Double Fault (37 page)

  But what was extorted from the vanquished? He could not weep, curse, or flee. While champions could give over to instinct—to their free-flowing generosity and élan—the defeated was compelled to suppress his every impulse. It wasn't bad enough, was it, to lose, to drown in a rush of dismay and self-disgust? No, a second subjugation awaited après-game. Willy had obliged at the Chevrolet: expounding on that fat cow's brilliance while elucidating her own deficits, paying homage to the last person on earth she was in the mood to praise. Forcing losers to display genuine generosity—that is, generosity with a price—was like hitting up the destitute for charitable donations. A
good sport
was a considerate liar, who successfully disguised his every true emotion and so spared one and all the medical unpleasantness of his intestinal cramps, the obscenities in his head, the spasms of his heart. How much would it have cost Eric and that handful of onlookers to forgive a brief display of pique and a few well-earned profanities?

  The graciousness exacted from the also-ran was a travesty for losers everywhere, who deserved emancipation as much as the wheelchair-bound or overweight. As Edsel had emphasized, the world was dense with losers. How many comers climbed to the pinnacles of their professions? The vast majority foundered, so why was there no spokesman for the second-rate, the runner-up, the penultimate, the huge disheartened horde? Would no one defend their right to hurl their rackets? All the way home on the train, Willy knew she was supposed to apologize. Her refusal was a political statement.

  "You only care about how I behave," said Willy, throwing T-shirts into her suitcase. "Never mind how I feel, just so long as I don't embarrass you. I failed to convert
five match points
, two of which I double-faulted down the drain. What normal human being wouldn't
scream
?"

  "Any mature adult with a little self-control." It was an old, unresolvable difference: Willy placed a premium on honesty, Eric on decorum. "You worry me, Willy. Flying out of orbit like that. You never used to throw tantrums in public."

  "What do you know about losing? You haven't a clue how I feel!" All through an avalanche of socks. The number of times a year Willy and Eric watched each other pack gave the relationship a tumultuous texture, as if they were always trooping off to Mother in a huff.

  "Edsel doesn't seem to be doing you much good. I wonder if we should find someone else."

  "Typical American solution. Go get
help
. And if the latest painkiller doesn't do the job, switch brands. Well, in case you care, Edsel's too
reasonable
. 'So your husband is about the play the U.S. Open while you can't make it through the qualies of a satellite;
why
should that matter? Why not be
happy
for him? And oodles of people flunk at what they do, what makes you so special? Join the club!"

  "Uh-huh. And what does Upchuck tell you instead? Since I
presume
that's where you're going."

  "At least he understands—"

  "That scumbag isn't sharing your agony. He sees we're having trouble and he's dancing. Since you obviously go up to Wetspot and pour your heart out. But he doesn't give a fuck about your career!"

  "Then who does?"

  "I do!"

  "Who's literally invested in it? Max!"

  "But
what
is he buying?" Eric sputtered. "He's making down payments on your ass, Willy. Lying in wait—"

  "You find it incredible that anyone would stick by me because they thought I was talented?"

  "Willy, you're ranked 924, you've been costing him thousands for over two years, and he still pays your health insurance, finances your plane tickets, and eats your hotel bills, not to mention giving you the run of his camp—"

  "School."

  "
School
, with permanent access to a dorm room he could be letting out to a younger, more profitable client."

  "Why are you doing this? I'm not a big enough train wreck, you have to tear off some extra parts yourself?"

  "Because I'm tired of going along with a charade that's entirely at
my
expense. He's making a fool of me, Willy. Just because you're having a rough time doesn't mean I have to take humiliation lying down.
Why
would he lavish all that money on you? When he's the most prominent coach on the eastern seaboard, and could take his pick from top 200 players, who would reward his attentions in cash? At this point,
how
are you planning to pay him back?"

  "Thanks," said Willy, slamming her suitcase shut. "Not only am I a zero, a black hole to pour money down, but I'm a whore."

