The Sweetheart (8 page)

“Suit yourself.” Mimi plunks her fists onto her sides and slowly pans the room. She spies something on your nightstand and picks it up—the book Monster gave you,
The Price of Salt.
She looks at you with surprise and then opens a drawer, sweeps the book inside, and shuts it tight. “I wouldn't leave this kind of stuff just lying around if I were you.”

You want to tell her that it's not what she thinks, but even if you could form a sentence, you're not sure you could explain it.
Once upon a time, as I was looking for a detective novel, a seven-foot man asked if I wanted him to take naked pictures of me and then handed me this book
. The moment passes, and Mimi turns her attention to another item on your nightstand: the radio. “How about some tunes?”

She turns it on without waiting for a reply, and when the room fills with the sounds of Sinatra, she makes a face and mutters, “Yeesh.” She twists the knob until she settles on a station playing Faye Adams's “Shake a Hand.” She moves a stack of laundry from the chair in the corner and takes a seat, swaying with romantic exaggeration to
the little gal with the big voice.

In another context, you might still feel wary. You have been warned about Mimi from day one, and the woman herself, with her hard-nosed ways and outlandish ring behavior, has seemed so intimidating, you've had no trouble believing there was something sordid and predatory about her. Knocking your jaw out of the socket hasn't exactly discredited this notion. But now that she is here, in your room, moving to the music, her expression dreamy and wistful, you can see how it might not be as simple as that.

“Sorry about this, kid,” she says. “It's happened to me more times than I care to count, but it always hurts like all get-out.” Before you can decide whether this is merely an obligatory apology, she breaks out in a smile and gives her knee a swat. “That was some stunt off the ropes there. Most of the new girls just pull hair and try to yank you down by the waist or something, maybe take a kick at you. Getting up on the turnbuckle like that your first fight? That shows me something.”

You hope she is being sincere. You're not sure you want much from this woman, but you would like to have her respect. And after all you've been through tonight, you deserve it.

The song ends; a new one begins: Varetta Dillard's “Mercy, Mr. Percy.”

“Here we go,” says Mimi, getting out of her chair. “I think this one requires a little dance action.”

You hope you are not expected to participate in the “little dance action”: just the thought of rhythmic movement produces renewed anxiety and pain. But Mimi pays you no mind as she stands and puts on a one-woman show—eyes closed, shoulders bunched, hips shaking—while Dillard belts out her song
.
Did you look this silly when you were on the
Bandstand
dance floor, following Cynthia's lead? Probably. Mimi opens her eyes long enough to read the bemused smile on your face and amps up the irony, rolling her pelvis as if spinning an imaginary Hula-Hoop. You clutch your chin more tightly with one hand to stop yourself from laughing and wave her off with the other.
For the love of God, stop.

Mimi obeys, wipes the sweat from her brow, and hands you the bottle again. “One more sip while I freshen up your ice pack.” You do as you are commanded before taking the ice pack back from her. “Don't work your mouth too much for the next few days,” she tells you. “Fill up on milkshakes and soup. Keep a hand under your chin if you've got to yawn.”

Just the mention of the word makes you yawn, so you follow protocol.

“Good girl. And do this for me, too. Don't go home yet, okay? Stick it out. This is as bad as it gets. If you make it through this, you'll make it through the rest. I'll see if I can't get Joe to take it easy on you while you heal up. How's that sound?”

It sounds just fine to you. In this moment, Mimi seems like someone who knows what she's talking about, someone you can trust. But that's easy to feel when someone is saying what you want to hear. After all, you have no intention of leaving. Gwen Davies was born in Florida and came of age in the celestial space that hovers over the squared circle; Gwen Davies
is
home. You wink your response:
I'm not going anywhere
.

Mimi winks back. “Right. Sleep tight.” And with that, she turns off the music and slips out, and you, following orders, topple onto your side and fall asleep, your suit digging trenches into your thighs, the Green Goddesses still laced to your ankles.

