The Sweetheart (13 page)

This is the reception you hurried here for. Remember the fondness you've retained for those memories of a school-age Cynthia, the ones where she races toward you as you return from tumbling class? Instantly, that fondness dulls; the recollections themselves recede into a more obscure, less easily accessed area of your brain. From now on, when you imagine a homecoming, this scene—Sam's face, pinked and medicinally scented from a recent shave, moving quickly toward your own—will be the one that plays in your mind's eye.

•    •    •

As much as you both might dread it, you will eventually have to leave the kitchen and return to the war zone, so you might as well get hopping. Already, there is popcorn on the floor and a forest of Erin Brew bottles (
All you have to do is . . . pop a cap!
) on the boomerang-shaped coffee table. Sam pushes the bottles aside to make room for the tray of crudités. While he nestles into the empty seat, you hold on to the platter of deviled eggs, surveying the room. This bachelor pad isn't the most spacious and comfortable place to host a party, even one this small. The couch, the armchairs, the coffee table, and the massive television are crammed into the tiny, carpeted space. Apparently, it is the last of these that makes Sam's home the hub of their football viewing, and from the looks of it, everyone's position is long-established: Lacey in one armchair, Sam in the other, and Johnny on the couch, which doesn't exactly leave much space for you. (Surely the aforementioned Debbie took part in these shindigs. Where on earth did she sit?) You'd think Johnny would offer the couch to the two of you, or at least make some room—somehow, he manages to take up the entire thing—but the man appears clueless. Eventually, you make a space for the tray on the coffee table, snag a pillow from under Johnny's foot, and settle down on a plot of carpeting next to Sam's chair. He leans over the arm and looks down at you, his face wrinkled with confusion. “Don't you want to sit with me?”

Was this supposed to be the arrangement all along? How could you have guessed that?

“Is there room?” you ask.

Sam extends his hand down. “
Is there room,
she asks. Come on.”

You have your doubts, but it's hardly an offer you can refuse, so you hike yourself up on an elbow, take his hand, and let him pull you onto your feet. While you wait for the impending coin toss, you try to situate yourself in Sam's lap in such a way that each of you might be comfortable and able to see the screen, but it's impossible. Just as you thought: you are too tall, too ample. Story of your life.

From the chitchat, you gather that this game is a done deal. The Eagles may be second in the conference, but they've lost their last two games, including one against the Giants, for Christ's sake. Besides that, even if the Browns roll over and play dead today, they've already won the Eastern Conference by a country mile and will move on to Detroit for the national championship.

“Just so everyone knows,” you say, “I'm rooting for the Eagles.”

In an instant, all the goodwill you have earned by playing the hostess dissipates. Everyone, smitten Sam and indifferent Lacey included, stares with incredulity. It is up to you to break the long silence: “What?”

Sam shrugs. “I guess I can live with hometown loyalty. Tell you what. If by some strange fluke of fortune the Eagles take this game, I'll take you out tonight and buy you a big fat steak, nice and bloody. What do you say?”

“You're on,” you say, mouth already watering. “And if the Browns win, I'll buy you a steak.”

“That's okay,” says Sam, looking at you with pity.

“Why not?” you ask. “Fair is fair.”

“Maybe you could just
cook
him a steak,” Johnny volunteers.

“Maybe she doesn't
want
to cook him a steak,” says Lacey. She sucks on an ice cube and spits it back into her glass; it clanks against the bottom. “Maybe she prefers to
buy
him a steak. She makes money, too.”

“All right, then,” Sam ventures. He offers his hand; you give it a shake. “You're on.”

As uncomfortable as Johnny and Lacey have made you today, Sam's lap is worse. In each position you attempt, you are both only momentarily at ease. The pillow you took from the couch is still on the ground, beckoning. “I really need to stretch out my legs,” you tell Sam, sinking down to the floor. Perhaps that is how he and Debbie watched the games, but you are not Debbie. He nods, clearly a little hurt but also, you suspect, a little relieved. You fold the pillow over to prop up your head and close your eyes.
Just for a second,
you tell yourself, but you are no match for this exhaustion, so you give in to it and proceed to sleep through the entire game. Hours later, when Sam gently shakes you awake and informs you of the result (42–27, Eagles), he will still be incredulous, but you will take more pleasure in a victory of other sorts: a quiet house, with Sam all to yourself.

