The Sweetheart

by Angelina Mirabella

  Now, a different noise from the audience: a long, low, collective whoaaaaaaaaa!

  “You heard it right here, folks. Miss Kramer says she’d have no trouble taking on our friend Henry. I’d venture to guess she could take on just about any man, for that matter. There. That should be another clue for you, Henry.”

  “Do you usually take on men, Miss Kramer?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Other women, perhaps?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when you do this, do you often wear considerably less clothing?”

  More snickering.

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Would you consider providing me with a demonstration in”—he checks his watch—“six more minutes? In my dressing room, perhaps?”

  “All right, all right. Have you guessed it or not, Henry?”

  “Sure, I’ve guessed it. Why, she’s the future Mrs. Henry Morgan!”

  It takes several minutes for Garry to collect himself and rein in his audience as well. Even Kitty has a hard time concealing her amusement.

  “That’s enough, you mongrel. Leigh, tell them what you do.”

  “I am a professional wrestler.”

  There’s no more laughter now, just polite applause. Before this moment, the sound of applause has never meant anything to you other than earnest admiration. This is the first time it has the sting of derision.

  “That’s right, folks,” Garry continues. “Kramer isn’t her name, it’s Davies. Miss Gwen Davies, also known as The Sweetheart! Wrestling aficionados can see her next on Saturday, April 3, at Turner Arena in Washington, DC, when she takes on Screaming Mimi Hollander.”

  It’s over now, the questioning. If only that were it. But now here comes the part of the show when the person with the secret displays her talent and encourages the other panelists to give it a go. Today, that means you’ll have the supreme pleasure of showing off a few basic moves. Toward that purpose, Garry escorts you out of your seat and back toward the curtains, which are pulled back to reveal—you guessed it!—a wrestling ring.

  “Now, folks, Miss Davies has very graciously agreed to show us a few tricks of the trade. So, Gwen, why don’t you climb on up there.” Off come the flats, and up onto the apron and over the ropes you go. “That a girl. Now, Gwen, I don’t want to put you on the spot, but you did just tell us you thought you could take Henry here.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Moore. As long as Mr. Morgan isn’t afraid.”

  “Afraid?” says Henry, hurrying out of his loafers so he can join you in the ring. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” Once inside, he poses for the crowd. A hand stuck between the buttons of his shirt claps against his chest: be still, my beating heart!

  “Ready?” you ask.

  “Sister, I was born ready for this.”

  First things first. Henry slingshots himself off of the ropes, but you quickly get him in a headlock and flop him onto his back with a loud smack.

  “You all right, Henry?” asks Garry, extending a microphone at Henry’s face.

  “Oh, yeah,” he says with faux breathlessness. “I got one question for you, Miss Davies. Was that as good for you as it was for me?”

  While the audience does its part, Henry elbows himself up, flips onto all fours and then returns to his feet. He’s only just recovered when you stoop to grab him—one arm around the waist, one through the legs—and lift him off his feet, holding him against you like an infant, your hand resting boldly on the crack of his ass, which sets off a fresh bout of laughter. And for your last trick of the evening, you plant a foot in front of you, kneel down, and drop him across the top of your knee.

  All of this was rehearsed beforehand, of course. These stunts are theatrical, but still, a person has to know how to go about them without getting hurt. Henry Morgan was on the receiving end of your backbreaker at least a dozen or so times this afternoon in preparation for this moment. When it is over and the audience’s response has died down, he gets in one last joke (also scripted)—I’d say that calls for a Winston!—and then rolls under the ropes, throws his legs over the apron, lands feet first, and brushes himself off while the other panelists huddle around him in mock sympathy. But what the viewers see next is clearly not part of the act. Just as the credits start to roll, a figure—­another man, tall and long-limbed—steps into the frame, reaches through the crowd of panelists, and taps Henry on the shoulder. Henry turns around, and there is Sam, fist cocked, ready to deliver an unscripted knuckle sandwich right in his smartass choppers.

