The Sweetheart Read online

  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.

  This is the reception you hurried here for. Remember the fondness you’ve retained for those memories of a school-age Cynthia, the ones where she races toward you as you return from tumbling class? Instantly, that fondness dulls; the recollections themselves recede into a more obscure, less easily accessed area of your brain. From now on, when you imagine a homecoming, this scene—Sam’s face, pinked and medicinally scented from a recent shave, moving quickly toward your own—will be the one that plays in your mind’s eye.

  • • •

  As much as you both might dread it, you will eventually have to leave the kitchen and return to the war zone, so you might as well get hopping. Already, there is popcorn on the floor and a forest of Erin Brew bottles (All you have to do is . . . pop a cap!) on the boomerang-shaped coffee table. Sam pushes the bottles aside to make room for the tray of crudités. While he nestles into the empty seat, you hold on to the platter of deviled eggs, surveying the room. This bachelor pad isn’t the most spacious and comfortable place to host a party, even one this small. The couch, the armchairs, the coffee table, and the massive television are crammed into the tiny, carpeted space. Apparently, it is the last of these that makes Sam’s home the hub of their football viewing, and from the looks of it, everyone’s position is long-established: Lacey in one armchair, Sam in the other, and Johnny on the couch, which doesn’t exactly leave much space for you. (Surely the aforementioned Debbie took part in these shindigs. Where on earth did she sit?) You’d think Johnny would offer the couch to the two of you, or at least make some room—somehow, he manages to take up the entire thing—but the man appears clueless. Eventually, you make a space for the tray on the coffee table, snag a pillow from under Johnny’s foot, and settle down on a plot of carpeting next to Sam’s chair. He leans over the arm and looks down at you, his face wrinkled with confusion. “Don’t you want to sit with me?”

  Was this supposed to be the arrangement all along? How could you have guessed that?

  “Is there room?” you ask.

  Sam extends his hand down. “Is there room, she asks. Come on.”

  You have your doubts, but it’s hardly an offer you can refuse, so you hike yourself up on an elbow, take his hand, and let him pull you onto your feet. While you wait for the impending coin toss, you try to situate yourself in Sam’s lap in such a way that each of you might be comfortable and able to see the screen, but it’s impossible. Just as you thought: you are too tall, too ample. Story of your life.

  From the chitchat, you gather that this game is a done deal. The Eagles may be second in the conference, but they’ve lost their last two games, including one against the Giants, for Christ’s sake. Besides that, even if the Browns roll over and play dead today, they’ve already won the Eastern Conference by a country mile and will move on to Detroit for the national championship.

  “Just so everyone knows,” you say, “I’m rooting for the Eagles.”

  In an instant, all the goodwill you have earned by playing the hostess dissipates. Everyone, smitten Sam and indifferent Lacey included, stares with incredulity. It is up to you to break the long silence: “What?”

  Sam shrugs. “I guess I can live with hometown loyalty. Tell you what. If by some strange fluke of fortune the Eagles take this game, I’ll take you out tonight and buy you a big fat steak, nice and bloody. What do you say?”

  “You’re on,” you say, mouth already watering. “And if the Browns win, I’ll buy you a steak.”

  “That’s okay,” says Sam, looking at you with pity.

  “Why not?” you ask. “Fair is fair.”

  “Maybe you could just cook him a steak,” Johnny volunteers.

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to cook him a steak,” says Lacey. She sucks on an ice cube and spits it back into her glass; it clanks against the bottom. “Maybe she prefers to buy him a steak. She makes money, too.”

  “All right, then,” Sam ventures. He offers his hand; you give it a shake. “You’re on.”

  As uncomfortable as
Johnny and Lacey have made you today, Sam’s lap is worse. In each position you attempt, you are both only momentarily at ease. The pillow you took from the couch is still on the ground, beckoning. “I really need to stretch out my legs,” you tell Sam, sinking down to the floor. Perhaps that is how he and Debbie watched the games, but you are not Debbie. He nods, clearly a little hurt but also, you suspect, a little relieved. You fold the pillow over to prop up your head and close your eyes. Just for a second, you tell yourself, but you are no match for this exhaustion, so you give in to it and proceed to sleep through the entire game. Hours later, when Sam gently shakes you awake and informs you of the result (42–27, Eagles), he will still be incredulous, but you will take more pleasure in a victory of other sorts: a quiet house, with Sam all to yourself.

