The Sweetheart (19 page)

Sincerely,

Vicky Darnell

c/o The Gorgeous Girls

PO Box 72355

Washington, DC 20055-72355

Even the most calculated marketing campaigns have unexpected and extraordinary side effects. While it's clear that Sal was targeting lust-driven men when he began molding your character, the two of you managed to garner attention from at least one impressionable young woman, inspiring her to create the
Gorgeous Girls Gazette,
a one-page newsletter, which she distributed to anyone who cared to read it. In the first installment, she included a brief history, a few how-to tips for girls who wanted to look more like you (
Gwen's signature lipstick color is Revlon Fire and Ice
), and a list of suggestions for fans who wanted to demonstrate their unflagging loyalty. One proposal encouraged Gorgeous Girls to make buttons out of their authentic Gwen Davies lipstick prints to wear on a purse strap, cardigan buttonhole, or jacket lapel. But for those who were truly ready to make the leap, there was this simple, elegant call-to-arms:
Prove Your Bond by Going Blonde!

This extraordinary issue hits the stands while you are in the second state (Louisiana) of a five-state tour, and you couldn't need it more. Strange things are afoot with your father. It takes days to get him on the phone. When you finally do, he informs you that Cynthia has given birth to a little boy.
His name is Harold and he is a little turnip, just like you were.
But the real news is that he has sold the television to Cynthia's mother and is now spending every Tuesday evening at her home, eating dinner and watching Murrow.
Maybe I have been too hard on her. She is not such a bad lady.

It is difficult to know what to make of this, but at least it is information. You haven't heard from Sam since St. Louis—not one word in seventeen days. To the best of your knowledge, he's currently somewhere in the Great Plains and perfectly content with both silence and distance. At night, when you spread out your map, locate yourself, and mark the spot with a blue star, you calculate the miles between where you are and Cleveland, which seems as accurate a measure as any of the space between you. And while the
WAYLI
issue does help to rally your flagging spirits, having no one to help you celebrate only amplifies the quiet of yet another strange hotel room.

So don't stay there. You've got time to kill before the evening's match and some money in your pocket, even after another substantial wire to your father. Why not venture downtown and poke around in the stores? There: at that corner boutique. Check out the dangerously low-plunging blouse on that mannequin. Sure, blowing a wad goes against your better judgment, but you have a new character to cultivate. That requires some initial investment, doesn't it? Besides, you deserve it, don't you?

Go ahead, Gwen: live a little.

Amazing, isn't it, how much clothes actually
can
make the person? Outside of the ring, people are typically indifferent to you, happy to let you fade into the wallpaper. But this afternoon, while you are out and about in your new duds, persona a-blazin', everything seems a little easier, everyone a little nicer. Doors are held open when you are still yards away from an entrance. When was the last time that happened? And have you ever been able to get a plate of scrambled eggs so many hours after a diner stops serving breakfast? Not that you can recall.

Later in the evening, when you step into the ring, you feel cosmically powered, able to turn every spectator into an autograph hound. The crowd calls for your signature move by name: “Drop! The! Bomb! Shell!” Once it is delivered, and your enemy vanquished by it, they seem to feel the same exhilarating wallop in their chests that you do. But, best of all, when the match is over, there they are, waiting for you, their copies of
WAYLI
held aloft along with uncapped pens.

Who's got the world on a string now?

Gorgeous Girls will turn up soon enough in Texas. You'll spot the first of them in Lubbock, after soundly defeating Esmerelda Martinez (played by a deeply tanned Nebraskan farm girl named Esther Horton) by pulling her floppy sombrero over her eyes and slinging her around by her serape-striped suit. Here they are: a trio of girls sporting chemically gained white-blond bobs sitting in a nearby row. At the end of the match, they'll be waiting outside, clean squares of white paper in hand, one chomping nervously on her thumbnail while another bounces on her toes.

They are a bit of a mystery to you. You know what the men want; you're not so certain about the women. If you want to understand them, just think back to your own girl-crushes. These girls only want what you wanted from Cynthia, and then Kay, and then Marilyn. You didn't want them: you wanted to
be
them. That's what Vicky said when she sought you out in DC. And now, it seems Vicky's letter has intrigued a surprising number of girls who see, in that same photograph, something they want to capture for themselves.

You're who I want to be
.

