Sudden Death (23 page)

Harriet said nothing. Carmen continued, “This is one Argentine import who is looking after herself. And besides, I learned by what happened to Billie Jean King.”

“Yes, I did, too.” Harriet was angrier than she’d ever been, but she felt ice cold. “I learned that a woman’s work doesn’t count. I learned that the woman who acts like a man, the woman who does a man’s work, is the important person.
The woman who nurtures, who puts her own career second, is viewed as a slut or a gold digger or an idiot. I learned that relationships between women are not supposed to entail emotional, social, or financial responsibilities. Lesbian hit-and-run. I learned that the only relationship that counts is one between a man and a woman. Unfortunately, gay people seem to support that view, since they let the press get away with that whole sad affair. I learned gay people are their own worst enemies. Each faggot and dyke out there believes she’ll escape notice. She’ll be the exception. We don’t stick together. The battle cry of the anguished homosexual is: What I do with my life is my own business; no one needs to know. And I learned something else. It took me all these years to learn it, Carmen, but now that I know, I’ll never forget it. I learned you are as sick as you are secret.”

Lavinia decided Carmen should play her semifinal match, and as normal, go to the press tent afterwards. If reporters wanted to bring up the lavender herring, they’d do so then. She vetoed Siggy’s idea of a special conference because that would only underscore the problem.

Carmen tossed and turned most of the night. Since their fight, they dropped the subject. There was too much pain between them.

When they got up the next morning, Carmen said nothing about what she was going to do. Harriet wondered if Carmen even knew what she was going to do.

Miguel was nowhere to be seen, and under the circumstances, that was a relief. The crowd filled the makeshift stands. The weather sparkled. Harriet sat alone in the players’ box. Directly across from her reposed the Reilly family, a tableau of father, mother, and child. Only the magi were
missing. Susan beamed as reporters recorded this heartwarming scene. Heart worm was closer to it. Happy Straker, now on the court warming up with Carmen, shared secret smiles with Susan. Harriet began to consider Happy a Quasimodo—forever tolling the bells for Susan.

Carmen glided across the court, her forehand, that brutal quick shot, intact. Her racquet head was almost parallel with the court on her backhand backswing. Her volleys were so fluid they contradicted every coach’s admonition to punch the ball. Carmen’s volley was in a class by itself. She looked confident like the player she was, but as Harriet watched her walk back to the baseline, she knew how Carmen looked and how she felt were at odds today. Her first serve was long. That was the tip-off that the rest of her game would falter even though she looked great.

As Carmen took the court against Happy Straker, Harriet hoped for the best while nevertheless preparing for the worst. Should the worst befall her, Carmen would wriggle, squirm, twist and turn, break free and run if she could. Harriet could fight her own battles, but she couldn’t fight Carmen’s, on or off the court.

Happy played well. Carmen’s timing was off. She was almost too eager. She overran balls, her service toss was too high, she missed the lines by inches—all out. But even on an off day, Happy wasn’t getting a free ticket. The match went to three sets, raptly observed by Susan and her brood, less raptly observed by Alicia Brinker, high up in the stands. Carmen dropped it seven-five in the third set.

Lavinia, Siggy, Seth Quintard, and Howard Dominick were sitting in the little press tent. They were as inconspicuous as polar bears. Behind the microphones, Happy pulsated all the
charm of Idi Amin. Her terseness melted away in the rush of describing her win. It boiled down to a hymn of self-love. Since nobody else loved Happy, she deserved her moment of sunshine.

After Happy’s performance, Carmen sat down behind the mikes. The questions centered on tennis. Why did she lose? No athlete ever believes she has really lost a match. She finds infinitesimal reasons why it happened the way it happened. It never happens because another player is better, although Carmen did manage to say, “Today, Happy was better.” That’s as far as it goes. If she doesn’t make excuses for herself, if she does believe someone is better, she’ll lose as sure as dew falls in morning. The ego defenses are elaborate, but painfully obvious to anyone who isn’t playing the game.

Carmen’s defenses were on red alert today. Martin Kuzirian was lurking in the fifth row. Harriet folded herself into a seat in the back. Her heart was pounded upon like Vulcan’s anvil.

