Round Robin (15 page)

If he’d had the slightest smirk on his face, Robin would have thought he was showing off. But he spoke in the same no-nonsense, pay-attention tone that he’d been using throughout. He instructed her that you kept your back straight and, inhaling, bent your legs only until your thighs were parallel to the floor. Then, exhaling, you straightened your legs, but did not lock your knees. Then you repeated the motion. Ten repetitions were required.

Manfred did his ten. Without the least bit of difficulty, Robin thought. He went up and down like he was on springs. Didn’t break a sweat, didn’t even have to breathe deeply. But that apparent ease wasn’t something that was reflected in his face. There, Robin saw a look of determination so fierce it almost scared her. This man was willing himself to be strong, so strong she could imagine leaving now and coming back in a week only to find him doing the same perfect, rhythmic repetitions.

But after ten reps Manfred set the bar back on the rack, in a lower slot, and looked at her.

“Your turn.”

“I can’t do all that weight,” Robin said.

“Not yet,” he agreed.

Manfred stripped off the eight forty-five pound plates, leaving the bar bare.

That looked easy.

“Sure, I can do that,” Robin said.

He guided her under the bar, showed her where to put her hands and told her to use her legs to lift it off the rack. Robin did, and staggered under the load. Manfred was there, behind her, to help support the weight, letting Robin regain her balance.

“Ein,”
he barked out, not giving her any time for second thoughts.

She bent her legs, her knees sounding like bowls of Rice Krispies under the first splash of milk. His fingertips under her elbows kept her from bending her crackling knees too far. Then, somehow, she found the strength to straighten her legs and carry the weight back to a standing position. Robin felt this was a major triumph.

But Manfred roared, “Do not lock your knees ...
zwei.”

Somehow, sweating, shaking, heart thumping, blood roaring in her ears and loathing Manfred with every aching fiber in her being, Robin made all
zehn.

The bench presses proved even worse. Again, Manfred demonstrated the proper form with eight plates on the bar. Again, Robin couldn’t believe how pathetically weak she was; she couldn’t lift the unburdened bar off her chest until Manfred aided her with the index finger of each of his hands. It was infuriating. The man could do with two fingers what she couldn’t manage with all the strength in her body. She hated him. The only reason she didn’t evict him then and there was she was afraid he might leave her pinned to the bench for eternity, that and the fact that he didn’t let the least bit of condescension seep through to his expressionless mug.

When they finished he gave her a nod and said, “You will come to my office, please.”

His office was barely big enough for the both of them. Robin watched with mounting anger as he blandly pulled a form out of his desk, put her name in large letters at the top and then started making crabbed notes that she couldn’t decipher. A muscle started twitching in Robin’s back, her sweatpants were stuck up the crack in her butt and she’d just about had it with all this muscle crap when Manfred looked up and gave her a beaming smile.

“Of all the students I have worked with at this school, only two members of the basketball team and one from the football team show more potential than you.”

“Oh, goody,” Robin said.

“You are frustrated now, but soon you will see progress that will astound you.”

“Sure. I’ll be a regular Terminator.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Listen, I appreciate what you tried to do here, but I really don’t think —”

“You have more natural talent, a deeper reservoir of strength, than Ulrike. If you had trained from childhood, you could have made the American Olympic team in a number of sports.”

That was the most outrageous compliment that Robin had ever received in her life. And the fact that Manfred had compared her favorably to his ex-wife hadn’t escaped her notice either. All in all, he had her thoroughly off-balance. Insults, jibes and digs she could handle no problem; compliments, flattery and praise made her nervous, scared her. She’d told Nancy that he’d been sincere when he’d had kind words for her before, but at the back of her mind doubt had lingered. Self-esteem of any sort had been missing from her life for so long ... but looking at him now she couldn’t see the least hint of deceit.

And what possible reason could he have to BS her?

“You will come three times per week,” Manfred said, dismissing her unfinished objection. “That is how you will see the most progress.”

“But I can’t come at this time of day. I’ll be going back to work soon.”

“Before work then.”

“I start at seven.”

“Then we will start at five.”

Two hours later Robin lay on her living room sofa entirely sure that she would never move again. Every muscle in her body was so sore, so inflamed with pain, that she was certain she’d have to linger in a horizontal position for the rest of her life, being fed through one set of tubes and drained through another.

She couldn’t even get up when there was a knock at her door. She could only think, Oh God, not Manfred, anybody but Manfred. He’d see her, make her get up and do a hundred jumping jacks, with wrist and ankle weights.

When a key turned in the lock, she sighed with relief — and even that hurt — knowing it had to be either Nancy or—

“Hi, Sweetie. How’s my girl?”

