Love Love (46 page)

Claudia

He showed the note to Judy.

“She's still a bitch,” she said.

“Well, yeah.”

“But don't let me stop you from your budding romance. At least with her, you know what you're getting.”

He hadn't thought of Claudia much since the incident at the gallery, but reading the letter reminded him of her strange and uncompromising ways. And her hair, the gloss and thickness of her locks, how she hadn't bothered to keep the gray at bay. She was right; he hadn't missed her. But now that she was on his mind, he sort of did.

“Are you going to open it, or shall I?” Judy asked, pointing at Norman's envelope.

He let her have the honor, and sure enough, it was a black plastic case with a disc pinned inside. There was no note, nothing at all but the media. It was déjà vu all over again.

“Just be glad you have one father and not two,” Kevin said.

Judy blew off a layer of dust on the remote while Kevin placed the disc into the tray. The couch was full of dust, too, and a fine mist rose up when they sat on it. The side table with the New York Mets coasters, the rug with its red wine stain, the TV stand with the uneven gap between the doors—these signatures were at once familiar and distancing, as if this were all taking place in the future and that he was visiting his house that'd been boarded up.

Kevin picked up the remote. “I don't know, sis, if you should see this.”

“Because it might have naked people in it? Kevin, I've probably seen more porn than you have. Do you remember that guy I dated, Barry?”

“No.”

“That's because all he ever did was watch porn. We never left the house.”

“This is different. It's my father.”

“Don't be a pussy,” she said, and she yanked the remote back. “He's just a man, like you.”

She pressed Play, but the screen did not change from the blank black screen.

Hello, my son
, said the voiceover, Norman.
After you left, Denise told me everything. I know I shouldn't have done that, pretending she was my daughter, your sister. You'd think that as a mental health professional, I'd know better. But I'm a human being, and when it comes to you, my son, I'm afraid I do things like this, and I convince myself that they are the right moves to make. I wish I could take it back, but of course, I can't. We can never undo the things we do. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied to you.

Everything else I've said, I've meant. I want us to be closer. I have trouble elaborating my true feelings to you in person, but not here, not to this microphone. Is it strange that talking to you like this seems more real to me than if you were in front of me? I can answer that question myself. It is strange. I am a strange man. But I'm not a stranger to you. I am your father, and I'm very glad.

I was going to give this to you as a birthday gift, but I don't see any reason for waiting. I suppose it could still be your present, just many months early. So happy birthday, Kevin. I look forward to hearing from you soon, my son
.

What followed was a grainy video of an outdoor park, a pink blanket on the ground. There were readouts on the bottom part of the screen: The date, 4/2/1971, and a counter that started from 1:00:00 and increased a second at a time.

“It's a rough cut,” Judy said. “When I interned at the video studio way back when, I saw films like this. It's how it looks before it's mastered.”

Two men carrying cables looped around their shoulders walked by, then men holding standing lights. A large camera rolled by. Then there were people dressed like pirates, men with their three-point hats and swords hanging off their belts, a trio of topless women. There were shouts, then suddenly, the light went out.

They waited two minutes, then three.

“That's it?” Judy asked.

“Maybe we should fast-forward.”

But they didn't have to, because the lights came back on, and a female voice cut the silence.

Norman?

Right here, love,
Norman said.

The camera shook, then zoomed to the blanket until it filled the frame. Two naked figures jumped on it, and even though the picture wasn't perfect, the woman was instantly recognizable.

“That's my mother,” Kevin said.

“How do you know?”

“Looks just like her,” he said.

Judy paused the video and examined the centerfold picture on the table. She looked back and forth, comparing the two. “Yup,” she said.

“It has to be her, because that's him, Norman, forty years ago.” Frozen with his arms extended like a touchdown pose, he was in his physical prime, lean and muscular.

Judy pressed Play, and it was obvious where this was going.

“Oh God, no,” Kevin said.

His mother lay down on her back, and Norman mounted her missionary-style.

Are we rolling?
she asked.

Oh, it's rolling, baby, it's rolling,
Norman said.

They went at it like the kids they were, thumping away amid unrestrained laughter that soon turned into a steady pair of moans.

“Look at the date, Judy,” Kevin said. “That's around nine months before I was born. He saved this video for my birthday. Like a present? Jesus.”

Judy looked at the centerfold picture once again, then stepped away from the couch to get a closer look. Now the two on the screen
were doing it doggy-style, the woman facing the camera as the man thrust from the rear, disheveling her wild hair.

“Please just turn it off,” Kevin said. “I can't believe he thinks this is—well, no, I guess maybe I shouldn't be surprised.”