  • • •

  Early the next morning, you step outside Sam’s apartment and pull up the collar of your coat, which you managed to get on despite Sam’s playful unfastening of the buttons. Above you, the sky is a clean, watery gray. The street is plowed clear; on the sidewalk, the snow is still white and piled high. If you had time to think, you’d feel a stab of guilt for being the one who has to do the spoiling. But you don’t have time. You were supposed to call your father last night. You will have to hurry to catch him before work, so you race as fast as your galoshes and your still-sore toe will allow.

  There’s a good chance you’re already too late. You should have left at first light. Scratch that: you should have left last night. The snow was a flimsy excuse for you to stay, but Sam played the card, and who can blame you if you were quick to fold? You will have to hit the road again soon, and this time, without the same assurances. Even if you could sweet-talk Joe into returning you to Cleveland, Sam might well be off on his own tour. The only thing that made leaving palatable was the knowledge that you will see him again tonight for that promised steak.

  By the time you get to the hotel, you are breathless and a mess, not in a state to see anybody. But Mimi is already in the lobby, on her way to Leo Pospisil’s gym for a morning workout.

  “Just getting back from the game? Must have been some serious overtime.”

  There’s no need to kiss and tell, Gwen: it isn’t any of her business. Besides, there probably isn’t much hope that she will believe the truth—that, by just about anyone’s standards but yours, it was all fairly tame. Clothes were loosened, hands traveled and lingered, but that was as far as it got. It wasn’t too terribly square of you to stop things there. We are talking about a more conservative, cautious age, after all—one with stricter social mores and less reliable birth control. Besides, you are still getting to know each other. Still, it will have to happen sooner rather than later. He likes you, but the man is a star, one that is about to burn even brighter. Women will be readily available to him. You cannot afford to be a prude.

  “It was,” you say. “Longest game in football history.”

  “Lots of quality time with the usual suspects, I reckon. You get to meet the Ragin’ Cajun?”

  “Who?”

  Mimi laughs. “Exactly.”

  It is this harshness that helps you make the connection between the character Mimi has just named and the other Bordeaux. No one bothered to tell you Lacey used to wrestle. As far as you knew, her perpetual fight with Johnny was her whole story. You can only imagine Mimi would enjoy hearing about the hostility you witnessed last night, but you aren’t keen to trot out Lacey’s troubles for Mimi’s pleasure. Whether this is because you feel protective of Lacey or hostile toward Mimi, you couldn’t say.

  “What about you?” you ask, changing the subject. “What’ve you been up to?”

  “Me? Oh, I caught some shut-eye, and then I got Leo to open the gym for me. I was overdue for a workout.”

  You have a vision of Mimi alone in a cinder block gym while others enjoy their Sunday meal or, like you, gather with friends to watch the game. She hits the bag; the sound echoes in the empty building. What was it she said to you? I get all of the fun and none of the fuss. She can’t believe that. You certainly don’t.

  “By the way,” she continues, “I spoke to Joe last night. We leave for Minnesota on Thursday.”

  “Minnesota?” This is not what you want to hear. The train ride from Baltimore to Philly would have been short and relatively inexpensive. Minnesota is a completely different story. “What happened to Baltimore?”

  “This came up and Joe gave me a choice. Minnesota pays better, so we’re going to Minnesota.”

  “Why do you get to choose?”

  Mimi narrows her eyes. “Are you kidding me?”

  All your nerves tie into knots. On top of being an economic hardship and cutting into what will undoubtedly be a short holiday, Minnesota makes no sense to you. For the life of you, you can’t understand why Joe would—but then it hits you—send you to Minnesota in the middle of winter.

  Right.

  “Deal with it, Champ. It’s a done deal.”

  In the pockets of your coat, you make two fists with your gloved hands and release them.

