The Sweetheart Read online

  Sam goes limp. When you release him, he slumps to the floor.

  “Sam?” You drop to your knees and slap his face lightly with both hands. “Sam!” Finally, his eyelids flicker. “Oh, thank God,” you say, pressing your hands against your face. “I thought I suffocated you.”

  “I told you,” he says. “It’s not suffocation. You just cut off the blood to my brain.”

  “I don’t care what it is. It’s dangerous.”

  “I know,” he says, meeting your eyes. Despite his still-short breath, he offers up a sad little smile. “That’s the point.”

  If there was ever a time to apologize, Gwen, this would be it. If you want to avoid regret—and, trust me, Gwen, you do, as much as you possibly can—then do it now, while he is still holding your gaze. The words have been spinning silently for weeks. At long last, you can slip the needle into the groove and press play.

  “I’m so sorry. For St. Louis, I mean. Not for this. I mean, I’m sorry for this, too. But I’m really, really sorry for St. Louis.”

  Sam says nothing for a long time, and then ventures a question: “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “Because you would have talked me out of it,” you say. “You would have tried, at least.”

  “Probably.”

  “I didn’t want to be talked out of it. I wanted things to change.”

  “Being a heel was that bad?”

  “Are you kidding? Everyone hated me. I was killing myself night after night, and they all hated me. Even Mimi. Even my own partner.”

  “I didn’t.” Sam rubs his lips together; his eyes dart over your face, as if looking for some evidence, some assurance. “I didn’t,” he says again. This time, his voice is soft but certain. He clutches your shoulders, pulls you into him. “I don’t,” he says before covering your mouth with his own.

  And then he is fumbling with your nylons, and you, more timidly, with his belt. This is it. This is how it will occur: his slacks pulled midthigh, your skirt yanked up, the prophylactic opened quickly, out of your view, and without your assistance. Maybe this is how it is supposed to go—you on your back, your shoulders pinned. What do you know? You have half a mind to roll him over, to turn this into the victory that it should be—you have won him back!—but you are too unsure of yourself to attempt it, too inexpert to do anything but submit.

  Later in life, you will not be able to recall many of the details, but the scattershot ones that remain will be sharp, forged by heat like iron. They will never be subjected to willful or subconscious editing; they will not grow dim or fuzzy with age. And this will have little to do with the hold you have learned, or the other milestone that has been reached. What you will remember most is what happens once you sit up and rest your back against the foot of the bed, when Sam gingerly places his head on your lap, and the usual quiet of your last waking moment is broken by his snores after he drifts off to sleep. These are the things you will keep: the weight and the sound of this man.

  • • •

  The note you find the next morning includes an explanation for Sam’s absence—there are reds to catch, not to mention appearances to keep up—and a promise to meet for lunch. You are just beginning to wonder what you should do with yourself when there is a knock on the door. It’s Joe, his damp face shadowed under a wide-brimmed hat, a clean burlap sack, stuffed full, hung over his shoulder.

  “Special delivery,” he says, slinging the bag just inside the doorway.

  “What’s that?”

  “Fan mail,” he says. “Something, isn’t it?”

  “Fan mail,” you repeat, letting it sink in. “That’s all for me?”

  “Yep. Glad to be rid of it, finally. It was taking up too much space. Oh, and one more,” he says, pulling an envelope with a Philadelphia postmark out of his shirt pocket. “Didn’t want this one to get lost in the pile.”

  “Thanks, Joe,” you say, touched but wary. It isn’t like Joe to be this tender.

  Joe shoves his hands into his pockets. “I saw Sam for a bit this morning. He doesn’t want you out on the road by yourself. He’s asked me to book the two of you together for the next little while. What do you think of that?”

  You can’t imagine anything more perfect. But the way you understand it, there are rules against such things—the NWA’s rules, and Joe’s personal rules for women and how they should conduct themselves on the road. Surely he can guess what Sam is up to, that he is interested in more than just your safety. “I could ask you the same question,” you say.

  Joe exhales. He looks over at the water and says, “You know, after I said good-bye to you in Nashville, I drove to Cleveland. See my brother, tend to business. You know. Anyway, when I was there, I stopped in to see an old student of mine.” Joe turns back to you and swats something away from his face. “You ever heard of Lacey Bordeaux?”

  “You mean Johnny’s wife,” you say. Just hearing her name out loud has put you on edge. You already know too much about this woman’s troubles and aren’t sure you are ready for more. “The Ragin’ Cajun.”

