The Sweetheart

by Angelina Mirabella

  You pinch off a bite, pop it into your mouth, and close your eyes: yum.

  “Pretty nice of me, giving you my last MoonPie.”

  What can you say to that? Not much. Maybe you’ve been a little rash, but if he thinks you’re going to be reassured with snacks, he is sadly mistaken.

  “You can’t be comfortable out here,” he says. “Why don’t you come sleep in the bed for the rest of the night? I’ll take the car.”

  “Don’t be silly.” You look over the bench seat, point to his tented legs. “You don’t fit in here.”

  “And you do? Come on, Gwen. You’re making me feel like a jerk.”

  “It was my choice.”

  “What are you going to do? Sleep in the car the whole way up?”

  “Of course not.” No, your plan is to stubbornly hemorrhage money. “I’ll get my own room next time.”

  He makes a face at this—brows pinched, lips turned out—as if trying to determine what it is he doesn’t know that would help all of this make sense to him. He takes a stab: “Are you worried about what your boyfriend will think?”

  What you should say is this: “I don’t have a boyfriend.” But what you say, reflexively and carelessly, is this: “Yeah. Like I’ve ever had a boyfriend.”

  Spider cocks his head. His dark eyes flash as he registers this new information. “Really?”

  In the car, you’d managed, however imprecisely, to give the impression of being someone with comparable experience in this realm. Sure, you’ve probably already tarnished this image by taking up residency in the Hornet, but now, with this admission, you have confirmed that you are not only young and naive but also incredibly pathetic. The last thing you want to do is have a conversation about your nonexistent love life, so you give the shortest, most benign answer you possibly can: “Really.” Then, curious, you say, “You’ve probably had a lot of girlfriends.”

  “More than I would like.” Spider sighs. “What I really want is to go on my last first date. But that’s not going to happen anytime soon. For most chicks, this going out on the road thing gets old fast.” There is weariness in his voice when he says this, and, for a minute, it looks like he might say more, but then he changes his mind, steers away from this downer of a topic, perks up. “What if I tell you a secret? Maybe then you’ll know you can trust me.”

  “Depends,” you say, sorry that you ever thought him capable of ill intent and glad that, despite his new knowledge about you, he has continued to grace you with his company.

  “My name isn’t actually Spider McGee.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I know. Hard to believe, but true. My real name is Sam. Samuel Pospisil.”

  Pospisil? “You mean—”

  “Yep. Joe’s my uncle. Leo’s my dad.”

  How about that: a bona fide member of the Pospisil dynasty. “Why is that a secret?”

  “It never helps things, in my experience, when people know. They do”—he points out the windshield at the teepee Mimi and Johnny currently occupy—“but most people don’t, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it just between us.”

  Just between us. You like the sound of that. It’s not like you’ve been entrusted with government secrets or anything, but it is nice to be taken into his confidence, even in this small way. Maybe he does think you a little naive, but perhaps he hasn’t written you off altogether. The right thing to do, it seems, is return the gesture.

  “Mine’s Leonie. Leonie Putzkammer.”

  Spider—Sam—closes his eyes. “Leonie Putzkammer,” he exhales. “Leonie, Leonie, Leonie.”

  I can’t be sure of his motives on this evening, if the feelings he will develop for you are already taking shape. But your revelation has led to this tender reward—the whispering of your name, as if he’s holding it delicately in his hands, leaving room for it to breathe—and it pulls you toward him with the force of gravity. Whatever has happened, it feels like intimacy to you, and this rare and fleeting taste of it makes you hungry for more.

  “I should get to bed.” Sam puts a hand on the door handle. “Sure you want to stay out here?”

  There is nothing you’d like more than to go with him, to toss off more of your boundaries and reservations in pursuit of this feeling. But you are paralyzed by the same fear that sent you to this car and a stubborn need to save face, so you nod.