SEVEN

P
eople like the Turnip have a hard time understanding the appeal of professional wrestling, but I get it. During a match, the audience can make absolute judgments about the people in the ring, something that can hardly be done in real life. Every character falls neatly into one of two categories: face or heel. In the early stages, your character was allowed some ambiguity while Joe decided what he was going to do with you. But now, a plan has been hashed out: you and Mimi will pair up for several tag team matches in various regional venues starting two days from now. This is Joe's idea. He explains that after a significant injury, a wrestler can become nervous about getting back on the horse. The best cure for this, he believes, is to remount as soon as possible, before you overthink all the ways the horse might throw you again. And, in case you are skittish about reentering the ring, he wants you to have the fortification of a seasoned partner, someone who will take the reins should you get bucked off. You are joining forces with Mimi, a heel; therefore, you must be one, too.

Welcome to the dark side, Gwen.

Joe explains that heels come in all shapes and sizes, but an unfortunate number of these archetypes are condescending, mean-spirited, or outright intolerant: delinquents, giants, nut jobs, clowns, freaks, butches, and brown-skinned savages. During Joe's five years of managing lady wrestlers, his stable of heels has included his daughter, Kat Fever; The Angel of Death, whose face is mottled with scar tissue from burns she suffered when her PT-19A crashed during WASP training; dragon lady Kim Korea (played by a Chinese-Canadian); a bitch from the Bayou known as The Ragin' Cajun, and, of course, Screaming Mimi Hollander. Now, Gwen Davies will be joining their ranks.

But what kind of villain are you supposed to be? You need a persona that wrestling spectators will be prone to dislike, and with your figure, there's only one answer. The new Gwen Davies will be an ice princess: self-important, obsessed with her looks, and supremely frigid. The men will long for you but hate you for your inaccessibility, and the women will hate you because the men long for you. You are instructed to sneer at any man who whistles or catcalls. When you enter the ring, you're supposed to pull a tiny compact from the pocket of your robe and use it to primp—fluff your hair, kiss the air, etc. And the pièce de résistance: an adjective tacked to the front of your name.

From now on, you are not just Gwen Davies, you are
Gorgeous
Gwen Davies.

If only it were that easy. It takes more than a name to make a heel. You've got some work to do. And so, one morning after you finish your workout, already looking forward to a bath and a hearty lunch (you have to cut your food into the tiniest bites, but at least you can chew again!), Mimi asks if you can stick around for a while to work on your program. You readily agree, thrilled by her willingness to teach you what she knows. But when you ask her what you're going to be working on today—Full nelsons? Flying scissors? Backbreakers?—she presses the compact into your hand.

“We'll work on plot another time,” she says. “Today, we're working on character.”

And work you she does, sending you up and down the aisle for a solid hour while she critiques your stride and your nose-powdering technique.

“Here's the deal,” says Mimi, her voice echoing in the empty gym. She hops up on the apron and leans against the ropes. “You have what they want, but you're not going to give it to them. You don't need them. You don't need
anybody.
Got it?”

“Got it,” you say, belting your robe for the umpteenth time. Your stomach growls; lunch service will be over soon. “Let's go eat.”

Mimi checks the clock at the back of the gym. “We've got time. Don't get lazy on me now, Gwen. Thursday will be here before you know it. Now try it again, and this time,
convince me.
Make me
hate
you.”

Thursday night will be your first match since the injury. Joe granted you a full two weeks (unpaid, of course) to recuperate and allowed you to run a tab for your room and board to be paid back (with interest) at a later time. But he made it clear that you were to keep up your daily regimen, which you did despite your diminished caloric intake. Otherwise, you did nothing but drink egg creams, fall under the spell of the radio—how did you go this long without hearing the Orioles or Big Mama Thornton?—and write out a long, earnest reply to your father in which you shared the events of your life since leaving. You described the gym and your daily routines; you told him about your suits, your photographs, and your new name. You proudly recounted the story of your first match, how your jaw was knocked out and then popped back into place. Last but not least, you tucked in one of the cards from your first match, autographed with your new moniker, no less. It was all too much—he would not approve—but you wanted to be clear about what was happening: you were transforming.