I know, Gwen. It's hard for you to imagine anyone looking to you for guidance when it seems you're still trying to figure it out yourself, when it all still feels a bit awkward and ill-fitting, like the too-big shoes your father always bought for his perpetually growing daughter. But that's exactly what this dark-rooted, slightly punch-drunk threesome is after. They seek your confirmation and approval; they want you to tell them they've figured it out. This much, you can do. All it takes is to cruise up and say, “Looking good, ladies.” Before they can answer, you slide those little papers from their slightly damp hands, leave dark-red lip prints under your signature, wink your good-bye, and sashay over to the next set of pens and autograph books.

The next evening, all three girls show up again in Midland; this time, they sport lip buttons pinned to their sweaters. They've also brought reinforcements. They've doubled in number and, to your delight, don't hesitate to make their abundant support clear. For the first time in your life, love comes easy. All you have to do is doll up and be generous with your affection, which you are all too happy to do. And if you win the match, too, however scripted it might be, well, that doesn't hurt, either.

Tonight, back in your room, you will be as lonely as ever. You will tuck yourself into yet another infrequently washed comforter, and hope against hope for the phone to ring (it won't). You will pull your map out from beneath your pillow, where you hide it every evening, and look at the stars, feeling farther away from Sam than ever. But for now, you are not alone. In this moment, your fans are all that matter; they're everything.

SEVENTEEN

Y
our rapidly increasing fan base is not limited to adolescents with low-self-esteem-driven girl-crushes or harmless gents. In Lawton, Oklahoma, one of the last matches of this tour, you meet a wholly different breed of admirer. At the exit stands a man with his ten-year-old son in tow, both of them holding issues of
WAYLI.
The man introduces himself as Earl: an oilman, a single father, and your biggest fan.

“It's an honor,” he says, tipping his big white Stetson.

“I like a man in a hat,” you say, grabbing it by the brim and shaking it back and forth.

You don't mean anything by it. This is your character speaking. Plus, you say this to any guy you see in a Stetson these days. It is part of your plan: a quiet one-woman campaign to inspire a Stetson renaissance and help your father get his old job back.

But then Earl, his son, and his hat show up outside the auditorium in Oklahoma City. When you spot them in Muskogee, too, you get a sneaking suspicion that he knows something about you. Perhaps David Henderson wasn't completely honest about his intentions and those pictures have made their way out of his massive clutches and into Earl's smaller but equally ready ones. This is not the first time this notion has crossed your mind. It's a fear that presents itself on random occasions. It's a ridiculous thought, of course—you've been reassured, and you have no real reason to suspect otherwise—but that doesn't stop pearls of sweat from forming on your forehead.

After the Tulsa match, you spot them in your hotel lobby, the son slumped into a chair, bored and exhausted, Earl pretending to read a newspaper. He straightens his bolo, removes his hat, and steps between you and the elevator. Despite your concerns, you stay in character, expressing pleasure in his persistence, calling him your most loyal fan, and telling him you hope you'll see more of him again soon, expecting that to be the end of that.

“You could see more of me tonight,” he says. “After I put the kid to bed, I could come knock on your door. What if I came by around”—he checks his watch—“midnight?”

“I don't think so,” you say, dropping the routine. Earl has ceased to be amusing.

“One?”

Is he serious? “No, Earl.”

“Two?”

“I don't think you understand me, Earl,” you say, adding some steel to your voice. “I don't want you to come by my room at any time, day or night. Not ever.”

He puts his hand on your arm and hisses into your ear, “Then why did you flirt with me all week, you goddamn cock tease?”

He isn't gripping you, exactly. He's just holding on, insisting that you hear him out. He's gone to a great deal of time and expense to be here tonight, and for what? You'd call it a misunderstanding; he'd call it a lie. Are you in any real danger? It is late, but the lobby is still full of people. At the front desk alone, there stands a clerk, three traveling salesmen, and a bellhop loading their suitcases onto his cart. Surely they'll provide you with backup if you need it; surely Earl isn't foolish enough to try something in front of an audience. Still, you aren't taking a chance. You fall right back into character: smiling, taking Earl's other hand in your own and squeezing it affectionately.

You see right through me, Earl,
the gesture says.
You know what I really want.

It works. Earl, effectively disarmed, releases you. As soon as he does, you clamp down on his hand and twist until you have him in a wristlock. His legs buckle; his knees hit the floor with a loud crack. While the salesmen elbow one another—
Get a load of that!
—you crouch low and put your mouth up against Earl's ear.

“If you knock on my door,” you say, “I will knock you straight back to Lawton.”

The elevator bell sounds, and you let go of Earl's arm. You are exhilarated, suffering only the smallest twinge of guilt when Earl's son comes over to help him up off the floor. But when you get back to your room, you lock the door and prop a chair beneath the doorknob. For the next half hour, you think about the bath you'd like to take, but you can't get up the nerve to remove your clothes.

