The Switch (12 page)

 

LOUIS HAD BEEN HERE ABOUT THIRTEEN YEARS AGO
, right after he got out of the Navy and was going to Wayne and the guy in his Introduction to Psychology class asked him if he ever played golf. He'd forgotten the guy's name—a first name that was like a last name, Stewart—that was it.

The place looked different now. The fairways on the right, driving in the winding road through the trees, that was the same; but he didn't remember all the tennis courts on the other side—about eight or ten of them, over there behind a wall of bright green windscreens. There seemed to be a lot of people over there. They heard a quick cheer and some clapping, not very loud.

Louis remembered he had shot about 120 and lost 13 of Stewart's golf balls, some he couldn't even find on the fairway. Stewart never invited him back. The prick. No, Stewart was all right. He wondered if he'd recognize Stewart if he saw him.

The clubhouse looked different too. Louis remembered
a big white frame colonial looking building. He didn't remember the pillars by the entrance or the ivy growing all over the sides. Ordell made a circle around the entrance, past the young guys who parked cars—the young guys giving the van a look—and drove into the parking area along the side of the clubhouse away from the tennis courts. They could hear kids yelling, sounding as though they were playing in a swimming pool. Louis didn't remember a pool.

“How do you know?” Louis said.

“It was in the paper,” Ordell said.

“I didn't see anything about it.” Louis held up the women's section.

“Saturday paper. Tell about the different tournaments and the kid's name was in it.” Ordell crept the van, looking for a parking place. “Everybody out at the club,” he said. “Nice sunny day.” He came to a stop at the end of the aisle, giving up. Louis looked at him.

“You can't park here.”

“Go ahead. I'll wait for you.”

They looked out past a chain-link fence at sailboats on the lake. There was the sound of an outboard, off somewhere. A Cadillac crept up behind them, then swung over to the next aisle.

Louis said, “You don't want to walk around over there, huh. People think you're the shoeshine boy come out for some air.”

“I don't need to go,” Ordell said, “I've seen her.”

“Yeah,” Louis said. “Let me borrow your sunglasses.” He got out and walked through the lot and past the clubhouse toward the tennis courts.

The big fifteen-year-old kid had won the first set 7­5 and was on top of Bo Dawson 4­1 in the second, standing back and returning everything Bo hit at him, making Bo play the big kid's slow, steady game. Bo would run out of patience and jump on a shot to put it away and that's why he was losing.

That's what the people in the stands said who were watching the match in their tennis and golf outfits. They said somebody should talk to Bo, slow him down before he blew the match. Bo wasn't playing his usual game; he was off stride. Someone said Mickey was probably dying. Looks would pass between the people in the stands, eyes raised, a slow head-shake. Comments were made quietly because Bo's mother was sitting on the bottom row of the stands that were built along one side of the court. On the other side, beyond a second court, another crowd watched from a line of umbrella tables.

Someone said Bo wasn't stroking; he was too anxious and his timing was off.

Louis wanted to say the kid was concentrating on his acting instead of the match, going through a lot of tragic motions. He'd blow a shot and then strike a dramatic pose: look up at the sun—Why
me, Lord?—or closely study the strings of his racket. A couple of times, when people were moving in and out of the stands, Bo looked over and glared and waited until the people were seated.

Something he learned watching TV, Louis thought. Louis couldn't understand why tennis spectators were so polite. Why there had to be silence during a match. He'd think of a major league ballplayer in a tough situation: a batter with a three-two count waiting for the ball to come in at him ninety-five-miles-an-hour, and the fans screaming and banging seats. Louis wondered if he'd have to sit here the rest of the match. He didn't see how he'd get down without disturbing people.

He had a pretty good view of Mrs. Dawson, on an angle looking down, and could see her face when she turned to look at the right-hand court. When her son was over there she faced that way most of the time. She looked even younger than in the picture, not more than in her late twenties; but she had to be older to have a son Bo's age. She didn't look like a girl who got knocked up in second-year high and had to get married. She looked like a girl, a woman, who had money. What was it about a woman like that? Her hair maybe. It wasn't overdone in some bullshit hairdo like you saw on waitresses. Or the way she sat. She seemed at ease; though Louis could tell she was strung-out inside,
nibbling there on her lower lip and smoking one cigarette after another.

Bo blew another one, an easy putaway. He tried to kill it. The ball cracked hard against the tape along the top edge of the net and dropped back into Bo's court. People in the stands said, “Awwww,” and made sympathetic sounds as Bo let his racket fall and stood looking at the net with his hands on his hips.