•    •    •

Early the next morning, you step outside Sam's apartment and pull up the collar of your coat, which you managed to get on despite Sam's playful unfastening of the buttons. Above you, the sky is a clean, watery gray. The street is plowed clear; on the sidewalk, the snow is still white and piled high. If you had time to think, you'd feel a stab of guilt for being the one who has to do the spoiling. But you don't have time. You were supposed to call your father last night. You will have to hurry to catch him before work, so you race as fast as your galoshes and your still-sore toe will allow.

There's a good chance you're already too late. You should have left at first light. Scratch that: you should have left
last night.
The snow was a flimsy excuse for you to stay, but Sam played the card, and who can blame you if you were quick to fold? You will have to hit the road again soon, and this time, without the same assurances. Even if you could sweet-talk Joe into returning you to Cleveland, Sam might well be off on his own tour. The only thing that made leaving palatable was the knowledge that you will see him again tonight for that promised steak.

By the time you get to the hotel, you are breathless and a mess, not in a state to see anybody. But Mimi is already in the lobby, on her way to Leo Pospisil's gym for a morning workout.

“Just getting back from the game? Must have been some serious overtime.”

There's no need to kiss and tell, Gwen: it isn't any of her business. Besides, there probably isn't much hope that she will believe the truth—that, by just about anyone's standards but yours, it was all fairly tame. Clothes were loosened, hands traveled and lingered, but that was as far as it got. It wasn't too terribly square of you to stop things there. We are talking about a more conservative, cautious age, after all—one with stricter social mores and less reliable birth control. Besides, you are still getting to know each other. Still, it will have to happen sooner rather than later. He likes you, but the man is a star, one that is about to burn even brighter. Women will be readily available to him. You cannot afford to be a prude.

“It was,” you say. “Longest game in football history.”

“Lots of quality time with the usual suspects, I reckon. You get to meet the Ragin' Cajun?”

“Who?”

Mimi laughs. “Exactly.”

It is this harshness that helps you make the connection between the character Mimi has just named and the other Bordeaux. No one bothered to tell you Lacey used to wrestle. As far as you knew, her perpetual fight with Johnny was her whole story. You can only imagine Mimi would enjoy hearing about the hostility you witnessed last night, but you aren't keen to trot out Lacey's troubles for Mimi's pleasure. Whether this is because you feel protective of Lacey or hostile toward Mimi, you couldn't say.

“What about you?” you ask, changing the subject. “What've you been up to?”

“Me? Oh, I caught some shut-eye, and then I got Leo to open the gym for me. I was overdue for a workout.”

You have a vision of Mimi alone in a cinder block gym while others enjoy their Sunday meal or, like you, gather with friends to watch the game. She hits the bag; the sound echoes in the empty building. What was it she said to you?
I get all of the fun and none of the fuss
. She can't believe that. You certainly don't.

“By the way,” she continues, “I spoke to Joe last night. We leave for Minnesota on Thursday.”

“Minnesota?” This is not what you want to hear. The train ride from Baltimore to Philly would have been short and relatively inexpensive. Minnesota is a completely different story. “What happened to Baltimore?”

“This came up and Joe gave me a choice. Minnesota pays better, so we're going to Minnesota.”

“Why do you get to choose?”

Mimi narrows her eyes. “Are you kidding me?”

All your nerves tie into knots. On top of being an economic hardship and cutting into what will undoubtedly be a short holiday, Minnesota makes no sense to you. For the life of you, you can't understand why Joe would—but then it hits you—
send you to Minnesota in the middle of winter.

Right.

“Deal with it, Champ. It's a done deal.”

In the pockets of your coat, you make two fists with your gloved hands and release them.

