Neither you nor Sam has breathed a word about the belt since dinner. After the performance, Sam suggested the conversation remain on hold—after all, you have only this one night together in Las Vegas—while the two of you head to the casino so he might try his hand at the tables. But you were less than thrilled with the prospect. You didn’t want to put off the conversation; you wanted to come to some resolution. This was your life being bandied about here. In the end, Sam went to the casino alone, and you stayed in the room, cogs afire, until you eventually fell asleep. When had he returned? You couldn’t say.
Now, you wade to the middle of the pool, where it is still shallow enough for you to stand. What you would like to say to Sam, assuming you can say such a thing in a rational, convincing way, is that where he sees downsides, you see advantages. Maybe you can zigzag across the country while he stays in Cleveland. That way, he can revel in the team sports and housekeeping that you find so stifling, and you can enjoy the perks of being Gwen Davies without the guilt that his presence inspires. Every few weeks, when those pleasures, and the absence of each other, wear thin for you both, you could come to Cleveland for a spell: not too long, but long enough. You might even strike a deal with the Pospisils to make Cleveland your permanent base. This seems a fair compromise. Sam will not be immediately sold, of course—he will want a more conventional arrangement, one that he doesn’t have to explain or defend to others—but perhaps he could be convinced.
And if he can’t? What will you do if he proves unwilling to accommodate your persona and your profession? I know you don’t want to think about it, Gwen, but it is a real possibility. You should be prepared to make a choice.
In the short time you’ve been here, the pool has grown crowded with mothers and children left to entertain themselves while the fathers gamble in the casino. Everyone here seems unaware of or indifferent to your presence. Almost everyone, that is. A few yards away, a girl has been stealing glimpses of you between handstands. When, from your crouched position, you offer a smile, she cautiously wades over.
“Are you that wrestler?” she starts.
You put a finger to your lips. “Yes, but I’d like to keep that quiet, if you don’t mind.” You’ve left a note for Sam asking him to join you after he wakes; the last thing you need is for him to stroll out here and find a swarm of fans.
“Oh. Yeah, sure.” The girl squints against the sun and bounces on her toes to keep her head out of the water. “I guess I shouldn’t ask you for an autograph then.”
“I could have the waiter bring one over to you. How about that?”
“Yes, please,” she says, smiling her relief. “Thank you.” She dips her head back to soak her hair, and then slicks it back and wrings out the ponytail. “I like your suit.”
It is not clear to you if she means the conservative bathing suit you are currently wearing or your trademark red wrestling suit or if it even matters. This may simply be the kind of empty compliment that shy girls offer as they attempt to make conversation. But hearing these words out of this girl, her own suit clearly purchased by a sensible parent, reminds you that Sam is not all wrong: there are downsides to winning the belt, even if they aren’t the ones he imagines. Having fans like—
“What’s your name?”
“Serena.”
—like Serena muddies the picture considerably. Vicky Darnell and the Go-to-Hell girls were the first to point out the harm a character like yours could do. Knowing that prepubescent girls might be watching shows like last night’s is enough to give you pause.
“And where are you sitting, Serena?”
Serena crouches low before springing up out of the water and pointing to an umbrella at a far corner of the pool. You follow her finger to the other side of the pool and find, walking along the perimeter of the deep end—a graceful, attention-generating stride despite his certain hangover—the person for whom you’ve been readying your speech.
“Okay, Serena,” you say, wading toward the ladder, “consider it done.”
When Sam spots you climbing out of the water, you point toward your tote on one of the deck chairs, and he sits down in the one next to it. By the time you arrive, he has placed an order with a white-uniformed waiter. “How’d you make out last night?”
Sam groans. “Don’t ask.”
A waiter arrives with Sam’s drink: a tall glass of hair of the dog. “Anything for you, Miss Davies?”
“Just a favor.”
After the waiter leaves with an autograph for Serena, Sam props himself up on his elbow. “You know,” he says, squinting, “it’s reasonable for me to have mixed feelings about your news.”