  "What you are is
vulnerable
. He sees you're weakened, that you and I fight a lot, and that some other man slipping a hand down your shirt might make you feel wanted. But I want you. That ought to be enough. I'm warning you: I don't give a fuck if you're ranked 5,007. But call me old-fashioned, I won't be made a cuckold. I've had plenty of opportunities on the road and I've spared you the details because I never, ever consider screwing around. Then I come back here and you can't see through that dirty old man in Connecticut. I have to wonder what bullshit lines you might fall for."

  "You're wrong, dead wrong—What are you doing?"

  "Just checking." He was rifling through the cabinet under the sink, where Willy kept her diaphragm.

  "She's fantastic," Willy remarked. He hadn't moved since she walked in, but didn't start when she spoke.

  "Isn't she?" Max agreed, still riveted to the tape. "Graceful, quick, ingenious. And beautiful. Small but perfectly proportioned. What a fire under that woman."

  "New acquisition?"

  "Ancient. But one of my best." Max turned and cocked an eyebrow at the twist of her features in the glow of the tube. His lips parted in wonder. "You really don't recognize yourself, do you?"

  "That's
me
?"

  Max laughed. "You are far gone. Jealous of yourself." He hit the pause; Willy's face froze in a grimace. Max rewound and reran the point. "New Freedom; I took the camcorder. You were miles ahead of the field. They weren't good enough to tie your shoes."

  "I'm not good enough to tie my own anymore."

  "Hey, there's always Velcro. Drink?"

  "Sure."

  "What brings you up here at this hour?" Max switched on the lamp in his usual corner and unlocked his liquor cabinet.

  "Is it OK? You're glad to see me?"

  "I'm glad to see you." He took the opportunity to touch her neck, just. His hand was warm.

  "I was bad."

  "New Jersey qualies?" He handed her a whiskey the size of an apple juice.

  "Long tiebreak; one rabbity return of a shot I should have clouted." She shrugged, accustomed to telescoping protracted disaster. "I mean I was badly
behaved
. Tried to decapitate the umpire with my racket. My language was unladylike. Eric went apoplectic. Does it matter?"

  "I've always found your temper rather magnificent. I'm sorry I missed it." He clinked his glass against hers, and they plopped into perpendicular armchairs.

  "Max…" Willy wet the edge of the tumbler and traced its perimeter. "Why don't I feel competitive with you?"

  "I'm a has-been."

  "You can still run me around the court standing in place. Why don't you make me mad?"

  "Simple answer? You're not in love with me." His delivery was deadpan. "Complicated answer?" Max proceeded when she didn't rush to correct him. "We have a hierarchy. I'm your teacher. Hierarchies preserve the peace. Why do you think the divorce rate's gone up? The old system worked. Marriages were spared head-to-heads because the battle was over before it began. Be your mother's yesmassa sort of wife, Oberachiever would never piss you off. You'd just be grateful for his kindly pointers." Before Willy could protest, Max raised a hand. "Too bad you can't do that."

  "I don't get it. According to you, if Eric didn't beat me, I wouldn't respect him. If he does beat me, I don't respect myself. How do two people ever—?"

  "They don't, commonly," said Max lightly. "Only two choices, Will: fight or knuckle under. Don't capitulate, and he still trounces you?" Max smiled. "You might kill him."

  Willy squirmed. "I read an article a while back about the marriage of two engineers. The husband got laid off, and couldn't find a job. The wife was in a more generalized field of engineering, and made a bundle. He did, he murdered her. I told the story to Marcella and that bunch, in the locker room? Other women. They were all sympathetic with the man. But in the same conversation they expected me to be over the moon about Eric's meteoric success, not homicidal. How do you figure?"

  "Nothing's changed," said Max, topping off her drink. "A wife's subservience to her husband is still considered par for the course. Vice-versa is
unnatural
."

  "How did you hack it, married ten years? You were famous."