Judy paused the screen again, then advanced the frame one at a time, the frozen expression of Kevin's young mother in ecstasy fractionally progressing, her mouth opening and closing and opening again.

“It's not as if he's earned your trust,” she said.

“What—you don't think that's her?”

“It's perfect, don't you think? The date on screen, the way she's facing the camera so you can really see her. Fool me once, shame on you . . .”

Fool me twice, shame on me. Sad to admit, it hadn't even occurred to Kevin that Norman could've made this up. How naïve of him.

Judy pressed Play again, and the two people on screen were on the edge of their impending orgasms. The man let out a blissful scream, the woman did likewise, and the screen cut to black.

“I don't know,” Judy said. “But you know what? Who gives a fuck. If it's true, then you just saw something almost no one sees, your own conception. Which is kinda cool and gross at the same time. If the video was fabricated, then Norman spent a lot of time and probably some money making that for you. Either way, he must care for you an awful lot. And isn't that what matters in the end?”

Kevin stared at her. “Is it?”

Judy went into the kitchen and found two tumblers and a bottle of scotch. She poured a double in each.

“I haven't a clue, Kevin. But I do know this.”

She clinked her tumbler to his and raised her glass.

“Happy early birthday, dear brother. And many more.”

SATURDAY

 

 

I
t was a beautiful day, in the high sixties and deep blue skies, an unusually warm afternoon for November, so much so that the tennis match was moved from indoors to out. The courts at this swanky tennis club were nicer than most of the satellite tournaments Kevin had played at, even featuring a concessions stand with a full bar. Alexa would be on the show court, with four ball boys and a complete set of line judges, because her opponent was the first seed.

“I don't like it,” Alexa had said when the official informed them of the change in venue, spinning her racquet with so much torque that it was making Kevin nervous. He snatched it away from her before it could helicopter into a bystander's head.

That was an hour and a half ago, before the match began. Alexa's opponent was taller, bigger, and stronger than she was. She jumped lightly on her feet as they'd called heads or tails at the net. It wasn't exactly David versus Goliath, but their physical disparity was significant enough for concern. Alexa lost the toss, and it hadn't gone well since.

Many professional athletes are known to be superstitious, but Kevin never thought that was the right label. It was that they were people of habit, and it was important for them to keep everything the same, because in that way, they were in control of at least some of the variables. Winning a match required a lot of things to swing your way, especially if your opponent was as tough as this girl was. Her name was Vera, and she had a crushing forehand, one of which she hit so hard that the racquet flew out of Alexa's grip upon the ball's impact.

With the wind at times gusting at twenty miles an hour, Alexa couldn't always let loose with her backhand down the line, and it was hurting her. Last-minute court changes weren't uncommon on the tour, especially at the lower levels, so this was a good learning
experience for her. And for him, too. He was enjoying this one-on-one coaching far more than he'd imagined. It was different than at the tennis club, because the game was on now, and whatever he could convey to Alexa had immediate results. Nothing quite like instant gratification.

The first set went quickly, 6–2 in Vera's favor, and Alexa was already down a break in the second set, 2–3. Because on-court coaching was now allowed by the WTA at non-Grand Slam events, it was allowed in junior tournaments as well.

After taking a long drink from her water bottle, Alexa walked over to where Kevin was sitting, in the front row of the bleachers. There were perhaps two dozen people in the stands, mostly family and friends.

“Can I blame this on you?” She adjusted the strings on her racquet.

“You can, but you're the one out there, not me.”

“Really? Can you impart some more brilliant nuggets while I'm getting my ass handed to me?”

“I'll tell you a secret. You don't have to be perfect. Not every shot you hit has to be a winner, and that's what you're doing right now. All you have to be is better than the person across the net. Not always, even—just today, for the next ninety minutes, enough to win.”

She heard him, every word, and understood. Whether she would be able to execute would determine the outcome of this match, but he could see he got through to her, and that was no small thing. A lot of players in her situation would be stuck in panic mode, but she wasn't at all. She was still trying to figure out Vera's game.

“Okay, coach,” she said, and she put on her business face.

The game was close. Alexa pushed Vera to two deuces and a break point, but she couldn't find a way to break Vera's serve. Alexa almost rammed her racquet into the ground but managed to stop herself, which was good because she'd done it earlier and this would've been a second violation, a loss of a point.

As expected, she played horribly on her own serve, unable to pull herself out of the disappointment of not being able to win the previous game. At love–30, she looked at him, on the verge of tears, and all he could do was clap for her as hard as he could. Seeing her go through this was like experiencing his own life all over again. How many times had he fallen into the same dark, frustrating hole?