The Sweetheart Page 12

  “Thank you for saying that,” you say when it is over.

  Even by your own very low standards, this was not a great kiss. Not even close. In fact, it was precisely the kind of kiss that would be delivered by a girl who has only practiced on pillows. But there are real feelings behind it: adoration, gratitude, and urgency. Perhaps these are factors enough for Sam to rework his careful calculations. Or maybe there are no calculations. Maybe that kiss, however clumsy, scrambled his brain. In any case, the effect is game changing. This could easily have been the last conversation you ever had with Sam Pospisil. Instead, it is a new beginning.

  “So, there’s a new RKO flick playing at the Palace,” he says. “The Big Heat. Interested?”

  TEN

  Early the next morning, you watch Sam wave through the window of a Greyhound Scenicruiser, Mimi firmly settled into the seat beside you, as it pulls away from the platform. This begins your long journey to Memphis, one of the most rasslin’-passionate cities in the nation, where you will kick off a tour that will take you through Tennessee to Nashville and into Pinky George’s Kentucky-West Virginia territory, after which you’ll pull a U-ey and head back to Ohio, where your darling Sam will be waiting. Over the last three months, you’ve had to (a) recover from a serious injury, (b) overcome performance anxiety, (c) win over a lukewarm partner, and (d) spend all your meager earnings on travel expenses, but this is the first time you’ve questioned whether the benefits of your vocation outweigh its disadvantages. You would like nothing better than to stay right here with him. You press your nose against the cold window glass and wave back until he is no longer visible, already counting the days until he will be again (20).

  “Aren’t you a cute little puppy?” says Mimi without looking up from her magazine. “Don’t worry. We’ll be back soon.”

  Could she be any more irritating? It’s bad enough that she is the intermediary for all your bookings—just once, it would be nice if Joe would call you with some information—or, more frustrating, that she insisted on her own room in Cleveland just so she could have privacy on the afternoons that Johnny could sneak away (which added up to a grand total of one), forcing you to live off milkshakes for the past couple of days. At least she was able to sweet-talk Joe into booking you both in Ohio again. You will benefit from that as much as she will.

  “Not soon enough.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re days away from your first title bout. Aren’t you even a little excited?”

  This gets your attention. “Title? You never said anything about a title.”

  “I didn’t? Well, then,” she says, closing her magazine. “Allow me to fill you in.”

  And with that, Mimi tells you how it is. What better way to convince the average consumer of the relevance, the importance, of a match than to raise the stakes and make it a championship? Maybe said working stiff wants the security of being on the side of the incumbent; maybe the rugged, up-by-your-own-bootstraps individualist in him prefers to pledge his allegiance to the contender. Either way, the evidence is indisputable: a surefire way to boost ticket sales is to include, before a wrestler’s name, that eye-catching designation champion. And so, when the Tennessee promoter discovered a void in the wrestling pantheon, he decided it was high time he fill it and booked four up-and-coming girl grapplers—Vera Blake, a former roller derby champion with hammers for thighs; Kay Pepper, a charismatic ex-actress; Mimi Hollander, a wild-haired heel; and Gorgeous Gwen Davies, the filly from Philly—to vie for this new title: the Tennessee Women’s Tag Team Championship.

  In this game, it is just that easy. Not that you’re complaining. No one has to explain the appeal of a champion to you. And now, you have a chance to be one. That’s the catch.

  “Please tell me we’re going to win it.”

  “Dunno. It’s a shoot.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means it’s for real. We’ll have to fight for it.”

  Fight for it? Once upon a time, you’d been shocked to learn about the engineering of the victories, but when Mimi tells you this, you are even more shocked—and, to be completely honest, disappointed—to learn that there are still occasions when they aren’t.

  “Don’t sweat it,” she says, sensing your anxiety. “Vera is tough, but Kay’s nothing but a pretty face. And you know how to hold your own now.”

  “I do?” There’s no way you heard that right. It almost sounded like a compliment.

  “You’ve got good technique.” Mimi licks her finger, flips the page of her magazine. “Your instincts aren’t half bad for someone so green, and you’ve definitely got the moxie. You wouldn’t believe the silliness I’ve seen over a broken toe, but it hasn’t stopped you.”

