it from her hands and throw it into the crowd. This wins you a brutal scolding from the audience (“She's an old lady, for Christ's sake!”), more derision from the injured party (“You'll get yours, bitch!”), a fresh helping of self-loathing, and, perhaps worst of all, Mimi's admiration.

“That a girl,” she says, patting your back. At the beginning of your partnership, any praise from Mimi was a real triumph. Tonight, it feels like yet another loss masquerading as victory.

•    •    •

When you return to your room, Mimi is not with you. She has gone off in search of a late-night bite. She did not invite you along and you did not tell her to get anything for you. Under the circumstances, it seemed unreasonable to ask for a favor of any kind.

So tonight, you will starve, but you will also have a blessed moment alone, which you use to drag the monstrously heavy phone with the mercifully long cord into the bathroom. Back in Cleveland, it's time for all the boys and girls in the Moondog kingdom to tune in. You aren't sure that Sam will be home yet—didn't he have a match in Sandusky this evening?—but you could stand to hear a friendly voice right about now, and so you have the hotel operator connect you to the Cleveland operator, who connects you to the Samuel Pospisil residence, where you hope you will find him, fresh from his shower and tuned in, bopping his head in time to the music
.
To your great relief, the phone is picked up in the middle of its third ring and a familiar voice arrives in your ear: “Sam here.”

He sounds breathless and chilled. Is it possible he's hurried out of the shower to catch this call? You imagine him drying his ear with the corner of a towel. “Have I called at a bad time?”

“Leonie!” More sounds: the moving of furniture, it seems. Perhaps he is positioning a chair to ready himself for a long, interstate chat. “No, no. It's not a bad time. In fact”—there is a pause as he settles into his seat—“I was just thinking about you.”

This is exactly what you need: the pleasure of Sam's enthusiastic response. You stare ahead at the gauze and circle of tape on your two buddy-wrapped toes, still pulsing with pain. You are a champion now with the battle scars and belt to prove it, but this is not how you imagined the experience: your partner indifferent and the crowd hostile. More than anything, you want to be with someone who cares about you. You want to be with Sam. Fourteen days to go, and already, you sense they will be the longest fourteen days of your life.

•    •    •

When you come out of the bathroom, Mimi's stretched out in her bed, holding the corner of a burger in a paper napkin. She's still dressed in the requisite feminine pre- and postmatch attire, although she's kicked off her pumps and stripped off her nylons. She pops the last bite in her mouth, chews twice and swallows it down.

“How is Spider?” she asks.

“How did you know who I was talking to?”

“I'm not stupid, you know,” she says, wiping her mouth. “Why else would you hide away like that? Be careful with that one. That's all I've got to say.”

This strikes you as hypocritical. “You're one to talk.”

“Johnny's different. It's not serious. It can't be. So I get all of the fun and none of the fuss. Trust me, Gwen. You do
not
want to get serious about Spider.”

“How do
you
know what I want and don't want?” You might owe Mimi for tonight, but you have had it with her advice.

Mimi tosses the napkin across the room and misses the trash can by a mile. She says, “I don't know anything about you. But I know this much. The surest way to get derailed is to get caught up with a man. Even the good ones bring you down.
Especially
the good ones. They don't mean to, but they do.”

Mimi jumps up and walks the napkin's wayward trajectory, deposits her trash where it belongs, and gathers her cosmetic bag and nightgown. It is only after she closes the bathroom door behind her that you notice the grease-stained paper bag sitting on your bed, with your own burger inside.

I like to think that I have untangled every emotion you've had—that you will ever have—toward Mimi Hollander, but now that I have come to this part of your story, I am not so sure that's possible. Your character might be one thing, but you are many.

ELEVEN

T
he gears of time turn slowly, but they do move along, and eventually, fourteen days have passed and you are where you want to be: back in Cleveland, headed up the walkway to Sam's pad. Instead of spending the night in Charleston and taking the first bus in this morning, as any reasonable person might have done, you and Mimi raced from the arena to the depot and caught the last bus out. The noisy, slow-jostling sleep you got on the ride could hardly be called restorative. You could use a long tub soak and an even longer nap, but these can wait. For now, you are content to run on the adrenaline of your first crush.

If you weren't so mission-oriented, so eager to take each next footstep, you might notice the familiar car parked kitty-corner from Sam's apartment and suffer privately the shock and disappointment of realizing you won't have Mr. McGee all to yourself this afternoon. But no, you are too honed in on your target to see much more than the apartment landing, which has been shoveled and dusted with rock salt in anticipation of company, and the front door beyond it. A couple of knocks result in the sound of heavy, even footsteps. Your heart falls in sync with their pace, forming a countdown to your long-awaited reunion, but, when the door bursts open, the man that pours out of it isn't Sam: it's Johnny Bordeaux, beer in hand.

Despite all your recent travel together, you haven't paid much attention to Johnny. Now that you follow him inside the narrow hallway, streaked in mud and littered with galoshes, you realize that he's not a big guy. In fact, he's probably half a foot shorter than you. He's fat-muscled and strong as an oak, though. I suspect he's spent his whole life compensating for the measurement he couldn't fix with the ones he could. You've seen enough of these parts to know the man's got
Midwesterner
written all over him, too, well-insulated with antifreeze in his veins. Why in the world the Pospisils gave him a Cajun shtick is beyond you.