  Sam slides back down the bench seat, lets himself out, and, before closing the door, says, “Can’t say I didn’t try.” Once he has disappeared from sight, you brush the chocolate crumbs off your chest, pick up your flashlight and book, and flip to where you left off, with the arrival of Therese’s Christmas card in Carol’s mailbox, signed only with her employee number. But instead of moving forward, you read the same page over and over again, unable to absorb the words, too preoccupied with the sound of your name—Leonie, Leonie, Leonie—and the man who spoke it.

  NINE

  Nineteen fifty-three might well turn out to be a perfect season for Cleveland’s resident NFL team. That’s the word from Sam, at least. As he pilots Johnny’s car toward the stadium on this mid-November Sunday, he rattles off both recent history and future predictions, more than you care to know about Automatic Otto Graham and the thorough routing he expects today of the San Francisco 49ers to keep the Browns’ undefeated season alive. “I’m telling you, Leonie,” he says, pulling into a parking spot, “this is our year.”

  “Sounds like it,” you say, but you haven’t a clue, really. You are just happy to be here, with him. In your weeks together on the road, Sam was a pleasant fixture in your life. He was easy company in the back of the car and over prematch sandwiches or postmatch drinks, which loosened you both up enough to talk freely of your lives. When money finally grew so tight that you had no choice but to share a room, these conversations went late into the night. It felt like you were unspooling parts kept tightly coiled. But then, shortly after the four of you rolled into Cleveland, he disappeared back into his life, leaving you semistranded in a strange city and, worse, abruptly ending what you’d foolishly assumed was courtship. It was only Johnny’s eagerness for an afternoon with Mimi, and the ready alibi that the game provided, that made this ticket available to you. Still, when Sam stopped by your dressing room and asked if you wanted Johnny’s ticket to the game, you accepted, not entirely sure what game he was talking about but grateful for one more afternoon with him. You tell yourself that this is only an opportunity for a proper good-bye, nothing more, but you can’t quite fool yourself. In your heart of hearts, you still hope.

  Sam comes around to open your door, offers his arm, and escorts you into quite possibly the worst place to be if you want to survive a Cleveland winter: the bleachers of Cleveland Municipal Stadium. In this exposed section positioned in the gap between the ends of the horseshoe-shaped stadium, you feel particularly vulnerable to the winds blowing off of nearby Lake Erie.

  “This has got to be the coldest place on earth,” you say.

  “Trust me, it gets worse,” he says, lacing his fingers together in front of him. “This stadium is the pits.”

  “Is it? I don’t have anything to compare it to.” You pinch the neck of your coat together in your fist and try to burrow down into its collar. “I’m not much of a sports fan.”

  Sam laughs. “That’s pretty funny, coming from an athlete.”

  Much of the first half goes this way, your conversations centered on the smallest of subjects: the temperature, the crowd, and, of course, the action on the field. It is a stark and disappointing contrast from the cozy chitchat of the road. Sam talks endlessly about the game—explaining rules and penalties, describing plays and their justifications—but you don’t have a lot of interest, and it’s hard to fake it. But just when you are ready to abandon hope, he changes tack, mercifully ditching the narration and asking, “So, you’ve been in Cleveland for what, three nights now? What do you think o
f our fair city?”

  “Seems okay to me,” you say, hoping he doesn’t ask for a more precise description. The truth is, you haven’t ventured beyond the corner diner, which limits your understanding of your current locale to lake-­effect snow and chicken paprikash.

  “Oh, yeah? What have you been up to?”

  If only there was something to tell. Mostly, you’ve been holed up in your hotel room, listening to the radio and feeling blue. But in this time, you’ve grown enamored of Alan Freed, King of the Moondoggers, and you say as much. This admission prompts him to entertain you with the tale of his harrowing experience at the Moondog Coronation Ball, which you follow with your own mishap on Bandstand. This exchange feels more like the return to form you were hoping for, which prompts you to share some of the human details you might otherwise keep under wraps: your loneliness in the stands, the humiliation of getting passed off by Freddy. It feels a little risky, sharing this with him, but he rewards you for it with his attentiveness. He seems to like this version of you, as do you. If only you could always be so easy and pleasant, so charmingly self-deprecating.

