The Sweetheart (22 page)

The fight starts right outside of the studio, in front of the heavy black door out of which you have both just been tossed. Once the show went off the air, it took a while for things to get settled. Jayne and Kitty backed away while the rest of you clustered. Voices were raised, necks and faces went red, arms and hands waved. Eventually, Morgan and the producers decided not to press charges—they just wanted Sam gone, and fast—and the security guards escorted you both back to your dressing room to gather your things, hurried you down the hall, and dumped you unceremoniously out into the alley.

The buttons of your coat are undone. There was no time to fasten them inside and now the cold is creeping in, so you work on remedying this while you throw the first stone. “This was a big day for me, Sam.”

“I know. I'm sorry.” He's working on his own coat now. “I just couldn't help myself.”

From his tone, you can tell that he hasn't yet registered just how upset you are—that you are frustrated by his actions not only today but over the last few weeks. You will have to be more pointed, more direct.

“That's happening a lot. It's becoming a real problem.”

It is the first time you've ever mounted any kind of serious challenge to Sam, and so even after you've buttoned up and fully protected yourself against this tail end of winter, you feel yourself tremble. Sure, you could handle yourself in the ring, but this kind of confrontation is unsure ground. Sam, on the other hand, does not hesitate to meet you head-on.

“What
should
I have done, Leonie? You heard what that guy said, the way the crowd responded. He's up there throwing raw meat to a pack of wild animals, and guess who's the meat? I'm supposed to let that go? I'm supposed to sit in the middle of the feeding frenzy and let it happen?”

“I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I'm pretty good at it, actually.”

“If you want me to apologize,” he says, getting louder, “you can forget it. If I think you need protection, I'm going to protect you.”

“You're overprotecting me, Sam.” You don't raise your voice, but you give it grit. “You are
smothering
me.”

The word comes effortlessly. Before this moment, you would not have characterized your feelings this way, but as soon as you say it, you realize it is true. From both ends of the alley comes the noise of the New York streets: the whiz of cabs and their impatient horn blasts, the call of street vendors, the jingle of bicycle chains, and the chatter and hurried steps of passing pedestrians. Not that you can hear any of that. All of it is drowned out by the deafening silence of a long, angry pause.

“What are you saying, Leonie?” His voice doesn't crack, exactly, but there is something different about it. “Is this it? Are we done?”

“No!” You cup your hand over your eyes and squeeze. “That's not what I mean.”

“What then?”

“I don't know.” But you do know, don't you? You need a little time to yourself, a little space. It's okay to want this, Gwen—it's not an unreasonable request. It's just that you are going to have plenty of it soon enough. In less than a week, Sam will point his convertible toward the faraway Heartland while you catch up with Mimi in DC and make your way back down south. The best thing would be to just put this fight on the shelf, enjoy the time you still have left, and let your frustrations dissipate in the cooling waters of separation. “Can we put this on hold for now?” you ask. “I don't want to fight at my father's house, and especially not with the wedding tomorrow.”

Sam puts his hands into the depths of his pockets. “Maybe you should go by yourself then.”

It is unclear to you whether this is a test of sorts, but once the offer is on the table, its appeal is overwhelming, and you cannot resist.

“Maybe I should.”

As soon as you see his reaction—there's that same hangdog face from the night you met him—you regret giving in to this impulse. If only you could rewind, end this whole stinking mess. But now, you've started down this road, and you don't see how to get off it. “For my father's sake,” you add, hoping this qualification will soften the blow.

“Well, then.” Sam toes a bit of loose asphalt, and then kicks it against the building. “If that's what you want. That's what you want?”

You don't say a word, letting your silence do the talking.

“Fine. I'll just go pack my things.” Sam turns and heads up the alley. “No sense sticking around if I'm not going with you,” he calls over his shoulder. He's headed in the wrong direction—your hotel is
thataway
—but you don't have the heart to tell him.