  • • •

  There are plenty of girls who would be charmed by such a gesture. Under different circumstances, you might be one of those girls. But not today. Not after the last few weeks. Until this moment, Sam has managed to toe the line. Now, he has finally crossed it.

  The fight starts right outside of the studio, in front of the heavy black door out of which you have both just been tossed. Once the show went off the air, it took a while for things to get settled. Jayne and Kitty backed away while the rest of you clustered. Voices were raised, necks and faces went red, arms and hands waved. Eventually, Morgan and the producers decided not to press charges—they just wanted Sam gone, and fast—and the security guards escorted you both back to your dressing room to gather your things, hurried you down the hall, and dumped you unceremoniously out into the alley.

  The buttons of your coat are undone. There was no time to fasten them inside and now the cold is creeping in, so you work on remedying this while you throw the first stone. “This was a big day for me, Sam.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” He’s working on his own coat now. “I just couldn’t help myself.”

  From his tone, you can tell that he hasn’t yet registered just how upset you are—that you are frustrated by his actions not only today but over the last few weeks. You will have to be more pointed, more direct.

  “That’s happening a lot. It’s becoming a real problem.”

  It is the first time you’ve ever mounted any kind of serious challenge to Sam, and so even after you’ve buttoned up and fully protected yourself against this tail end of winter, you feel yourself tremble. Sure, you could handle yourself in the ring, but this kind of confrontation is unsure ground. Sam, on the other hand, does not hesitate to meet you head-on.

  “What should I have done, Leonie? You heard what that guy said, the way the crowd responded. He’s up there throwing raw meat to a pack of wild animals, and guess who’s the meat? I’m supposed to let that go? I’m supposed to sit in the middle of the feeding frenzy and let it happen?”

  “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I’m pretty good at it, actually.”

  “If you want me to apologize,” he says, getting louder, “you can forget it. If I think you need protection, I’m going to protect you.”

  “You’re overprotecting me, Sam.” You don’t raise your voice, but you give it grit. “You are smothering me.”

  The word comes effortlessly. Before this moment, you would not have characterized your feelings this way, but as soon as you say it, you realize it is true. From both ends of the alley comes the noise of the New York streets: the whiz of cabs and their impatient horn blasts, the call of street vendors, the jingle of bicycle chains, and the chatter and hurried steps of passing pedestrians. Not that you can hear any of that. All of it is drowned out by the deafening silence of a long, angry pause.

  “What are you saying, Leonie?” His voice doesn’t crack, exactly, but there is something different about it. “Is this it? Are we done?”

  “No!” You cup your hand over your eyes and squeeze. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know.” But you do know, don’t you? You need a little time to yourself, a little space. It’s okay to want this, Gwen—it’s not an unreasonable request. It’s just that you are going to have ple
nty of it soon enough. In less than a week, Sam will point his convertible toward the faraway Heartland while you catch up with Mimi in DC and make your way back down south. The best thing would be to just put this fight on the shelf, enjoy the time you still have left, and let your frustrations dissipate in the cooling waters of separation. “Can we put this on hold for now?” you ask. “I don’t want to fight at my father’s house, and especially not with the wedding tomorrow.”

  Sam puts his hands into the depths of his pockets. “Maybe you should go by yourself then.”

  It is unclear to you whether this is a test of sorts, but once the offer is on the table, its appeal is overwhelming, and you cannot resist.

  “Maybe I should.”

  As soon as you see his reaction—there’s that same hangdog face from the night you met him—you regret giving in to this impulse. If only you could rewind, end this whole stinking mess. But now, you’ve started down this road, and you don’t see how to get off it. “For my father’s sake,” you add, hoping this qualification will soften the blow.

  “Well, then.” Sam toes a bit of loose asphalt, and then kicks it against the building. “If that’s what you want. That’s what you want?”

  You don’t say a word, letting your silence do the talking.