  When you finish your story, Sam slides toward you on the bench, and suddenly, the possibility of Something Happening seems very real. You are more than ready for it, whatever form it takes—an arm around your shoulders, a hand on your knee, even (dare you imagine?) a kiss. Anything is welcome. When his face moves toward yours, the rest of the world peels away.

  “Leonie,” he breathes, “what’s a nice girl like you doing wrestling?”

  This is not what you were hoping for. It takes a moment to return to the present, to find your voice and use it. “I want to be the champion. Same as everybody else, I guess.”

  A savvier gal would understand this is not what he wants to hear. If you had been paying attention these last few weeks, you might have picked up on the fact that he is indifferent to wrestling, that he is only following his father’s plan for him to learn the family business from the bottom up. He is merely hanging on until he makes it to the other side, where he can wake up each morning in the city he loves, wear a suit to work, and serve as his father’s right hand. And if you were not just savvy but worldly, you would see the conflict here, enjoy the afternoon for what it is, and move on with your life—without him. But you are you, hopelessly clueless and overly smitten, which means you have no idea what you have said.

  Sam looks at you for a long time, as if carefully measuring his words before cutting them from the cloth. Eventually, he straightens up and smiles in a way that is not unfriendly, but not exactly encouraging, either.

  “Not everybody,” he says quietly. “I guess that’s one more way we’re different.”

  Something worrisome happens on the field that gets everyone on their feet, including Sam, which gives you a blessed minute to hide in a cave of legs while you process what he has said. I guess that’s one more way we’re different. That can only mean one thing: he liked you well enough to do the math, but found you didn’t add up. You wish you didn’t know this. If he had merely disappeared, as it first seemed he would, you could have convinced yourself you’d misunderstood, that any connection was all in your imagination. Now you are left to mull over all the ways you might have come up short.

  I can’t be sure about Sam’s calculations, of course, but from what I have come to know of him, and men in general, I might guess that he has come to a reasonable conclusion: you are not the right girl for him. More likely, he is looking for a girl who is a little more traditional, someone who won’t object to frying up the bacon he brings home. That glorious, imposing figure of yours probably isn’t helping matters, either. As you will soon learn, he can be overprotective. No, what he needs is a girl who is pretty enough—who needs ribbing from the guys?—but not so pretty that she often lands the attention of a man’s wandering eye. You might not notice how men react when you come into view, but he’s sure to have taken note and guessed that getting involved with you would mean for him a perpetual brawl with the rest of the male world. In short, he knows himself. This will be true for you, too, someday. Just not today.

  Above you, the murmurs grow more frantic. When you stand up to see what the hubbub is about, Sam says, “This is heartbreaking.”

  “What is?” you ask, hopeful beyond reason.

  He points to the field, where a player—14, Browns—is being helped off the field. The quarterback, Sam informs you. That sleazebag Michalik elbowed him in the face.

  Sam adds his voice to the worried mumblings of the crowd. What will this mean for their promising season? Since you, having no investment in this player, this team, or this sport, have little to contribute, you drift off into your own more self-centered melancholy while he starts sinking into the collective one of the crowd. “This is it,” he says. “I can feel it. This is the beginning of the end.”

  Your sentiments exactly.

  As the end of the half slips into halftime, you are so deep in your thoughts that you almost don’t hear a voice say, “Pardon me.” When you turn around, you find a married couple standing nearby. The husband sports a gruff bit of stubble and a tweed driving cap, while the wife holds a pen and pocket-sized pad. “Could we get an autograph?” asks the man. “The missus is a big fan.”

  “Really?” you ask, grateful to these blessed souls for salvaging what would otherwise be a miserable afternoon. “You want my autograph?”