The polite facade crumbled as Martin called out, “Are you a lesbian?”

“No,” Carmen lied. In her head, she thought this not too big an untruth. She technically qualified as a bisexual. If he’d asked her if she was a bisexual, she would have said yes. She had a boyfriend once years ago, so she clung to semantics.

“Why do you live with an avowed lesbian?” Martin bore down. The other reporters, too shy or too sensitive to attack, listened. They’d get the story while Martin took the blame as well as the glory.

“Because she’s my friend. You can live with a dog and not be a dog.” That was an unfortunate choice of words. Carmen’s face looked like rice paper despite her tan.

The words felt like coffins. Harriet fought back tears. Damned if she’d cry in front of these vultures.

Another reporter asked, “Is it true that you own a house together in Cazenovia?”

“Yes, I also own apartment buildings in San Diego and property in Houston.”

A diminutive woman fresh out of journalism school, her tape recorder in hand, asked, “But you don’t live there?”

“I keep an apartment in San Diego in one of my buildings. I spend a lot of time in that city, but Cazenovia is home.”

“So why live with Harriet Rawls?” Martin fired.

“Because I like her. Because she’s fun. Because she’s not like you.”

That went over his head. “But you’re not a lesbian?”

Mad, Carmen remembered a line Harriet used once. “Are you the alternative?”

Lavinia shifted feet. Siggy blanched. Still, she hadn’t tripped over the line completely. The reporters laughed. They didn’t like Martin. Seeing him being made a fool was as good as the story itself. He sat down, red-faced but full of himself.

Carmen said, “Are there any more questions?”

“How will this affect you in Argentina?” a reporter queried.

“I don’t know,” came the honest reply. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

They quieted. She got up and left. Harriet sneaked out the side of the tent, just in time to run into that goddamned Martin Kuzirian and a colleague. Fat on self-importance, Martin ripped her, “Are you really a dyke, Harriet?”

“I rather thought of myself as the Hoover Dam.”

C
armen wasn’t playing doubles in the tournament. She and Harriet packed up to move on to Amelia Island. They’d get there a day ahead of everyone else, and that would give them some time. She packed quietly and so did Harriet. There wasn’t much to say. Harriet knew Carmen felt horrible. And she also knew Carmen was scared. On the surface of her life, Carmen lived for love, but underneath it all, she didn’t want to lose the racquet contracts, the clothing contracts, the many lucrative benefits of her profession that brought in more money than the tournaments themselves. Carmen lived high on the hog and she didn’t want that porker slaughtered.

Seth Quintard called to give her fair warning. Get rid of Harriet or hide her in the attic. Why test it? This would all blow over.

Carmen felt ashamed. She felt she’d let Harriet down, although she pushed that thought back as much as she could. Harriet would become a living reminder for gay people, like a survivor of a concentration camp. Carmen felt guilty without Harriet saying a word. Well, fuck Harriet’s pride. Some things were more important.

“You’ve got to call Miguel.”

“Why don’t I tell him to stay there for today and come down tomorrow? We’ve had no time alone.”

“We’ll have plenty of time alone now.” Harriet hung up a dress. Seven years of hard wear and still it held up.

Carmen dialed. The conversation was brief. She hung up. “He’ll come tomorrow.”

Harriet wanted to hug Carmen, but Carmen had withdrawn from everybody and everything. Pack the bags. Go to the next tournament. Win the next tournament. Things will take care of themselves. She was hurt by Miguel’s suggestion. The closer the pain got to her heels, the faster Carmen ran.

Amelia Island is another instant resort. There are worse places to be than Jacksonville, but when there, one can’t think of them. The island is dotted with the ubiquitous condominiums slapped together with plasterboard, plate glass, and plastic. Each group of condominiums has a pool. Then, too, there’s always the ocean. One can rely on the Atlantic. It never moved although half the population of America seems to. The mosquitoes enjoy the atmosphere and so do people from Michigan, Wisconsin, and other cold places.

The interior of their condominium was a relief from avocado green and gold. This time it was dark blue and sea green. The interior decorators went for Fifties Restful. Harriet went for the john, wondering which would kill her first—the lesbian issue or bad taste. She decided the bad taste bothered her more.