The Sweetheart (21 page)

“Painful.” Whatever this is, he is clearly practiced, but it's hard to tell whether it is helping, and it definitely doesn't feel good. In fact, it is downright awful. “Could you do it a little more softly?”

“I could, but that wouldn't get the knots out.” His hand moves over your shoulder blade. He stops again when he gets your signal, brings a fresh stab of pain to this area, too. “Trust me. You're going to thank me tomorrow.” He grips both of your shoulders in his hands, runs his thumbs alongside your spine toward your skull. “Tomorrow, you will follow me anywhere.”

“You think so, huh?”

“Yes. You will come with me to New York, and we will have a time.”

He kneads the scruff of your neck as he says this, opening new pockets of hurt. At the beginning of this trip, his hand on your neck was pure pleasure. It reminded you of your place in his life, in the larger world. This—this is different. But you could be reading too much into this. He has been doing all of this a lot longer than you have. Surely he knows what he is talking about. Maybe the pangs you now feel are the first buds of relief.

There is probably nothing to worry about. What has he done, really? Kept a few fans at arm's length? The truth is, you could probably use a little help in this department. You should go. Boston can wait. You can practice running your own life another time. This is the Big Apple we're talking about. You have never been, and now, you can go at the top of your game and on the arm of the man you love. Of course you will have a time. How could you not?

On the bedside table, the minute leaf on the alarm clock flips over. You could look, but you close your eyes instead, let your still-sore body jostle to the rhythm of his touch. You don't need to know the time. You already know that tomorrow is on its way.

NINETEEN

N
ew York proves to be a busy time for Sam, which means for you it is a lot of sitting idly by and wondering if you didn't make a bad call. Thankfully, at the end of it, there is one monumental perk: you get to be on television. And I don't just mean some local newscast. Today, you are the celebrity guest on your favorite game show.

That's right, Gwen. Today,
you've
got a secret.

How many countless hours did you and your father sit in front of the Philco to watch this program? How many times did you both cover your eyes when the white-lettered secrets appeared on the screen so you might play along with Kitty and Bill? How often did you watch Garry Moore guide the panelists past pitfalls the guests unwittingly opened up?
Yes, his work
has
included some writing, but that's not the most relevant aspect of it.
And you couldn't begin to count the times your father responded to the sponsor's slogan—
Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should!
—by reaching into his pocket for his own pack of smokes and savoring one himself.

Is that what he is doing right now, only on Ms. Riley's sofa? Maybe he is shaking out two cigarettes, one for Wally, one for himself. Maybe one arm is already occupied with clutching his soon-to-be wife, Ms. Riley—Patricia—about the shoulders. Or maybe he isn't even watching. Maybe he is off in another room, rocking the little turnip to sleep. You can't quite conjure up a scene; none of this exists for you outside of letters and phone calls. The whole thing is still beyond your imagination, to say nothing of your comprehension. The commercial wraps up and the flat-topped, bow-tied Garry Moore walks over to the curtains to greet you, a stack of cards in his hands and smoke drifting from his own half-smoked Winston, its butt pressed tightly between his lips.

“Let's welcome our next guest, shall we?” he says from his mouth's outer corner.

Time to get your head in the game, Gwen. You will be home for the wedding soon enough and can take it all in with your own eyes. Perhaps then it will become real.

The sound of applause brings you around, sets off the physical reaction that's become your new nature. You've lost the penny—let it slide off your chin months ago; in its place a wink and an air kiss—but the apple stays clutched in your shoulder blades. No longer do you mind the silhouette and sway this pose creates. In fact, you've come to like that feeling, to exaggerate its effect, to have new respect for its power. This is what you do; this is who you are.

You assume the position and then parade through the curtains, waving to the studio audience. Don't forget to blow a kiss to Sam, who sits in the middle of the front row, his arms crossed. This appearance has put him out of sorts. When Joe floated the idea and offered to make the call—if you had to go to New York, where you couldn't pocket a purse, then you should at least get some publicity out of it, he figured—Sam had been all for it, anxious to make good on his promise (
We'll have a time!
) and prove that sacrificing the Boston gig was worth it. And the show's producers loved the idea. They are in the novelty market, after all, and you are nothing if not novel. No one's going to guess your profession, not in a million years. But shortly after you arrived at the studio, when they explained what they had in mind for the end of your appearance, Sam wanted to pull the plug. It was too late for that, you told him, wishing he could just relax for once.