  The woman hesitates, and her husband says, “Actually, ma’am, we were asking Spider here. No offense, of course.”

  “Oh, no, of course,” you say, shoving your hands deep into your pockets. “My mistake.”

  While Sam takes the pen, you stare at your feet and wait for the heat to drain out of your cheeks. Maybe this should be your strategy for the rest of the day: keep your eyes down and your trap shut. That way, nothing else will blow up in your face.

  Once they are gone, you shake your head. “I’m an idiot.”

  Sam laughs. “Why?” he says. “Because you expect everyone to know that you’re the hottest thing in lady wrestling? That you’ve razzed every audience in Ohio and the Southeast, and now you’re about to do it across the nation? Listen here, Gwen. Those folks are going to kick themselves one day when they realize what they did.”

  “Those people don’t even know who I am.”

  Sam puts his hands on your shoulders and says, “Then those people can just get bent.”

  You shouldn’t let this get your hopes up. If Sam still had any romantic interest in you, he would probably be annoyed by your eagerness for attention. The fact that he is ready to humor your desires and bolster your confidence suggests he is prepared to be your fan, maybe even your friend, but nothing more. But you hear only earnest praise, and this gives you something to cling to. There is still time. Perhaps you can convince him he has not considered all the variables.

  When more fans approach with pens and pads, Sam draws you in and says in a low voice, “Want to get out of here?”

  “Yes!” You cross your arms over your chest and clutch yourself. “It’s miserable out here. I don’t know how you can stand it.”

  Sam helps you down the bleachers, escorting you away from the spot where you both might have witnessed history: Graham will return to the field with fifteen stitches and a helmet wrapped with plastic, and the Browns will continue their season’s winning streak. Not a big loss for a girl with an aversion to team sports, but one that is sure to plague Sam for years to come. Thankfully, something he might find equally memorable is about to come of it.

  Before you can make it safely out of the stadium, a voice calls out, “Hey, Spider! Spider, wait up!” Jogging up behind you isn’t another autograph hound but a twitchy young man wearing what looks like his father’s sports coat and fedora, a camera in his hands. When he catches up, he points to the press credentials stuck in his hatband. “Can I get a picture of the two of you for the PD?”

 
“Fine,” says Sam, who turns and asks, “You?”

  Once you nod your approval, he leaves his arm outstretched until you join his side and he can rest a supportive arm around your shoulders. It fits beautifully there, even better than you might have guessed. Emboldened, you place your arm around his waist and hold firm. “Thanks, Spider,” says the reporter, letting the camera dangle about his neck while he reaches inside his jacket for a notebook and pencil. “And what’s the young lady’s name?”

  “I’m Gorgeous Gwen Davies,” you say, suddenly bristling with bravado. “The hottest thing in lady wrestling.”

  The reporter, his smile forced, his eyes flecked with annoyance, turns to you. “Is that so?”

  “It is,” says Sam. He presses a finger into the man’s notebook. “Write it down.”

  First, there was the cheerleading, then his arm around you, and now this. It is hard to stand still; every physiological response in your body is in overdrive. This feeling is just too good to let slip into good night, and good luck, roll credits. No, you have to try. The quarterback might be out, but that doesn’t mean you can’t throw your own Hail Mary.

  The reporter does as he’s told, but he will take some creative license before the words make it into the paper. The next morning, under a messy newsprint photograph in which the both of you have brilliant, open-mouthed smiles, there will be this sentence: Also in attendance was one of professional wrestling’s hottest couples, Spider McGee and Gorgeous Gwen Davies. In the years to come, every time you see the clipping, you will wonder whether this was something the photographer intuited or something he set into motion, if that glare of his wasn’t the toppling domino, the car spinning on black ice that made Sam defensive, and you, in turn, uncharacteristically bold. Because the moment the reporter is gone, you burn up the last of your bravado by smashing your mouth into Sam’s.