Sudden Death (15 page)

“Migueletta, my tiger.”

“Where were you? I thought you’d come to the press conference.”

“Business.”

“Martin Kuzirian pissed me off. I wish you’d been there. He asked the stupidest questions.” Martin Kuzirian, sports reporter for a huge Long Island newspaper, wrote a nationally syndicated column. In the sports world that spelled big cheese.

“Sports reporters represent the lowest form of journalism,” Miguel commented as he sipped out of the beer bottle. “If they could be athletes, they would be. If they could be writers, they would be. In short, they can do neither.”

Carmen punched her brother on the bicep. “That’s right!”

Miguel scanned Carmen’s dresser. “What are you doing, leaving your jewelry out like that?” He turned to Harriet. “How can you let her do that?”

“Miguel,” Harriet coolly replied, “I am not her mother.”

With his right hand he swept the bracelets, necklaces, rings, and earrings into his left hand. “From now on, I take charge of the jewelry! At each tournament, I’ll put it in the hotel’s safe deposit box. When you want a piece, you ask for it.”

“That’s too much trouble.”

“Less trouble than being robbed.”

“I’m insured.”

He shook his head. “Little sister, why invite trouble? And since when has an insurer lived up to the policy?”

“He’s right about that,” Harriet agreed, even though she found this situation oddly repellent.

“There, see? The lovely Señorita Rawls has common sense.”

“And I don’t?” Carmen flared.

“You are God’s gift to tennis. You don’t have to do anything but play. We’ll do the rest.” He gestured to include Harriet, and she now felt this wasn’t oddly repulsive, it was truly repulsive.

If Miguel’s intrusion into her business life troubled Carmen, she didn’t show it. As long as she had money when she wanted it, she didn’t much care about the details. The power to buy things fascinated her. The loss of geographic community and social stability was replaced with cash. What were roots compared to that glorified Volkswagen, the Porsche? The dollar was more important than the deed.

Modern professional sports rewards players for function instead of character. Responsibility is narrowly defined as doing a job better than anyone else. Emotional, social, or political responsibility is not even imagined. The fault lies not with sport. Sport is only a symbol of the fragmentation of life, a fragmentation begun with the industrial revolution which seems to pit each against all in a struggle for material goods. Spiritual, emotional, political concerns will fall by the wayside in this violent rush to get things.

Win and become a god. Lose and be forgotten. Carmen and Miguel had no resistance to the temptation of money and
fame. Why should they? They’d never seen the alternative. Much as Theresa and Arturo Semana loved their children, they never bothered to supply them with any standards other than external achievement. Perhaps because they were young in the 1930’s and remembered what the Depression was like in Buenos Aires they never got beyond material concerns themselves.

Every generation has a dark side like the moon. One is born into a time and has one’s own experiences, but one also carries within herself the distilled experiences of her parents. Carmen and Miguel were truly the offspring of their parents. Winning was all that mattered.

Whatever Lavinia’s faults, an unwillingness to work was not one of them. She fired off orders to her staff and expected them to be obeyed. If anyone had cared to find out, they would have discovered Lavinia pushed herself harder than she pushed anyone else. As a player and now as a businesswoman, Lavinia demanded perfection.

Lavinia dialed Betty Bainbridge, wife of Jensen Bainbridge, head of Clark & Clark Pharmaceuticals. Betty was still a good club player, even though she was in her early sixties. Both women remembered tennis when men wore white flannel trousers.

“Hello,” answered a voice from far-off Westchester, New York.

“Betty Bainbridge, it’s Lavinia.”

“Vinnie! What rathole are you in now?”

“Dallas.”

“Poor darling. I had two sisters, you know. One died and the other lives in Dallas. It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“How’s your health?”

“Just had a physical last week. No more problems. I still hate those damned examinations, Vinnie. I’ve been in the stirrups more times than Princess Anne.”

Lavinia laughed. “How’s Jensen’s health?”

“He’s fine.”

“I heard a rumor that he was retiring.”

Betty, silent, inhaled deeply. She spoke at a measured pace. “He loves the power, you know.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Lavinia asked.