Mimi pulls up her coat collar and confirms what you already know. “Johnny's picking us up here Thursday morning. Be in the lobby by nine.” She drops her chin into the neck of her coat, steels her posture for the cold, and pushes her way through the glass doors of the lobby. You should hurry upstairs and make that phone call before it's too late and then get on with the day. There is plenty to be done before Sam picks you up and you have to tell him you'll soon be inking blue stars in the North Star State. You need to send some clothes to the laundry, pack your bags, get a long nap. You can take that bath. But for now, you stand in the lobby and watch the other Tennessee Tag Team Champion walk up the street and against the wind, alone.

TWELVE

M
innesota takes another eight days out of your life, but at the end of it lies a sweet reward: one week of long-anticipated, richly deserved time off for the holidays (unpaid, of course), which begins as soon as you step off the train and into the 30th Street Station. Maybe you're biased, but if there's any place on earth better for a homecoming, you'd like to know where it is. Even on an evening like this one, when the terminal is teeming with seasonal travelers, their arms filled with sleeping children and shopping bags overstuffed with holiday gifts, the space feels light and airy; the art deco chandeliers cast a warm and welcoming glow. Here and there, weary voyagers catnap on the wooden benches, which might be long enough to accommodate even your lengthy self. Tempting, isn't it? After Minnesota, you are bone tired. You were right to be reluctant; it was everything you feared it would be: cold, expensive, lonely, and demoralizing. Three days ago, a spectator struck you with a folding metal chair. When you threw up an arm to protect yourself, you caught most of the blow on the jutted palm of your hand, and it has throbbed ever since. You haven't been able to make a complete fist for days. Now, as your feet click swiftly across the terminal, you practice opening and closing the injured hand, the other firmly gripped around the handle of your suitcase. You don't know what to expect from this visit home, if anything, but at least you can spend a few days out of character. You're tired of this heel business. Something's got to give.

You look over the crowd for your father. You told him not to bother; it would be late and besides, even if you weren't as travel-savvy as you are now, this is your hometown. But he is the kind of man who thinks young women should have escorts—and so, despite the late hour, there he is, standing underneath the arrivals-and-departures board, just as he said he would be. He looks more slight than usual in his plaid coat. When he sees you, he smiles without restraint and opens his arms wide.

“Leonie!” he says.

And then, it happens: that feeling that pestered you early in your adventures, the one you thought was gone for good—something like homesickness, but more like loss—breaks loose, and the combination of everything that's been difficult since you left home (Joe, the audiences, Mimi) quickly flanks and complicates it, producing a surprise multifronted physical attack. Nausea. Chest pain. Dizziness. Tears. This, sweet girl, is what happens when you ignore your feelings. They didn't disappear; they were only tucked away, compounding interest. Now, they overwhelm you. You enter your father's arms and fall apart.

“Come on now,” he says, his hammer-strong hand cupping the back of your head. He takes the suitcase from your hand. “Is this it?” You nod against his shoulder, and he sighs. “All right then. Let's get you home.”

It is a half block to the subway station, and the two of you walk it side by side, your head on his shoulder. You collect yourself on this walk and, sensing you no longer need propping up, your father gradually lessens the force in the arm he's locked around your waist, eventually releasing you entirely but only after you've taken hold of the subway pole. It is here, rumbling toward the old neighborhood, your father seated in front of you with your suitcase on his lap, where it dawns on you what he'd meant when he'd asked that question—
Is this it?
—and what was implicit in the subsequent sigh. You press your forehead against the pole.

“You thought I was coming home for good.”

Franz Putzkammer rolls his lips into a forced smile. Behind him, the darkened tunnel whirrs past.

“No, I didn't really think so,” he says. He turns his face toward the blackness, as if to confess to it. “But I hoped.”

•    •    •

The next morning, you stumble out of the bedroom—while it is your father's now, he insists that it's yours while you are home—and into the main room, where, despite the fact that it's well into his workday, he sits in front of the Philco holding a half-finished can of beer in his hand and a half-smoked Winston in his lips.