Johnny says, “The game will be on any minute. Just throw your coat on the bed”—he points through the open door of a bedroom off the hallway—“and come join us.”

Now that he's gone, you are free to make a noise of disappointment over what lies ahead—not the much-anticipated private reunion you imagined, but instead the long-established, companion-filled ritual of Sunday football at Sam Pospisil's house, a tradition that began well before your time and will continue with or without you.

•    •    •

In the living room, Johnny sits on the couch while a woman who can only be Mrs. Bordeaux burrows into one of the torn and threadbare armchairs, stirring her drink with a maraschino cherry, her legs kicked over one of the arms.

“Gwen,” says Johnny, talking through a mouthful of popcorn. He motions to the armchair. “This is Lacey.” And then, after a few more crunches, he adds, “My wife.”

Even from across the room, you can see that Lacey is surprisingly like Mimi in many ways: dark hair, squat build, camel-colored skin. Her face is younger, prettier even, but with stark blue crescents under her eyes and a galaxy of freckles across her nose. Despite Lacey's baggy sweater, you can make out a bit of a belly. She looks weary, defeated, but still, her presence scares you. You are afraid of being transparent, that she will somehow guess that you know something important about her life and will needle you until you slip and spill the beans. Good thing you are too far away to offer your hand and only have to wave. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she says. She lifts the cherry out of her drink, drops it into her mouth and yanks it off the stem with her teeth.

“Where's the little one?” you ask, not really caring but attempting small talk.

“At home, with my mother,” says Johnny.

Lacey rolls her eyes. “Here we go.” She kicks off her flats; they hit the ground in two little thuds. “He'd just mess up everyone's good time. Plus, I don't like taking him out in this weather.”

“You see, Gwen”—you startle at the sound of your name coming from Johnny's mouth; the tense turn of the conversation has put you on edge—“no matter how many days or weeks of his life I miss, my wife can
always
come up with some reason for us to go off without him.”

“Ha! Suddenly, you're worried about missing out.”

You're not sure where this is going, but it's clear that things have taken a dangerous turn. And you thought the jeopardy was over when you entered the apartment without injury.

“Is she here?” calls Sam, stepping out from the kitchen, a dish towel tucked into the front of his pants, unwittingly striking the couple silent. (That's a relief; there's no telling what Lacey and Johnny might have said next.) When Sam sees you, he breaks out in a smile and shoots across the living room. He extends his arms straight out in front of him, fingers spread wide.

This gesture, you assume, is meant as an invitation to embrace, and so you walk into it, arms rising, but instead of sweeping you up into his too-long arms, Sam takes your arm and extends it over your head, referee-style. Alas, your reaction time isn't quick enough, so you take one step too many and bump into him while he says, “Please welcome Tennessee Tag Team Champion, Gorgeous Gwen Davies!” and then widens his mouth and exhales in that way that is meant to imitate the roar of a crowd.

He means well by this display, Gwen. He wants to celebrate you, to be your loudest and most ardent fan. But you don't feel like celebrating. This championship of yours has become a sore spot. You've been introduced by this title for the last two weeks, but you haven't enjoyed the new distinction. In fact, the abuse from the spectators is getting worse. Here is a partial list of items that were thrown at you in Kentucky alone: an empty snuff can, an assortment of overripe fruit, eggs, a plastic doll, and a chunk of coal. And Mimi is just as vexing. Since the title bout, she's taken to calling you
champ.
Every time she says it, it seems more condescending, more ironic. Perhaps the only plus in this is that you're learning how to let your shame burn on the inside, out of view. You've learned how to stay in character, which is exactly what you do now, posing for your audience, bending a knee and flexing the muscle on your other arm. You are sure you hear Johnny make a slightly derisive noise, but you let this go, just as you've let go of the idea that this is a romantic greeting, or that there will be anything remotely romantic about this afternoon, for that matter.

“That's great, Gwen,” says Lacey in a tone you can't quite decipher. “Congratulations.”

“Good stuff,” says Johnny. “I mean, you're no World Junior Heavyweight, like our friend here, but hey, we all got to start somewhere.”

Sam's jaw sets; the tips of his ears grow red. When these fade, his face slips into something that looks like resignation. He drops your clasped hands. “Surprise,” he says, his voice flat.

This time around, you share his indifference. Once the belt is in his possession, he will begin its perpetual defense, which means he will be on the road as much as you are. And, since women aren't supposed to wrestle on the same cards as the major titleholders (wouldn't that be insulting?), there will not be many opportunities for your paths to cross. You swallow the bad taste building in your mouth and say, “That's terrific.”

“Yep,” says Sam.

“Don't downplay this for my sake,” says Johnny. “This is it, man. This is what it's all about.” He leans into the couch and pats his stomach. “My time will come later. It would be too much right now anyway. What with the baby and all.”

Lacey scoffs loudly at this, walks her stockinged feet up the wall. Johnny cuts a look at her, but she pays no attention. “But it's not too much to send you to Minnesota in the middle of winter?”

