The Sweetheart Page 22

  “Mmmm.” You close your eyes and say, already half-asleep, “Tempting.”

  “I’m serious. Then you wouldn’t have to be out there alone, warding off all those pesky bra snappers by yourself.”

  If you weren’t already drifting off, you might take these last words—warding off all those pesky bra snappers by yourself—to mean that he is responsible for the boys’ dismissal. You might be bothered by the fact that once again, and only one match into this tour, Sam is asking you to change your schedule to suit his needs, might register this as a clue that this journey is fraught with peril. But you are too tired to pay attention. And even if you weren’t, you are too inexperienced to be anything but optimistic. Perhaps the road forward won’t be without its challenges, but surely the hurdles won’t be too high; surely there is room for negotiation. You issue a final noncommittal “Mmmm” and fall fast asleep.

  • • •

  A few nights later, you and Sam head outside after a match to sign autographs for the admirers waiting in the parking lot. There is no shortage of Spider McGee fans out here: boys with their fathers, mill workers enjoying a beer and a brawl before the graveyard shift starts, throngs of gangly, dateless adolescent boys. But when you step out a few paces after him, a clamoring mob of your own fans, including a pack of Gorgeous Girls, nearly runs him over in their efforts to reach you.

  “We just love you,” one of the girls breathes.

  Her friend bites her lip for a moment, and then asks, “Do you think maybe I could give you a hug?”

  A hug is not an unusual request. You have never denied one to anyone; it has always seemed within the bounds of reason. So you don’t think twice—you simply say, “Of course,” and stretch out your arms. The recipient treats your gift with the reverence it deserves, enjoying a short, semiformal embrace before disengaging and thanking you for the privilege. But then there is another request, and then another, and now that you’ve indulged one, how can you say no to any of them? These are the people who’ve made you who you are, after all.

  Sam works hard at staying cool. Still, you see it: the stiffened spine, the set jaw, the glances at the crowd. It seems your meteoric rise is a phenomenon that he has not yet fully grasped. Poor guy. If you had known he would find this so bothersome, you would have skipped it this evening and spared him. You will have to wrap this up, and soon.

  Easier said than done. In no time, what began as a small but feverish mob escalates into all-out pandemonium. No one’s crossing the line yet—at least there’s no more suit snapping—but some of these embraces are lingering and overly firm, and the crowd seems to be multiplying. No one wants to be left out of this experience. This is an event, everyone realizes, and they all want in. When a particularly burly man lifts you off your feet during his long-awaited embrace, it is finally more than Sam can take. He nods to a security guard, who urges the crowd back. While they are being subdued, Sam takes your hand, says, “That’s all for tonight, folks,” and leads you to the car.

  You, of all people, should be understanding. After all, you’ve suffered similar moments, watching from the backseat of the Hudson while Sam greeted his fans. Maybe you should do something to appease him. And what character might be best suited to that task? A good girl, of course: more dependent, more domestic.

  So, tonight, you take on that role by running a tub for him. Sure, your own aches and pains could use some tending to, but tonight, you insist that he go first. And if he lingers for ages, the way he often does, massaging his jutted knees until he’s red and pruned, you can use the time to take care of other domestic matters. A quick check-in with your father, you decide, picking up the receiver. No doubt he’ll want to chat about that special on Senator McCarthy that’s been all the talk. You don’t have much to contribute to the conversation, but listening to him might be a welcome diversion.

  Soon, you are connected with your father, and, as you suspected, he is eager to talk. But it seems he has a more pressing topic in mind.

  “I’m glad you called,” says Franz. “I have some news.”

  In a rambling speech, your father not only confirms what you have come to suspect—that he is involved with Patricia—he informs you that he has asked her to marry him, and that the nuptials will take place as soon as you can be there.

  “I know, it is a crazy thing,” he says. “But life is crazy. You think it is one thing and then suddenly it is another.”

  No kidding. In three short months, he has gone from feeling indifferent to Cynthia’s mother to proposing marriage. How did this come to pass? You promise to call again when your plans are shored up, wishing him a good night, and then head for the bed. You could use a bath of your own, but talking to your father has left you exhausted.

  “Everything okay?” asks Sam, padding into the room in his boxer shorts.

  “Sure,” you lie. You can tell him about your father tomorrow. If you tell him tonight, he will only want to talk about it, and you haven’t the energy. “Tired, is all.”

  “It’s okay to say no sometimes.” He slips under the covers and presses into you, his body hot and damp, and kisses a spot on your shoulder. “If you don’t, you won’t have enough left for anyone else, including yourself.”

  It takes a minute for you to follow his train of thought away from your father and back toward the events of the evening. He means your fans; those are the people from whom you are supposed to withhold. Maybe he’s right. Their need for The Sweetheart borders on insatiable, and the amount you have to give them is already dwindling. Still, Sam’s definition of the celebrity-fan relationship strikes you as limited—a fan gives as well as takes. You wouldn’t pay these prices if you weren’t getting something in return. It is with them just as it is with him: a worthy investment in a mutually beneficial arrangement.

