“Please,” you say. “Look at you. How are you going to go on the road and defend a title?”
“This baby is not my responsibility.”
Junior’s cries grow louder. Mimi clucks in his ear to soothe him, which undermines her argument. “You sure about that?” asks Joe, his voice suddenly quiet, but it hardly seems necessary.
“You’re making me jump through hoops for no good reason,” says Mimi, equally quiet. “You know I’ll beat her.”
“You think?” you ask through your teeth. The salt is new, but the wound is old. “Then what are you so worried about?”
Joe sighs. “Ladies, there is no point to this. I’ve made my offer. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it,” says Mimi, “but I still say it’s lousy.”
Joe hoists himself up and stands over you, Mimi, and Junior, hands in pockets. “Don’t act like I’m doing this to you,” he says to her. “You want the belt? Well, then, go get it.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” says a voice from behind. It is Betsy, her pumps dangling from her fingers. She must have slipped them off so the heels wouldn’t slip through the cracks in the planks, which explains how she could walk down the dock without alerting anyone to her presence. She couldn’t look any more out of place here, in her high-necked blouse and nylons, a pair of reading glasses hanging from her neck. With her free hand, she tucks a windblown tuft of hair behind her ear. “I have some sad news and I didn’t think it should wait.”
Betsy hardly needs to say more. There is only one kind of news that follows a statement like that, and the look she gives you—urgent, intent—is clearly meant to communicate something about the secret that you share. You can easily guess the rest. The next words she will say are unnecessary; she has already delivered the message.
“David Henderson is dead.”
TWENTY-FOUR
On the day of the viewing, The Angel of Death drives you and Mimi out to the Henderson homestead. Joe, not wanting his friend to suffer the indignity of a skimpy wake, made it crystal clear that any girls who were in town should be there or suffer his wrath. You and Mimi are full up on that at the moment, so you’ve put your animosity aside so that you can both take advantage of this one transportation option. That does not mean she has any intention of making small talk. On the drive over, she sits in the backseat with Junior on her lap, looking grim in a high-necked black dress, her hair subdued into a neat bun, refusing to breathe one word. So be it. If that’s how she wants it, that’s how it will be. At least, that is how it is until the car is parked, when you have to watch her struggle out of it, wrestling with both the baby and an enormous bag of his belongings. It wasn’t so long ago that Harold and his accessories—how is it that people so small need so much stuff?—was giving you similar fits. When the bag slips off her arm and falls onto the ground in a heap, you reach for the straps.
“Here,” you say. “Let me get that.”
Mimi motions for you to hand it over. “I got it.”
“No, you don’t.” You hoist the bag onto your shoulder and motion toward the house. “After you.”
For half a minute, Mimi stands there with her hand outstretched, unwilling to let even this stand, but then Junior hurls his bottle to the ground. It rolls toward your feet. You pick it up, wipe off the nipple, and shove it into the bag.
“Fine,” she says. She slams the car door closed with her hip and heads up the road.
When Joe spots your party entering the house, he hurries over, thanks you all for coming, and tickles Junior under the chin. “There’s coffee and cake in the kitchen,” he says. Mabel goes straight for it, but Mimi says, “I think I’ll just pay my respects first.” She hikes Junior up on her hip and heads to the living room, where the coffin is displayed.
This eagerness on her part strikes you as peculiar, and while you’d rather have a private moment of your own to say good-bye, you tag along, feeling tethered by the bag but also a little curious.
“Did you know him well?” you ask.
“Not really,” says Mimi. “I’d seen him wrestle a few times when I was a kid, so I knew who he was before Joe introduced us.”
“So he’s the reason you’re Screaming Mimi Hollander?”
“I’ve always been Mimi Hollander. He just added the Screaming part. Pretty lazy if you ask me.”
Henderson’s coffin, along with dozens of wreaths and floral arrangements representing nearly every wrestling promotion, has been set up along the blank wall he used as a backdrop for most of his photo shoots. The thing is practically a submarine. When you get to it, you expect Mimi to say a quick good-bye, but instead she lingers, scanning the crowd. When she finally trains her eyes on something, you follow them to the corner, where Joe stands talking to three familiar-looking men in suits. Southern promoters, you think, but you couldn’t identify them any more specifically—not by name or region. At this point, the whole country is a blur. The foursome seems deep in conversation; about what, you can only imagine. When Joe finally looks over from the corner, Mimi says, “Okay, good, he sees me,” and then finally leans over and looks down at Henderson.
“Rest in peace, you old pervert,” she whispers before heading off.
