The Sweetheart (20 page)

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 alarmed. 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

B
efore 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.”

“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?”