Her father.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“So how’d the workout go?” he asked.

Robin was momentarily taken aback. She hadn’t intended to tell him what she’d been doing. She still felt uneasy admitting anything about Manfred. Of course, it was obvious that blabbermouth Nancy had spilled the beans. Her father sat down opposite her.

“It was hard.”

Her father leaned over and patted her on the shoulder and Robin bit back a cry of pain.

“Sore, huh?”

“The way I feel makes me think of one of those old Westerns where the guy gets dragged behind the horse. I feel like that, only I was dragged over railroad ties — and then run over by a fast freight.”

“No train, no gain?” her father asked brightly.

“No brain, all pain,” Robin replied miserably.

Her father reached out to comfort her, but he withdrew his hand when he saw Robin wince at his very approach.

“You’ll feel better. You’re a strong girl. When you were just a baby — oh, about six months old, I guess — you used to grab onto my fingers, support your weight with your arms and we’d walk all over the living room. I swear, you were so strong there were times I thought you were going to do chin-ups. And before you were nine months you smacked my hands out of the way and insisted on walking all by yourself. That’s about three months younger than most kids. I stayed close by, of course, in case you lost your balance. But pretty soon you’d start looking over your shoulder, and if I was too close, like I didn’t trust you to walk on your own, you’d give me a dirty look and start screeching at me.”

“A charmer right from the start, huh?” Robin asked wryly.

“The light of my life from the first moment I held you.”

Robin reached out to her father and ignored the pain when he squeezed her hand.

“I have something to tell you, Honey.”

A mortal chill passed through Robin. She sat up, certain that her father would tell her he was dying. The news he gave her was only slightly less stunning.

“Your mother and I are getting divorced.”

“But you, you’re okay?”

Dan Phinney smiled and thumped himself on the chest with both hands.

“Me? I’m fine. Why? Oh, you thought ... ”

Robin lay back down, once again aware of her every shrieking nerve ending.

Her father continued, “I’ve been talking to your mother. You know I’ve wanted a divorce for some years now, and your mother wouldn’t give me one because the Catholic Church forbids it. I never really pushed the matter before this because ... well, I thought there might be some value to it if we were all still a family in name if not in fact. I ... I thought that might make it easier for your mother and you to reconcile someday.”

“You never told me that, Daddy. Not that it would have helped. Nancy says otherwise, but I think I’m pretty much dead in Mom’s eyes, and that’s okay by me.”

“That may have been true for your mother once, but not anymore. She asked me to give this to you.”

Dan Phinney held out an envelope, the kind that holds a greeting card, with Robin’s name on it. Even after twenty years, she still recognized her mother’s handwriting. But she refused to take it. Dan put the envelope down on an end table.

He said, “The other reason I didn’t push as hard for the divorce as I might have is I didn’t want you to ever have the idea that somehow I might be leaving you, too. I’ll never do that, Robin. Only God will take me from you. But I think you’re changing lately. I think you’re stronger now.”

Robin snorted derisively.

Her father ignored the self-deprecation.

“I think that when my time does come, you’ll even be strong enough to accept that.”

Robin blinked away a tear. Then she turned and looked at her father.

“Why did Mom agree this time? After all these years, why did she finally consent to a divorce?”

“She said it was time we stopped hurting each other. She said that she was sorry for her part in causing all the pain. She said she’d prove that even if meant going against her church.”

Dan Phinney got up, bent over and kissed his daughter’s cheek.

“Don’t throw away your mother’s card, Sweetie. See what she has to say.”

Then he left.

Chapter 15

The next day, Robin got a call from a masseuse. No, the woman corrected her, a certified massage therapist. Her stern tone and German accent left no doubt as to the legitimacy of her work. She’d been given Robin’s name by Herr Welk. As a courtesy, she offered a free introductory massage to members of the Chicago sports community.

Was Robin interested?

Robin was still bemused at the notion that she was part of any sports community when Frau Berger told her she had an opening at eleven that morning. But she’d have to decide now because Frau Berger was a busy woman and her openings never lasted very long.

Normally, the question of whether she wanted to be rubbed down, worked over and generally kneaded like dough by another woman would have been an easy one for Robin to answer. No, thank you. But she knew this was not a normal time in her life, not by any stretch of the imagination. She had a man in her house, his child was on the way and she still felt as if she’d been hung up and beaten like a rug.

If she were going to continue with this strength program madness, what harm could there be in getting a free massage?

Robin said okay.

Robin shrieked in agony.

Then she begged Frau Berger to continue, not that the massage therapist had slackened in her efforts for even a second. The woman’s disregard for Robin’s cries of pain was absolute. But then her general demeanor might have inspired George C. Scott’s take on General Patton.