Now it’s your turn. This is the first time you have ever been to a viewing. If such an event was part of your mother’s burial, the adults involved had the good sense to keep you away from it. Even now, it strikes you as a strange ceremony. What is left of Monster Henderson seems far removed from what you remember of the man. It is hard to connect this body to any real sense of loss. Seeing it here, like this, a new prop against an old backdrop, only connects him to your real fear.
Just for my personal collection, he said. No one sees them except for me. It never occurred to you to wonder what would happen if the man up and died.
The only person who might answer that question is Betsy, who walks toward the sofa, two plates of cake in hand. This is not the time to talk, of course. In addition to all the other people now roped around the room, Mimi and Junior have taken up residency in the nearby wingback chair from where Henderson once described to you the conditions of his deal. Still, it seems a good idea to stay close, so that you might take advantage of any opportunity that opens up, so you drag a dining-room chair into the circle. Betsy takes her seat on the sofa next to a man wearing dark, oversize sunglasses and greets you with a toothy smile.
“Hello, Gwen. Mimi. Nice of you to come.”
She gently rests one of the plates on top of the man’s hand, and, after some initial fumbling, he takes it from her. This is the first time you’ve seen Betsy’s husband, if that is in fact who he is. Was he a wrestler once upon a time? You figure so from his physique. He is neckless, shiny-bald, and barrel-chested with softened pectorals that show through the jersey knit of his shirt. When you settle into your chair, his head turns toward you.
“I see we have company,” he says, although it’s clear he can’t see you or anything else for that matter. His gaze is too low, too far to the right. Trachoma, perhaps? You’ve been warned about unsanitary conditions and instructed to avoid others’ towels, to keep your face off the mat as much as possible, but can’t say the message ever really hit home until now.
Betsy hurries to finish her bite. “Mimi, Gwen, this is my husband, Hank—”
Mimi snaps her fingers. “Hank Mahoney! I knew you looked familiar. I saw you wrestle here at the armory. I couldn’t have been this high”—she holds out her hand to indicate the height of a second grader, but, apparently realizing the gesture is meaningless, retracts her arm, blushing her apology—“I mean, I was just a kid.”
“You must have been. That was a lifetime ago,” says Hank, patting his wife on the knee. “Betsy’s the real champion, putting up with me all these years.”
Betsy squeezes his hand in response. “Hank and Monster go way back.”
“Way back,”
says Hank, and then launches into the history of their relationship, beginning with a match in Tampa that left them both with broken arms—“We drove to the ER together, and then to the bar! You should have seen the looks we got!”—and ending with the other morning, when Hank and Betsy arrived at Monster’s house for breakfast only to find the paper still on the porch and the coffee unmade. These are the stories this man needs to tell because of the real loss he feels. You feel like a trespasser here, crashing the gates of others’ grief. It is a rare thing you and Mimi have in common—she nods along, but her eyes are glazed.
Junior starts sucking noisily on his fist. “He’s getting tired,” says Mimi.
Can this be right? It hardly seems possible that she has learned to read this baby in just a few short days. True, you had less than twenty-four hours with Harold, but every attempt to meet his needs was a disaster. You are hard-pressed to believe anyone could master this game in less than a week, least of all Mimi. And yet here she is, humming into his ear and stroking his back to good effect.
“Would you like to put him down?” asks Betsy. She slides her plate onto the coffee table and motions to the spare bedroom. “He’s welcome to the guest bed.”
“That’s okay.” Mimi brushes a sweaty tuft of hair off his forehead. “I doubt we’ll be here much longer.”
“Are you sure? He’s such a big boy. He must be heavy.”
“Well,” says Mimi, easing herself out of the chair, “yes, now that you mention it.”
Betsy rises to help, but you are eager for the chance to slip away. “I can help her.”
You follow Mimi to the guest room, where she eases Junior onto the bed. She pulls his shorts up over his diaper, his shirt down over his back.
“The first time, I just thought we were going floundering,” she says, still staring at Junior. “I never meant to let it get this far.”
It takes a minute for you to understand that the we is her and Johnny, and that she is offering some kind of explanation. What is not clear is if she is talking to you, Junior, or someone or something else—herself, the universe. If there is a right way to respond, you don’t know what it is. You have no resources for this and no idea what she might need from you, if anything. All you can do is wait until she offers a clue, or else releases you.
Mimi looks around the room; on the bedside table, she eyes something that makes her do a double take. She taps on the spine of this title: Sexual Behavior in the Human Female.
“Check this out,” she says. “Regular scientist, this guy.”
