The Sweetheart (30 page)

Not only did he make sure your coffee was prepared the way you like it, he also brought back a favorite treat. You think of Patricia, the way she talked about that pot of stew your father made, with new understanding. You take one of the MoonPies and open the wrapper. “You thought of everything. What else you got in there?” When he seems to hesitate, you try again. “Don't hold out, Sam. What else?”

“Just some smokes and—” He pulls out a small box and hands it to you. Gold, with a little crown on front.
Miss Clairol Hair Color Bath,
it says.
Sable brown.
“There was this beauty salon next to the corner store, just opening up for the day, and it occurred to me. I just thought you might want to look a little less . . . conspicuous.”

You stare at the box in one hand, the MoonPie in the other, for a long while before putting both down on the bed. Can this really be necessary? If it is, it means another piece of you is gone, that you are steadily disappearing. But maybe this is a way to pay penance—by getting rid of The Sweetheart, bit by bit. You can hardly expect to absolve yourself with a bottle of hair dye, but you need to make a gesture, and for now, this is all you have. “Let's do it,” you say. “Now. Before I change my mind.”

Sam proves to be surprisingly adept with hair color, his gloved hands carefully separating your locks and then brushing them, root to tip, with the dye. When, finally, it is time to rinse, Sam issues a few directives as he eases you beneath the tub spigot, but the rest of the operation is mercifully silent. He does not speak again until after you have toweled off and gone to the mirror to examine his handiwork. “You look beautiful,” he says, talking to your image as he stands behind you, gripping your shoulders. It is not only how he sees you but also how he wants you to see yourself, which he further demonstrates by stooping to kiss you on the temple, but it does not make you feel any better about the woman who stares back at you. It's you, all right, but it is not any woman that you know.

“Beautiful,” you say, “but not gorgeous.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

T
he next day, late in the afternoon, you ease your way down the hospital corridor—long but not nearly long enough—a pitiful bouquet of daisies in hand, approaching Mimi's room with more than a little trepidation. There was talk of doing this yesterday, and then again today, but you resisted it, put it off, until finally, there was no more time. Today's visiting hours are winding down, and tomorrow, Sam has to start driving back to Cleveland. If you are going with him, this is your last chance. He would be by your side if only you had let him; instead, he is waiting in the parking lot, as you insisted. This is something you have to do alone.

The door to the room is cracked open. The scene you find is much like the one you have imagined: Mimi draped in a gown and lying, eyes closed, in a hospital bed, a doctor's clipboard with all of its horrific details hanging from its foot. There is another bed in the room. The sheets are rumpled but it is empty; for the time being, she is alone. You set the flowers on the nightstand and pick up a pen to leave a note—you shouldn't wake her—but she opens one eye and then the other.

“What happened to your hair?”

Right. You are a brunette now. It still catches you by surprise every time you pass by a mirror. “It wasn't my idea.”

“Hmm.” It is hard to know what she thinks about it, if anything. She may simply be groggy from all the medication.

“I didn't know about the pictures,” you say. “Not until after.”

Mimi laughs and then winces. “I guess not.”

“How did you get them?”

“At the wake, when I was getting Junior to sleep. I dropped something on the floor—I don't even remember what—and it rolled under the bed. I found the box and had a hunch. I just meant to be nosy. I wasn't even looking for you. But then there you were.”

There is enough room on the side of her bed for you to sit comfortably without disturbing her. This is your first instinct—to put yourself in this spot, to close the space between you—but you resist it, choosing instead to hover by her feet. “I don't know what to say.”

“Me neither.” She takes a few shallow breaths before her face slackens.

“Can I do anything?” You mean for it to be an earnest question, but, in your nervousness, it sounds stiff and meek: a formality.

“You've done enough, thanks.” Her eyes dart over to the bedside table and settle on the plastic pitcher. She props herself up on her elbows and rolls toward it, but you are already there, filling the cup. When you offer her the straw, she puts her mouth around it, albeit grudgingly, and sips. “Oh, I'm all right,” she says. “There's nothing wrong with me that won't be better someday.”

“They told me you won't be able to have children.”

Mimi shrugs her shoulders. “That doesn't make any difference.”

But of course it does. However unlikely or undesirable motherhood might be for her, it used to be her choice to make, and now it's not.

“We're back,” booms a man's voice, and you turn around just as Johnny storms the doorway, a diaper bag hanging from one arm, Junior held aloft with the other. He doesn't recognize you at first, but, after a double take, he makes a face. He cuts his eyes at Mimi, nods toward you. “Should she be here?”