  “While we’re on the subject of saying no,” he says, “if you’re going to cancel Boston and come to New York with me, we should probably tell Joe pretty soon.”

  “Boston is big bucks,” you say. “Joe’s not going to be happy if I cancel Boston.”

  Sam kisses you again, this time higher on your shoulder. “Let me handle Joe.”

  Is that what you should do? Sure, a trip to the city has its appeal, but so do the crowds and cash that await you in Boston. Besides, Sam has handled a lot of things this trip. In all other arenas, you have certainly proven yourself capable of managing your affairs. This is as good a time as any to practice that skill.

  “I don’t know.” You sit up and rub the back of your neck. You could have really used a soak tonight. “It’s a good gig. I don’t want to burn any bridges.”

  “Here.” Sam pulls himself up. “Let me do that.” He wraps the long fingers of one hand around a shoulder, presses the pads of another firmly into the middle of your back, and runs them along the muscles. You try to stay loose, but the fibers tense up whenever he makes contact.

  “Let me know when something hurts.”

  “There.”

  He backtracks until he finds the spot and applies more pressure. “How’s that?”

  “Painful.” Whatever this is, he is clearly practiced, but it’s hard to tell whether it is helping, and it definitely doesn’t feel good. In fact, it is downright awful. “Could you do it a little more softly?”

  “I could, but that wouldn’t get the knots out.” His hand moves over your shoulder blade. He stops again when he gets your signal, brings a fresh stab of pain to this area, too. “Trust me. You’re going to thank me tomorrow.” He grips both of your shoulders in his hands, runs his thumbs alongside your spine toward your skull. “Tomorrow, you will follow me anywhere.”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “Yes. You will come with me to New York, and we will have a time.”

  He kneads the scruff of your neck as he says this, opening new pockets of hurt. At the beginning of this trip, his hand on your neck was pure pleasure.
It reminded you of your place in his life, in the larger world. This—this is different. But you could be reading too much into this. He has been doing all of this a lot longer than you have. Surely he knows what he is talking about. Maybe the pangs you now feel are the first buds of relief.

  There is probably nothing to worry about. What has he done, really? Kept a few fans at arm’s length? The truth is, you could probably use a little help in this department. You should go. Boston can wait. You can practice running your own life another time. This is the Big Apple we’re talking about. You have never been, and now, you can go at the top of your game and on the arm of the man you love. Of course you will have a time. How could you not?

  On the bedside table, the minute leaf on the alarm clock flips over. You could look, but you close your eyes instead, let your still-sore body jostle to the rhythm of his touch. You don’t need to know the time. You already know that tomorrow is on its way.

  NINETEEN

  New York proves to be a busy time for Sam, which means for you it is a lot of sitting idly by and wondering if you didn’t make a bad call. Thankfully, at the end of it, there is one monumental perk: you get to be on television. And I don’t just mean some local newscast. Today, you are the celebrity guest on your favorite game show.

  That’s right, Gwen. Today, you’ve got a secret.

  How many countless hours did you and your father sit in front of the Philco to watch this program? How many times did you both cover your eyes when the white-lettered secrets appeared on the screen so you might play along with Kitty and Bill? How often did you watch Garry Moore guide the panelists past pitfalls the guests unwittingly opened up? Yes, his work has included some writing, but that’s not the most relevant aspect of it. And you couldn’t begin to count the times your father responded to the sponsor’s slogan—Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should!—by reaching into his pocket for his own pack of smokes and savoring one himself.

  Is that what he is doing right now, only on Ms. Riley’s sofa? Maybe he is shaking out two cigarettes, one for Wally, one for himself. Maybe one arm is already occupied with clutching his soon-to-be wife, Ms. Riley—Patricia—about the shoulders. Or maybe he isn’t even watching. Maybe he is off in another room, rocking the little turnip to sleep. You can’t quite conjure up a scene; none of this exists for you outside of letters and phone calls. The whole thing is still beyond your imagination, to say nothing of your comprehension. The commercial wraps up and the flat-topped, bow-tied Garry Moore walks over to the curtains to greet you, a stack of cards in his hands and smoke drifting from his own half-smoked Winston, its butt pressed tightly between his lips.

  “Let’s welcome our next guest, shall we?” he says from his mouth’s outer corner.

  Time to get your head in the game, Gwen. You will be home for the wedding soon enough and can take it all in with your own eyes. Perhaps then it will become real.

  The sound of applause brings you around, sets off the physical reaction that’s become your new nature. You’ve lost the penny—let it slide off your chin months ago; in its place a wink and an air kiss—but the apple stays clutched in your shoulder blades. No longer do you mind the silhouette and sway this pose creates. In fact, you’ve come to like that feeling, to exaggerate its effect, to have new respect for its power. This is what you do; this is who you are.

