Sudden Death (13 page)

For Happy, the victory was a final burst before the stately procession toward oblivion which is the future of all athletes. Happy had hovered in the top ten for the last five years, although history would not regard her as one of the great ones. History would not regard her at all. Not that Carmen thought about it either. That thought was to be avoided at all costs. Tennis was what she did best. It was her blessing and her curse that she was born in time to cash in on her skill. She could make a fantastic living doing what she wanted to do. The curse wouldn’t stain her life until she left the pro circuit. Then she could hang on to the game like a tick, become a coach, found tennis camps, live on the fringes of her former famous self. Or she could sit down in her early thirties and realize that if she had studied to become a doctor, she would
now be entering the high point of her profession. As a doctor she would be serving society and herself. As a broken-down tennis player, she would face a colossal identity crisis just as everyone else in her generation was finally getting hold of themselves. Carmen staved off this crushing knowledge with a steady stream of electronic games and crossword puzzles.

She did, however, allow herself to ponder love. What is it? How do you get it? How do you keep it? Why does it always start out great and end up shit? Carmen didn’t know where the responsibilities rested, but she also didn’t think it made much difference whether one was homosexual or heterosexual. She just wanted to be loved, to be happy, and she didn’t want to suffer any pain for it.

On the road, life felt like a water lily disengaged from the stem. Instead of swaying in a pond, the Happys and Carmens of this world swept from bank to bank, hurtling ever onward. No one knew to what end until she reached it, but as she grew older on the tour, each woman knew she was born to that end on swift currents of sorrow.

During the Oakland, California, tournament the players resided in the Roach Acapulco Hotel, or so they called it. The only night off that Carmen had, she and Harriet drove into San Francisco with Miguel and Beanie. Harriet loved the Hayes Street Grille so they ate there, went to a movie, and then drove back. Given Carmen’s and Beanie’s schedules, the little outing was a big event. The only other noteworthy event at the Oakland tournament, other than another Semana sweep to victory, was an incident involving an ice cream vendor. When the players would switch sides on the odd-numbered games, all the vendors would rush through the aisles hawking their wares. One ice cream vendor, his silvered box hung around his neck, tripped while coming down the
stairs. As he fell, the lid to his box popped open, and ice cream spilled everywhere. The fans sitting around him scooped up the cups of fudge ripple and banana creme and grabbed the vanilla Popsicles. As spectators reached for the brightly wrapped ice creams, he stepped on their hands and finally lay down on the steps to cover his precious wares. Of course, his ice creams melted all over him. The fans handed him back what they picked up; no one ever intended to eat the stuff. His mistrust cost him an entire box of frozen delights.

Miguel watched this from his seat, tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks. The ice cream shouldn’t have been sold after it fell out, so the vendor’s investment was lost anyway. If he possessed any Argentine flair, he would have cheerfully handed out the Popsicles for free. What the hell, he might as well make other people happy. But not this guy. If he couldn’t get what he wanted, then the spectators couldn’t have what they wanted. How American.

A tail flicked over Harriet’s nose. Baby Jesus had positioned herself next to Harriet’s face, then thrashed her tail wildly. In eighteen years this ploy had never failed.

“Good morning, Baby.”

Carmen moaned, still sound asleep. Baby meowed.

Harriet’s feet hit the floor, and as always when she was home, she went first to the window that overlooked the long lake. Frost zigzagged on the windowpane. The hills looked like purple breasts. Baby walked over and rubbed against her leg. Time to get up.

A door slammed downstairs; Miguel was up. Harriet felt imprisoned in her own home. On the road, tennis kept him in line.

Baby thumped down the stairs. Harriet walked into the
kitchen where Miguel smiled, bid her good morning, and returned to the newspaper.

Baby Jesus disdained Miguel Semana. Possibly it was his cologne that set her off, or perhaps she didn’t like him as a person. In eighteen years, Baby had given Harriet her expert opinion on many people.

Harriet opened a can of cat food. Baby rubbed against her leg more frantically. She was hungry.

Baby smacked her lips when she ate. Her teeth were going bad. She walked with some arthritis in her hips but her ears and eyes were good. Her heart was sound and her senses were as keen as ever.

