The Sweetheart (27 page)

That's all well enough and good. You have your own business to attend to.

Your first instinct is to set a match to the envelope without even looking inside, but then something gets the better of you. At the very least, you should confirm that you have gotten what you set after. In the privacy of your room, you flip on the light, slip a finger in the opening beneath the flap, and tug. Sure enough, there you are—Betsy Mahoney and the famous Gwen. I can only imagine what other people would think if they saw these pictures. I don't believe anyone in your life or mine—not Joe or Spider, not Sis or the Turnip, and most certainly not Franz—is capable of understanding what was happening in that moment, how important it was to you and Betsy to be seen in this way, by this man, whose appreciation for your sexuality did not diminish his esteem or your dignity. For you, it was a beginning; for her, a woman whose husband can no longer look at her in this way, it was something lost restored.

Here is the thing that triggers a short but Technicolor flood of memories—shaking Henderson's shockingly large hand at your first meeting; spending the evening in the backseat of the Hornet, getting lost in
The Price of Salt
; drinking tea in his home, which he served with remarkable refinement and gentility; discovering something in his gaze that made the whole world shift. One of the more vivid of these is when, toward the end of your photo shoot, Monster asked you what you thought of
The Price of Salt.
The truth was you hadn't finished it. You'd abandoned it shortly after Sam made you lose all concentration. But instead of saying this, you heeded Betsy's advice to maintain Monster's fantasy and said,
I liked it.

Me, too,
he said.
Especially the ending. The world needs more happy endings.

These words stay with you as you walk out past the cabins to the wooded area, dig a shallow pit with your hands, and drop the flaming envelope inside. Tomorrow, you will resume what is left of your tour. Beyond that is a possible meet-up with Sam on the West Coast and a definite head-to-head with Mimi for a shot at the most coveted trophy in women's wrestling. It seems that you are headed toward your happy ending, thanks in some small part to David Henderson, who not only took these pictures but was considerate enough to see they were returned to your hands. Grief catches in your throat and stays lodged there as the photos turn to ash. For the rest of your life, you will feel grateful for this moment of sadness, this sense of loss. Without it, the loss of this man might have seemed little more than an event that led to other events. No death should be reduced to so little.

TWENTY-FIVE

T
hree weeks later, you walk across the water-guzzling green lawn of the El Rancho Vegas, past the lake-size pool, and on to the Opera House, where you are wrestling in a series of special girls-only matches against a masked opponent billed as Fury Hysteria. A few days ago, after you met all your obligations in the Carolinas, you boarded a plane for the first time in your life and made your way here. Recently El Rancho's owner, Beldon Katleman, spent a mint trading out the resort's western decor, which mostly attracted local yokels and residency-­establishing divorce seekers, for snazzier stuff in order to compete with the Flamingo and the Desert Inn. Now, he needs an act salacious enough to lure patrons southward down the Strip. He dreamed up this experiment after catching your performance on
I've Got a Secret.
When he called Joe to make the arrangements, he requested you by name.

Well, sort of.

“I think they called her The Sweetness or something,” he'd said. “You know who I mean. The blonde. The one with the legs and the jugs.”

And that's the limit of his interest in you. It's why most bookers hire you, of course, but the fact that you have been hired for a very specific purpose has never been this explicit, this, er, naked. There is hardly even the pretense of sport in the advertisements, the costumes, or the recommended choreography. And while one might say there is more honesty in this transaction than most, you sorely miss the little lies that make all of this seem better than it is. Without them, it is much harder to hold on to the strings you've been grasping since DC, the ones that allow you to justify your persona to the Gorgeous Girls, to Sam, to yourself.

It is a sleazy gig, but you can hardly blame Joe. He would have been happy to take a pass, especially now that Memphis is a go. But you were eager to catch up with Sam, who was already booked for the week in California, and the money Katleman offered justified the cost of a cross-country plane ticket. Now, it is almost over; this is your last night here as a hired hand. And not just that—Sam will arrive tonight. He's supposed to get in sometime after his last match (too late, thankfully, to catch your performance; you can just imagine what he might say). After that, it's one more night here in Vegas to rest and regroup, and then you're back on the road together, wrestling your way across the country to the big night. You are desperately ready to see him, and yet not ready at all. In all your phone conversations, you have yet to make clear what is at stake in Memphis. You half expected one Pospisil or another to clue him in, do your dirty work for you, but so far, nothing doing. It seems you are just going to have to tell him yourself.

It is not going to be an easy conversation; that much you know. There's been little talk of long-term plans, but Sam is clearly on a mission to get you both off the road. He will not see any advantage to more attention or bigger purses. There is no way to break the news that he won't take as hostile, and no way to avoid having a fight or, worse, having to make a terrible choice.