Johnny answers her with stone-faced silence. Sam grips your shoulders with his long fingers; his eyes sparkle with exasperation. “Why don't you come help me in the kitchen? I mean, if you're tired, you're welcome to stay out here—”

“I'll come with you,” you say, ready to do anything to get away from those two.

•    •    •

In addition to being a refuge, the kitchen is the staging ground for Sam's hospitality. A food-splattered copy of
Joy of Cooking
lies spread-eagled on one end of the counter; a small metropolis of liquor bottles stands on the other. Between these, hard-boiled egg whites sit on a platter with fans of radish roses and celery sticks. After offering to make you a Tom Collins, which you decline—with the lousy night of sleep you've had, one drink and it will be hard to avoid a face-plant—Sam asks if you'll finish off the crudités. This is the word he uses, too—crudités—and, after he clarifies, you get to work washing and peeling the carrots while he sets about filling the eggs with yellow dollops.

Sam seems to be in his element in the kitchen, occasionally wiping his hands on his makeshift apron before taking a swig of beer. This is not something you would expect from the soon-to-be Junior Heavyweight wrestling champion, or any man, for that matter. The kitchen has never been a natural fit for you, but it seems to be for Sam. While he works, he taps his foot in time with the unfamiliar tune he's humming. Wouldn't it be something if it were always this way—you coming home from the road, exhausted and famished, and Sam in the kitchen?

“This is a nice place,” you say, a pile of carrot ribbons forming in front of you.

“It has its charms,” says Sam. “I'll take being here over being on the road any day of the week, that's for sure. I'm kind of a homebody.” He doesn't look up from his eggs when he says this; he's got a two-spoon technique and he's on fire with it. “Can you look in the cabinet over the oven and grab the paprika for me?”

A spice rack in a bachelor pad seems out of place to you, but sure enough, there's a full carousel, packed tight enough to make locating the paprika a major undertaking. After considerable rifling, you find what you're looking for and toss it over. “You must do a lot of entertaining.”

“I like having people over. I did, at least. Believe it or not, those two used to be a lot of fun.” Sam takes a pull of his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I'm glad you're here, though.”

“For the moment, at least.” You have a bout here on Wednesday, and then nothing before the holidays, but Joe will surely do something about that. Last you heard, he was trying to work out something in Baltimore. That would be nice; it would certainly make it easier to get home for Christmas, a trip that seems long overdue. The last phone call with your father did not go well.
This was a mistake,
he said.
I want you to come home.
Not
you are wanted,
but the more active, possessive
I want you
. You can't grant him this, but you can go for a visit, reassure him in person that all is well, that you are still the same girl he knows and loves. Perhaps in return, you will be able to enjoy a little of this newfound demonstrative love. “What about you?”

“The title match is in St. Louis. Next month.” He puts the finishing touch on his eggs, dusting them with the paprika. “I'll be here until then.”

If Sam takes any pleasure in knowing the title will soon be his, he is keeping it to himself. He's grown up in this sport, so he must already know what you will soon learn—that any perks come with some steep costs. There will be crazed fans and police, not to mention a dizzying amount of travel and publicity. But I suspect the thing that is really bumming him out is the terrible timing, which is certainly going to place a burden on the budding relationship between you.

“I almost forgot.” Sam wipes his hands before reaching into a drawer and pulling out a couple of paper rectangles, one of which he hands to you. “I got you something.”

It's a road map. At first glance, there's nothing special about this one. On its cover, a couple stands in front of their car consulting their friendly Esso gas station attendant. Open up its accordion folds, spread it out, and still, it seems perfectly ordinary: an index, a legend, the Information for Sightseers (
Gulf Coast: Popular vacation playground with miles of white beaches against background of moss-draped oaks
), and the nation, crosshatched in red and black. But then you notice the inky spots dotting the landscape, all in familiar places: Tallahassee, Orangeburg, Charlotte. The blue stars, Sam explains, represent your solo travels; the purple ones are for the places you've been together. He shows you the one he's kept for years to document his own travels; it is well-worn and littered with stars, mostly red, but some purple ones, too.

“The first night you called—Memphis, I think—when I got off the phone with you, I got out my map and figured out the distance between us.” He makes a face. “Is that goofy?”

Nothing could bring you more pleasure than the image of him curled over the spread-out map, searching for you. “I don't think so,” you say, taking his hand and squeezing it.

Sam takes a breath and begins: “Leonie, I know it's going to be hard for us to have a relationship. Most of the time, we will literally be going in opposite directions. But I'd like to try.”

Now
that's
goofy. Luckily, you know that a person can be clumsy with words and genuine in feeling. All that matters is that he's all yours. So, what are you waiting for? Tell him as much. Kiss the tops of his knuckles, the back of his hand; turn it over, kiss the lines of his massive palm. You mean this as a promise that you are on board. No matter where you are, you will never be too far away.

Sam says nothing, but when you look at him again, the tension that made his eyes shine dissolves. He thanks you by grabbing you around the waist and, at long last, pulling you in for a slightly clumsy and beer-washed but nonetheless blood-pumping kiss.