Toward that end, you will attempt the ice princess routine one more time. She is hardly the character you imagined for yourself—why would anyone want to be a heel?—but she has more championship potential than Leonie Putzkammer. Besides, you are in no position to protest. You finger the compact in your pocket, inhale through your nose, and gather together every dastardly instinct you have.

Here goes nothing, Gwen.

At this point, keeping a smile off your face isn't exactly a challenge, and keeping your stare forward-facing isn't hard, either. No, the stride is what's tricky. When you walk toward the ring, you start off in the way you've been instructed—short, powerful steps with flexed legs, hips swaying, arms swinging in the wake of the hips—but the minute you feel the fluctuation of your breasts, you seize up. Striking a confident, slightly hammy pose was easy enough in the privacy of your room, when the only spectator was your own reflection, but out here is a whole different ball game. Despite your best efforts, you cannot overcome the years of instinctive defensiveness: your spine curves, your shoulders drop forward, and even the remotest appearance of rhythm drains out of your pelvis.

Ice princess? Not even close.

“Stop!” yells Mimi. “You had it! What happened?”

“I don't think I can do this,” you say. “I'm just not like this.”

Mimi closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Am I a screaming maniac?” When she says this, she is in fact speaking rather loudly. “Let's see the rest. Just the last bit with the compact.”

You pull the compact from the depth of your pocket, snap it open, check your image, and halfheartedly dab at your nose with the cosmetic puff.

Mimi slaps her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Gwen,” she says, her voice small and impatient, her eyes closed. “Go to lunch.”

“I'll work on it tonight,” you lie. You are sorry to be a disappointment, but you have no interest in mastering this character. This is something to be endured, not enjoyed. “I'll show you tomorrow.”

“I'm busy tomorrow.” Mimi is already on her way out of the gym.

“But we haven't worked on the program.”

“I'll tell you the program.” Mimi turns around and cups her hands around her mouth to direct the next words toward you, to make sure you hear them. “Don't blow it.”

•    •    •

Two nights later, your first performance as a self-absorbed evildoer is, to put it mildly, lacking. Despite all the time spent coaxing out your inner heel—the expression, the strut, the
intensity
—you haven't managed to pull her out from the hard shell of your self-consciousness. If anything, the venomous reaction from the fans makes you feel more like a mouse. True, their collective moan of disapproval is largely for Mimi, but you are guilty by association.

The result? You guessed it: body curled into itself, compact left in your pocket, inert and unused. Mimi mutters “Jesus Christ” as she takes her place in the ring.

You don't want to anger Mimi by blowing the match, but the heart-rattling disapproval of the audience, as well as some residual anxiety over your jaw, results in a limited, stilted performance consisting only of defense and reaction. In fact, the first time Mimi tags you in, all your opponent has to do is charge and you drop right down and spend a good five minutes turtled on the mat. Even over the noise of the audience—the villain has shriveled up before their very eyes, to their great delight—you are sure you can hear Mimi's exasperated sighs. When you finally manage to kick off your assailant, you race to the corner and tag out. The other team has been guaranteed the victory, and Mimi is forced to lose it for you both by somersaulting in the air as if this smaller wrestler has flipped her, and landing on the canvas with a deafening clap.

“Young lady,” she tells you after the match, “that's one. There better not be a two.”

“Right,” you say, but she doesn't hear you; she's already gone.

This is only your second match, but it is a horribly low point, especially considering the heights you reached during the first one.
That
was the way it was supposed to go. Not like this. Not with everyone against you. You cross your arms on the surface of the makeshift vanity and put your forehead down on top of them.

“How's it going?” asks Joe. Mimi must have left the door open. You hadn't noticed him walk in, but now, he leans in the doorway.

“It's been better.”

“Come here for a minute,” he says, which you do. “Turn around.”