When Robin had arrived, Frau Berger had ordered her to go into the changing room, strip and wrap herself in the body towel she would find there. If her feet were dirty or smelly, she would wash them in the sink she would find there. A separate towel was provided for the drying of feet. If she used it, she would deposit it in the hamper she would find there. She had two minutes to do all this and present herself to Frau Berger in the therapy room. Any tardiness would be deducted from the time for her massage.

Robin obeyed.

Not even thinking of cracking wise.

This woman was as big as Robin was and, Robin knew instinctively, a helluva lot stronger. Robin would not antagonize her. Not without an exceedingly good reason.

The pain Robin felt when Frau Berger first laid hands on her almost passed for such a reason. The sensation was incredible. As Frau Berger’s iron-hard fingers dug into her flesh, the story of St. Stephen being transfixed by arrows flashed into her mind; she knew how he must have felt.

But at the tail end of every screaming synapse came a groan of relief. A binary code of pain and pleasure flashed across Robin’s brain. She’d much rather have had the pleasure alone, but she was certain that nature didn’t give you one without the other, and more than certain that Frau Berger wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“You have good muscles,” Frau Berger said, adding her voice to the massage for the first time as she worked Robin’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” Robin replied.

“Good muscles in very bad condition,” the massage therapist added. “Like mush.”

Robin bit her tongue, as a matter of self-preservation.

“Herr Welk will fix that, I’m sure,” Frau Berger predicted.

“Sure,” Robin said, unable to restrain herself any longer, “that Herr Welk, he’s a real fixer.”

Frau Berger must have caught the note of sarcasm, and disapproved, because Robin gasped in pain and felt certain that the woman had just punctured one of her lungs.

After she’d dressed, tipped Frau Berger ten dollars and, much to her surprise, made an appointment for the following week, Robin stepped out onto the street feeling decidedly odd. She started walking to the corner where she would catch the bus to go back home, and with each step she took she had to restrain herself from bouncing. For the first time in more years than she could remember she felt a spring in her step. Boy, she’d like to show that Manfred how she could jump some rope now. Even do those lousy squats. Maybe push that bar off her chest by herself a time or two.

The pain she’d been feeling was gone. Frau Berger had squeezed it out of her. The therapist had explained as she’d finished the massage that vigorous exercise built up concentrations of lactic acid in the muscles and that was what made them sore. A proper massage dispersed the lactic acid and increased the circulation of blood to the muscles, resulting in a feeling of relief.

Robin felt more than relief; she felt rejuvenated. Just like a kid again, doing what she did again. Skipping toward the bus stop. Robin laughed at herself but didn’t stop. Instead, she started humming. She tried for the overture from the Olympics, but somehow wound up with the theme from the movie Rocky. “Gonna Fly Now.” Close enough to suit her mood. Man, she thought, if this is what exercise and massage therapy could do for you they could blow recreational drugs out of the water.

An old woman sitting on the bench at the bus stop saw a bouncing, grinning Robin closing in on her fast and recoiled in horror.

Robin stopped and said, “Don’t be a grump, get pumped!”

She struck a body building pose, the incredible Hulkette.

The old woman protectively pulled her shopping bag up to her chest and retreated to the far end of the bench. She was genuinely frightened.

Robin hadn’t wanted to scare the woman. So she sat down and kept quiet.

Maybe she’d been overdoing it.

Manfred was home early that day installing a floodlight for the backyard—couldn’t be too careful in America, he was constantly told—when Dan Phinney spotted him.

“Hey, Manfred,” he called, walking toward the rear of Robin’s house.

Manfred nodded politely from his perch on the stepladder.

“A pleasure to see you again, Herr Phinney.”

“Come on, we settled all that. My name is Dan. I came by to take Robin to lunch, but since she’s not here I’ll let you buy me a beer.”

Manfred had more work to do but, after all, this man was his landlady’s father ... and he thought of something he’d like to talk with Dan about.

“Ja,
let’s have a beer.”

“Has Robin told you about me?” Manfred asked.

Manfred and Dan sat at the kitchen table. Dan put his stein of beer down and wiped the mustache of foam off his upper lip.

“What do you mean? You haven’t done something awful, have you?”

“That would depend on whom you asked.”

Manfred filled Dan in on his history; his respect for Robin was increased by the fact that she hadn’t passed along what he’d told her. When he’d heard Manfred’s story, Dan Phinney slapped his leg, smiled and drank some more beer.

“You were an athlete and a spy for the CIA? That’s great!”

“The part that concerns me is my daughter.”