Betty waited, then said, “Lavinia, none of us are getting any younger. He’s eight years older than I am. We’ve seen too many friends die these last years. I want him to slow down.”

“Yes, he works too hard.”

“You might slow down yourself. There’s more beauty in a sunset than in power, Vin.”

“I’m not ready yet.”

“I’ll give a dinner party during the Championships.” Betty changed the subject. “March twenty-seventh? Black tie.”

“I’ll be sure to wear one.”

“Silly. Thanks for calling. I look forward to seeing you.”

“The twenty-seventh. Bye.”

“Bye.” Betty hung up the phone.

Lavinia doodled on a notepad. Betty had told her everything she needed to know without once betraying a corporate secret. The Old Girl Network came through one more time.

Susan Reilly’s house in Pacific Heights, San Francisco, represented years of labor, but as she spent little time in the place, she was detached from it. The rooms were adequately furnished. It was her permanent rest place and not yet a true home. Susan took off this week while the tour was in Texas.

Craig and Lisa Reilly lived in Marin County. Susan saw as much of her child and as little of her husband as possible. Whenever she was interviewed by adult gossip magazines, the photos were always taken at the Marin County house.

She cradled the telephone to her ear. “That’s a California law. Uh-huh.” Pause. “Check it out. I’ll be here until March twenty-second, then I’ll be in New York for the Championships.” Pause. “Okay, Jerry, talk to you later, thanks.”

Alicia bounced into the bedroom. “Who was that?”

“Oh, nobody.” A flicker of irritation showed on Susan’s face. “Black cord fever. You know how I get.”

Alicia did know that Susan could make phone calls to every part of the world at any time of day or night. This call did not smack of black cord fever. “It wasn’t Happy Straker, was it?”

“No. I have nothing to say to Happy this morning.” She rubbed her hands. The newsprint from the morning paper smeared her fingers.

“I think Happy’s still in love with you.”

“After all these years? Nah.” She picked up the sports pages.

“Why hasn’t she found anyone else?”

“Look at her.”

“Susan, that’s cruel. You loved her.”

“I never loved Happy. Being with her was an act of mercy on my part. I couldn’t look at those sad puppy eyes. I felt sorry for her. It was a mistake.”

“Hm-m-m-m.” Alicia stared out the window. They had a spectacular view of the bay and Alcatraz.

“Will you bring me another pot of coffee, please?” Susan didn’t look up from her paper.

Alicia headed for the kitchen and the coffee maker. She filled Lucite cannisters with a variety of exotic coffee beans, priding herself on her brew. Alicia, caught in a web of needs, her own and Susan’s, little realized how narrow her life was
becoming. She was concentrating less on her own tennis and more on Susan’s needs.

Susan accepted America’s definition of work. That meant Susan’s work was important, while Alicia’s work, that of maintaining Susan, was insignificant. A married man might take his wife for granted, but on some level he did know her contributions existed. For Susan, women’s work was so alien that she placed no value on it at all. She spent her life perfecting one, isolated skill. Her parents had given her no housework training nor had they even taught her that it was important.

Alicia, saddled with the shitwork, became invisible. If she had stood up for herself, saying, “What I do for you and for both of us is important even though I don’t win tournaments,” Susan would have blown her out of the room. Why did Alicia do these things? Had Susan asked for a wife? Alicia did them for love. Susan set it up so she need never comprehend what anyone did for her. If a person asked for equality, especially a lover, Susan unceremoniously terminated the relationship. She could not grant anyone equal status with herself. She resembled a lot of men in that respect. A wife, if a marriage broke up, could claim that her former husband be accountable to her. Alicia, when bounced, would get nothing. She’d keep her jewelry and the clothing Susan bought her in those moments of studied generosity. The house she cleaned, the secretary she organized, and the maid she directed would stay Susan’s. Alicia was giving her life away with each breath and didn’t know it. Susan paid the bills and asked for no money in return, not because she was generous, but because she wanted her own way. As long as she could look at her checkbook and know it was fatter than Alicia’s, she felt powerful.

Alicia hummed as the coffee aroma filled the kitchen. If she felt Susan had calluses on her soul, she never betrayed it, but then Alicia betrayed very little. The only clue to her secret life was her fervent reading of the New Testament.