“If I have to grow old, I want to grow old like Baby Jesus,” Harriet thought. “The human models stink.”

“The coffee’s hot.” Miguel put down the paper and graciously poured her a cup.

“Thanks, Miguel.” While he was pouring, the cat stole one of his link sausages. She raced into the pantry with her prize. Harriet said nothing.

“Do you know Seth Quintard well?”

“Not really. He’s Carmen’s agent.”

“Where’s my other sausage? I’m sure I had another sausage.”

A triumphant puss paraded through the kitchen. She reeked of victory and sausage. Miguel observed her. “She suddenly looks fat.” He laughed. He turned to Harriet again. “You don’t know much about contracts?”

“Miguel, I keep out of it. It’s not my business. If Carmen asks me, I’ll give her my opinion, but otherwise I say little.”

“I think Athletes Unlimited is cheating my sister.” He laid down his spoon for emphasis. “Oh.”

“When she gets paid for an endorsement, they hold the checks up to three or four months. Of course, they deposit the money and earn a big interest!”

“I never thought of that.”

He said magnanimously, “You’re too pretty to think of such things. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Thank you, Miguel.” Baby Jesus burped underneath the table.

L
os Angeles, clinging to the Pacific, exerted a strange, erotic power over all who lived in its vast territory. Sir Francis Drake landed on the California coast on June 17, 1579. Since then, a flood of people made the same delightful discovery.

The tennis tournament was a big affair. The sponsors, players, and administration looked forward to the first week in March; there was time to get in and out before the smog destroyed one’s eyes, nose, and throat.

With the exception of Page Bartlett Campbell, who wouldn’t hit the circuit until the French Open, everyone showed up in LA. Susan Reilly would die before she’d miss it. Harriet uncharitably wished she would. Rainey Rogers was there and her mother was in evidence everywhere. Her oversized purse was on the coffee table in the players’ lounge, her conservatively cut linen jacket was hung neatly on the back of a chair, and her game charts were stacked on the seat. Mrs. Rogers herself was chatting up reporters. She and her husband had masterminded Rainey’s career from the time Rainey first showed promise. The kid was eight then. The Rogerses had sacrificed everything for their middle daughter. Their assessment of her skill was accurate; their contribution to her already developed discipline was valuable. The Rogerses never pushed. They trolled Rainey along by all those invisible
hooks middle-class parents manage to sink into their children. Between Rainey and her mother, it was a toss-up as to who was the spider and who was the fly. Right now, it didn’t matter. That problem would surface many tournaments later, many years down the line. For now the problem was how to win LA, how to give notice to Susan, Carmen, and the growing Hilda that Rainey would soon reign. The sports writers played with that one ad nauseam.

“Going Hollywood?” inquired Harriet. Jane Fulton was wearing a glitter T-shirt, Donald Duck sunglasses, and jelly sandals. “Did you actually conceive of that outfit yourself?”

“Ricky helped. He’s wearing a bicycle chain for a necklace. Did you see the draw?”

“Yeah, Carmen and Susan are on the same side of the draw.”

“I worry about Susan off the court more than on.” Jane took off her sunglasses.

“What can she do?”

“Call it a woman’s instinct. She’ll find Carmen’s Achilles’ heel.”

“I still don’t see what she can do.”

Jane shrugged. “Damned if I know. It’s just a feeling. If Carmen doesn’t nail down the first two events of the Grand Slam, there will be no crisis. But if she gets close to that Slam, I tell you Susan will go crazy.”

“I hope you’re wrong.” Harriet played with Jane’s sunglasses. “How do I look?”

“I looked better. Here, you take Mickey Mouse.” Jane handed her a blue pair of kiddie sunglasses.

“Thank you.”

“Susan knows one thing.”

“What, MizJane?”

“She knows that Carmen can take trouble on the court but not in her life.”

“Carmen does have a propensity to stick her head in the sand.”

“Or run away.” Jane peered through her Donald Duck glasses. “You know, she’s in a world that formalizes conflict and protects her from everything except tennis. That’s not exactly preparation for life’s continual assault on one’s narcissism.”