“I know. But Sam—”
“Please.” Clearly he has been doing some rehearsing of his own. “Just hear me out. Yes, I would like you to be off the road and closer to me. I would like to have a regular life with you. But it’s not just that. Think about all the creeps who’ve come out of the woodwork since you started this Sweetheart business. If by some miracle you win, it will only get worse. And if I’m in Cleveland, I can’t watch out for you.”
You sink further into your chair; your body feels heavy. How can you make him understand that you are aware of these problems—Sam doesn’t even know the half of it—but they are simply no match for the rewards? You take a deep breath and try to make what you are about to say as agreeable as you can.
“Look, I know how you feel. I get it. Sometimes I feel that way, too. But if there is no Sweetheart”—go ahead, Gwen: admit it—“then I don’t know who I am.”
Sam begins to say something, but thinks better of it, closes his mouth and his eyes and rests his head against the back of the deck chair. While you wait for him to form his response, you turn your attention to the other side of the pool, where a woman takes a seat in a lounge chair. You don’t recognize the face, but her shape and skin tone are unmistakable. This is the woman you’ve been wrestling these last few nights.
There’d been a moment last night as you were both going back to your dressing rooms when it seemed she might remove the mask, but if the thought had occurred to her, she must have changed her mind. Instead, she only offered you a sad smile. “I turned my life upside down to get back into wrestling,” she said. “To do this.”
This is the first time you’ve seen her since then, and, even without her mask, you are no closer to knowing who she is. Still, you can’t help but sense that you know this woman. You must have wrestled her before, but when?
Something clicks when you see how she drapes her legs over the arm of that deck chair, the way she kicks off her mules and lets them fall to the ground. And those freckles—don’t you recognize those freckles? Imagine her a little heavier, her hair a little longer. Now here comes the final puzzle piece, expertly balanced on the tray of the waiter who delivers it to her waiting hands: a Tom Collins, topped off by a maraschino cherry, which she promptly fishes out of the ice and plucks from the stem with her teeth.
Lacey Bordeaux here, clear on the other side of the country. But why shouldn’t she be holed up here, establishing residency like so many others? Her recent actions certainly suggest she’s eager to unload Johnny as soon as possible. It’s not implausible, just as it’s not out of the realm of possibility that Katleman, having learned about her colorful past, wouldn’t offer her this gig, her first in over a year. Without the protection of her mask, you can see that she looks bad: there are bags under her eyes, she’s drinking too much. She is here to start over, but it is hard for you to believe she will get much further than where she is now. Word of what she’s done will get out, and the NWA promoters will lock her out. She has chased one mistake with another.
Your first instinct is to tell Sam, but then you think better of it. Lacey seems intent on hiding, and who are you to out her? Besides, you aren’t eager to steer the conversation away from the one at hand. If you don’t want to be caught in the same trap that took L
acey out, you will have to be honest about what you want. You can’t worry about how he will react, or whether you will be able to maintain your relationship with him.
“I want to be with you, and I want to be the champion, too,” you say. “Please don’t ask me to pick one.”
Sam rolls onto his side and opens an eye. After a long pause, he says, “You might have to, one day.”
You could take this opportunity to deliver some of the speech you’ve been readying, lay out your plan forward, but there’s nothing in his tone or expression that suggests he will be receptive. Better to simply accept the extension he is offering and use it to build your case. You are sure you can get what you need if you can just make the right argument.
“But not today?” you ask, grateful for this gift of time. In your heart of hearts, you know what your choice will be, should it come to that, but you are far from ready to make it and still hopeful you won’t have to.
Sam reaches for his glass, tips it against your arm, and runs its icy base down the length of your muscular bicep, stopping at the crook of your elbow before returning it to his lips. “No,” he says. “Not today.”
TWENTY-SIX
The rest of the tour—ten cities in ten days, from one coast to the other—is an exercise in patience and endurance. Thankfully, you and Sam have enough of both to make it to the last stop: Memphis, the site of the most significant matches of both your careers—the end of his title run and quite possibly the beginning of yours. The two of you arrive early at Ellis Auditorium, equally eager but for very different reasons. You are met by a representative of the Memphis promoter, who escorts you both under the building’s terra-cotta cornice and down the pink marble hallway to get your first look at the auditorium. As the man walks you along, he tells you it has an electric stage that can move from one end to the other in a brisk twelve hours and rise from the first floor when the occasion calls for heightened drama. When he tells you this, you imagine a wrestling ring ascending from the ground like a green shoot springing from the earth, triumphant, and, in the center, you: fists on hips, chin aloft, legs firm, stomach taut, hair coiffed, lips red, smile confident and knowing, every ounce the champion.
