The Sweetheart Page 15

  “You don’t have to be at the factory?” you ask.

  “I’m on vacation,” he says. “It’s Christmas, isn’t it?”

  “I guess. How long you get off?”

  “I go back right after you leave.”

  You head over to the couch and plop down beside your father. “A whole week? What’s gotten into you?”

  Franz shrugs and stubs out his cigarette. “Why not? My only daughter comes to visit me. Why shouldn’t I take a week off?” He strokes the back of your head, rougher, more playful than he had just the night before. “Enough about me. What about you? Tough stuff, the wrestling? You get hurt much?”

  “Not too bad.” You resist an urge to practice fisting your injured hand. “It’s mostly show.”

  “The travel, though. That’s hard.”

  You see an opportunity to explain away last night’s episode and take it. “It’s tiring. That’s what you were seeing last night. Exhaustion.” This claim is not completely off base—you can’t yo-yo across the country the way you have without growing bone weary—but, you admit to yourself, it is incomplete. The weariness makes it harder to deal with the problems of life; it is not, in and of itself, the problem. When your father nods his understanding, you yawn, additional evidence for your claim. “I really needed that sleep.”

  “You like it?”

  “Sleep?”

  “Wrestling.”

  “Sure,” you say, because it’s the easiest answer. He won’t understand the more complex one: that it’s also lonely and taxing; that while you like playing a persona, you hate being a heel and being Mimi’s underling; that it was good in the beginning, and you’re hopeful things will change, that it will be good again.

  “I’ll show you something,” you say, and disappear into the bedroom. Five minutes later, you return, wearing the half-laced Green Goddesses beneath your flannel nightgown. The suit you will keep under wraps, but the boots might be appreciated. “What do you think?”

  Your father stares at your feet and sips his beer. “They’re green.”

  “They’re green?” you say, returning to your spot on the couch. It wasn’t exactly the reaction you’d hoped for. “That’s it?”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “I don’t know. Something else.”

  “Okay then. They’re great. They’re exactly the kind of wrestling boots a father would want his daughter to have.”

  A long silence follows. To cover up the awkwardness, you get up to check on the coffee. Just as you figured—not quite ready. Instead of returning to the couch, you stand by the window, one boot resting on the other. Outside, in front of Cynthia’s house, is Wally’s truck. Has Cynthia had her baby yet? You fish around in your memory and do the math. No, she should still be pregnant, but due very soon. Perhaps you should stop by to say hello. Now that the tide has turned and Cynthia is the one stuck in banal domesticity while you are out on the open road, it might be very satisfying to regale your old friend with tales of your new life.

  “Someone named Sam just called for you,” your father says. He stares at the television while he says this, and you get the sense that he’s tiptoeing up to something. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  The question catches you off guard. Your father has never once asked you about boys before, and you are hesitant to discuss the subject with him now. But you will have to tell him sooner or later, won’t you? You might as well go ahead and spill the beans.

  “Yes, actually. Some of your buddies might know him as Spider McGee.”

  “Spider? You’re dating an insect?”

  “That’s just his wrestling name.” Finally, the coffee finishes. You pour yourself a mugful and rejoin him on the couch. “You can call him Sam.”

  “Am I going to approve of this Sam?”

  “I don’t know,” you say, allowing yourself a fleeting thought of Spider, and lean against his shoulder. “Maybe.”

  You will end the day in this position, too. At present, there’s no snow or ice outside, so after you finish your coffee, you will put on your Keds and go for a run, reacquainting yourself with your neighborhood, before cleaning up and going off to buy groceries. When you return, you will scrub down the kitchen and bathroom, make a hearty dinner that your father will gulp down in appreciation, and once again settle into the couch (where your father will spend most of the day) for your regular Tuesday night programming. But the present moment is what’s important: the small community of father and daughter together, staring ahead at the screen, where Jean Corbett and Bill Hart create a casserole with condensed soup on Home Highlights, you dressed in your wrestling boots and cupping a coffee mug, your father polishing off his beer, both of you awash in misunderstanding yet still able to provide each other some measure of comfort, still finding a small way—a head against a shoulder, the short press of a kiss against the scalp—to connect and sustain, to accept love in the form that it comes, not the one you wish it would take.

  • • •

  I wish I could say the rest of the week was more of the same. Rather, it is all downhill. Sure, it’s nice to relive the familiarity of a night in the company of your father and Edward R. Murrow’s authoritative presence, but you soon realize this is all your father does anymore—sit in front of the television, watching everything from the superbrainy archaeological quiz show What in the World? to the inane children’s serial Atom Squad—and, as a result, this is all he expects the two of you to do in your short time together. You try to keep him company, but being together like this, in front of the television, makes you painfully aware of how inadequate it is to the task of closing the distance between you. Even when you are both parked right in front of it, you are miles apart. This is not the kind of love that seemed promised in your father’s phone calls. It feels more like your familiar pattern, but worse. On top of all this, it’s difficult to see your father, formerly healthy and ­athletic—a sound mind in a sound body—now completely sedentary but for the occasional raising of a cigarette or beer. Each morning, you invite him to run with you, and he steadfastly refuses.