Right, Louis thought, blame the fucking net. He noticed Bo's mother wasn't watching the act; she was lighting another cigarette. People were saying it was a tough break and, awwww, that was too bad, wasn't it? Louis liked the tall kid on the other side. The kid looked awkward, but he stood very calmly watching Bo. The kid was cool; he was content to let Bo beat himself.

Match point: Bo slammed one that sailed over the tall kid's head. The tall kid approached the net with a big grin, wiping his hand on his shirt, getting ready to offer it. Bo turned around and threw his racket at the fence. He stood with his hands on his hips for awhile, people moving around now, crossing the court. Louis watched him. Finally Bo walked up to the net and gave the tall kid a brief handshake, not giving it much or saying anything. Bo's mother reached him as he was walking away, toward the umbrella tables, and put her hand on
his shoulder and said something, no doubt sympathizing.

Why did everybody sympathize with him? Louis wondered. Why didn't somebody kick his ass?

Louis stood up in the stands, looking around. He noticed Bo's tennis racket still lying a few feet from the windscreen-covered fence, where it had bounced off. People walked past the racket going over to the umbrella tables and the other courts beyond, but nobody seemed to notice the racket lying there. Two couples walked out on the court, one of the men opening a can of balls. Louis stepped down the boards of the stands, walked over to the fence and picked up the racket. It was a Wilson Jack Kramer. He had picked up a Wilson at Palmer Park—it must have been twenty years ago—tried playing tennis, found out it was about a hundred times harder than it looked, and sold the racket to a kid for five bucks. This one was probably a much better racket. The strings were so tight he couldn't move them at all.

He'd say to Ordell, “Tennis anyone?” No, he wouldn't, he'd think of something else or let Ordell say something first. But Ordell would know he had a line ready and wouldn't ask him where he got it. So he'd throw the racket in the van and not say anything. The racket would stay there, in back by the rear speakers and the ice chest, on the red carpeting.
Neither of them would say anything about it, though one or the other would pick it up from time to time and fool with it. See how long they could go, neither of them mentioning it. He liked to do things like that with Ordell.

Right now he'd like to find a men's room. He should've gone at Richard's house. Jesus, Richard was a spooky guy. Or wait till they went someplace to eat. Grass always made him hungry, the same as when he drank beer he was taking a leak every fifteen minutes after about the fourth one. He'd tell Ordell he had to go bad and Ordell would say, “What's the matter, you nervous?”

That's why Louis went into the clubhouse—to find a men's room—in the main entrance past the big colonial pillars. The time before, thirteen years ago, they had gone in a door that led directly to the men's locker room.

He hadn't been in the lobby before. He wondered if he'd see Stewart or recognize him if he did. There was a wide carpeted hallway. He saw people eating in a dining room with the sun on the window. He could hear voices, people laughing. People passed him in the hallway. He felt them looking at him and at the tennis racket, knowing he wasn't a member. All right, he was a guest. And the tennis racket was like any other Wilson Jack Kramer. He looked fine. No flashy print or colors, but the cap
and sunglasses, nice light-blue sportshirt and tan flares were all right. He had almost put on jeans this morning at Ordell's apartment, but didn't because it was Sunday.

That was strange. Something left over. What was the difference, Sunday or any other day? Like Sunday was still the day of rest: get dressed and go to mass, have the big pork roast dinner at noon. That was a long time ago. Louis found a men's room in the hallway. He came out, recrossed the lobby to the main entrance, opened the door and stepped back as Mrs. Dawson was right in front of him, saying, “Oh, I'm sorry,” hesitating. Louis moved aside, holding the door open with the tennis racket hand. She was really nice looking, right there close, moving past him.

Louis said, “Mrs. Dawson?” And watched her expression as she turned to look at him, expectant, a little surprised. Dark brown eyes.

“I think this is your son's racket. I found it out there, I was gonna hand it in at the desk.”

It seemed to make sense, but he wasn't sure. She didn't question him. She took the racket, looking at it, and said, “Yes, it is. Thank you very much,” still a little surprised. Her eyes raised with a very calm, pleasant look.

Louis wanted to say something else, hear her voice again, but he couldn't think of anything. He
said, “That's okay,” pushed through the door and got out of there.

In the van, sitting in his captain's chair, Ordell was sipping a can of beer, looking out at the sailboats. He swiveled around as Louis climbed in.

