Sudden Death (20 page)

“If pretty girls aren’t winning tennis tournaments, there’s not much I can do about it.”

Siggy breathed down her neck. “Sometimes all a kid needs is a boost, a shot of confidence. We need to select four stars of tomorrow. If we guess wrong, so what? The kids who win will get their fair share of the press. We’ve got to upgrade our material.”

“All right, she gets to be one of the four. Who else do you have in mind?”

“The black girl.”

“Annalise? Covers the court well. One more two-handed backhand. Such an ugly stroke. She’s got the equipment, definitely got the equipment.”

“We need a black star. Think of it, Lavinia. A whole new audience, the black middle class.”

“Yes.” Lavinia prayed nightly for a new Althea Gibson. “Siggy, I’m rather tired. Let’s finish this off after I’ve had supper.”

“All right.” Siggy slid back into his seat. As far as he could remember, Lavinia was never too tired to talk business.

Women who’ve graduated from Pappagallo shoes to Geoffrey Beene like places like Hilton Head. The condominiums are new, the high ceilings make them appear spacious, the grounds are planted to provide some privacy, and the island is overrun with birds as well as bicycles. The wildlife and quiet controlled surroundings help these women and their
husbands in madras pants to surrender to a few moments of pinched rapture. Even if the middle-aged couples didn’t have a good time walking amid the palmetto shrubs, they would go back home to New Jersey and swear it was wonderful.

Hilton Head provided a perfect setting for a women’s tennis tournament. The biggest selling items were sunscreen, sun visors, and gallons of liquor. Hilton Head was definitely the land of the juice generation; they sought rainbows in their wine. Failing that, a round of doubles would do, or perhaps a round of golf. In the evenings couples strolled down the walkways enjoying the quiet. And then there was the ocean for those who wished to become acquainted with sand flies.

Carmen was practicing. A small crowd, dressed in the inevitable Lacoste shirts, gathered around. Carmen hit the ball behind her back. They oohed. She picked up a murderous shot on the half-volley. They aahed. She crushed an overhead. They laughed. Carmen’s incentive was to show off and get paid for it. Like a dancer, her time was short, the applause was bracing, and the future was nonexistent except as an extension of the present. The truth would set in later, like arthritis. Carmen paid people to perform her everyday responsibilities; the tennis life left few other options. If she wanted a glass of orange juice, someone else picked, shipped, then squeezed the orange. Carmen squeezed life, and she thought there would always be juice.

Today she was blissfully happy practicing with her brother. He was blissfully happy, too. The bogus clothing line was selling. His partner in Hong Kong outdid himself in efficiency. Since his partner didn’t have to worry about government interference, union regulations, or moral concerns, efficiency was easy. Dennis Parry had his $50,000. The next installment wouldn’t be due for months. He knew the man in Hong Kong was skimming some of the profits but Miguel didn’t mind. He’d already stashed away $100,000 from the original loan. Life was beautiful.

“I spoke to Baby Jesus on the telephone today.” Carmen rubbed her sneaker against her calf. “Another novel, of course.
Catalyst
. This one’s about secret love affairs.”

Carmen was on top of the world ever since arriving in South Carolina. She even agreed to take a walk with Harriet.

“What else did Baby have to say?”

“She wants fresh chicken, fresh catnip, and one live mouse for her birthday.”

“Her birthday isn’t until July fourteenth.”

“I know, but she’s like her mother. She puts in her order early.” A figure closed the door to a condominium. “Oh fuck, there’s Miguel.”

“Duck behind this shrub.” Harriet yanked Carmen down. “Now let’s go back the way we came.”

“Good thinking.” Carmen pinched her.

“Did you and Miguel have a fight?”

“No. Besides, I would have told you. I tell you everything. He got on my nerves a little bit by pressuring me to ask Ricky for air time.”

“What?”

“You know, comment on matches. Miguel said it would land bigger contracts.”

“I suppose it would, but you can’t prevail upon Ricky that way.”

“That’s what I said. He huffed and puffed, but eventually calmed down. He also said I’ve got to get a new hairstyle.”

“Lord.” Harriet kept walking. “Susan seems to have quieted herself.”

“Yeah, I think that punch in my face freaked her out.”

“I think of Susan as a manic impressive.”

“Whatever it is, she’s definitely weird. It’ll blow over.”

“Well, I’d still like to put her in designer concrete boots,” Harriet said.

Carmen wrapped her arm around Harriet’s waist. “You’re awful.”

Martin Kuzirian had his moment. He’d been way back tailing the two. When they turned around, he was far enough away not to attract their attention. He took up a post in front of the little convenience store. Carmen’s act was one of simple affection. It didn’t have to be sexual.

