The Sweetheart Read online

  Joe leans in until the two of you are almost nose to nose.

  “Just tell me why you did it,” he says. “Give me a reason. And make it good.”

  “I just wanted some attention.” You rub the back of your neck and look just above his eyes. “I needed to show that I had star power.”

  “It was a national title match.” He speaks with exaggerated restraint: quietly, slowly. He is a muzzled Doberman. “What. More. Do. You. Want?”

  “They didn’t book me,” you say, just above a whisper and with all the hesitancy of a confession. “They booked Mimi. I just happened to be her partner. You said so yourself.”

  “You want to go solo then?”

  “Yes,” you say, finally lowering your eyes to meet his.

  Joe, satisfied that he’s gotten the truth out of you, reclines into the chair and drapes his arms over the back. “You got me in trouble with the boss. You embarrassed me in front of my colleagues.”

  Your eyes wobble in their sockets, but they don’t break their gaze. “I didn’t think—”

  “Exactly,” he says, nostrils flared. “You didn’t think.”

  “Am I—” you say. “Is this—”

  “No,” he sighs, “but we have to change plans. People are already talking. Costantini wants you in DC next week, alone and with the suit. Others will, too. You wanted attention. Well, you got it. I think the best thing we can do is just go with it. Tomorrow, during the match, you’ll make a public break with Mimi.”

  “Does that mean—”

  “Yes,” he says. “You’re going clean.”

  This should be a relief, and it is, but it also serves to release all of the day’s pent-up angst. You close your eyes, cup your hand over your mouth, and will yourself to stop trembling.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Joe sounds more frustrated than sympathetic. “This is what you wanted.”

  “I know.” You let out a long, slow exhale. “It is. I just thought . . . I thought you were going to say something else.”

  “I’m not done being mad,” he says. “This is a major hassle. Everything has to be reworked. I’ll have to call promoters, change bookings. But, first things first—and first, we worry about tomorrow. Mimi is working out the new program. She’ll walk you through it in the morning. Here.” Joe fishes around in the pocket of his coat, and then slaps the red suit, now heartily reinforced, on the top of the bed. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  You close your eyes again and do not open them until he is gone. You do not want him to see that you haven’t the foggiest. You are not even sure about what you have already done. St. Louis may prove to be a shrewd move that will pay off in the end, or it could be the biggest mistake of your young life.

  • • •

  Just past sunrise, Mimi shakes you awake. You didn’t even know she was here; you’d fallen asleep before she returned to the room. She wants to get to the local gym before anyone else needs the ring. “Let’s get going.”

  The orders don’t stop there. For the next half hour, she is a flurry of directives. Get dressed. Walk faster. Hop up. You do as you are told, waiting until you are more than half-awake and on top of the apron before bothering to ask, “What did you have in mind?”

  “I think you should do that thing off the ropes again,” she says, stretching her hamstring and looking past you at the empty gym, hard-eyed and resolved. “Like you did in that first match. Only this time, do it better.”

  You aren’t sure what exactly she is after. It is entirely possible she is trying to trick you into breaking a bone before the match just to teach you a lesson. Perhaps sensing your reluctance, she says, “You started this.” Her breath is hot against your skin. “It’s better for us both if this thing makes some noise.”

  You are all for noise. If there is no noise, then everything is for naught.

  • • •

  The match that follows is the most tightly scripted of your career. The entire bout will clock in at twenty-five minutes, but it is the final ones when you climb up and balance yourself on the top rope that really matter. Mimi hits her mark, and you make your move: not the higgledy-­piggledy jump-and-hope-for-the-best maneuver you attempted in Florida, but an infinitely more assured top-rope dropkick, which now lands within reasonable proximity of the middle of Mimi Hollander’s chest.