  Mimi is referring to an injury you sustained from your heavy-heeled opponent in last night’s match. She buddy-taped it for you between falls, and although you were forced to steer clear of your signature dropkicks, you’d managed to finish the match. Now, you wiggle your toe, refreshing the pain and reminding yourself how tough you really are.

  “You got a long way to go, though,” Mimi continues. “You know what you need to do?”

  “Travel with someone I can share hotel costs with so I won’t go broke?”

  Mimi ignores the comment. “You need to embrace your persona.”

  This makes you laugh. Fat lot of good your persona’s done you. If you weren’t already weary of being a heel—who besides Mimi could put up with the soul-crushing symphony of boos and insults night after night?—you certainly are now.

  “I’m serious,” says Mimi, folding her magazine closed and focusing her attention on you. “You think you want to be a face. But you see how it is when we walk in. They’re on top of their chairs, right? They’re tearing their hair out, beating their chests. You can hear their blood boiling. They can’t get enough.” Her mouth spreads into a self-assured smirk. “They want to rip the faces’ clothes off, but us? They want to tear us limb from limb.”

  “I want them to love me, not assault me.”

  “Love you?” she repeats, incredulous. “You’re a heel, damn it. Love should be the last thing on your mind.” You turn toward the window and close your eyes. Everything Mimi says makes you weary. “You don’t like my advice,” says Mimi. “That’s okay. You’ll see. The heel is the show.”

  She opens her magazine again, snapping it forcefully to make her point: This conversation is over.

  • • •

  Later that night, you and Mimi check into the most posh of your hotels thus far, The Maxwell House Hotel, its coffee good to the last drop, at the same time that Kay and Vera step out of the elevator carrying a bottle in a paper bag.

  “Hi, ladies,” says Vera. You’ve never seen Vera—short-haired, hard-jawed, and bullet-eyed—in anything other than her wrestling gear, so it’s a little jarring to see her in street clothes at all, let alone the ones she’s in now: trousers, saddle oxfords, and a man’s blazer. “We’re going to catch up with some of the guys for a few cocktails.” She slides the bottle out of the bag a few inches—rum—and rattles it. You can’t help but stare at the hand on the neck of that bottle, in particular the nails: long, manicured, and lacquered; strange, considering the rest of the getup. She returns the bottle to its paper sleeve. “Care to join?”

  “No thanks,” Mimi says quickly. “Joe will kill us if we’re caught out in public with you two.”

  “Oh, get off it, Meems,” says Vera. “We’re just going to the local watering hole. Besides, no one knows who you are, anyway.”

  Mimi’s posture steels; her eyes narrow. “Don’t you ladies have kind of a big match tomorrow?”

  “Sure do,” says Kay, “but if we all have a drink, then we’ll all be in the same position, now won’t we?” She turns to you, eyes flashing. “What do you say, fresh meat? Want to go for a cocktail, or you want to sit in your hotel room watching the paint fade?”

/>   The warning look Mimi gives you—wide eyes, puckered lips—makes it painfully clear what you’re supposed to say. And she’s right: you should say no, not only to stay in her good graces, but also to take every advantage you can get over these two. But this sounds harmless enough. It might even be fun. At the very least, it could be a pleasant diversion from the usual monotony of holing up in your hotel room and suffering through Mimi’s gloating and know-it-all-ness. Besides, why should she get to call all the shots? This last thought is what clinches it for you; it’s time to claim your rightful position as full partner in this arrangement.

  “One drink,” you say to Mimi. “And then we’ll take a cab home.”

  Mimi points her finger at you and opens her mouth. She’s about to let you have it, but, instead, she stops herself, takes a quick look at Vera and Kay, and changes her mind. Mimi takes the business of wrestling narratives more seriously than most. As mad as she is, she has no interest in presenting anything less than a united front; there will be no argument in front of the enemy.

  “Fine,” she says. “One drink.”

  The bar, a real hole-in-the-wall on Printers Alley, leaves a lot to be desired, but it does have a jukebox and a small parquet dance floor. After the bartender makes your drinks from Vera’s bottle, you and Mimi take seats at a table on its edge and watch as a giant Austrian repeatedly slings Kay through his legs and over his shoulders. Mimi drains her glass in short order.

  “That’s my one,” she says, standing up. “Finish up. I’m going to the ladies’ room. When I get back, you better be ready to go.”