“It's okay.” Mimi presses the fingers of a hand against one eye, then the other. “She's leaving soon. Why don't you walk Junior around the floor one time.”

“Yeah, sure.” Johnny picks the baby up, tosses him, howling, into the air, and catches him. As he walks past you, Junior slung roughly over his shoulder, he says quietly, “She's tired,” and waits for you to nod your understanding before he leaves.

When Johnny is well down the hallway, Mimi says, “He's been like that the whole time. You should have seen the fight he put up to get me this room. It was one for the books.”

In these words, you can hear the pride, but also the tender feeling—not just devoted, but resolved. You aren't sure whether this is a result of the accident or something that happened before, but when you hear her say this, you understand that she has made a decision: she will not walk away from Johnny after all.

“So go ahead,” she says now. “Say whatever you need to say.”

For the past two days, you have rehearsed the various ways you might ask for forgiveness, all of which, you now realize, are lacking. A new thought comes to you. It does not have the beauty or depth you would like it to have. It will not restore her; it will not redeem you. But it is true, and, as the tears you blink away will attest, it is a thing you need to say.

“I'm a heel.”

Mimi raises an eyelid. Her mouth settles into something of a smile, and it seems like she is going to say something, but then a serious-faced nurse pops in to check Mimi's vitals. By the time she is gone, the moment is, too. Instead, Mimi says, “Joe tells me you're not going to wrestle Mildred. You know that don't help me any.”

Yes, you know. It also doesn't help Joe, and it definitely doesn't help Mildred Burke, who is destined to lose the belt to June Byers if she can't job it to you. “You think you'll keep wrestling then?” you ask, heartened by the prospect.

“That's the plan. Give me another sip of that water, would you?” she asks. This, you are only too happy to do. “I'm going to be fine,” she says, licking her lips. “You're the one to worry about.”

“Yeah, well.” Perhaps she means for you to reassure her, to let her in on the latest plan for reinvention spinning around that newly dyed head of yours, to hear your confidence in it. The problem is this: you don't have confidence, or a plan, for that matter, and you don't have the stomach to fake it. The last thing you want to do is tell her a lie, so you leave those words—
Yeah, well
—hanging in the air until she falls asleep.

•    •    •

The waiting room near the hospital entrance is not at all comfortable, but it has the advantage of possessing a trash can, so it is the perfect place to sit and clean out your purse while you bide your time. You just couldn't bring yourself to stroll through those sliding glass doors—not just yet. Sam's longer, broader, glass-half-f view of things has served you well these past few days, but you are not yet ready for another dose of optimism. You need a minute alone to think, to sit inside the wreckage and assess the damage.

While you are still slumped in your seat, gathering your resources, the doors open and in walks Joe. He stops to mop his brow with a handkerchief while you hold your breath, but it's no use: he spots you. He stands there, hands in pockets, and waits for you to come to him, which you do with more than a little hesitation.

“Good of you to come,” Joe says.

“I don't know about that.” Joe stares at you for a long while, waiting for more. Perhaps he thinks that you owe him something. Perhaps he wants more explanation, or at least some pleasantries. You would like to oblige, but these are more than you can manage. The best you can do is this apology: “I'm really sorry, Joe.”

“I know you are, kid. I am, too.”

“You had this whole thing worked out—” You don't dare think, let alone say, the rest of the sentence:
and I blew it for all of us.

“I did. But you know what? I'll just have to work something else out.”

“You will?” This is both reassuring and disappointing. If a championship can go forward without you, it means you were never as instrumental as you imagined. “What?”

“I don't know. I haven't gotten that far yet. If you've got any brilliant ideas, I'm all ears.”

“No, not really.”

“That's too bad.” He slips off his glasses and runs his handkerchief over the bridge of his nose. He asks, “What about you? What's your plan?”

“Can't say I have one.”

Joe returns his glasses to his face and nods his head in a matter-of-fact way. He pulls out his money clip, counts his dough, and performs a few mental calculations before peeling off a couple of bills—enough to cover all that he owes you and then some—and then another and another just like it. When you open your mouth to protest, he takes your clutch from your hands and stuffs the bills inside: this is not negotiable.

“You have stuff in Otherside you're going to want back,” he says. “I can send it to you, or you can come get it. Whenever. There's no rush.” He places his heavy hands on your shoulders, and for once, you don't mind them there. “If there's anything to talk about, we can talk then.”