  “Fine. I’ll just go pack my things.” Sam turns and heads up the alley. “No sense sticking around if I’m not going with you,” he calls over his shoulder. He’s headed in the wrong direction—your hotel is thataway—but you don’t have the heart to tell him.

  TWENTY

  Franz answers the door wearing the bottom half of his Christmas pajamas. There’s more flesh on him than there was last time you were here, to your great relief. There are other improvements, too. He’s not clean-shaven, of course—it’s almost midnight—but he’s got himself a tidy haircut, a healthy color to his skin. He squints to get a better look.

  “Leonie?” he says. He stops scratching his chest long enough to grab your arm and yank you into the house. “What are you doing here? You said you weren’t getting in until tomorrow.”

  “Change of plans.” You rest your suitcase where the television used to be and slump down into the couch, into the darkness. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep and I’ll explain in the morning.”

  “Go back to sleep?” Franz shuts the door. “My daughter shows up on my doorstep in the middle of the night and she wants me to go back to sleep?” He fumbles around in the dark, finds a lamp, and turns it on. It’s the same old room it’s always been, except now there are ghostly rectangles where family pictures used to hang, and a row of cardboard boxes against the far wall.

  Franz’s head jerks as if he’s suddenly remembered something. He returns to the door and opens it again, looks out. “Where’s Sam?”

  Somewhere on the road, you suppose. After the fight, you went for a walk through the city streets; when the cold got to you, you stopped for a cup of coffee. It was good medicine. By the time you paid up, you were ready to ask him to stay, to talk the problem through rather than avoid it. But when you got back to the hotel, he was already gone. You tell your father that he’s not coming.

  “What do you mean?” Franz says, closing the door again. “I thought Sam was driving. If there’s no Sam, how did you get here?”

  “I took the train.”

  “All by yourself? At night? Without someone to pick you up?”

  Exasperation creeps back under your skin, into your blood. You should have known your father would react this way. Why is it that all the men in your life seem to think you need their protection?

  “Yes, Father. I do it all the time, you know.”

  “That’s supposed to reassure me?” Franz drops beside you on the couch. “Too bad. I was prepared to like the guy after what he did tonight. That was him, right? On the television?”

  “Yes, that was him.”

  “I thought so! He hit that jerk”—Franz punches his hand; the smacking sound causes you to flinch—“right in his ugly mouth. Good for him!”

  “Right. Good for him.” Forget it. You don’t have the strength for anything more than this note of sarcasm; you can’t bring yourself to argue the points on this matter again. This subject—Things That Gwen Davies Handles Just Fine on Her Own, Thank You—has grown tiresome.

  “What’s with the sour face?” he asks, tousling your hair. “What? You don’t want to tell your father?”

  “Not really.” What could he possibly say? Even if you could bring yourself to talk to your father about your boyfriend and your feelings, he’d just side with Sam.

  “So, we’re playing Leonie’s Got a Secret, are we?” Franz presses his hands together, holds them up to his nose, and inhales. “Okay. The secret has to do with why her boyfriend, Sam, did not drive her to my house but instead let her travel by herself in the dead of night. First question: Is it because he is afraid of your father?”

  This warms you up, and you smile despite yourself. “No, of course not.”

  “Is it because he is as big a jerk as Henry Morgan?”

  “No,” you say, and make a little noise—not a laugh, but along those lines. What’s come over your father? Here he is, not only worried about those feelings you are loath to discuss, but insisting on being a support to you even when you’ve given him an easy out. It’s puzzling, but pleasantly so. “Don’t head down the garden path.”

  “But you had some kind of fight, am I right?”

  Now he’s getting somewhere. “Yes.”

  “And is the subject of this fight something you want to talk about with your father?”

  “No. Not really,” you say. You’re not ready for sleep, but you put a hand over your mouth and yawn. “I’m too tired. We should get some rest. You especially. You’re getting married tomorrow.”