  “Exactly. Best wrestler I ever had.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s no slight to you. I’m just saying. The kid could take a bump. And she was a great student. You never had to tell her twice. Anyway, just when it seems like she could be the next big thing, she meets Johnny, and in no time, he asks her to marry him. Now, I don’t think the road is any place for a married woman. So I give her a choice: wrestle for me, or settle down with Johnny. ‘I don’t know,’ she tells me. ‘I’m crazy about this guy, but I really think it could happen for me. What should I do?’ You know what I told her? That wrestling was a flash in the pan; a solid marriage will take you through eternity. If she loved him, she should get married and not look back. That’s what my Kat did, and she’s as happy as a clam. I didn’t want any less for Lacey.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh. I guess you know how that’s turning out. Of course you know. Everybody knows. Even Lacey knows. And you know who she blames? Me. First I gave her lousy advice, and then I rubbed her face in it by letting Mimi have her wrestling career and her husband.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  Joe shrugs. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. The truth is, I don’t like much of anything you’re up to these days. I don’t like where you’re going with this character. And I definitely don’t like the idea of you living on the road with a man like you’re married when you’re not. But I am officially out of the business of life counseling. I am not your father; I am your manager. I’m sure we can get you onto some of Sam’s cards, and I know we can make some money in the process. So if that’s what you want, that’s what I’ll do.”

  You have never been affectionate with Joe. You have seen other girls grace him with a hug at the news of a first or prime booking, but you, while polite and (until recently) deferential, have kept your distance. Seeing Joe like this inspires you to step into that gap. It is not easy to admit that the world might not work in the way that you imagined. And for this gesture, you want to give thanks in a way that is clear and genuine. You place your hand on his arm, lean in, and plant a tiny kiss at the top of his ear.

  “Okay then,” he says. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  • • •

  You wait until Joe has disappeared into the office building before sealing off your room and tearing into your letter. You are tempted to rip into the bag, but first things first. Besides, you are more than a little curious about what is happening on the home front. This should give you the latest in both subplots: your father’s diminishing assets and his increasing estimation of Ms. Riley.

  February 17, 1954

  Dear Leonie,

  I got your letter yesterday, and all of the clippings you sent. I have to say that I did not think it was you at first with that short hair but then I realized it was you and I was alarm
ed. What has happened to your suit? I don’t want to see my daughter like that. I am an old man and my heart can’t take it.

  I appreciate the money you sent, but don’t worry about me. I am fine. Ms. Riley got a job for Cynthia as a receptionist in her office and she is paying me to watch little Harold during the day. Nappies are the pits, but he is a good baby and I can watch television while he sleeps. Also I make dinner and heat up the leftovers so they are hot and ready when Patricia comes home for lunch. Can you believe it? No, you probably cannot. Anyway it is just until I get a real job.

  Call me once in a while, okay? I think about you going all over the place by yourself and I worry. When will you come for another visit? You are missed.

  Your father,

  Franz

  PS: I should not have said that thing about my heart. I haven’t had any more pains, so there is no need to be worried.

  You are not sure what to make of these latest developments. Patricia? In all your life, you have never heard your father refer to Cynthia’s mother as anything other than Ms. Riley. And now your father is working for her? As a babysitter? You will have to talk to Joe about taking some time off soon. This you have got to see for yourself.

  You could use a distraction from these thoughts. So you turn the bag upside down over your bed and let its contents spill out into a large pile, some of the envelopes sliding down onto the spotted carpeting. Valentines: hundreds and hundreds of them. There are 367 in all; you count them twice to be sure. According to the postmarks, they’ve come from DC, Texas, Louisiana, Minnesota, Tennessee, and even states where you’ve never appeared. (Apparently, you’ve got fans as far away as Wyoming.) Most of the valentines are store-bought but some are handmade, and all of them full of maudlin sentiment and illustrated in some stereotypical manner. There are gold doilies and silver ribbons; bluebirds holding banners; watercolor violets, roses, and pansies; cards with scalloped or lacy borders; cartoon Injuns beating out their love on tom-toms; monkeys beating theirs out on cymbals; cards that stand up; cards with parts that pivot, rotate, or pop up; chop-licking foxes; plaid puppies with textured ears and paws; and cowboys with lassos at the ready. Each of them displays at least one heart of some shape, size, or texture: red plastic hearts, gold foil hearts, filigreed hearts, hearts with cutout middles that peek through to the picture on the other side.

  Hundreds and hundreds of hearts, all of them offered up to you.

  For the rest of the morning, you sit on your bed poring over the cards. There are some blue ones in the bunch—several offers to father your children, plus some references to specific body parts—but not that many. Not really. The vast majority are sweet, innocent, and worshipful: just the pick-me-up a road-weary wrestler could use.

  Part of you feels guilty for reveling in the attention of strangers on a morning like this. Then again, it’s not every day that you receive a truckload of valentines. You worked hard for this outpouring. So go ahead. Read on. Just be sure to leave yourself enough time to stuff them back into the sack and pack it away in your trunk. You do not want Sam to ask you what is inside this bag. You cannot lie again and you do not want to risk the truth.

  EIGHTEEN

  Before you know it, it’s time to hit the road again. You couldn’t order a more perfect day for a road trip, or better company. The Southeast is currently in the midst of an early spring, and you and Sam roll through its small towns with the top of his snazzy, mostly new convertible down. Along the way, roadside stands showcase their wares, including early strawberries. Sam, enticed, stops and buys a basket, and you eat the fruit as you follow a path of purple stars, quite certain it is taking you both to your rightful place at the top of the world.