But that would have been too perfect. No, when he waves you into the arena, you find the stage already in position, the ring assembled. Both sets of curtains have been drawn back, joining the north and south halls to accommodate the thousands of fans, who are already snaking down the aisles and taking their seats: ringside for the well-heeled; for everyone else, floor level or balcony or, should the fan’s skin tone happen to be too dark, the nosebleeds. But you are not going to complain about the stage. It will be drama enough just to make your way down the aisle of such a stately venue. Tonight it will be filled to capacity: the noise deafening, the head count staggering.
When you arrive in the women’s dressing room, Mimi is already there, still in her street clothes, sitting at a vanity and finishing a hamburger she brought over from Palumbo’s. When she hears the door open, she does not turn around. Instead, she looks straight ahead into the mirror, where she meets your reflection with a hole-boring stare and an overly broad smile. You give her a brief nod and pretend to busy yourself at the other vanity, but already, she is under your skin. The stare is menacing, to be sure, but it is the smile that rattles you. There’s only one word for it: smug. She can’t wait to get through this fight. She knows she will win. She’s anxious to see the looks on the audience’s faces after she annihilates their hero, but more than that, she wants to hurry up and get on to the next one, where she’ll secure her rightful place in wrestling history.
• • •
That smile has been taunting you for the last twenty-four hours. Yesterday afternoon, when you and Sam arrived at the Peabody, Mimi was already there, entertaining Junior in the lobby. The two of them stood by the fountain, pointing at the ducks. She hadn’t noticed your arrival—she clearly had her hands full—and so you might have easily made it up to your room without an encounter. But seeing Mimi like this, well-intentioned but way out of her element, softened your feelings toward her. You left Sam to finish checking you both in and crossed the room to her. You understood that you couldn’t make amends, but you were hopeful that you might at least improve the tenor of this competition.
“Hello, Mimi.”
Mimi turned and made eye contact, then froze in surprise, but her expression melted into something more hostile—her eyes roving without apology, her cat’s smile teeming with canary feathers. That look made it harder to be there, to say what you wanted to say. But you’d made this much effort. You had to follow through.
The minute you opened your mouth, a red carpet rolled out from the elevator, toward the spot where you were standing. This prompted a flurry of activity, and a crowd quickly gathered on all sides of the carpet, elbowing the three of you away from the action, obstructing your view, in order to position their cameras. A Sousa march—the last thing, you suspected, a woman with an excitable infant wants to hear—began to play. Mimi turned her attention to Junior. And then, the reason for the hoopla: Mr. Pembroke, the duckmaster, stepped out of the elevator, strolled down to the fountain, gently prodded his ducks from its waters, and marched them back up the carpet—single file, no less!—and into the elevator, which would return them to their palatial estate on the rooftop.
“Quack!” Junior shouted as the line waddled past.
Mimi looked at him, surprised. “Yeah, ducks say quack. Good job, buddy.” She pulled him close, her fingers tickling his rib cage; he clung tightly to her and laughed. “How ’bout that? You know, I’ve been trying to get this kid to say Mimi for weeks, and now, out of nowhere, he’s saying quack?” She shook her head.
“Oh, I don’t know. It looks like you’ve figured out a thing or two.”
“Yeah, well. My duties are officially done tonight.” She kissed him quickly, and then turned her attention to you. “So tomorrow, I will be free to destroy your hopes and dreams.”
There was something reassuring about this cockiness; it smacked of her usual derision, which eased the way for you to say what you’d come over to say. “I know my chances of beating you tomorrow are slim, but I also know that any chance I have is because of what you’ve done for me.” And with that, you extended your hand. “Good luck.”