The stage manager knocks on your door. It is time to leave your concerns behind you, to be revisited after the match—and this whole sleazy gig—are over. When that time comes, you can rehearse ways to share the big news.

You and your opponent, whose room is across from yours, exit at the same time. Fury is short, thin but loose-skinned, as if she's recently lost a great deal of weight, and probably a decade older than you. Her stomach is scored by a long, faint brown line. Her suit is surprisingly smaller than yours, the halter top low-plunging, the briefs cut below the navel. The suit is black, like her boots and her mask, which covers half her face and the top of her head.

“Ready for one more night of slap-ass?” she says.

“Am I ever.” You search the exposed part of her face for some sign of familiarity. You are quite certain you might recognize her if you saw her without her mask, but you haven't been able to catch her coming or going, as you've been keen to do ever since the first match. At that initial meeting, while the two of you waited offstage to make your entrance, you asked,
Where have I seen you before?
Not anywhere she could think of; she knew of you but seemed sure that you hadn't met. Still, you gave her a brief summary of your career, so if there was a point of crossing, she might find it, but she didn't—it seemed she was just returning to wrestling after retiring prematurely and before your time. Still, you couldn't help but be curious.

The stage manager puts his arms around you both and says, “Ladies, let's try to give 'em something special tonight, shall we?”

“Maybe you should explain what you mean by ‘special,' ” says Fury.

“Oh, I don't know. Perhaps something a little more—playful. Fewer holds, a little more rolling around. You know. More like—”

“A pillow fight,” she volunteers, stony faced.

“If you like,” he says, his smile broad.

“If that's what you want,” you say, “then you don't need professional wrestlers.”

“Maybe not. I'll keep that in mind for next time. But if you could just indulge me for one more night, that would be terrific.” He claps you both on the shoulder. “Thanks, ladies. Break a leg.”

When he is gone, you turn to Fury. “Can you believe this guy?”

She sighs. “I can't afford to upset anyone. I just signed on to do two more weeks of these. I need the room for that long and I can't pay for it without this job.”

Fury follows the stage manager down the hallway and takes her mark. You have half a mind to go right back inside your dressing room. The silliness of this week has made all of the most defensible claims for your profession difficult to remember. But there is something about her sigh that makes you swallow hard and follow her down the hallway.

Fury Hysteria is called to the stage before you, and she enters the ring with a wry smile and a convincing, hip-slinging strut, all traces of defeat left backstage. Once she's through the ropes, she begins juicing the crowd with some calisthenics that make the roundest parts of her body shake and jiggle. Seeing that smile, you feel better about tonight, about her. Like you, she knows the score. Perhaps this is the only attitude to have, you think. The way to keep these acts from being degrading is to insist that they aren't and act accordingly.

Like many of your matches, this one begins in ref's hold, but one that is decidedly more intimate: instead of firmly holding each other's shoulders, your hands are at the back of each other's necks, your faces close together. A kiss, it suggests, is imminent. But there can be nothing so straightforward, of course.

Instead, Fury reaches back and slaps you good. She makes contact, and there's a bit of a sting to it, but, as you fall back and against the ropes, you make a face designed to assure your audience that this is largely for dramatic effect, just part of the spectacle.

Before long, the two of you are in the requested position: horizontal on the mat, arms embraced, legs entwined, your bodies barrel rolling over one another, all of which has very little to do with any actual wrestling maneuver. (Just try to imagine Sam or Johnny in such a position. Can't do it, can you?) When, finally, it seems the whoops and catcalls are wearing thin, you decide it is time for this silliness to end, so you roll on top and sit up, your arms pushing hers down by her side. She offers little resistance.

While you are in this position, it occurs to you that you could pull off her mask here, in front of the audience. It would be a fitting end to this series, wouldn't it? You reach down and grab the tip of one of the ears in your fingers.

Suddenly, Fury is alive and dead serious. She grabs your arm, forces it back with a steeliness you didn't know she possessed. “I don't think so,” she says, and puts her legs around you, rolls you to the side and over, until she is on top, but only briefly. You easily roll her off and over. From your respective corners, the two of you get up slowly.

It's time to get this over with. Then you can get out of here and move on to the bigger and better things that await you. You leap at Fury's bottom half where, instead of simply taking her by the waist, as you might ordinarily, you thrust your head between her legs and force her onto her back. Once she is down, you somersault over her and land a bit more provocatively than you intend with your briefs on her chest. Your instinct is to scramble backward. You can maneuver enough to turn around so your back is facing her, but that's as far as you get. She musters enough strength to twist until your shoulders are pinned to the mat.