•    •    •

A phone call to Joe and two nights later, you are by his side in his DeSoto, rambling up the shell road to the property in Otherside. To his credit, he has not made you feel the least bit guilty about canceling a couple of matches and taking some time off. This morning, far removed from the episode by both time and distance, you wondered if calling Joe wasn't a rash decision. Now, you are grateful for it. Four weeks of touring as The Sweetheart have caught up to you. Your muscles are sore, your body bruised, your energy long gone. Now that you are here, all you want to do is crawl under the covers for the remainder of your stay. In fact, you are so exhausted that when you first spot a familiar car across the way, top down and ghostly in the moonlight, you are sure that you are seeing things. And yet, when you rub your eyes and look again, it is still miraculously there.

“Sam's here?”

“Uh-huh.” Joe slams his trunk closed. “I just happened to talk to him the other night and mentioned your little incident. Next thing I knew, he was here. Back injury, he says.”

It seems Earl has done for you what you could not do on your own—bring Sam back.

You are wide-awake now, rehearsing the words you weren't sure you'd ever get to say. Joe cannot leave fast enough. When Joe's taillights disappear completely, the door to Sam's room opens.

How many times have you been in this scene already, standing across from Sam, a doorway between you? In this version, he is a bigger presence than you remember, more disheveled and desirable, and you more desperate. Later, you will see how the intensity of this moment—the vulnerability, the anticipation—is not unlike the seconds before a match begins. This observation will be underscored by his next move: he clutches your shoulders and squeezes you in a grip that could crush bones.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Tell me you're okay.”

“I'm okay,” you say, grateful to be touched again, even in this death grip.

“Tell me what happened. I want to hear it from you.”

Once you are both settled into your room, you tell him a slightly embellished version of the story, one that makes the encounter seem harrowing enough to merit this response. He has come a long way, after all.

“Say that again,” Sam interrupts. “He called you
what
?”

Careful, Gwen. You want to stoke the fires, not set him aflame. “Cock tease,” you say, this time tempering slightly what you'd just repeated verbatim.

“Then what?”

Then, you handled it. It's too bad you can't share with Sam the feeling of triumph—
real
triumph—this gave you. But what good would that do? You have more to gain by his panic, so you skip this detail.

“Did you call the police?”

“No. I called Joe.”

Sam shakes his head. “He
followed
you. To your hotel.” He chops the air with his open hand as he lectures. “You should have filed a report.”

Maybe, but you're not so sure. The man was delusional, yes, and highly inappropriate, but ultimately harmless. Not that you are going to argue this point. The last thing you want is an argument, so the best thing to do is just let him play the wise protector.

“You're right,” you say, “and if it ever happens again, I will.”

The suggestion that this encounter might not be a one-off seems to set Sam's gears in motion. Before you know it, he is on his feet. “I should teach you something.” He begins rolling up his sleeves. “You can use it the next time you're in a real emergency. It will give you some time to get away.”

Your heart drops. So he is not here to reconcile. He has only come to protect you from the creeps of the world. This is not what you wanted to hear. You are hardly in need of another father figure. You have more than enough as it is.

“Show me tomorrow, Sam,” you say. “I'm too tired.”

“So am I,” he says. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “I haven't slept since Joe told me what happened. Now I won't sleep until I know that you know this hold.”

You try not to read too much into these emotions. You can always hope, but if you are going to do this, you should be ready to go through the motions and then say good night and good-bye.

“Okay,” you say, kicking off your shoes. “Show me.”

•    •    •

Sam fancies himself a
technical
or
scientific
wrestler. He takes great pride in describing for you the mechanisms by which the hold he wants to teach you—the sleeper hold—will work, how it puts pressure on the carotid arteries, resulting in unconsciousness. When you ask him to explain it again in regular words, he tells you it will cut off the blood to your assailant's brain until he passes out and drops like a stone.

“Now,” he says, rubbing his hands together before turning his back to you. “How about you give it a try.”

“No way.” He can't seriously think you're going to do this to him.

“It's okay. You're not going to hurt me.”

It's a pitiful sight: his chin lifted slightly, his throat vulnerable. You want to press your lips against that throat, not clamp down on it with all of your might. But there is no way for you to refuse him, not under these circumstances. No, there's only one thing to do: take a long, deep breath and get to work. You snake your right arm around his throat and pinch it in the crook of your elbow, just like he showed you, and then push against the arm with your left hand, applying additional pressure.

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?”