  Mimi pulls up her coat collar and confirms what you already know. “Johnny’s picking us up here Thursday morning. Be in the lobby by nine.” She drops her chin into the neck of her coat, steels her posture for the cold, and pushes her way through the glass doors of the lobby. You should hurry upstairs and make that phone call before it’s too late and then get on with the day. There is plenty to be done before Sam picks you up and you have to tell him you’ll soon be inking blue stars in the North Star State. You need to send some clothes to the laundry, pack your bags, get a long nap. You can take that bath. But for now, you stand in the lobby and watch the other Tennessee Tag Team Champion walk up the street and against the wind, alone.

  TWELVE

  Minnesota takes another eight days out of your life, but at the end of it lies a sweet reward: one week of long-anticipated, richly deserved time off for the holidays (unpaid, of course), which begins as soon as you step off the train and into the 30th Street Station. Maybe you’re biased, but if there’s any place on earth better for a homecoming, you’d like to know where it is. Even on an evening like this one, when the terminal is teeming with seasonal travelers, their arms filled with sleeping children and shopping bags overstuffed with holiday gifts, the space feels light and airy; the art deco chandeliers cast a warm and welcoming glow. Here and there, weary voyagers catnap on the wooden benches, which might be long enough to accommodate even your lengthy self. Tempting, isn’t it? After Minnesota, you are bone tired. You were right to be reluctant; it was everything you feared it would be: cold, expensive, lonely, and demoralizing. Three days ago, a spectator struck you with a folding metal chair. When you threw up an arm to protect yourself, you caught most of the blow on the jutted palm of your hand, and it has throbbed ever since. You haven’t been able to make a complete fist for days. Now, as your feet click swiftly across the terminal, you practice opening and closing the injured hand, the other firmly gripped around the handle of your suitcase. You don’t know what to expect from this visit home, if anything, but at least you can spend a few days out of character. You’re tired of this heel business. Something’s got to give.

  You look over the crowd for your father. You told him not to bother; it would be late and besides, even if you weren’t as travel-savvy as you are now, this is your hometown. But he is the kind of man who thinks young women should have escorts—and so, despite the late hour, there he is, standing underneath the arrivals-and-departures board, just as he said he would be. He looks more slight than usual in his plaid coat. When he sees you, he smiles without restraint and opens his arms wide.

  “Leonie!” he says.

  And then, it happens: that feeling that pestered you early in your adventures, the one you thought was gone for good—something like homesickness, but more like loss—breaks loose, and the combination of everything that’s been difficult since you left hom
e (Joe, the audiences, Mimi) quickly flanks and complicates it, producing a surprise multifronted physical attack. Nausea. Chest pain. Dizziness. Tears. This, sweet girl, is what happens when you ignore your feelings. They didn’t disappear; they were only tucked away, compounding interest. Now, they overwhelm you. You enter your father’s arms and fall apart.

  “Come on now,” he says, his hammer-strong hand cupping the back of your head. He takes the suitcase from your hand. “Is this it?” You nod against his shoulder, and he sighs. “All right then. Let’s get you home.”

  It is a half block to the subway station, and the two of you walk it side by side, your head on his shoulder. You collect yourself on this walk and, sensing you no longer need propping up, your father gradually lessens the force in the arm he’s locked around your waist, eventually releasing you entirely but only after you’ve taken hold of the subway pole. It is here, rumbling toward the old neighborhood, your father seated in front of you with your suitcase on his lap, where it dawns on you what he’d meant when he’d asked that question—Is this it?—and what was implicit in the subsequent sigh. You press your forehead against the pole.

  “You thought I was coming home for good.”

  Franz Putzkammer rolls his lips into a forced smile. Behind him, the darkened tunnel whirrs past.

  “No, I didn’t really think so,” he says. He turns his face toward the blackness, as if to confess to it. “But I hoped.”

  • • •

  The next morning, you stumble out of the bedroom—while it is your father’s now, he insists that it’s yours while you are home—and into the main room, where, despite the fact that it’s well into his workday, he sits in front of the Philco holding a half-finished can of beer in his hand and a half-smoked Winston in his lips.

  “Look who’s alive,” he says as you make your way to the kitchen. You open the refrigerator—more beer, a wedge of cheese, and a lot of empty space—before checking a canister on the counter where, mercifully, you find enough grounds for a partial pot of coffee. You prepare the percolator, put it on the lit stove eye, and stand there for a minute, warming your hands over the flame. This has never been a warm house, but this morning it seems particularly drafty.