You would like to tell him not to hold his breath. You will never feel ready to open up to him, let alone wrestle again—not under the new terms. But you sense that he already understands this, so instead, for only the second time in your life, you dare to kiss him. Later, you will decide that it is this gesture, the way it hurls you backward in time to that first peck on the ear, and the story Joe told you in that moment, that will give you an inspired idea, one that has the potential to not only fix his immediate problem but also change the course of history for all involved, including him.

“I have the answer,” you say. “I know who can fight Mildred Burke.”

“I'm listening.”

“What about the best wrestler you've ever managed?”

The look on Joe's face makes clear he is deeply suspicious of this idea, that perhaps he even entertained it himself and dismissed it. He is not a man who welcomes scandal, and Lacey, who is likely still at El Rancho, where you left her, will come with one that will cast its shadow in all directions. But in the year you have known him, he has grown less averse to risk, more willing to change with the times. These trends will only continue; before the decade is over, he will sign his first African-American wrestler and make Mimi his business partner. Whether he is ready for that kind of risk today remains to be seen, but it seems to you if there is anyone worthy of a risk, it is Lacey. She has paid her dues and then some. Maybe some could begrudge her the title, but not you, and certainly not Mimi.

“I don't know,” he says. “I don't even know where she is now.”

His face might betray his doubt, but in those words, you hear a man who can be convinced. This can't be easy for you, Gwen—selling Joe on a champion other than yourself—but it is your best chance. You can't make it right, but you can do one right thing.

“Luckily for you,” you say, “I do.”

•    •    •

In the parking lot, Sam leans against the Crestline, arms crossed, and talks to Johnny. It is a relief that they have found each other. Otherwise, the sight of Sam waiting in the Memphis heat—hair damp, shirt bibbed in sweat—might make you cringe with guilt. When the men catch sight of you, they shake hands and part ways. Johnny brushes past, acknowledging you only with a slight nod, but Sam springs into gentlemanly action, helping you into the passenger side before climbing behind the wheel. He rests his arm on the back of the bench seat and asks, “Do you feel better?”

“About Mimi? No. Not really. But I'm not sure I want to.”

“Sounds to me like she's doing okay,” he says, cranking the engine. “Johnny says she's already talking about touring together and buying a travel trailer so they can take Junior on the road. Speaking of which, I saw Joe walk in.”

“Yeah, I spoke to him.”

“Did he give you any grief?”

“No.” You feel quite certain you have convinced him that Lacey should win the belt. You briefly consider sharing this news with Sam, but if you do, then you will have to tell him about seeing her in Vegas. You can only imagine what he might say if he discovers that you saw her and said nothing to him. This is hardly a conversation you want to have now.

“See? What did I tell you?” Sam puts the car in reverse, looks over his shoulder, and eases off the brakes. “Just you wait, Leonie. This story is going to have a happy ending for everybody.”

“Everybody but me,” you say.

“You're thinking about this all wrong. You're not down. You're just in between. That's all.”

Here it is again—Sam's finger pointing toward the bright side. This is not what you need right now. In time, his optimism will seem like prophecy. Good news will trickle in from every corner, and, while you will never quite believe that this was all meant to be, you will settle into the idea that everyone got the life she needed, including you. But first, you have to grieve. For all her faults, The Sweetheart was one of the few things in this world that was yours, and now she is gone.

“Maybe I don't want to be in between. Maybe I want to be where I was.”

Sam adjusts his grip on the steering wheel and stares ahead. When he's gathered his thoughts, he turns and says, “Leonie, don't you see? You were already in between.”

It takes a moment for this to arrive to you as fact. At first, it seems like much of Sam's version of events—intended to cheer rather than honestly evaluate. But you can hear first how this is different and then how it is right. Remember the debacle in DC, the soul-grinding performances in Vegas? Maybe you
were
already in between. Maybe you had already taken the first steps toward something else.

“If I'm in between, then what's next?” you ask.

“You're not supposed to know,” says Sam. “That's the problem with in between. That's why it feels bad. But in my happy ending, you and I go back to Cleveland and build a life together.”

Maybe that
is
the answer. Now that everything else is in tatters, perhaps your best shot at happiness is to put aside your reservations and take a chance on Sam's somewhat flawed but true-blue affections. Sure, he can be overprotective, but this is born out of a deep and abiding concern for you, isn't it? Hasn't he proven that he will be a loyal defender and protector? Besides, what else are you going to do now that the life you imagined for yourself has made like a banana and
split
? Going back to Philadelphia is not an option. And if you can't go home, then really, what else is there? All signs point to Sam. You just have to take the first step.