  Life is good. The brief respite in Florida has renewed your energies and reaffirmed your affections. Now, just before you hit the South Carolina border, Sam puts his hand on the back of your neck and rubs. It is a gesture you’ve come to adore—part massage, part affectionate pat—and you respond by propping your bare feet up on the dashboard and offering him the last strawberry, holding it out by its green cap. He slows down to look at it, and then at you: the wisps of hair that have escaped from beneath your scarf, the freshly shaved ankles peeking out from the bottom of your Capri pants, the arches of your feet. Before you can interpret the look, he pulls over, rumbling over gravel, and plants one on you: a long, unyielding kiss, ripe with all the anticipation and promise of a honeymoon.

  You aren’t simply headed to the top of the world, Gwen: you have arrived.

  • • •

  The act of dressing has become an important ritual, an essential part of the mental and spiritual transition that allows you to fully embody your character. From pulling up the second skin of your nylons to brushing on your mascara, you draw power from the outfitting. In preparation for the first match of this blessed tour, you complete the final part of this ceremonial act, smearing on your lipstick, before checking yourself in the mirror and smiling mightily.

  When you emerge from the bathroom, Sam rubs his hand down the back of his neck, his eyes wide and darting from one of your extremities to the next. “That’s what you’re wearing?” he asks, a note of alarm in his voice.

  “This?” You smooth the wrinkles out of the front of your skirt. “This is what I always wear to a match.”

  “I’ve never seen you wear it before.”

  “Sure you have. This is what I was wearing when I got back to Florida.” And that he clumsily peeled off of you later, you might add.

  “I wasn’t exactly thinking about your clothes then. Don’t you think it’s a bit . . . much?”

  This concern seems a little silly, seeing that you’ll be wearing a lot less before the night is over, but given recent circumstances, you can hardly blame him for feeling a little possessive.

  “I have to give them a little,” you say, and kiss his lips just enough to reassure him without smearing your lipstick. “But I will save everything else for you.”

  Later in the evening, on your way down the aisle to meet the villainy that awaits you in the ring, someone pulls the top strap of your suit away from your body, which you feel only moments before the sting of its return. It is enough of an attack to prompt some mild fright, and you spin around and assume a defensive position: legs braced, hands up. “What’s the—” you say, but then stop cold. The end of that sentence: big idea? The reason you don’t say it: the perpetrator is only a child. Doe-eyed, crew cut, and freckle-faced. Eleven, twelve tops.

  You stroll over, wry smile and all, and take his chin in your manicured hand.

  “Is that any way to treat a lady?” you say. “Where are your manners, young man?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. He is clearly delighted with the attention.

  This is the whole encounter: no harm, no foul. He’s done nothing bad enough to merit punishment from you or anyone else. And yet, after the match, when you come back up the aisle, you can’t help but notice a small but conspicuous absence: in the spot where the boy and all of his friends should be sitting, there is a short stretch of empty chairs. Why are they gone? Did management escort them out? Your heartstrings twang at the possibility.

  Later that evening, back at your motel, you make good on your earlier promise, sliding your naked body under the covers and offering it to Sam. This is the extent of your seductive powers. You might play a character who sells this stuff, but in real life, you aren’t altogether sure how to deliver it. However, you have already learned two important truths: it is sometimes the simplest way to heal a rift, and even the faintest promise of it on your part is enough to initiate action on his.

  “So tell me,” he asks afterward, half-asleep with contentment. “What’s your plan for life after wrestling?”

  “I don’t know,” you say, hoping to sound casual. Gwen Davies isn’t going anywhere. Not if you can help it.

  “Really?” Sam puts his hands behind his head
and stares up at the ceiling. “It’s all I think about these days. I hate living on the road like this. I don’t know how you stand it.”

  This is not a conversation you want to have. These concerns should be swept into the dark corners of your mind with all of the others, where you hope they will somehow work themselves out. Thankfully, Sam gives you an out by turning onto his side and pulling you toward him. “It’s definitely nicer with you here. How many days left?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  In a month, Sam will head to the big arenas of New York, where the ladies aren’t welcome, and you’ll jog over to Boston before some much-­deserved time off, which you plan to spend in Philadelphia. When you called to tell your father you were coming, he suggested there might be some surprises waiting for you but would not confirm what they might be. You understand what possibilities you should brace yourself for, but who knows? He could be talking about a job, maybe even his old job at the Stetson factory, and you will return home to find the life you knew fully restored.

  You peek over Sam’s shoulder at the clock on the bedside table, which ticked past midnight some time ago. “Scratch that. Twenty-­eight.”

  Sam follows your eyes and then reaches behind him, pulls the clock’s plug out of the socket. “There.” He settles back into place, pulls you against him. “That takes care of that.”

  “Nice work.” You pull away from his embrace just enough to create some room for yourself, settle into the pillow, and close your eyes. “Now we never have to leave this room.”

  “If only.” The weight on the bed shifts as Sam tents himself up on one elbow, causing you to roll into him. “You know what we could do, though? I was thinking that instead of going to Boston, you could come to New York with me. After that, I could finagle another short break and go to Philadelphia with you.”