Mimi looked at you sideways, as if looking for some indication that she was being set up. But this was genuine appreciation, long overdue. Still, she didn’t take your hand. She might have lightened up a bit, but she wasn’t eager to accept your good wishes, or to offer any of her own. When, finally, the crowd that had gathered for Mr. Pembroke’s ducks had dispersed, she tilted her head up at the elevator dial—the ducks were back on the roof, the numbers were descending.
“I better get Junior back upstairs,” she said.
You stood there in the quickly emptying lobby, your hand still held out, as she crossed the room and disappeared into the elevator. Refused yet again, just like the first time you met her. You expected her to shake your hand. It took a minute to recover from the sting and gather yourself, and then you turned your attention to Sam, who had just finished his dealings with the hotel clerk and stood a few yards away, dangling your room key.
Mimi’s next move was even more surprising. When, finally, the elevator arrived to take you, Sam, a bellhop, and a cartful of luggage to your floor, the operator opened the sliding door, and, after a pair of men raced out, there she stood, balancing Junior against one shoulder, her satchel hooked over the other. She murmured something under her breath, rifled around in the satchel, and pulled out a stack of mail.
“This was in your box in the office,” she said, holding it out to you. “I brought it for you.”
“You didn’t have to,” you said, staring at her, semifrozen. You weren’t particularly keen on extending another vulnerable hand. “I’m going back to Florida after this.”
“Yeah, well,
it was just sitting there, so I grabbed it.” She rearranged Junior on her hip. “So take it already.”
“Okay, okay,” you said, and did as commanded. “Thanks.”
When it didn’t seem as if you were going to move, Sam put his hand on your back and ushered you into the elevator. Everyone rode up in tense silence, broken only when you reached Mimi’s floor and she stepped out and turned around. She began to say something—her mouth yawned open, her finger pointed—but she stopped, put her hand down, pressed her lips together, and began again. “I have done a lot for you,” she said. “I hope you remember that tomorrow.” And then she instructed Junior to wave to the nice man and the pretty lady. The operator quickly slid the door closed—no time for monkey business—but not before you saw that smile again, even more assured than it was before, if that was possible. She beamed at you as Junior waved.
In the lobby, that smile was faith-diminishing, and then bamboozling, but as you headed up to your floor and entered your room, you decided it was nothing short of infuriating. If she expects me to just roll over, you thought, dumping the stack of mail on the desk, she is sadly mistaken. She might have visions of wiping the mat with you, but your visions were equally clear: you were going to wipe that smug look right off her face.
• • •
It is a big night, and ordinarily, you might labor over your hair, your makeup, your suit, your boots, making sure every inch is picture-perfect, but Mimi’s presence in your dressing room is unnerving. You cannot afford to be unnerved tonight—this will be the biggest match of your career thus far, one that will play significantly in your personal history and the history of your sport—so you forgo the usual rituals and hurry through your routine before taking your mark by the auditorium entrance to watch the show.
The main event this evening is the World Junior Heavyweight Championship—Spider McGee versus Baron Michele Leone—but tonight’s card is chockablock full of performances of all stripes. In addition to your match with Mimi and two others on the card, there has been a magician, a pair of banjo-picking twins, and now, a group of baton twirlers and tap dancers, who are so busy shuffling and spinning their hearts out that they barely notice the crew’s attempts to whisk them out of the ring. After much charm and cunning, the stagehands manage to send the girls up the aisle so they can set up for the musical act, the Blue Moon Boys, who will soon take to the ring to play a few standard bluegrass numbers as well as their current radio hit. The band’s lead singer told you the name of the song earlier in the day, while the two of you were making a promotional appearance at Lansky Brothers—a men’s clothier, popular with the heppest of cats—but it didn’t ring any bells. Now, as you stand backstage, you can’t even remember what he said. How could you? As soon as the crew breaks down their set, the announcer will call your name and you will step into what is sure to be a defining moment. You will be able to fill in this detail later, of course, when the song becomes a national treasure and its performer an icon. I suppose this is another tragedy of the evening—that you are too busy writing yourself into the history books to appreciate the history that is happening right in front of you. This one, at least, you will be able to laugh about.
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