TWENTY

F
ranz answers the door wearing the bottom half of his Christmas pajamas. There's more flesh on him than there was last time you were here, to your great relief. There are other improvements, too. He's not clean-shaven, of course—it's almost midnight—but he's got himself a tidy haircut, a healthy color to his skin. He squints to get a better look.

“Leonie?” he says. He stops scratching his chest long enough to grab your arm and yank you into the house. “What are you doing here? You said you weren't getting in until tomorrow.”

“Change of plans.” You rest your suitcase where the television used to be and slump down into the couch, into the darkness. “It's okay. Go back to sleep and I'll explain in the morning.”

“Go back to sleep?” Franz shuts the door. “My daughter shows up on my doorstep in the middle of the night and she wants me to go back to sleep?” He fumbles around in the dark, finds a lamp, and turns it on. It's the same old room it's always been, except now there are ghostly rectangles where family pictures used to hang, and a row of cardboard boxes against the far wall.

Franz's head jerks as if he's suddenly remembered something. He returns to the door and opens it again, looks out. “Where's Sam?”

Somewhere on the road, you suppose. After the fight, you went for a walk through the city streets; when the cold got to you, you stopped for a cup of coffee. It was good medicine. By the time you paid up, you were ready to ask him to stay, to talk the problem through rather than avoid it. But when you got back to the hotel, he was already gone. You tell your father that he's not coming.

“What do you mean?” Franz says, closing the door again. “I thought Sam was driving. If there's no Sam, how did you get here?”

“I took the train.”

“All by yourself? At night? Without someone to pick you up?”

Exasperation creeps back under your skin, into your blood. You should have known your father would react this way. Why is it that all the men in your life seem to think you need their protection?

“Yes, Father. I do it all the time, you know.”

“That's supposed to reassure me?” Franz drops beside you on the couch. “Too bad. I was prepared to like the guy after what he did tonight. That was him, right? On the television?”

“Yes, that was him.”

“I thought so! He hit that jerk”—Franz punches his hand; the smacking sound causes you to flinch—“right in his ugly mouth. Good for him!”

“Right. Good for him.” Forget it. You don't have the strength for anything more than this note of sarcasm; you can't bring yourself to argue the points on this matter again. This subject—Things That Gwen Davies Handles Just Fine on Her Own, Thank You—has grown tiresome.

“What's with the sour face?” he asks, tousling your hair. “What? You don't want to tell your father?”

“Not really.” What could he possibly say? Even if you
could
bring yourself to talk to your father about your
boyfriend
and your
feelings,
he'd just side with Sam.

“So, we're playing Leonie's Got a Secret, are we?” Franz presses his hands together, holds them up to his nose, and inhales. “Okay. The secret has to do with why her boyfriend, Sam, did not drive her to my house but instead let her travel by herself in the dead of night. First question: Is it because he is afraid of your father?”

This warms you up, and you smile despite yourself. “No, of course not.”

“Is it because he is as big a jerk as Henry Morgan?”

“No,” you say, and make a little noise—not a laugh, but along those lines. What's come over your father? Here he is, not only worried about those feelings you are loath to discuss, but insisting on being a support to you even when you've given him an easy out. It's puzzling, but pleasantly so. “Don't head down the garden path.”

“But you had some kind of fight, am I right?”

Now he's getting somewhere. “Yes.”

“And is the subject of this fight something you want to talk about with your father?”

“No. Not really,” you say. You're not ready for sleep, but you put a hand over your mouth and yawn. “I'm too tired. We should get some rest. You especially. You're getting married tomorrow.”

“I am, aren't I? It's crazy, right?”

It sure seems crazy to you. You'd like to poke around, ask questions, but you're not sure how to approach it, or if you even really have the right. You don't live here anymore, and it's his life. The man's been a widower for fifteen years, and Ms. Riley is a fine woman. If this is what he wants, who are you to question it?

“No,” you lie. “I don't think it's crazy.”

“Then you're crazy.”

Franz sounds considerably less playful when he says this. He stares ahead at the boxes and their long shadows. Tomorrow, he's going to take those boxes next door, to his new home. This is more historic than your television appearance. This is your father on the precipice of reinvention, a man who didn't think his life could change. It's only natural for him to have some ambivalence, right?