“Hello.” Martin hailed them as soon as their features were distinct.

Carmen dropped her arm. “Hello.”

“Great match today.”

“Thank you. Didn’t I see you in the interview tent?” She knew perfectly well who he was.

Flattered by her noticing him, he said demurely, “Yes, I’m with
The Long Island Chronicle
.”

Carmen kept walking, and he fell in beside her.

Harriet bristled.

“Things are different today. There’s such a permissive climate. I don’t see why the two of you don’t come out and relax. Everybody knows you’re lovers and you’re going to be married.” He struck without warning.

Harriet almost choked. “You must be nuts.”

Carmen wheeled on him. “Why don’t you just fuck off?”

“You deny you’re a lesbian?”

Harriet stepped in front of Carmen. “Leave her alone.”

“Ah, yes, the mother lion defending her young.”

“You son of a bitch.” Harriet belted him. He rocked backwards.

“Honey!” Carmen put her arms around Harriet. When angry, Harriet was a handful even for Carmen.

“If you’re not a lesbian why are you so mad?” Kuzirian wasn’t letting up.

“Leave her alone!”

“Harriet, are you ashamed to love Carmen?”

“Lay off, you bastard. I do love her. I’m goddamned
proud to love her”—she caught her breath and tried to square it—“but that doesn’t mean Carmen’s a lesbian just because I am.”

Carmen, sweating, pulled Harriet away. “Come on, forget it.”

“Forget nothing.” She turned back at Martin. “You leave her alone.”

He pedalled backwards. “Okay, okay.” He had what he needed to start his story. Time would give him the rest.

Carmen hauled Harriet to the condominium. She handed Harriet a Coca-Cola. Harriet was ready to heave the glass, but thought about it, then took a drink. She was beginning to come down to earth. There was a string of expletives so miserable Carmen remembered only the mildest which was, “If a fart were a scab, that man would pick it off his asshole.” The expletives and tortures of hell were followed by a kind of silence punctuated by outbursts of “Fuck, shit, damn.” Finally she shut up.

Carmen was bone white.

Harriet sighed. “I blew it. I think I landed us in hot water.”

“He won’t print anything. You scared the shit out of him.”

“No. I gave that asshole what he wanted. I told him I was gay. You’d better think long and hard about how you want to handle it.”

“It won’t come to that.” Carmen couldn’t face trouble theoretically, much less in the raw.

“I think it will.”

Ricky and Jane’s beautiful white clapboard house sat right in the heart of Princeton. Because it was built immediately following the Revolutionary War, the measurements of the rooms were by human elbow to fingertip. Nothing was exact yet everything looked exact. Uneven pine floorboards worn smooth by years shone the color of the syrup Ricky was pouring over pancakes. He made breakfast this morning, singing all the while.

Jane leafed through
Portfolio
, a magazine devoted primarily to painting. “Hey, hon, a Rosa Bonheur exhibit will be in Philadelphia this summer. Isn’t going to be anyplace else in the U.S. We’ve got to go.”

“Sounds good.” He tossed off the front pages and dug into the sports pages. Suddenly he stood up, sat down, and then stood up again. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

Alarmed, Jane asked, “What’s the matter?”

“Look at this.”

Jane came and read standing next to him. “Holy shit.”

“Kuzirian’s a bastard.” Ricky’s hands began to shake.

“He doesn’t say that Carmen’s a lesbian, only her ‘live-in friend with whom she shares a house in Cazenovia, Harriet Rawls, professor of religion at Cazenovia College.’ He doesn’t actually say Carmen is a lesbian.”

“He doesn’t have to.”

The phone rang. Jane picked it up. “Hi, Frank.” Pause. “Like hell I will.” She slammed down the receiver.

“What’d your editor want?”

“He wants me to fly to Hilton Head for the story.”

“Put out a piece of meat and watch the jackals gather.”

“I’m calling Harriet and Carmen.” She dialed their number. “Goddammit.” She dialed again. “No one home. They must be down at the courts. Ricky, what can we do?”

“Wait until we talk to them first.” He ran his fingers through his gray hair. “This could tear them apart.”

Jane puzzled, “Do you think Carmen’s a coward?”

“No, but she’s young. All she’s got is Harriet, and right now Harriet’s the source of the problem.”

Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Not by a long shot. The source of the problem is a cobra on the circuit. This came from the inside. Who?”

Ricky sat down. “Who hates Carmen most?”

“It’s too fantastic.” Jane dismissed the face floating in her mind.

“What are you thinking?”

“Susan Reilly.”

“That is too fantastic.” Ricky stabbed his pancake.

“Women’s intuition, honey.”

“About the only thing we can do is write columns defending one’s right to privacy.”