“You see her?”

“We had a nice chat,” Louis said. “She said yeah, she'd love to spend some time with us.”

 

BO'S EXPLANATION FOR LOSING:
“That kid, all he did, he kept standing back at the baseline. What was I supposed to do, keep lobbing with him? It'd be like a couple of girls playing.”

Mickey's explanation of why Frank was still at the club, drinking at several tables pushed together on the screened porch: “He has customers. He can't just rush off and leave them.”

Bo said, “Well, isn't dad going? I thought he was so anxious.”

“He said he'd call and get you, both of you, on a later flight.”

Bo said he didn't want to take a later flight, get there in the middle of the night. He didn't even want to go. Why did he have to?

She wanted to say, “To learn how to play tennis. To learn how to lose without making excuses.” She didn't though.

Bo said the whole thing, the tennis camp, was
dad's idea. If he thought it was such a red hot idea why didn't he go to the camp? God, he could use it. Bo said he'd like to meet the kid again when the kid learned some tennis and knew how to play instead of dinking around.

They got home from the club at 5:15. Frank drove in at a quarter of eight, mad.

“All I said was”—very patiently, standing at her dresser, holding onto the edge with her elbow as she watched Frank pack—“at a quarter to five I said—”

“You said in front of everybody you were leaving.”

“All I said was, I'm taking Bo home. The flight's at 6:30, you haven't packed and it takes an hour to get to the airport.”

“Forty minutes.”

He was packing now, moving between his dresser and the Gucci-striped suitcase open on the bed. She watched him drop in at least a half dozen dress shirts.

“All I said was—” He mimicked her, overdoing it. “I have to get Bo home and fix his dinner and clean the house and make some cookies—”

“I didn't say anything like that.”

“Your tone, it's the same thing,” Frank said.
“Goody goody. Oh, isn't everything nice.” He continued packing, laying resort clothes in the bag now, enough for at least two weeks.

Maybe she did use it a lot.
All I said was
—Mickey could hear the words. And maybe it was self-serving, playing nice, a cover-up for what she felt. But what was wrong with keeping the peace? Why antagonize people? Except she did antagonize Frank, without trying too hard.

Okay, start over and get the tone right. She knew her thinking was fairly straight. It was just that she backed off whenever the chance came to express how she really felt, not wanting to offend. Or, wanting everybody to like her. But why couldn't she talk to her own husband?

Keep it harmless. “What time's the flight, eleven?”

“Eleven oh five.”

“You sure you don't want me to drive you?”

He gave her a look: she was on dangerous ground again.

“That's right, you want to have a car out there,” Mickey said. “And you'll be back . . . Saturday?”

“I said Saturday or Sunday. But it might be next week, if I stop and see Bo on the way back. He's gonna be gone a month.”

It was in her mind to say, Why? You hardly ever see him when you're home. But Frank would come
lashing back, or make it sound as though she was nagging him. Something was strange. This morning he'd said he was coming home Saturday, be gone a week. (Usually on his business trips to the Bahamas he was gone three or four days, at the most.) Now he was talking about staying, either in Freeport or Fort Lauderdale, until the following week. She tried to picture him, briefly, entertaining a busy, scurrying group of Japanese investors . . . then, standing in the sun, watching a bunch of kids at a tennis camp.

Mickey said, “I'd better call my mother, tell her you're coming in later.”

“Why don't you do that?” Frank said, the edge still there . . .

But gone without a trace only minutes later, mixing vodka and tonic at the kitchen counter, talking to Bo while Bo sat at the breakfast table with a bag of potato chips. “I'm sorry I didn't catch your match,” the dad said. “That was a shame. I understand the guy wasn't too aggressive.”

“Ag
gres
sive, he played like a girl.” Bo had sympathy and was pouting. “All he wanted to do was lob.”

Mickey listened.

“He didn't have any backhand. He'd push at the ball, you know, like he was playing Ping-Pong, hit it up in the air with a little spin on it.”

And Bo would break his back trying to kill it. Mickey stacked the breakfast and supper dishes in the dishwasher but didn't turn it on yet.

“The ball comes down, God, it'd hang there. You got so much time, you know, you want to kill it. What was I supposed to do, keep hitting lobs?”

Justifying, making excuses. He didn't get that from his mother. But then she wasn't sure.

Bo said, “If I played the way he wanted we would've looked like a couple of girls.”