Franz reaches across the coffee table for his smokes and shakes one out of the pack. To light it, he brings a match quickly and briefly to life before killing it between wetted fingers. “Tell you what. I'll just sit here for a minute and smoke a cigarette while we don't talk about your stupid fight or my crazy wedding, okay?”

And with that, the two of you sit in silence, Franz taking long pulls on his cigarette, until, finally, you go for the easy joke.

“Does it taste good?” you ask.

Franz, falling back into the old pattern, doesn't miss a beat. “Yes,” he says. “Like a cigarette should.”

•    •    •

There will be no more inquiries into your professional and personal travails on this trip. No one even seems to register the remarkable fact that you are here. No, everyone is wedding-centered and moving-minded. Franz's boxes have to be carried next door, and then Cynthia and Wally's belongings will move in the opposite direction. Since you are here already, Franz decides, there is no reason not to go over to the courthouse first thing in the morning and get this over with. Time's a-wasting.

The plan is to meet on the courthouse steps at eleven sharp. You, your father, and Ms. Riley wait in the designated spot, stiff in your Sunday best, but even after a good twenty minutes, Cynthia and company have yet to arrive.

“I knew we shouldn't have left without them,” says Ms. Riley, her lips pinched.

“They'll be here,” says Franz. “Harold probably held them up.”

Ms. Riley's frustration disappears at the mention of her grandson's name. “You got to see this kid, Leonie. He's a real sweet baby. Hardly ever cries. I'm telling you, my daughter doesn't know how good she's got it. And your father is so good with him!” Ms. Riley has a dreamy grin on her face. “Harold's favorite is when your father puts on the radio and then picks him up and kind of dances him around, you know? One night, Cynthia and I got in from work, and you know what we found? A big pot of stew ready to eat, Tony Bennett on the record player, and your father dancing Harold around the room. I'm telling you, I fell in love”—she snaps her fingers—“just like that.”

Can that even be called love? It sounds like a decision that has more to do with stomachs than hearts. Before this moment, you were sure that posing for Monster was the right thing to do for you and your father. You got to keep your life, and he got just enough help to stay afloat until his ship came in. Now, you wonder if you haven't accidentally nudged him onto the wrong ship. Perhaps you have only saved yourself.

“There they are,” says your father, pointing.

It's Cynthia, all right, starting up the courthouse steps, Harold bouncing on her hip. Wally is still a good dozen steps or so behind her, walking at a pointedly slower clip. His face is expressionless, but one thing is clear: he is in no hurry.

“Okay, okay.” Ms. Riley looks on for a minute, exhales, and then wheels around to face you. “Now. No more of this Ms. Riley business.” She tweaks your nose between her thumb and knuckle. “It's Patricia. Pat. I don't expect you to call me Mom or anything.”

When Cynthia finally reaches the top of the stairs, she catches her breath, and says, “We did it! Our plan worked!” She reaches for your hand and squeezes, which doesn't produce the same effect it might have once upon a time. Now, you're just annoyed with her for holding up the ceremony. “Remember how hard we tried to get these two together?” she continues. “Okay, so it took ten years, but here we are! Aren't we, Harold?”

Harold stares at you from the safety of his mother's hip. You give him a weak smile, which seems to interest him for a minute, but then he looks past you, checks out the action happening at your back: his grandmother straightening your father's tie. The minute he sees your father, he holds out his arms and kicks his legs.

“Not now, Harold! You'll get spit-up all over Pop's suit.” Cynthia wipes his mouth with the diaper she's draped over her shoulder.

Pop? That's a new one.

“Can you go any slower, Wally?” Pat yells down the stairs, which prompts Wally to do exactly that, lifting his leg by microscopic degrees, as if trying to free it from quicksand.

“Oh, brother,” breathes Pat.