  You take small, purposeful sips of your drink. Screw Mimi. You don’t want to hurry up and hurry out, and you’re not going to. Instead, you swing your foot in time to the music. Too bad your toe’s broken. It might be fun to cut in and show the Austrian there’s nothing Kay’s got that you don’t. Plus, Kay might welcome the reprieve; she looks flustered and dizzy. Sure enough, before the song ends, she says a quick word to her partner and then falls into Mimi’s vacated seat.

  “I can’t do it anymore,” she says.

  Kay waves to the bartender, signals for him to mix her another drink, and starts talking your ear off. Turns out she is a former actress, with bit parts in Ladies of the Chorus (chorus girl), Life with Father (maid) and Gentleman’s Agreement (party guest). She went by Lila Garner back then, not that she was ever credited for her roles. Do you remember her? You don’t, but nod and say you thought she looked familiar.

  Someone is at your back. You assume it’s Mimi, but when you turn around, you discover the Austrian: barrel-chested, sweat-drenched, and ready for more. Kay waves him off and sticks her thumb out at you. “Ask fresh meat here.”

  The Austrian extends his catcher’s mitt of a hand. “What do you say?”

  “Can’t,” you say, and point down at your foot. “Broken toe.”

  He rolls his eyes and heads to the bar to hit up someone else.

  “Good one,” Kay says.

  “Good nothing. I broke it last night.”

  Kay reaches behind her neck, cups her hand around her hair and pulls it over to one shoulder, all the while leaning in, lowering her eyelids, looking down her nose, like she is sharpening her focus on you, or, rather, something lurking just beneath the surface of you. “Which one?”

  You wiggle your left foot. “This one.” Kay’s eyes brighten; her laugh is shrill. “Well, then. That’s a rather convenient injury. Now you don’t have to suffer through that ogre pulling your arms out of their sockets.”

  You look toward the bathroom. Mimi still hasn’t come out. Should you go check on her? No. Mimi can take care of herself. Besides, Kay seems sweet. You understand why you are not supposed to be friends with your rivals, but what harm is there in just talking?

  “Why did you stop acting?” you ask.

  “It wasn’t exactly my idea.” She searches your face. “What about you? You’re a pretty girl. Ever think about it?”

  “Acting? Who, me?”

  “Why, with a little haircut, you’d look just like Marilyn Monroe! Here.” Kay snatches the elastic out of your ponytail, releasing your hair, and then combs the ends into her hands before holding them up, simulating a bob. It will be years before you can unpack everything that is going on in this moment, to understand that there are lots of ways a girl can be seduced, and many reasons for it. For now, you are only pleasantly surprised at this gesture of intimacy, much as you were when Cynthia marched into your house for tumbling lessons. You try not to be hopeful in the same fruitless way, but you can’t help but think it would be nice to make a friend.

  “Very glamorous,” Kay says. “Just one more thing.”

  Kay opens up your clutch, somehow knowing what she will find in there: the lipstick Peggy gave you when you first arrived in Otherside, the one you use every night as part of your ice princess routine. Kay twists the tube until the well-rounded end appears and hands it to you.

  There’s a loud, purposeful cough behind you, and then Mimi says, “I hate to interrupt this lovefest, but it is high time we got the hell out of here. Kind of a big day tomorrow, wouldn’t you say, Gwen?”

  Your stomach flops nervously. You might not feel the need to adhere to kayfabe quite as religiously as Mimi, but even you can admit this is over the line. Kay, however, isn’t the least bit rattled. “Gorgeous,” she says. “Just like your name.”

  • • •

  Calling Kay Pepper a pretty face is a serious understatement: the woman is a total knockout. The next evening, when you see her entering the Hippodrome skating rink (For Health’s Sake, Roller Skate!) for the big match, she is cloaked in a mink coat—actual mink—even though it’s sixty degrees. The flips on the ends of Kay’s ebony pageboy bounce as she preens for the Converse-clad boys and their slightly less sex-dazed fathers, who all but accost her, thrusting pens and pads into her manicured hands, clamoring for her to pose with them. When she begins rewarding them for their patience and loyalty, Mimi makes a derisive noise and mutters, “Miss Hot Shit,” but you are soaking it all in: the alluring gait, the charismatic flounce, and, most importantly, the adoring fandom. What you wouldn’t give to spin heels like Kay Pepper. You stand there, enchanted, until Mimi breaks the spell with a slap to the back of your head.

  “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 g
ive 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.