  Later, in her postmatch interview, Mimi will tell the local reporter that she doesn’t understand why you did it. All you had to do was kick back, wait for her to finish things off, and then enjoy the spoils of victory without having made even the most minimal of efforts: no sweat broken, no finger lifted. But for some mysterious reason, you opted to join forces with your opponents. She will then wipe the back of her neck with her towel and say, “She really dropped a bombshell on me.” By bombshell, she will mean your treasonous act, when you surprised her with an explosive blow that resulted in the loss of your shared title and your partnership. And maybe that’s how the reporter will understand her. Maybe it’s simply a coincidence that her quote will be printed beneath a picture of you—midair, about to deliver said blow—and change the meaning of this term from the emotional act of double-crossing a partner to the physical act of jumping from the ropes and drop-kicking her in the chest. Either way, the fusion of Mimi’s words and your image will have an important lasting effect. Without it, that dropkick might have remained a nameless maneuver. Instead, it will become the Bombshell: the signature move of wrestling’s newest star.

  And as satisfying as that will be, what really matters to you is what happens now. At first, there is nothing. Not a peep, not even from Mimi. But then, finally, the audience catches up to the shifting plot—it’s true; you’re on their side now—and there it is, Gwen. Just as you hit the mat, you are surrounded by a towering wave of noise. Nothing you’ve ever heard before—not your rousing ovation at Bandstand, not Sal’s prediction (Young lady, I can see you signing a lot of autographs), not Mimi’s approval (That’s more like it), not Cynthia’s attention, not Kay’s compliments, not Sam’s affections, not even your father’s sporadic overtures (This one’s for you, Leonie)—has sounded so pivotal, so transformative, so absolute. It is true love doled out in decibels, and it’s all for you. It crashes down around you, washing away the jeers, Sam’s rejection, Mimi’s ironic champs, and, most importantly, all of the miserable silence you’ve ever suffered.

  SIXTEEN

  Two days later, you arrive in DC, where you have come to perform for the first time as a face. This, you are sure, is the character you were born to play: the object of everyone’s affections, the girl of their dreams. Unfortunately, everyone around you seems oblivious to this truth. At the bus depot, the other passengers rush past you as if you had no more presence than an I beam. The driver of the cab that takes you to Sal Costantini’s gym cannot be bothered with eye contact, let alone pleasantries. Only your host seems happy to see you. Shortly after you walk through the door, Sal spots you and walks briskly over, his smile unrestrained, his arms spread wide.

  “Huh?” he says. Costantini brings you in, satchel and all, gives you a few claps on the back, and then holds you out at arm’s length. “Did I tell you or did I tell you?”

  “You told me,” you say, more than a little thrown. Joe is a lot of things, but demonstrative is not one of them. Not with affection, at least.

  “Here. Check this out.” He turns you toward the mimeographed card hanging on the wall. There you are, but it is not the image you have grown accustomed to seeing in these advertisements, the glossy Monster snapped all those months ago. Instead, Costantini has used the most revealing image of you that exists, a newspaper photo from the St. Louis bout that is both grainier and fleshier. He has also given you a new title. In small print, just above your name, are these words: the sweetheart of the ring. Your mind moves immediately to the magazine at Monster’s house and the actress who will be the first and only
Sweetheart of the Month (the term Playmate won’t be coined until the second issue). Is this his intention? If only you could ask. Instead, you press your finger against the wall and run it beneath those words.

  Sal points you toward the locker room. “Go get changed, and then we’ll get started. I’ve got big plans for you, kid. Big, big plans.”

  Another kind of girl would want to hear a few of the details, maybe ask a few questions, but you have already heard enough. Whatever Sal has in store, you are sure there is more to be gained than lost. I can understand why it might seem this way, given recent history. And I suppose you can’t be expected to see how these transactions are still in motion, their final tallies yet to be counted. If you understood that, you might not be so quick to hook your satchel over your shoulder and walk in the direction Sal is pointing.

  • • •

  This evening, you share the card with a bejeweled, leopard-skin-clad heel. She will take the one-fall-to-a-finish match with an exquisitely executed flying mare, but it is you who will win over the crowd. As soon as the thunder-voiced announcer calls for “the Sweetheart of the Ring, Gwen Davies!” you climb over the ropes and enchant the audience with the act Costantini had you polish this afternoon, his personal spin on your lipstick shtick. The mirror is long gone now. There is only the lipstick, which you pull from your pocket and uncap with your mouth. You spit the cap out over the ropes, where it is fought over by frenzied fans, and proceed to paint your lips red, all the while staring down the referee with a pulse-racing look of come hither. And then, the kicker: the robe hits the mat, revealing your extra splash of milk-glass skin. The audience pounds its feet, while the referee follows the script and pretends that this look is enough to knock his legs out from underneath him. He swoons onto the mat.