Franz opens the heavy courthouse door. “Let's just go,” he says. “He'll catch up.” He ushers Pat in, and Cynthia follows, pausing briefly to let Franz tickle Harold under the chin, which makes him laugh. You know that you should find this endearing—heartwarming, even—but honestly, Harold was a lot easier to love when he was in Cynthia's belly, when he wasn't wriggling his way into your family.

Everyone has made a point to tell you what a good baby Harold is, how he almost never cries, but it seems today is the exception. The minute the party steps in front of the judge, Harold's lower lip pokes out, his chin trembles, and a wail escapes from his lungs that could tie a knot in any woman's fallopian tubes. The judge tries to go on with things for a while, but before long, the cries have escalated to a point that they can't be ignored. He folds his book closed and waits for some semblance of peace to resume.

“Give him here,” says Franz, holding out his arms. As soon as Harold is in them, he quiets down. For the rest of the brief ceremony, Franz holds Harold's back against his chest, keeps a firm hand under his bottom, and softly clucks into his ear while Harold chews on Patricia's outstretched finger. When it is time to kiss the bride, Franz twists Harold over to the side and leans forward, and Patricia hops up on her toes and meets your father's mouth with her own. The kiss is brief and tidy, no more than a brushing of the lips.

Is your father's marriage to Pat strictly one of convenience? You will never be able to answer this question with complete confidence—it is impossible to know what really exists between two people—but it does serve many practical needs. Pat gets her daughter's family right where she wants them: close, but not underfoot. On top of that, she gets a man who makes her life a little easier, who knows he is lucky to have her and acts like it. In return, your father gets economic security; he gets to keep his house, even if he doesn't get to live in it anymore. Sure, taking on the household responsibilities while Pat earns the paycheck requires some pride swallowing, but he probably thinks it's better his wife pay the bills than his daughter (which, let's be honest, is convenient for you, too). This probably does not seem like enough to a young woman with her whole life ahead of her, but in time, you will come to appreciate the value of noises in the home, a warm body in the bed.

•    •    •

After a celebratory lunch comes the business of moving. Everyone's boxes are shuffled over to their respective new homes easily enough. The real job will be hauling off Franz's old couch, which has seen better days. It is slated for donation to the church and needs to be loaded on the back of Wally's truck and carted over before the office locks up at six. This will make room for the new one that is waiting for Cynthia and Wally at the furniture store. The menfolk prepare to tackle this chore, but you insist on taking over your father's role.

“It's your honeymoon!” you argue.

There's that, and sure, there's a little residual concern for his health packed into your reasoning. The memory of him hunched over on the sidewalk, struggling for air, is still fresh. It will also keep your mind off Sam, who has been running in the background of your thoughts all day.

Your father scratches his head and says, “I don't know. It's pretty heavy.”

He's right—on top of being ugly, that old couch is a monster—but obviously he doesn't realize whom he's talking to, so you flex a bicep to remind him. “I think I can manage.”

All of the other players have stepped back and let the tug-of-war go on without them. None of them are sure what their role in this discussion should be, or if they even have a role. After all, you've only been a family for, what, five hours now? The first one to step forward is, to your great surprise, Wally. Even stranger: he takes your side.

“Come on, Franz. We watched her pick up a grown man last night and throw him on the ground. Surely she can handle one end of the couch.”

“Wally,” says Cynthia, a note of caution in her tone. But this warning comes too late: Franz is ready to throw in the towel. He shrugs his shoulders and says, “Okay. If you think you can handle it. We'll have dinner ready for you when you're done.”

After they head next door, Cynthia goes into her new bedroom to put the baby down for his afternoon nap, leaving you in the living room with your new brother-in-law and advocate.

“I guess we better get to work,” he says.

Getting the couch into the truck is physically demanding work, but coordinating the task with Wally goes smoothly enough, with none of the tawdry once-overs from your last encounter. Perhaps he's not such a bad guy. Ms. Riley may consider him trouble, but you know a thing or two about heels, and you are prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. Once the couch is roped down, the great mass of it weighing down the bed of the truck, Wally motions for you to get in. You've already got the door open and a foot on the well when a voice calls out to you.