  You assume the position and then parade through the curtains, waving to the studio audience. Don’t forget to blow a kiss to Sam, who sits in the middle of the front row, his arms crossed. This appearance has put him out of sorts. When Joe floated the idea and offered to make the call—if you had to go to New York, where you couldn’t pocket a purse, then you should at least get some publicity out of it, he figured—Sam had been all for it, anxious to make good on his promise (We’ll have a time!) and prove that sacrificing the Boston gig was worth it. And the show’s producers loved the idea. They are in the novelty market, after all, and you are nothing if not novel. No one’s going to guess your profession, not in a million years. But shortly after you arrived at the studio, when they explained what they had in mind for the end of your appearance, Sam wanted to pull the plug. It was too late for that, you told him, wishing he could just relax for once.

  Now, Garry ushers you over to your seat on the stage. It’s grown warm under the lights, a welcome change from the otherwise drafty studio and still-brisk New York air. “Folks,” he starts, “we’re not going to tell you our guest’s real name because that could be a giveaway. So, for the evening, we’ll call her Leigh Kramer.”

  When the stage manager asked you to come up with a pseudonym, the first thing that came to mind was your actual name, but you quickly scrapped the idea: that secret, you prefer to keep. You also considered this one—Gwen McGee—to alleviate Sam’s anxieties over this performance and demonstrate your love. The last thing you need is for you and Sam to arrive at your father’s house tomorrow knotted up with tension; it’s not as if this wedding business isn’t going to be strange and awkward enough. But something kept you from doing this. Instead, you fashioned a new name from your old one by shedding half the syllables and editing the ones that remained.

  “So, Leigh, if you’ll please whisper your secret to me—”

  This is history, Gwen! What a moment! There you are, playing along with the charade, putting your lips in close proximity to Garry’s ear just to psst psst psst into it while you hold up your hand as a shield. And then, on the screen for everyone at home to see: I am a professional wrestler.

  More applause, just as you were expecting, but something else, too: laughter.

  You look out into the crowd, dazed. How dare they condescend to you! You’d like to see any of those square pegs give your life a go. Is there even one among them who could strut her way into a jam-packed auditorium? Who could catch her opponent’s head between her legs and flop her over not once, not twice, but three times in less than a minute? Garry adjusts his bow tie and gives you an uncomfortable smile and a pat on the hand before he drops his eyes and clears his throat. “All right, folks, let’s get on with it. Now, this secret has to do with Miss Kramer’s profession. Okay, let’s start with you, Bill.”

  Bill, a younger flat-topper with a long skinny tie and thick-rimmed glasses, is the leftmost person seated behind the panel adorned with—what else?—the sponsor’s name in white type, bookended with two large plastic replicas of its signature product: boxes open, wares displayed.

  “Fine, fine. Miss Kramer, does your profession require you to use your intellect?”

  “Yes,” you say, defensive, but Garry butts in. “Well, sure, you need brains like you would for anything, but I wouldn’t call it a brainy profession, no.”

  “So, would it be fair to say it’s more of a physical job then?”

  “Yes.”

  “There,” says Garry. “Now you’re on to something.”

  “You use your hands then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what other . . . body parts would you say you use?”

  This time, the laughter has a bawdy edge that makes you squirm.

  “That’s enough out of you, Bill,” says Garry, wagging a finger. “Alright, Jayne, let’s move on to you.”

  Jayne, the next panelist, intertwines the fingers of her white-gloved hands and presses them to her chin. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Kramer, your secret sure did get a reaction out of this crowd. Is there something a little silly about what you do?”

  “I certainly don’t think so.”

  “No, no, of course, and none of us do, either,” says Garry, “but it’s probably fair to say that some might find it a little . . . unusual.”

  “Unusual, eh? Well, you are a very tall woman. Lovely, too, of course. Does your height play some role in your profession?”

  “I guess you could say so.”

  “I know,” butts in Henry. “She uses her hands and he
r height. She must be a shelf stocker.”

  This gets some snickers from the crowd. This time, the audience’s reaction seems less coarse but more spirited, and you sink a little deeper into your seat.

  “Settle down now, Henry,” says Garry. “You’ll get your turn. This is Jayne’s turn now.”

  “Yes, Henry, please. Miss Kramer, are you a model?”

  “No.”

  “An actress?”

  “No.” But this is certainly a preferable line of questioning. At least you are starting to be taken seriously.

  “A basketball player?”

  More laughter. Hmm. Maybe not.

  “No.”

  “No, but you’re headed in the right direction,” says Garry. “Let’s move on to you, Kitty.”

  “Right direction, huh?” asks Kitty. She leans forward and extends you the kindness of her bright smile, as if to apologize for the others. You always did like her. “Miss Kramer, are you some kind of athlete?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a runner?”

  “Well, I am, but—”

  “But that’s not really what we’re after,” says Garry. “I don’t want to lead everybody down the garden path.”

  “Fine, fine. Are you a gymnast?”

  “Uh, yes, that too, but once again—”

  “Once again, that’s not getting at the main gist of it here.”

  Kitty furrows her brow, puts on her thinking cap. “A swimmer?”

  “Wrong, wrong, wrong.” Moore puts a finger in his collar and pulls. “Okay, Henry, why don’t you take a shot at her?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Henry stands and moves as if he’s going to come toward you.

  “Sit down, Henry! I’ll say, what’s gotten into you boys tonight?”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Moore,” you answer, regaining your poise. “I can handle Mr. Morgan.”