  Good thing Joe’s not here to see this. It isn’t hard to imagine his reaction. Too bawdy, he’d say. He’d tell you it was over the line and put the kibosh on it right quick. And maybe he’d be right. After all, you are pretty sure the important-looking man in the front row is Senator Kefauver—you recognize him from his appearances on See It Now and What’s My Line?—and if it is, you’ll be lucky to get out of here without an obscenity charge.

  But Costantini, perched only seats away from the Senator and his entourage, doesn’t seem concerned in the least. When the ref hits the canvas, Costantini shoots you a double thumbs-up. Later, when the card is over, he comes by your dressing room, beaming with pride.

  “You’re a hit,” he announces.

  “Am I?” you say. “I was afraid that maybe it was too much.”

  “I sure hope so.” Costantini checks himself in your mirror, straightens his tie, and settles a wayward tuft of hair. “That’s the only way to break through. But I don’t have to tell you that. You figured that one out on your own.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to cross the line.”

  Costantini snorts. “All lines are arbitrary. Drawn by little men who don’t think you’ve got the guts to cross. Well, you showed them who’s who. And now, you’re reaping the benefits. You know who I just talked to?”

  “Who?”

  “Arlene Wilson, the gal who writes the DC Dispatch column for Wrestling as You Like It. She wants to do a profile for the magazine.”

  “Now?” you ask, trying to sound cooler than you feel. A profile in WAYLI could be a game changer.

  “Tomorrow. I took the liberty of booking an appointment with a photographer, too. You really need a new glossy to go with the spread.”

  You can’t afford new glossies. The investments you made in St. Louis took what was left of your cash. You are only just beginning to replenish the coffers and need every penny you make to cover expenses. “How much will that run me?”

  Costantini knots his brow. “Why? Is it a problem?”

  “Kind of. Things are a little tight right now.”

  “Then it’s my treat.” He smiles and offers you his arm. “So don’t think about it again, okay?”

  It takes a minute for his offer to sink in, so unaccustomed are you to this kind of generosity. This man, who has been your employer for less than a week, has not only made a significant investment of his time and energy into your character, but now he is offering to pay for new, professional-grade photographs. And you didn’t even have to ask. You doubt Joe could be coaxed into such an expense, but even if he could, he would have gone a few rounds with you first. He would have made you beg.

  “Okay,” you say, taking his arm. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Now, let’s go greet your fans. I can’t wait to see the look on your face when you get a load of the crowd that is waiting out there.”

  Before, you were simply slow to process Costantini’s words. This time, you don’t hear a thing he says. A national interview! New photographs! These are the thoughts that crowd your mind as he escorts you to the exit, not the possibility of a more immediate gratification lying just on the other side of the door. But then Costantini flings the door wide and thrusts you forcefully out of the future and into the present, where a dense throng of arena rats stands huddled. Earlier today, when you first arrived in this city, no one would give you the time of day. Now, it seems they have all shown up, hoping for some tangible contact: autographs, photographs, proximity. When the crowd catches sight of you, they erupt into a frenzy of noise and gesture.

  With time and practice, you will learn how to maintain kayfabe in moments like these, how to enter the arms of a fan mob with Kay Pepper’s poise and charm. But this is a first, and you can hardly contain your delight. Despite your best efforts, you can’t stop your eyes from rounding, or the corners of your mouth from curling up.

  “This is for me,” you whisper.

  “All for you,” says Costantini. “Here’s a tip—don’t overstay your welcome. It’s best to quit while there’s still a crowd. I’ll call them off in ten minutes, fifteen tops.” He urges you forward. “So go on. Don’t keep them waiting.”

  This is all the encouragement you need. A beat later, you are taking up the nearest pad and pen, thrust into your hands by a young girl who is only slightly more ecstatic than you. Before you know it, you have given yourself over fully to your fans. In the short time you are allotted, you wear your lipstick down to the nub by replenishing your lips every few minutes so you might press them against another autograph pad. When Costantini takes your arm to whisk you away, you are so dazed that you have stopped recognizing your body’s desperate needs for rest and sustenance. There is nothing you need that isn’t right here, in front of you.

