The Sweetheart (25 page)

“Why?” he asks, dropping the too-cool-for-school act and heading straight to five-alarm. “What happened?”

You tell him everything—the debacle with the photo shoot and the Go-to-Hell Girls, the lesson Mimi was so intent on delivering tonight, and your pathetic attempt at retaliation. To your relief and surprise, he doesn't dispense judgment. He simply listens, asks for your coordinates, and says he'll be there as soon as he can. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, his car rumbles into the unpaved lot and parks in front of your window, where you have been sitting for the better part of four hours, waiting. When he starts toward your door, you open it.

“I didn't think you'd still be up,” he says, pocketing his keys.

“I couldn't sleep.”

“No, I guess not.” He nods toward the room. “Let's go inside and talk about it.”

He is working hard, Gwen. You can hear the forced control in his voice; you can see the way he's avoiding your eyes. No doubt there is part of him that is glad for what has happened. He is as critical of your character as Mimi, if not more so. You suspect he would like to hear that you have learned a lesson—that you will do things differently from now on—but he knows better than to ask as much. For this, you are grateful. You are only just beginning to understand that Mimi is right: that while you might enjoy some privileges, you are not powerful. Real power cannot be so easily reduced. Even if these ideas were fully formed, you would not be ready to say them out loud to anyone, and certainly not him. So after you usher him into the room and close the door, you swallow hard and whisper, “I don't want to talk.”

Sam, surprised and sober-faced, sets down his suitcase. “You don't?”

“No.” You begin unbuttoning the flannel top of your pajamas. Talking is the last thing you want to do right now. What you need now is to know that the world is not so different from the place you imagined it to be. That you can still make things happen, that you can get what you need. That the formula still works.

TWENTY-THREE

T
wo days later, in the blistering heat of the late Florida afternoon, Sam's Crestline finally turns off the highway and rolls down the long stretch of road that leads to the Pospisil School for Lady Grappling. Mimi occupies all of the backseat, a rolled shirt beneath her head, her face fully shrouded by a scarf. She was understandably reluctant to share a lift with you, but Joe's imperative loomed large and the price was right, so here she is. There has been little from her on this drive other than the shifting of her body weight or the occasional request for a pit stop, and you have not solicited anything more. Only now, as the car decelerates, do you dare to speak to her directly. It seems a risk worth taking, given what you have seen.

“Look, Mimi,” you say. “Isn't that Johnny's car?”

Mimi sits up. Her eyes widen as she takes in the Hornet, which is parked in front of one of the cabins.

“I didn't know he would be here,” says Sam.

“Me neither,” says Mimi. “Which means he's gone and done something stupid.”

Sam pulls his car alongside Johnny's, and Mimi scrambles out before it's even parked. She bangs on the door closest to where the car is parked. “Johnny, open this door!” She keeps up this racket for what feels like forever while you watch through the windshield, too stunned to act.

“What does she mean by ‘something stupid'?” you ask Sam.

“I think we're about to find out,” he says. He steps out and props himself against the hood of his car. It's not clear if he is preparing to intervene or just wants a better view, but you follow suit, unsure of what else to do.

After some time, Johnny comes to the door, rubbing an eye. Before he can say a word, Mimi shoves him to the ground. “What the hell do you think you're doing here?” she yells. You turn toward the sound of footsteps. It seems she's attracting a crowd now; wrestlers and vacationing fishermen alike take tentative steps toward the commotion, craning their necks. A fruit fly leans against her doorjamb, a hand covering her mouth, and The Angel of Death jogs over from the gym, sweat sparkling on her bald head. Sam, on the other hand, isn't moving a muscle. This is still Mimi and Johnny's fight.

“I warned you,” Mimi says, spitting out the words.

Johnny, still sprawled on the ground, makes no effort to protect himself as she raises a knee, poising herself to stomp him in the stomach, but then a noise comes from the back of the room—the hesitant cries of a just-waking infant—and she stops cold. It seems this is the sign Sam was waiting for. When he moves in, you do the same. Sure enough, there's Junior, prone on the comforter, pushing himself up by his fat little baby arms, his oversize head full of mashed curls. Johnny clambers off the ground and scoops up the child. After whispering a few comforts to his son, Johnny walks the two of them over to Mimi and says something quietly to her, but then looks up and takes in the two of you just behind her, and then the crowd beyond.

“I didn't leave her,” he says, bouncing Junior on his hip, his voice booming so that all of you can hear. Everyone is already in on their soap opera, he seems to have decided. He may as well straighten out the facts. “She left us.”