“I guess.” You mean this to sound nonchalant, but you can hear the quiver in your voice.
“He had plenty of experiments going, from what I hear. You know, when I first came here, to the school, there was this other wrestler. Red hair, that’s all I remember. Anyway, she had just bought herself this new robe. It was super fancy—fur trim, big gold fringy things on the shoulders, you name it. Didn’t make any sense to me. The rest of us were dirt-poor. So I asked her, how come you have money for something like that? You know what she told me? That she made a wad of cash by letting ol’ Monster here take some nudie pictures. How do you like that?”
“That is shocking.” It is a struggle just to get the words out; your mouth has stopped producing saliva.
Thankfully, the baby stirs, which gives you a precious excuse to leave the room. While Mimi rifles around in the diaper bag for something that will calm him, you slip out and collect yourself on the other side of the door. Your pictures may well be somewhere in this house, waiting to be discovered. Betsy is still on the couch, where you left her. You will just have to hope that the preoccupations of the people milling around nearby will offer you enough privacy so she might settle your mind.
“Hello again, Gwen,” says Betsy. At the mention of your name, Hank perks up.
“So,” he says, placing his untouched cake onto the coffee table before relaxing back into the sofa. “You’re the famous Gwen.”
He is not making reference to your wrestling career; of that much, you can be sure. No, he knows. He definitely knows. It shouldn’t mean much—not to you, at least. It would be hard to imagine a safer person to keep this knowledge than Hank Mahoney, the blind husband of the woman with whom you shared your scenes. But knowing that somebody who wasn’t there is aware of the pictures makes you even more anxious to pin down their whereabouts.
“I don’t suppose—”
“I’ll take care of it tonight, dear,” she says. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Her response is unusually abrupt; clearly she does not want to talk about this. Not here, not now. Still, you need to be sure you understand correctly. “You’re going to destroy them?”
“Yes,” she says. “We’ll have a fire tonight. How does that sound?”
“Where are they now?”
Betsy nods down the hall, toward the room from which you just emerged. “In there. Under the bed.”
Under the bed, just inches away from Mimi. All it would take is a little curiosity on her part, and she could ruin you.
“Of course,” says Betsy, “you’re welcome to them, if you’d rather.”
No, you wouldn’t rather. A fireplace roast sounds just about right. But now that Mimi’s been in the room, you need more reassurance than Betsy can offer. Your safest bet is to destroy them yourself.
Before long, Betsy is summoned to some hostess duty or another. When, finally, Mimi slips out of the room and wanders into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, you have the opening you need. You close the door as quietly as you can, but of course the baby makes a noise. There is no room for failure with this one—you have got to soothe him, and fast. You try rubbing circles on his back, just like Mimi did earlier. This does the trick. He settles into a comfortable position, his knees bent so that his rump sticks up in the air, and falls soundly asleep.
You feel around behind the dust ruffle and find the box there, just as Betsy said it would be, shoved well past the margin of the bed. You slide it out and find it full of manila envelopes, all of which are carefully sealed with an abundance of tape and ordered alphabetically by surnames. After a quick glance over your shoulder to confirm that the door is in fact closed, you begin finger-walking through them, moving from front to back: Blackburn, Channing, Doolittle. No Davies. You feel a quick chill of panic, which is quickly eased by the realization that these might not be ring names but actual family names. Perhaps all is not lost after all.
Now here’s one you recognize: Hubbard. Mabel Hubbard? Really? You can’t imagine the Angel of Death agreeing to such a thing, or Henderson asking. Apparently the man’s tastes ran long and wide. But then, there it is, in the back, peeking up over the rest—Putzkammer. Holding the envelope in your hands makes you feel panicked, but also curious. You have half a mind to slide the photos out right now, take your first peek, but that would be careless. It is enough that you will be able to leave with them. You fold the envelope once, and then again, before shoving it into your clutch, giddy with relief. You hadn’t realized how much weight those pictures had added to your worries until just now, when it lifts.
• • •
On the drive back to the grounds, no one says a word except for Mabel—now there’s someone you will never see the same way again—who yammers on about her upcoming gigs. Many of the dates and venues she mentions are ones that would have been yours and Mimi’s, but she seems none the wiser. That or she doesn’t care. Either way, it serves as a reminder of the things that have passed between you and Mimi. This time, when Mimi climbs out of the parked car, the diaper bag is strapped sideways onto her body so that it can’t possibly slip off. She needs no more help from you, or anything, for that matter. When you say good night, she acknowledges you with a glance, and then heads for her room.
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.
The Sweetheart Page 28