  “Why should I run?” he asks. “Who is chasing me?”

  Feeling guilty for whatever part you’ve played in creating this shell of your father, but unwilling to stay cooped up and frustrated, you spend your afternoons shopping for the food you forgot you missed. Each afternoon, the two of you spoil your appetite: Amaroso’s rolls stuffed with grilled beef and Cheez Whiz from the suddenly popular Pat’s King of Steaks, a baker’s dozen of warm laugenbrötchen, the saccharine pleasures of Tastykakes (Butterscotch Krimpets, Kandy Kakes, and Chocolate Juniors) that all but bury your memories of MoonPies. It’s the best part of the day, the two of you sitting across from each other at the table, teasing each other about how the other eats, you in small pinches or cut-up bites, Franz practically inhaling the food, your view of each other slightly obscured by the weihnachtspyramide, the wooden Christmas pyramid that has served in place of a tree every year of your life. Usually, your father is the one to unpack it from a trunk of your mother’s things, but this year, when you didn’t see it in its rightful place, you dug it out and set it up yourself.

  On the morning of your last full day home, Christmas day, you sit in these same seats, the gifts you’ve bought for each other—one bulky and rectangular, the other small, thin, and square—lying to each side of the weihnachtspyramide. You pour two cups of coffee while your father lights the candles and then take your seat as the heat and smoke rise, turning the propeller and spinning the nativity. It’s as pleasant a morning as you can hope for: hot coffee and comfortable silence, save for the occasional wham of the radiator. Your father pushes his gift to you across the table.

  “You first,” he says.

  You’re careful with the gift wrap so it can be used again, as you’ve been taught to do, peeling the self-stick ribbon off, running a finger under the tucks and easing t
he tape off the paper. The gift is a 45, which you guessed correctly by the shape, but not one you might have purchased for yourself. It isn’t Faye Adams, nor is it the Drifters’ “Money Honey.” No, it is “Rags to Riches” by Tony Bennett. Earlier in the week, you considered bringing your record player and albums back to Florida with you, but it only took a cursory glance at the artists—Patti Page, Peggy Lee—to realize there was no point: they’d be just as inert and purposeless in Florida as they were here. Now, you’ll have to take Tony back with you when he really belongs here, among that clan of boring crooners and pop singers. You have no use for a Tony Bennett record. But this isn’t what saddens you; it’s what the gift means. Few things make better yardsticks for measuring the gap between two people than a present. Although he’d been spot-on with the Bakelite radio, this one proves that the gulf is not only titanic but continuing to widen.

  “It’s not much,” your father says.

  “It’s great,” you say, and force an expression that matches that sentiment. You hope he does not read through you. You are grateful for the time, energy, and money that went into its purchase. You reach across the table to squeeze his hand and make this known. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing. Now this,” he says, pulling his gift toward him. “This looks like too much.”

  “Not too much. Just enough.”

  Shopping for your father was an impossible task. Despite how barren and slovenly his life seems now, you couldn’t imagine him wanting or needing any particular thing. Finally, in the men’s section of Wanamaker’s, you spotted a pair of warm flannel pajamas. It was the only thing you’d seen that made any sense to you, so you counted the few bills in your pathetically thin wallet, confirmed that you had enough for your train fare and the pajamas, too, and made the purchase.

  Franz goes through a similar process of unwrapping. When he gets to the pajamas, he hoists the top half out of the box, holds it up by the shoulders in front of him, and frowns. “What is this?”

  “Pajamas. You don’t like them?”

  He sighs. “You think your father is dying.”

  “What? I don’t think—”

  “You think my life is over.” He refolds the pajama top and puts it back in the box. “You think I am ready to put on my pajamas and watch television until I die.” He pushes the box back across the table. “I don’t want them.”

  There is no point in denying this accusation. He will not be convinced, and besides, he might be right. Instead, you say, “I can’t take them back.”

  “Then you can wear them yourself.” When your father stands up, his hand brushes the box, knocking it onto the linoleum floor you’d scrubbed on your first full day home, where it lands upright, flannel exposed. “You think you know me, but this”—he points a finger at the contents of your gift—“this is not who I am.” He walks into the bedroom and closes the door.

  You can hear him in there, banging around. Unsure of what else to do, you stoop to retrieve the box and return it to the table, and then sip your coffee and wiggle the foot of your crossed leg incessantly as you wait for him to reappear. Finally, he does, wearing a sweatshirt, soft woolen pants, and low-top Chucks. Your foot stops. You freeze with your coffee cup at mouth level, your lips midblow.

  “We’re going running,” he says. “Get dressed.”

  When you finally unfreeze, you say, “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  You are not ready for a run. You like to wait until later in the morning, when it’s warmer outside. Besides, you still have half a cup of coffee to finish. But your father’s stance makes it clear that the choice is not up to you, so you take one last gulp and walk past him into the bedroom.

  Outside, in the chest-stinging chill, you say, “Let’s just stay in the neighborhood.”

  “Don’t be easy on me.”

  “I’m not,” you lie.

  He points down the street, and says, “Let’s go.”