“Show's over, folks,” calls Joe from the back of the crowd. “Go on. Back to your business, everybody.” He makes his way around a pair of fishermen, waves the fruit fly back into her room, and shoots a steely glare at The Angel of Death, who returns a humble smile before heading back to the gym. These small gestures carry the weight of authority with even the tourists; in ones and twos, all the bit players recede from the scene.

Joe points a finger at Johnny. “So now she's here. You have tonight to figure this mess out. I want to hear your plan first thing in the morning. I'm talking first thing. Crack of dawn. And then I want to talk to you”—he turns his finger on Mimi, and then on you—“and you. Meet me on the dock at nine o'clock. Do not, I repeat, do not keep me waiting. Is that clear?”

You and Sam exchange glances. You had made a tentative plan to accompany him to his next few bouts, with the understanding that the plan would have to be abandoned if Joe had already rebooked you. From the look on Sam's face, he is ready to admit that it's a lost cause, and that you will just have to hold out hope that you can join Sam for some of his Western tour. Better to mind your p's and q's now than to risk that.

“Clear,” you say, the sentiment echoing all around.

•    •    •

Later that evening, Sam stands against your bedroom wall, a glass pressed between it and his ear. As luck would have it, most of the cabins were full, and Betsy had no choice but to put you up in the room next to Johnny's, handing over the key with an apologetic smile. There is little more than cheap wooden paneling separating your room and his, which means the many rounds that he and Mimi have gone this evening have spilled over into your space. You and Sam have tried to give them their privacy, first with a long meal and then a stroll among the buildings. Now the mosquitoes have chased you inside, where the fight is impossible to ignore. Sam has dropped this pretense and put a glass up to the wall.

“I wish you wouldn't do that.”

“Come on. Don't tell me you're not curious.”

“Of course I am, but it's not my business.”

“No? Okay, then I won't tell you anything.”

But what could he possibly tell you that you can't hear for yourself? He hardly needs that glass; you can make out most of the details from where you are sitting, and with very little effort.

“It just makes more sense for Junior to stay here, with you. He's too little to be on the road, and besides, you're done with this tour. You said so yourself.”

“I said I'm done fighting Gwen. I didn't say I was done fighting.”

“It's just for a month.”

“Just a month? Are you listening to yourself?”

“What if you just kept the gigs
where you don't have to stay overnight? You can ask one of those new girls to watch him on match nights. Hell, they'd probably think you were doing them a favor.”

“I don't understand why you can't take him back to your mother's.”

“And I don't understand why I have to keep telling you that it ain't gonna happen. She's not exactly my biggest fan right now.”

“And I am? You're not exactly asking for peanuts here, mister.”

“Please, Mimi. I can't afford to cancel this tour. I really need you now.
”

“What kind of idiot do you take me for, Johnny? You think I don't know what you're doing? You think I don't know how this plays out? First it's a couple of bookings, then one tour, then another, until taking care of Junior is my whole damn life. Until I'm just like Lacey. And then what? Then you get bored of me, too.”

“Is that it? Is that my big plan? I ruined Lacey's life, and now I'm going to ruin yours? Jesus, Mimi. How can you think so little of me? I know I messed up. I messed up. I get it. But I love you. I messed up because I love you.”

For a long while, nothing comes from the other side of the wall. It isn't hard to picture the scene over there: Johnny standing over the bed, Mimi lying across it, the baby asleep beside her, the whole room damp with tears and sweat and hazy with cigarette smoke. You feel a need to fill the vacuum created by their silence, and so you tiptoe over to Sam, press your ear not to the wall but to his shoulder, and lace your fingers through his. He puts the glass down and looks over at you, gathering his thoughts.

“I can't believe Lacey left,” he whispers. “I knew she knew. But I didn't think . . .”

His voice trails off. Instead of finishing his sentence, he squeezes your hand, leans his head against the wall, and sighs.

“One month,”
says Mimi from the other side of the wall, her voice muted but crystal clear.
“I'll keep him this tour. But after that, it's over. And I don't just mean Junior. I'm talking about us
.
”

“Mimi—”

“I'm serious, Johnny.”
Mimi sounds as calm and resolved as you've ever heard her.

“I don't get it. Why now?”

“I told you what this was. I never signed on for anything more. I'll help out now because you're in a spot, and I helped get you there, but I don't owe you anything more than that.”
A door opens.
“I suggest you start figuring out what you're going to do when this tour is over,”
she says, and then the door closes.