“Look who's alive,” he says as you make your way to the kitchen. You open the refrigerator—more beer, a wedge of cheese, and a lot of empty space—before checking a canister on the counter where, mercifully, you find enough grounds for a partial pot of coffee. You prepare the percolator, put it on the lit stove eye, and stand there for a minute, warming your hands over the flame. This has never been a warm house, but this morning it seems particularly drafty.

“You don't have to be at the factory?” you ask.

“I'm on vacation,” he says. “It's Christmas, isn't it?”

“I guess. How long you get off?”

“I go back right after you leave.”

You head over to the couch and plop down beside your father. “A whole week? What's gotten into you?”

Franz shrugs and stubs out his cigarette. “Why not? My only daughter comes to visit me. Why shouldn't I take a week off?” He strokes the back of your head, rougher, more playful than he had just the night before. “Enough about me. What about you? Tough stuff, the wrestling? You get hurt much?”

“Not too bad.” You resist an urge to practice fisting your injured hand. “It's mostly show.”

“The travel, though. That's hard.”

You see an opportunity to explain away last night's episode and take it. “It's tiring. That's what you were seeing last night. Exhaustion.” This claim is not completely off base—you can't yo-yo across the country the way you have without growing bone weary—but, you admit to yourself, it is incomplete. The weariness makes it harder to deal with the problems of life; it is not, in and of itself, the problem. When your father nods his understanding, you yawn, additional evidence for your claim. “I really needed that sleep.”

“You like it?”

“Sleep?”

“Wrestling.”

“Sure,” you say, because it's the easiest answer. He won't understand the more complex one: that it's also lonely and taxing; that while you like playing a persona, you hate being a heel and being Mimi's underling; that it was good in the beginning, and you're hopeful things will change, that it will be good again.

“I'll show you something,” you say, and disappear into the bedroom. Five minutes later, you return, wearing the half-laced Green Goddesses beneath your flannel nightgown. The suit you will keep under wraps, but the boots might be appreciated. “What do you think?”

Your father stares at your feet and sips his beer. “They're green.”

“
They're green
?” you say, returning to your spot on the couch. It wasn't exactly the reaction you'd hoped for. “That's it?”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“I don't know. Something else.”

“Okay then. They're great. They're exactly the kind of wrestling boots a father would want his daughter to have.”

A long silence follows. To cover up the awkwardness, you get up to check on the coffee. Just as you figured—not quite ready. Instead of returning to the couch, you stand by the window, one boot resting on the other. Outside, in front of Cynthia's house, is Wally's truck. Has Cynthia had her baby yet? You fish around in your memory and do the math. No, she should still be pregnant, but due very soon. Perhaps you should stop by to say hello. Now that the tide has turned and Cynthia is the one stuck in banal domesticity while you are out on the open road, it might be very satisfying to regale your old friend with tales of your new life.

“Someone named Sam just called for you,” your father says. He stares at the television while he says this, and you get the sense that he's tiptoeing up to something. “Is he your boyfriend?”

The question catches you off guard. Your father has never once asked you about boys before, and you are hesitant to discuss the subject with him now. But you will have to tell him sooner or later, won't you? You might as well go ahead and spill the beans.

“Yes, actually. Some of your buddies might know him as Spider McGee.”

“Spider? You're dating an insect?”

“That's just his wrestling name.” Finally, the coffee finishes. You pour yourself a mugful and rejoin him on the couch. “You can call him Sam.”

“Am I going to approve of this Sam?”

“I don't know,” you say, allowing yourself a fleeting thought of Spider, and lean against his shoulder. “Maybe.”

You will end the day in this position, too. At present, there's no snow or ice outside, so after you finish your coffee, you will put on your Keds and go for a run, reacquainting yourself with your neighborhood, before cleaning up and going off to buy groceries. When you return, you will scrub down the kitchen and bathroom, make a hearty dinner that your father will gulp down in appreciation, and once again settle into the couch (where your father will spend most of the day) for your regular Tuesday night programming. But the present moment is what's important: the small community of father and daughter together, staring ahead at the screen, where Jean Corbett and Bill Hart create a casserole with condensed soup on
Home Highlights,
you dressed in your wrestling boots and cupping a coffee mug, your father polishing off his beer, both of you awash in misunderstanding yet still able to provide each other some measure of comfort, still finding a small way—a head against a shoulder, the short press of a kiss against the scalp—to connect and sustain, to accept love in the form that it comes, not the one you wish it would take.