  “I am, aren’t I? It’s crazy, right?”

  It sure seems crazy to you. You’d like to poke around, ask questions, but you’re not sure how to approach it, or if you even really have the right. You don’t live here anymore, and it’s his life. The man’s been a widower for fifteen years, and Ms. Riley is a fine woman. If this is what he wants, who are you to question it?

  “No,” you lie. “I don’t think it’s crazy.”

  “Then you’re crazy.”

  Franz sounds considerably less playful when he says this. He stares ahead at the boxes and their long shadows. Tomorrow, he’s going to take those boxes next door, to his new home. This is more historic than your television appearance. This is your father on the precipice of reinvention, a man who didn’t think his life could change. It’s only natural for him to have some ambivalence, right?

  Franz reaches across the coffee table for his smokes and shakes one out of the pack. To light it, he brings a match quickly and briefly to life before killing it between wetted fingers. “Tell you what. I’ll just sit here for a minute and smoke a cigarette while we don’t talk about your stupid fight or my crazy wedding, okay?”

  And with that, the two of you sit in silence, Franz taking long pulls on his cigarette, until, finally, you go for the easy joke.

  “Does it taste good?” you ask.

  Franz, falling back into the old pattern, doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes,” he says. “Like a cigarette should.”

  • • •

  There will be no more inquiries into your professional and personal travails on this trip. No one even seems to register the remarkable fact that you are here. No, everyone is wedding-centered and moving-minded. Franz’s boxes have to be carried next door, and then Cynthia and Wally’s belongings will move in the opposite direction. Since you are here already, Franz decides, there is no reason not to go over to the courthouse first thing in the morning and get this over with. Time’s a-wasting.

  The plan is to meet on the courthouse steps at eleven sharp. You, your father, and Ms. Riley wait in the designated spot, stiff in your Su
nday best, but even after a good twenty minutes, Cynthia and company have yet to arrive.

  “I knew we shouldn’t have left without them,” says Ms. Riley, her lips pinched.

  “They’ll be here,” says Franz. “Harold probably held them up.”

  Ms. Riley’s frustration disappears at the mention of her grandson’s name. “You got to see this kid, Leonie. He’s a real sweet baby. Hardly ever cries. I’m telling you, my daughter doesn’t know how good she’s got it. And your father is so good with him!” Ms. Riley has a dreamy grin on her face. “Harold’s favorite is when your father puts on the radio and then picks him up and kind of dances him around, you know? One night, Cynthia and I got in from work, and you know what we found? A big pot of stew ready to eat, Tony Bennett on the record player, and your father dancing Harold around the room. I’m telling you, I fell in love”—she snaps her fingers—“just like that.”

  Can that even be called love? It sounds like a decision that has more to do with stomachs than hearts. Before this moment, you were sure that posing for Monster was the right thing to do for you and your father. You got to keep your life, and he got just enough help to stay afloat until his ship came in. Now, you wonder if you haven’t accidentally nudged him onto the wrong ship. Perhaps you have only saved yourself.

  “There they are,” says your father, pointing.

  It’s Cynthia, all right, starting up the courthouse steps, Harold bouncing on her hip. Wally is still a good dozen steps or so behind her, walking at a pointedly slower clip. His face is expressionless, but one thing is clear: he is in no hurry.

  “Okay, okay.” Ms. Riley looks on for a minute, exhales, and then wheels around to face you. “Now. No more of this Ms. Riley business.” She tweaks your nose between her thumb and knuckle. “It’s Patricia. Pat. I don’t expect you to call me Mom or anything.”

  When Cynthia finally reaches the top of the stairs, she catches her breath, and says, “We did it! Our plan worked!” She reaches for your hand and squeezes, which doesn’t produce the same effect it might have once upon a time. Now, you’re just annoyed with her for holding up the ceremony. “Remember how hard we tried to get these two together?” she continues. “Okay, so it took ten years, but here we are! Aren’t we, Harold?”