“I know what you mean,” the dad said. “That's why I don't play mixed doubles anymore. It isn't worth it.”

God help me, Mickey thought. She could beat Frank in straight sets and he knew it. But she didn't say anything. After a moment she began to wonder. Maybe he
didn't
know it.

The telephone rang while they were still in the kitchen. Frank, with a fresh drink and a plate of cheese and crackers, was sitting at the table with Bo. Mickey stepped over to the wall phone to answer.

Marshall Taylor's voice said, “Hi. Is this the Coast Guard? I was wondering if the coast is clear?”

Mickey said, “What?” She took another moment and said, “Oh, he's right here.”

She listened to Frank say, “No, partner, I told you this morning I'm gonna be away. You remember
now? . . . That's right. Yeah, Bo and I are leaving eleven oh five . . . You bet, partner. Shake it easy.”

Coming away from the phone Frank said, “I think Marsh's getting hardening of the arteries.”

Leave by ten they'd have plenty of time to make the flight, Frank said. He preferred to race to the airport rather than wait around at the gate with the amateur travelers who checked in a half hour or more ahead of time.

When they had finally gone, Mickey sat down at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee and her grocery list note pad. She wrote at the top of the page:

 

EXCUSES—JUSTIFICATION

 

She was thinking of Bo. Maybe he did get it from her.

No. She didn't make excuses. At least not out loud. She kept them to herself. What she did, when Frank annoyed her she would make harmless-sounding remarks she knew would irritate him—not often but often enough—then innocently cover up with, “All I said was—” She would jab lightly with the needle and then duck, instead of getting mad and letting him know how she felt.

Now then—In a stab at self-analysis she wrote:

Why don't you ever speak up to Frank when he
(she almost wrote “pisses you off”)
does something you don't like?

She began listing the reasons, adding her reactions to the reasons, her excuses, as she went along.

Because you shouldn't get mad.
(Says the goody-goody)

If you raise your voice, Frank raises his louder.
(An assumption, you've never raised yours)

Frank won't listen to you anyway. You're only his wife.
(Poor me. Meant to be funny (?)

F
rank isn't aware enough to know there's a problem, a personality conflict.
(How could he if you keep it a secret?)

The final reason drew no reaction. There was no excuse for the excuse and it remained simply:

No guts
.

Marshall called back at 11:30, the house quiet, Mickey upstairs getting ready for bed. He said, “
Now
is the coast clear?” The jerk.

She tried to sound a little annoyed. Don't call again, please. She had no intention of having lunch with him and that was that. Then said, “Let's not do anything dumb, okay?” Including herself in the game so he wouldn't be blamed entirely. Why couldn't she simply tell him to bag his ass?

“We'll talk about it. I mean we'll talk about us tomorrow,” Marshall said. “I'll pick you up about one o'clock.”

“I won't be here.” Desperate. “I have to take my car in tomorrow.”

“What's wrong with your car?”

“Oh—somebody ran into it.”

“Let Frank take care of it,” Marshall said. “Listen, the only time I can make it is around one. I'll call you first, give you the exact time. See, then I'll pull up in back, you run out and jump in. Right? Right. I'll see you.” He hung up.

She wondered what it would be like if she did fool around a little, had an affair. Go to bed with someone else. If somehow it was all right.

Out of all the men at the club, which one would she pick?

Mickey thought about it, putting on her long pajama top, getting into bed, and reached a conclusion before turning out the light.

None of them.

At 3:30 the phone rang again. Mickey groped for it in the dark.

Her mother said, “Mickey?” making sure. Well, Bo arrived safely but hungry. She had given him a piece of homemade lemon pie and a glass of milk and finally marched him off to bed in the guest room that would be Bo's room for the next month, with his own bathroom, his towels and washcloth laid out . . . and on and on and on, so Mickey was to relax and not worry about a thing. Mickey said that's fine, Mom. She said, “Are dad and Frank still up?” Her mother said, Frank? They wanted him to come home with them and offered to drive him back, but Frank said it was too much trouble. He was on the 7 o'clock shuttle to Freeport and insisted on staying at the airport. Said we'd just get home and have to come back. After a moment, Mickey said, “Well, you know Frank—” Her mother said,
Do
I. Frank and your father, those two would be up all night talking business. She said well, that's all she had to report. Mickey could sleep in peace now.

Mickey said, “Thanks, mom, g'night.” And lay awake for at least an hour.