You're not sure what this is about, but you follow instructions and turn your back to him. From this position, Joe grabs your bicep with one hand and presses his fist against your back, between your shoulder blades. You try to stay loose, but it's an effort—you still aren't used to Joe's manhandling.

“Imagine there's an apple, and you've got to hold it right here,” he says, twisting his knuckles. “You can't let it drop. Your life depends on it.”

You close your eyes, nod your head, and squeeze. An apple. Okay.

“Now,” says Joe, removing his fist. “Hold it. Don't let go.” Your eyes are still closed, but you can feel him walk around you. He pinches your chin between his thumb and fingers. “This is okay, right? Not still sore?”

“No,” you lie.

“Good. Now tilt this up like this”—he gently pushes your chin toward the ceiling—“and keep it there. Pretend you've got a penny resting up there. You don't want your penny to fall, do you?”

You shake your head only slightly, so as not to drop the penny.
No
.

Joe lets go of your chin. “One last thing. Every character can only be one thing. You have to be that thing, and only that thing, as big as you can. That's all they want. One thing. And your thing is to be vain. So, act like it. Think about a time when you felt gorgeous. Keep that in your head. Keep everything else out. Don't listen to anyone. Don't think about anything.” Joe holds out his hand, extends three fingers. “Apple. Penny. Gorgeous. Say it.”

“Apple. Penny.” Your voice lowers to a whisper. “Gorgeous.”

Joe shoves his hands into his pants pockets, rolls onto his heels and back. “Modesty is a nice quality in a young lady, but it's a fatal flaw in a grappler. People won't pay to see modesty. Got it?”

“Got it,” you say, understanding that for the second time this evening, you've been threatened. You will have to pull it together, and fast.

•    •    •

In your room, you turn on the radio and pace.
Think about a time when you felt gorgeous.
When might that have been? It's not a word your father ever used, that's for sure. The boys at school? Forget about it. The guys at the diner looked at you some kind of way, but not one you cared to analyze. There was Cynthia running down the sidewalk—
Darling, I thought you'd
never
get home
—but that didn't exactly make you feel
gorgeous.
Loved, sure, but not gorgeous. And there are faraway memories of being in bed with your mother, her fingers combing your hair back against the pillow.
My pretty little girl,
she'd say. Closer, but that isn't right, either.

Someone knocks on your door. It's The Angel of Death, otherwise known as Mabel Hubbard, her skin flush and dewy from a recent soak, a laundry basket propped on her hip. “How'd it go tonight?”

“Lousy,” you say. “I wasn't gorgeous enough.”

“No?” Mabel scratches her head, which has apparently just received a fresh shave: a spot of shaving cream jiggles on the curve of her ear. “Well, we can't all be gorgeous.”

Nice work, Gwen. Sure, Mabel's developed a thick skin and a quick, tension-defusing humor, but that just makes your thoughtlessness seem all the worse.

“I need to do some wash in the morning, but I've only got half a load,” she says. “Got anything you want to add?”

The laundry basket is on the floor of the closet. From the corner of your eye, you size it up: half full. “Sure.”

Mabel holds the basket out in front of her. “Toss it in.” After you fetch the basket and dump its contents into her own outstretched one, she adds, “If you pay, I'll bring it back to you folded and everything.”

“Fine.”

While you fish a precious dime from the corner of your change purse, Mabel rifles through the pile. “Not this,” she says, handing you back your red dress, the one you wore to Peggy's match on your first full day here. “The last thing I need is a drawer full of pink socks.”

But the dress is the thing. Once you've submerged it in a sink of cold water and begun scouring it with a bar of soap, you recall the events of the day you wore it, the day you climbed into the backseat of Brenda's car and Peggy passed her lipstick back to you.

The color looks just smashing on you.

You sling the water from your hands and dry them on the nearest towel. Where is that lipstick now? It must be in the clutch you brought that night. But where is that? Not in the closet, not in the trunk. It's in the nightstand, in the little cubby beneath the surface that holds your radio. Open the clasp. Look inside.