“What’s the problem? You’re getting her back, aren’t you?”

Manfred drained his own beer.

“I am afraid she will reject me,” he said. “The closer the time comes to her arrival, the more certain I am of it. I need help. I need advice. You are the father of a daughter —”

“Two daughters.”

“Two, then. Please. Tell me what I must do ... how I must behave to keep from losing my daughter again.”

Dan saw that Manfred was keeping a straight face, but his eyes gave him away. There was genuine fear in them, terror even. And finding such vulnerability in a man who was so big and strong was both surprising and touching.

Dan Phinney patted Manfred’s hand as if he was a little boy.

“You remember how you felt the first time you saw your daughter?”

Manfred nodded.

“It was the only time I felt a ...” Manfred lost his English. “....
Frolichkeit
... a joy so great that I could not contain it. I wept as though I were the infant.”

Dan smiled.

“Sure, even you were overwhelmed. I was the same way with both my girls. There’s something special about daughters. You have a son, you’ve got to figure he’ll be a chip off the old block. You just take it for granted that if you give a boy a decent start, he’ll stand tall, and with his wits or his mitts he’ll make his way, he’ll do all right. But with a girl you always worry. This world is too damn mean for little girls, they oughta have a better place. So you do your best to protect them. You do your best.”

Manfred saw that Dan Phinney had set foot in a painful memory. He took the two empty bottles from the table and returned with full ones. Dan poured the beer into his stein and sipped. He sighed deeply as though exorcising this particular demon for this particular moment.

“But you can’t always be there for them. Sometimes, as hard as you try, they get hurt anyway. So what you have to do is two things: You love them, and then you love them some more. When you do that, when you keep that in mind, you won’t have any trouble deciding about anything else. You have a choice to make about how to behave with your daughter, you just ask, am I doing this out of love for her or something else for me? Choose love, Manfred. Choose it every time. Your daughter won’t reject you. Not for long, anyway. And once she sees how you feel, you’ll never lose her. She’ll always know she has you to turn to.”

“I’ll never lose her?” Manfred asked hopefully.

Dan Phinney shook his head.

“Oh, she may move away someday. In fact, you can pretty much count on it. But she’ll always have a place for you in her heart, and no father could ever ask for more.”

Mimi called Saturday night.

Robin had spent that morning not doing her laundry, unsure if she wanted to bump into Manfred or his underwear. That afternoon, she’d talked for hours on the phone with Nancy about their parents’ upcoming divorce, agreeing that it was probably a good thing, but both of them admitting that they felt strange about it. That evening Robin had gone out for an early-bird special dinner with her dad, both of them taking it easy on the cholesterol, and she’d just returned in time to hear the phone ring.

“What?” Robin asked Mimi. “You were so sure I’d be home, that I wouldn’t have I date?”

“I’ve missed you, too, sweetheart. How’s the ankle? You ready to come back to work on Monday?”

“Work? What’s that? Did I mention I won the lottery?”

“No, you didn’t. Did I mention that Manfred’s strudel is a big hit?”

“What?”

“Yes, so far it’s sold out within an hour of opening every day. The breakfast rush must be up ten percent. He says he does some very nice cherry tarts, too. We’re going to try those next week.”

Robin felt aggrieved. Sure, she’d been the one who told Manfred about Mimi’s business proposition, and she knew how good his strudel was —even though he hadn’t offered to bake her any lately — but the idea that he’d gone ahead and followed through on her lead without even telling her, that he was becoming important at the place where she had always been the star, it just plain put her nose out of joint. Strudel, indeed.

She’d show him who mattered at Mimi’s.

“I’ll see you Monday, Mimi. My ankle’s fine.”

“I’m happy to hear it.”

“But, Mimi?”

“Yes?”

“If that idiot, Ant-knee, tries to get back at me, I won’t cut him any slack.”

There was a significant pause at the other end of the line.

“Haven’t you heard, Robin?” Mimi asked.

“Heard what?”

“Tone Morello lost his job, he was fired. I don’t think he’ll be back.”

“Oh,” Robin said.

Well, she wasn’t going to blame herself for Ant-knee’s problems. The smug jerk had probably ticked off the wrong person at his television station with his stupid, macho, win-at-all-costs attitude. She hadn’t gotten him fired.

And why should she care if, for some bizarre reason, she had? After the way he’d treated all those women, it’d serve him right if he wound up in a soup kitchen. Hell, it’d serve him right if he wound up in a soup pot — and if any of those other jerks who came into Mimi’s thought she was going to take it easy on them ...

Robin worked herself up into such a fine lather that it took her several moments to realize that someone was knocking — banging by now — on her door.