  Before you make it very far, you are stopped by a young woman—a girl, really, a teenager—with T-zone acne, her chin-length hair white-blond and stiff from peroxide.

  “Oh, Miss Davies, do you mind?” she asks, pulling a pen and folded page of newspaper from her clutch. “Just one more, please?”

  “I think I can manage one more. Who should I make it out to?”

  “Vicky. Vicky Darnell.”

  You scrawl your name across the paper before pressing your weary lips against it and handing everything back to the girl. “There you go, Vicky.”

  “Thanks so much for making time for me,” she says, clutching the paper to her chest. “I just had to meet you.”

  “Did you?” asks Costantini. “How come?”

  “Because,” says the girl, who can’t seem to take her moony eyes off you. “You’re who I want to be.”

  What do you know? Not only have you become somebody else, you have become the very somebody else that others want to be. In all your life, you have never heard so bald a sentiment expressed anywhere outside of the pages of a book. I can’t help but feel embarrassed for her and a little frightened for you, but in this moment, all you feel is the unequivocal rapture of self-actualization.

  “Here,” you say, suddenly inspired. “Let me give you something.”

  You press
the capless lipstick into your overzealous fan’s hand. The girl closes her fingers around it, looks up at you, and, without prompting from any script, slumps to the ground.

  Security guards rush over and push the crowd back while you kneel down beside the girl, her eyelids already fluttering open, but Costantini stays standing above you both, his thumbs looped in the pockets of his well-pressed trousers, his smile assured.

  • • •

  The publication of the January 30, 1954 issue of Wrestling as You Like It is a pivotal moment in your career, one that signifies the next transition, the shedding of yet another skin. Notably, there’s Arlene’s column, the DC Dispatch:

  Meet Gwen “The Sweetheart” Davies, one of the bright new stars of the mat show. Gwen was discovered at a diner in her native Philadelphia by promoter Sal Costantini. “He bet me twenty bucks I couldn’t do a back handspring in front of all those people. It’s the easiest twenty bucks I ever made.” Gwen trained with Cleveland Joe Pospisil in Florida but can be seen up and down the East Coast. Let me tell you, the statuesque blonde sure gets attention when she sashays down to ringside, throws off her robe, and shows off her swell figure in that provocative two-piece suit of hers. But Gwen is not just another pretty face. No sirree, Bob! Gwen took on Slave Girl Moolah three times while she was in the DC territory and proved that she can sure pack a punch! Up until recently, Gwen was wrestling rough as part of a tag team with Screaming Mimi Hollander. When I asked her about the breakup, she said, “I decided to quit listening to Mimi’s big mouth and start listening to my heart.” I couldn’t have said it better myself. I for one am glad to see that she has hung up her bag of dirty tricks.

  Now add to that one humdinger of a cover shot. The session Sal set up for you was scheduled for late morning, which gave you just enough time to hit the makeup counter at the closest department store for both products (what were you thinking giving your only tube of lipstick away?) and instruction. Your skills in the art of cosmetology were exactly what one might expect in a motherless girl, but the patient, heavily made-up salesgirl gave you a crash course in the magic of the eyelash curler before selling you a tube of the cleverly marketed Revlon Fire and Ice. (Do you sometimes feel that other women resent you? Do you think any man really understands you?) At the studio, the photographer dug out a footstool draped in black velvet, seated you on it sideways with your legs out toward one side of the frame, and instructed you to bend the one in the background while you flexed and fully extended the other, pointing your bare foot. That accomplished, he had you twist your exposed torso around to the front, and your head even further around so that you weren’t looking at the camera but rather at something off to the side, out of the frame. Whatever it was must have been scandalous and enticing: in the photograph, your mouth is curled into an intimate, secretive smile. Arlene submitted the new publicity shot with her copy, and the editors found it so magnetic, so luminous, that they placed it not in the confines of the column but a more prominent place, its highest place of honor: the cover.