“How about that?” she says after the ref calls it, her voice barely audible above the din. She looks out at the audience, as do you. Because of the stage lights, it is impossible to see faces, but you can hear their loud approval. A much more earnest smile breaks out on her face. “Maybe I still got a little something.” But the smile is short-lived, disappearing after she sees the ref's gesture for her to adjust her top. Somewhere in the melee, it became twisted, exposing part of her breast, and, realizing this, she turns away to shield herself. On any other occasion, such an occurrence might result in a fine, or renewed threats from the local athletic commission, but tonight, it is exactly the special something the stage manager had been hoping for, and his smile picks up where hers left off.

•    •    •

Later, when you hear a knock on your dressing room door, you've only just returned to street clothes. It is still early, and you haven't begun to rehearse your speech to Sam. You are too busy rehashing tonight's match. When you open the door, a young man gives you a suspicious look. “Are you—” He looks you up and down. “Geez, lady, I hardly recognized you. You sure look different.”

No doubt. The lightweight slacks and ballerina flats you are wearing are a far cry from The Sweetheart's pencil skirt and stilettos. You want to enjoy your last dinner here in the famed Opera House, not hide away in your bungalow for yet another meal; and to ensure that you'll dine without interruption, you've reserved a table for Leigh Kramer—your
Secret
identity—and donned your most androgynous duds. You've even gone so far as to hide your trademark hair under the Musette. After all these years in storage, it deserves a night out. The whole ensemble feels surprisingly good, effortless even. You can see yourself spending more time in it. When the boy continues to stand there, stupefied, you clear your throat and ask what you can do for him.

“Right. Sorry. There's a gentleman waiting for you in the dining room. He asked me to take your stuff back to your room.” He points to your satchel, inside of which your Sweetheart accoutrements are packed safely away. “Is that everything?”

“Yes,” you say, handing over the bag and following him down the hallway, which has quickly crowded with be-feathered dancers exiting the stage after their just-completed dance number, and into the recently froufroued dining area. How long has Sam been here? Not long enough to catch your act, you hope. As if tonight's conversation isn't going to be difficult enough. Speaking of which, you should be spending these precious minutes thinking about just what you might say, not fretting over an event that you can't possibly change now.

The young man points you toward a far corner, but it still takes a minute of scouring to find Spider. There he is, sitting alone at a table in the front-center of the theater. “Sit, sit,” he says when you reach the table, and stands to pull out the chair beside him. If he saw your performance, surely there would be a note of sourness—and, more likely, he would have something to say about it—but instead, he is smiling intently. Perhaps he arrived too late. “Are you hungry?” He motions for the waiter, but waves off the menu he is offered. “You want a steak? They're supposed to have a great filet here. Two filets, medium rare, and a martini for me. You want a martini? Two martinis.”

Sam is a marvel, a flurry of action: you have no idea what's going on with him.

“Hope you don't mind this table,” he says. “Normally, I don't like to be so close to a stage, but it seemed a bit more private.” He cocks his head to one side, makes a face. “You're awfully quiet. Everything okay?”

“I guess I'm just surprised,” you say, leaning across the table.

Sam claps his hands and rubs them together, causing the flame on the tea light to flicker. “I've got news.”

“Really?” Sam's giddiness fuels your own sense of playfulness, so, in the absence of any clear game plan, you mimic his gesture. “So do I.”

“Do you? Okay. Ladies first.”

“Mine can wait,” you say, stalling. “Let's hear yours first.”

The drinks arrive. Sam plucks an olive from its toothpick and crunches it to smithereens. “I'm going to lose.”

Lose? What does he mean,
lose
? Lose the
belt
? “I'm sorry? Is that good news?”

“Are you kidding? It's
great
news. I'm a free man. I can sleep in my bed, cook in my kitchen. I can start taking over more of Pop's end of things.” He reaches across the table, takes your hand. “I can settle down.”

And there it is. You cup the back of your neck with your hand and force a smile; it's clear that there's no way this is going to go well. How would that work, you zigzagging across the country while he stays hunkered down in Cleveland? You take a sip of your martini for courage, but it only makes you nauseous. You should know better than to drink when your stomach is empty and your head is scrambled.

“I might not get to see much of you anymore,” you venture, eyes glued to the tablecloth.

Sam squeezes your hand. “You would if you came with me.”

You retract your hand to your lap, where he can't get to it. “You mean quit.”

He is clearly surprised by your resistance, but he presses on, dips his head down low, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Yes. I'd like you to stay with me and let me take care of you.”