•    •    •

I wish I could say the rest of the week was more of the same. Rather, it is all downhill. Sure, it's nice to relive the familiarity of a night in the company of your father and Edward R. Murrow's authoritative presence, but you soon realize this is all your father does anymore—sit in front of the television, watching everything from the superbrainy archaeological quiz show
What in the World?
to the inane children's serial
Atom Squad
—and, as a result, this is all he expects the two of you to do in your short time together. You try to keep him company, but being together like this, in front of the television, makes you painfully aware of how inadequate it is to the task of closing the distance between you. Even when you are both parked right in front of it, you are miles apart. This is not the kind of love that seemed promised in your father's phone calls. It feels more like your familiar pattern, but worse. On top of all this, it's difficult to see your father, formerly healthy and ­athletic—
a sound mind in a sound body
—now completely sedentary but for the occasional raising of a cigarette or beer. Each morning, you invite him to run with you, and he steadfastly refuses.

“Why should I run?” he asks. “Who is chasing me?”

Feeling guilty for whatever part you've played in creating this shell of your father, but unwilling to stay cooped up and frustrated, you spend your afternoons shopping for the food you forgot you missed. Each afternoon, the two of you spoil your appetite: Amaroso's rolls stuffed with grilled beef and Cheez Whiz from the suddenly popular Pat's King of Steaks, a baker's dozen of warm
laugenbrötchen
, the saccharine pleasures of Tastykakes (Butterscotch Krimpets, Kandy Kakes, and Chocolate Juniors) that all but bury your memories of MoonPies. It's the best part of the day, the two of you sitting across from each other at the table, teasing each other about how the other eats, you in small pinches or cut-up bites, Franz practically inhaling the food, your view of each other slightly obscured by the
weihnachtspyramide,
the wooden Christmas pyramid that has served in place of a tree every year of your life. Usually, your father is the one to unpack it from a trunk of your mother's things
,
but this year, when you didn't see it in its rightful place, you dug it out and set it up yourself.

On the morning of your last full day home, Christmas day, you sit in these same seats, the gifts you've bought for each other—one bulky and rectangular, the other small, thin, and square—lying to each side of the
weihnachtspyramide
. You pour two cups of coffee while your father lights the candles and then take your seat as the heat and smoke rise, turning the propeller and spinning the nativity. It's as pleasant a morning as you can hope for: hot coffee and comfortable silence, save for the occasional wham of the radiator. Your father pushes his gift to you across the table.

“You first,” he says.

You're careful with the gift wrap so it can be used again, as you've been taught to do, peeling the self-stick ribbon off, running a finger under the tucks and easing the tape off the paper. The gift is a 45, which you guessed correctly by the shape, but not one you might have purchased for yourself. It isn't Faye Adams, nor is it the Drifters' “Money Honey.” No, it is “Rags to Riches” by Tony Bennett. Earlier in the week, you considered bringing your record player and albums back to Florida with you, but it only took a cursory glance at the artists—Patti Page, Peggy Lee—to realize there was no point: they'd be just as inert and purposeless in Florida as they were here. Now, you'll have to take Tony back with you when he really belongs here, among that clan of boring crooners and pop singers. You have no use for a Tony Bennett record. But this isn't what saddens you; it's what the gift
means.
Few things make better yardsticks for measuring the gap between two people than a present. Although he'd been spot-on with the Bakelite radio, this one proves that the gulf is not only titanic but continuing to widen.

“It's not much,” your father says.

“It's great,” you say, and force an expression that matches that sentiment. You hope he does not read through you. You
are
grateful for the time, energy, and money that went into its purchase. You reach across the table to squeeze his hand and make this known. “Thank you.”