Now, Garry ushers you over to your seat on the stage. It's grown warm under the lights, a welcome change from the otherwise drafty studio and still-brisk New York air. “Folks,” he starts, “we're not going to tell you our guest's real name because that could be a giveaway. So, for the evening, we'll call her Leigh Kramer.”

When the stage manager asked you to come up with a pseudonym, the first thing that came to mind was your actual name, but you quickly scrapped the idea: that secret, you prefer to keep. You also considered this one—Gwen McGee—to alleviate Sam's anxieties over this performance and demonstrate your love. The last thing you need is for you and Sam to arrive at your father's house tomorrow knotted up with tension; it's not as if this wedding business isn't going to be strange and awkward enough. But something kept you from doing this. Instead, you fashioned a new name from your old one by shedding half the syllables and editing the ones that remained.

“So, Leigh, if you'll please whisper your secret to me—”

This is history, Gwen! What a moment! There you are, playing along with the charade, putting your lips in close proximity to Garry's ear just to
psst psst psst
into it while you hold up your hand as a shield. And then, on the screen for everyone at home to see:
I am a professional wrestler.

More applause, just as you were expecting, but something else, too: laughter.

You look out into the crowd, dazed. How dare they condescend to you! You'd like to see any of those square pegs give your life a go. Is there even one among them who could strut her way into a jam-packed auditorium? Who could catch her opponent's head between her legs and flop her over not once, not twice, but
three
times in less than a minute? Garry adjusts his bow tie and gives you an uncomfortable smile and a pat on the hand before he drops his eyes and clears his throat. “All right, folks, let's get on with it. Now, this secret has to do with Miss Kramer's profession. Okay, let's start with you, Bill.”

Bill, a younger flat-topper with a long skinny tie and thick-rimmed glasses, is the leftmost person seated behind the panel adorned with—what else?—the sponsor's name in white type, bookended with two large plastic replicas of its signature product: boxes open, wares displayed.

“Fine, fine. Miss Kramer, does your profession require you to use your intellect?”

“Yes,” you say, defensive, but Garry butts in. “Well, sure, you need brains like you would for anything, but I wouldn't call it a brainy profession, no.”

“So, would it be fair to say it's more of a physical job then?”

“Yes.”

“There,” says Garry. “Now you're on to something.”

“You use your hands then?”

“Yes.”

“And what other . . . body parts would you say you use?”

This time, the laughter has a bawdy edge that makes you squirm.

“That's enough out of you, Bill,” says Garry, wagging a finger. “Alright, Jayne, let's move on to you.”

Jayne, the next panelist, intertwines the fingers of her white-gloved hands and presses them to her chin. “If you don't mind my saying so, Miss Kramer, your secret sure did get a reaction out of this crowd. Is there something a little silly about what you do?”

“
I
certainly don't think so.”

“No, no, of course, and none of us do, either,” says Garry, “but it's probably fair to say that some might find it a little . . .
unusual.
”

“Unusual, eh? Well, you are a very
tall
woman. Lovely, too, of course. Does your height play some role in your profession?”

“I guess you could say so.”

“I know,” butts in Henry. “She uses her hands and her height. She must be a shelf stocker.”

This gets some snickers from the crowd. This time, the audience's reaction seems less coarse but more spirited, and you sink a little deeper into your seat.

“Settle down now, Henry,” says Garry. “You'll get your turn. This is Jayne's turn now.”

“Yes, Henry,
please.
Miss Kramer, are you a model?”

“No.”

“An actress?”

“No.” But this is certainly a preferable line of questioning. At least you are starting to be taken seriously.

“A basketball player?”

More laughter. Hmm. Maybe not.

“No.”

“No, but you're headed in the right direction,” says Garry. “Let's move on to you, Kitty.”

“Right direction, huh?” asks Kitty. She leans forward and extends you the kindness of her bright smile, as if to apologize for the others. You always did like her. “Miss Kramer, are you some kind of athlete?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a runner?”

“Well, I am, but—”

“But that's not really what we're after,” says Garry. “I don't want to lead everybody down the garden path.”

“Fine, fine. Are you a gymnast?”

“Uh, yes, that too, but once again—”

“Once again, that's not getting at the main gist of it here.”

Kitty furrows her brow, puts on her thinking cap. “A swimmer?”

“Wrong, wrong, wrong.” Moore puts a finger in his collar and pulls. “Okay, Henry, why don't you take a shot at her?”

“Don't mind if I do.” Henry stands and moves as if he's going to come toward you.

“Sit down, Henry! I'll say, what's gotten into you boys tonight?”

“It's okay, Mr. Moore,” you answer, regaining your poise. “I can handle Mr. Morgan.”

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.