  • • •

  As you and your father run, your joints stiff with cold, your breath visible, your mind wanders and a surprising thought comes to you: perhaps you are the one at fault for the events of this week. Perhaps Franz did park himself in front of the television, but why did you let yourself be so easily disappointed in him? Your father is who he is; wanting him to change isn’t doing either of you much good. Besides, under the circumstances, you couldn’t exactly expect him to be different. Really, to let your feelings be hurt over a 45? Are you really so petty? Here is your father—thinning, aging, wheezing, and half-crazy with the need to prove himself—and all you can think about is yourself.

  Wait: wheezing? You look up and over at him; his face is scrunched in pain.

  “Are you all right?”

  He puts a hand to his chest. “It’s a little tight. It will go away.”

  “Stop,” you say, and follow your own command. He jogs a few more steps and stops as well. You point to the steps of the row house in front of you. “Sit down.”

  “Just a minute,” he says, still standing, his breath labored. “I just need to catch my breath.”

  “So have a seat.”

  “Really. It’s not that bad.”

  “Please sit down. I would feel better if you sat down.”

  “I won’t.” Franz takes quick, shallow breaths and spits in the grass. “Don’t ask me again.”

  You turn your face to the sky and press your fingertips over your eyelids. “You’re so stubborn,” you say.

  Your father leans forward, his arms bracing against his thighs. He seems to be commanding his breath to slow, effortful work that causes him to wince. When, eventually, he has enough air to speak, he says, “Don’t leave.”

  “I’m right here, Father.”

  “Not now,” he says, looking up at you. “I mean tomorrow.”

  “Father, I—”

  “Don’t you remember the first night you got here? How upset you were? Why do you want to go back?”

  “Please don’t ask me to stay.” It’s true, your life as Gwen Davies leaves much to be desired, but at least that life has promise.

  The next time your father looks at you, his face slackened, you see what he has never let you see before: his unchecked fear.

  “I’m not on vacation,” he says, his voice quiet and controlled. “I got laid off.”

  You start to think this might be part of some elaborate joke, but your father isn’t exactly a kidder. He sits down on the steps and says, “I guess guys aren’t wearing hats too much these days.”

  He’s serious. He’s been laid off. It explains his leanness and the empty refrigerator, the chill in the house. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ve got some money socked away,” you say. The outrageousness of this lie frightens you. Minnesota wrung you dry; what little money you had left evaporated in the past few days. You’d spent more than you could afford on indulgent food and those stupid, trouble-causing pajamas. “It’s in Florida, though,” you say, hoping this is true. Maybe Joe will advance you money from your upcoming bouts. You can ask, at least. “I’m not sure how soon I’ll be able to wire it to you.”

  Your father shakes his head and stands upright. “Don’t do that. I’ll be fine.”

  You adjust your position so you can meet your father’s gaze. He is not fine, it’s clear, and while you haven’t the slightest idea what you can do about it, you want him to see the forthrightness of what you are about to say, the honesty of it. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  “Your mother—” he starts, but doesn’t finish. How had he intended to end this sentence? Your mother would want you to stay, or maybe Your mother is probably turning over in her grave. Other possibilities: Your mother would be proud of you, Your mother would not understand this, and Your mot
her should be here. You will always wonder and never know because your father is who he is. But you don’t blame him, really. You can’t expect him to be anyone else, or to do anything differently than he does, which is to leave his thought incomplete, unshared, and begin the silent walk home, where he cleans up, puts on his new pajamas, and parks in front of the television, that suffocating box on which he’d blown precious rainy day cash.

  • • •

  That afternoon, while you pack your suitcase, you look out the window; Wally’s truck is still parked outside Cynthia’s house. You are no longer interested in the opportunity to crow, you decide, but the polite thing to do would be to say a quick hello, wish everyone a Merry Christmas.

  When you knock on the Rileys’ door, someone cracks it open and cautiously peeks out for an initial assessment. Once you are recognized, the door opens wide and Ms. Riley puts her hands to her face in surprise.

  “Leonie! Look at you!”

  Look at you? Look at her! Ms. Riley is decidedly more pulled together than she’d been the last few times you’d seen her, her hair pulled behind her into a neat chignon, her wool slacks smart and crisp. Perhaps she has decided that becoming a grandmother prematurely isn’t the worst of fates. She opens her arms and draws you in with a fierce hug, nearly puncturing you with the hard points of her bullet bra.

  “Cynthia’s taking a little nap.”

  “I’m up!” cries a voice from the bedroom. “I’m coming!”

  Ms. Riley waves her arm toward a man perched on the edge of the couch cushion, hunched over the copy of Life spread open on the coffee table. “Leonie, have you met Cynthia’s husband, Wally?”

  Wally’s tattoo peeks out from the rolled-up sleeve of his grease-streaked navy-blue uniform; his name is stitched over his breast. The young husband scans the strapping silhouette you cut, part athlete, part Amazon. This full-body size-up lingers too long; it feels judgmental and invasive. “Nice to meet you, Leonie,” he breathes, which further puts you on edge. “Merry Christmas.”