You and Sam walk silently over to the bed's edge and sit side by side, staring at the paneled wall as if it's a screen that has only momentarily gone blank, that might roar back to life any second so that the story can play out to some more satisfying resolution. You are desperate to hear some truth that is greater than the ones you have learned tonight—life is messy, love is fragile, and in the end, everything is bound to get messed up. But there are only the sounds of footsteps muted by carpet, of water running in the sink, of drawers opening and closing. When the room finally goes quiet, Sam pats you on the thigh.

“That will never be us, will it?”

“You mean Johnny and Lacey or Johnny and Mimi?”

“Either. Both.”

“No,” you say, but you are not so sure. You have proven yourself capable of outrageousness time and again. More importantly, you have something in common with the two women at the heart of this calamity. You understand that personal and professional ambitions don't always align. These have already caused a number of rifts in your short relationship with Sam, the last one mended just days ago. You don't know what lies ahead. The only givens are that tomorrow, you will endure another lecture from Joe and say good-bye to Sam yet again. There is no telling how long this next absence will last, when you might fight again, or how either of these things might affect the other.

•    •    •

The next morning, you cross through the empty parking lot—Sam and Johnny are both well down the road, headed toward their respective matches—and arrive at the dock at the preordained time. Mimi is already there, her legs dangling over the end, one arm propping up her body, the other securing Junior to her lap. She acknowledges your arrival with a quick nod before returning her attention to the water.

Waves slap against the dock, delicately at first and then with increasing momentum. You hear the motor before you see the boat, which curves around the bend in the river, slows down, and idles up to the dock. Joe, dressed in a flannel shirt and looking older than ever—when did he get all those liver spots?—lifts his hat and silently lassoes the rocking boat to the pylon.

“Morning, Gwen,” he says. “Mimi. How's motherhood treating you?”

Mimi blows a few fallen strands of hair out of her face more forcefully than necessary. “Sit on it, Joe.”

Joe chuckles. Perhaps he is taking some pleasure in Mimi receiving what probably seems like just deserts.

“Let's put this mess aside for now and talk business.” He hoists himself out of the boat, groaning with old-man effort, and situates himself between you. “It seems you two have decided that you can't be in a ring together. I am inclined to agree. Recent evidence does suggest that it is almost always a catastrophe. So I have split the remaining matches between you and booked new opponents. Gwen, you'll get the Carolina bouts that are coming up, and Mimi, you'll take a little break and then cover the Georgia ones. I am, however, going to ask the two of you to keep one match I just booked.”

“Go on,” says Mimi.

“It's all set for next month, in Memphis. Winner heads to a title bout.”

You turn to Joe. “What title?”

“
The
title.” Joe holds a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the still-rising sun. “I told you. All things come to those who wait.”

Mimi nods. You can tell she is trying not to look as excited as she feels, if only because you are doing the same. The Women's World Championship: it hardly seems possible. It was less than a year ago when you opened Joe's letter with its implicit promise—
with hard work and a little luck
—and that glossy of Mildred Burke and the belt, which you promptly tacked up behind your bedroom door. It isn't hard to go from that image to one of you in the same pose, wearing the same belt. You need that belt. That belt would validate just about everything.

“You want to tell us how you finagled that one?” asks Mimi.

It is not like Joe to explain his backroom dealings to the talent, but this is not your average backroom deal. It seems this one was negotiated by the reigning champion herself. Mildred was the one who stopped by on her way back to Atlanta one morning; Mildred was the one who made the pitch. Joe could book one of his girls against her (for a match Mildred was slated to win), and—for a price, of course—she'd job the match but act like her opponent shot it. Yes, Joe would have to take some heat from the NWA for insubordination. There would probably be sanctions—difficulty booking his new champion, perhaps—but Mildred convinced him that the fury would die down quickly, that it was worth the risk. Everyone would be relieved to have this whole championship matter resolved, she said, and ultimately, all they would care about was selling tickets. Joe had certainly proved that his girls could do that.

“I don't get it,” you say. “Why now?”

“Why?” says Joe. “Better me than Billy, that's why.”

It seems Burke had finally agreed to wrestle Wolfe's champion, June Byers, sometime during the summer. Mildred wasn't born yesterday. She knows June will shoot the match and probably win. So, according to Joe, she's decided to take what she can: a fraction of her deposit on the belt, and the satisfaction of sticking it to her ex-husband. Joe makes it clear that he didn't exactly leap at the prospect of doing business in just this manner, but after he and Leo chewed on it for a night, he decided the opportunity was too good to pass up. Yesterday, he made the calls: one to Mildred to confirm, and the other to the Memphis promoter to schedule two matches.