  "The apples-and-oranges ruse. Pretend your occupations don't compare. Which they do, of course; other people rank your status whether you like it or not. Still, Angela handled my tournaments with a muscular condescension. Had some design business of her own…I never knew much about it. And Angela made my life hell when the crowds went home, which leveled the score remarkably."

  "I've tried that solution. It widens the score. The victim racks up bonus points for long suffering."

  "Think Oberjock could bear your ESPN interviews, while he made sure that in the apartment you never visited there was always asswipe in the can?"

  "In a word? No."

  "If you could do a deal with the devil, would you switch places with him?"

  "Funny, I asked him the same thing. Sure, I'd trade 924 for 58 in a millisecond."

  "At the price of turning your husband into a pumpkin?"

  Willy's hesitation was slight. "Yes."

  "Some love."

  "I'm young and selfish."

  "I'm not."

  She looked at him harder, and stopped playing with her glass.

  "Watching you the last two years has been so…" Max spread his free hand helplessly in the air, then dropped it. "If Lucifer handed me the contract, I'd sign tonight. I'd deliver you my clipping file if I could, as a present."

  "And you'd take mine? No way."

  Max put his drink down and knelt at her feet. "You could have my Top Ten ranking. I'd inscribe your name on my All England cup. I don't care."

  "You won't convince me that you don't care about tennis."

  He took her hand. "I don't care about
my
tennis. I'm beyond ambition, kiddo. What I want the ATP can't offer."

  "You only want what you don't have." Willy fought a rising agitation. "The grass is greener."

  "Your grass is very green indeed." He wrapped his hand around her neck, and kissed her. He'd done that before, but had always pulled back with a pretense that it hadn't happened. This time he didn't pull back. It happened.

  "I said we had a hierarchy, Will," Max whispered hoarsely a few inches from her face. "You thought I meant I was on top. Not so. You've been in the driver's seat since you were seventeen. So go ahead. Dominate me."

  He pulled her forward and kissed her more deeply. As he swept her body to the floor and pinned her on the carpet, he did not feel to Willy like a man who was being dominated.

W
ILLY ALMOST SKIPPED BREAKFAST
, but avoidance was delay.

     Which dictated Max's table; to sit anywhere else would be more awkward yet. Ordinarily a hearty eater, Max was propped before a lone cup, his face drained and inexpressive. Summer camp was in full swing; the rowdy shriek and tussle of kids jangled Willy's nerves. A good proportion of this year's intake were overweight. Their parents couldn't have hoped that the little porkers would play Wimbledon so much as that on their return home there would simply be less of them. Sweetspot-turned-fat-farm no doubt depressed its proprietor, or would have depressed him on mornings he was aware that he had students.

  Willy nodded and assumed a seat opposite, stirring her cup and blowing on the coffee. Max sat immobile, at rest. He seemed re laxed. If the night before he was "beyond ambition," this morning he was beyond something else.

  "You expect," he introduced in a craggy monotone, "to do some line sprints, a few weights, and then of course I'll spend a couple of hours with you on court."

  "Unless you have other—"

  "But that's what you expect."

  The coffee tasted awful. "It is what we usually…"

  Willy could meet his eyes only in sorties, but Max stared at her squarely. "After sliding so far, your gall remains intact. Maybe that hollow of yours isn't all that cavernous. Your ego is remarkably robust. I wish I could say the same for mine."

  Willy bowed her head, her stomach acid. The gray sludge in her cup looked like liquid dread.

  "Since we do have a
business relationship
," he continued, "might you join me in my office? Before you avail yourself of my facilities? Consider yourself as having an appointment."

  In his office, Max was bulwarked behind his desk, surrounded by copies of dunning letters rich with five-figure sums. This was the Max Upchurch whose implacable edifice met the parents of fat children, parents who would pay through the nose for every ounce he sweated off their kids. This was the Max Upchurch who had no intention of engraving his All England trophy with any other name than Maximilian E. Upchurch.