Sudden Death (25 page)

“Baby, you pulled the wool over my eyes.” Harriet spoke directly to the old creature, who blinked. “You said you were working on
Catatonic
.”

Carmen, now separated from the tube, said, “Oh, what’s that one?”

“
Catatonic
is how to mix cocktails for parties and smart gatherings.”

“Gimme a high five.” Carmen put her hand over her head while Harriet smashed it with her own.

Harriet wondered, what did professional sportswomen do before high fives? When she was in school, girls didn’t make such gestures. But then her generation grew up without many team sports, and as far as Harriet was concerned, she’d remain true to her generation. The world could have the high fives if she could dress to the nines.

Energized, Carmen slapped her on the back and challenged her to a game of gin. At that precise moment, Harriet realized something about her attitude toward Carmen. With
all her glowing muscles and bulging veins, Harriet never thought of Carmen as a woman. Carmen didn’t disappoint her. She rarely acted like one. She wasn’t responsive or nurturing. All her energy was fixed on a goal outside herself. When it came to clothes, Carmen wore sweat suits or jeans. Now, with Lavinia’s push toward femininity, Carmen could be cajoled into a dress and makeup, but she never really looked comfortable or womanly in that attire. She looked like a boy in drag. And maybe that was okay, Harriet thought. Sports have always been a male prerogative. If women get caught up in the violent competitive passions of sports, it’s inevitable that they’ll act like men. She laughed to herself as she thought, “Carmen is the only man I ever loved.”

And Harriet did love Carmen. Her spontaneity, her carefree attitude and lack of concern for tomorrow, her animal good health, were intoxicating to Harriet who was anything but carefree. Carmen’s strongest appeal was that when she loved, she withheld nothing. Her laughter was for Harriet. Her victories were for her, or so she said. Harriet became an important adjunct in Carmen’s climb for success, cherished and adored. Adoration is habit-forming.

And so is the minutiae of daily life. How many spoons of sugar did she put in her coffee? Did she like Coca-Cola or Pepsi, potato chips or pretzels? Was she an early or late riser? Did she like the newspaper with breakfast? Such details seduce people into thinking they know one another.

Then a crisis strikes and the person one thought she knew so well can surprise the hell out of her. A quiet person can erupt in anger. A bombastic person can lapse into catatonia. A morally upright person can sink and become ethically sordid. A person on the fringes of society, a drunk perhaps, can become noble and strong. No one knows until it happens to her. Harriet didn’t know what else Carmen would do, but she knew she’d find out.

About two hundred and fifty miles to the south of Cazenovia in Princeton, Jane and Ricky faced their crisis together. The tests came out positive. Jane had a brain tumor. The doctors declared it was inoperable, but chemotherapy might halt its growth.

Jane had seen the results of heavy-duty chemotherapy. Hair loss, nausea, spatial disorientation in some and loss of memory for others. Sometimes it did work; sometimes it worked for a while; and sometimes it just didn’t work at all. She hated the thought of going through it. Chances were slender but even a remote chance was better than no chance at all.

She decided to begin the treatments immediately. Her doctor said she could probably go to the French Open and Wimbledon, but she should continue her treatments there. He made all the arrangements for her in France and England. Upon her return, she would undergo more tests and most likely more chemotherapy.

Ricky and Jane agreed not to tell anyone, at least not yet. As yet, too much was unknown, and why alarm friends and relatives unnecessarily?

As they lay in the bed, she rested her head on his chest. He stroked her beautiful hair.

“I always thought that Death was just my size, height, and weight. An invisible rope is tied around my waist, and the other end is tied around Death’s waist. The younger you are, the longer the rope. If Death gives a yank, I can land flat on my face with injury, disease, or heartbreak. But if I tug on the rope with authority, I’ll live. I always thought that as I grew very old, the distance would diminish until Death and I would blend and just walk away together.”

“We’ll both tug on the rope.” Ricky kissed her hair, tears running down his cheeks.

T
he Peripherique encircles Paris like an asphalt inner tube. The various exits can take you back into centuries of culture, into snarls of traffic, or into the urban sterility which respects no nation. The Sofitel, the official players’ hotel of the French Open, was right off the beltway. Courtesy cars took players to and from practice courts and matches. The French pretended to give equal treatment to male players and female players, but the reality was, ho hum, men first as usual.

Carmen and Harriet holed up in a tiny hotel not far from the Sofitel. Pushing through the crowds of players, coaches, reporters, and groupies in the lobby was bad enough. Given their situation, they would sooner avoid crowds than plunge into them.

Neither woman expected the press to let them alone. Surprisingly, the French press was more restrained than the English press. Harriet dreaded England the way Londoners dreaded the plague of 1666. There would be no escape. She pushed that into the back of her mind. They were in Paris for two weeks; might as well make the best of it.

For Harriet, the tournament began as she was sitting under the massive chestnut trees near the field courts. Two male players on their way to practice observed Carmen’s fluid motion as she hit with Beanie Kittredge. The tall American
player said, “What has yellow balls and chases girls?” His practice partner shrugged. “Carmen Semana.” Laughing, they continued on their way.

Great, Harriet thought to herself. Clay’s her toughest surface. This is all she needs. Harriet closed her book, stood up and waved to Carmen. She might as well find Jane and Ricky.

The Stade Roland Garros was built in 1927 and named in honor of an aviator killed in action during World War I. Longchamps Racecourse was not far away. Harriet imagined Edwardians strolling the grounds, a very different crowd from those who attended racetracks or tennis tournaments today. The famous French skill at dressing wasn’t in evidence at the Stade Roland Garros, especially in the west stand. The east stand habitués, sun behind them and money in their pockets, lived up to the fashion reputation a bit better.

The French Open reminded Harriet of Forest Hills. Forest Hills was now defunct, but in its day, it physically embraced the spectator as did Garros. Each was covered in ivy, built to human scale so one was not overwhelmed by architecture, and each bordered a city—accessible but not choked by the concrete octopus. Harriet hoped the French would never suffer a fit of building like the Americans. She still missed Forest Hills as the site of the U.S. Open. So what if locker space was impossible. It was beautiful.

A greenhouse was at the site of the stadium. Harriet wandered in. Lurking behind a potted palm was Jane Fulton.

“Palmy days, Jane.”

“Hey, we got in late last night. How long have you been here?”

“Two days. She wants to get the feel of this clay, and Miguel wants to get a feel, period.”

Jane kissed Harriet on the cheek. “How are things?”

“Hate letters arrive with alarming regularity. I zip to the mailbox before she does. She’s had enough upset before a major tournament. Where’s Ricky?”

“Lining up his ducks.”

“What?”

“Getting everything under control. He’s bad enough at an American tournament. Take him out of the country, and he’s worse than his grandmother.”

“How are you? Lest I forget my manners.” Harriet touched a peach rose.

“Okay. Still bothered by headaches.”

“My sinuses are rotten, but yours seem worse. Go to a doctor.”

“They’ll pump me full of some drug that’s supposed to keep me awake, and I’ll fall asleep. I always do.”

The two emerged into the gray day. “Have you checked the draw?”

Jane replied, “Before I unpacked.”

“Men’s is a foregone conclusion.” Harriet, unlike most tennis observers, was not a devotee of the women’s game to the exclusion of the men’s. She liked them both. In fact, she probably enjoyed the men’s game more because she didn’t suffer for anyone. She could relax and enjoy it.

“Despite your bias, wouldn’t you say this looks like Page Bartlett Campbell’s tournament?”

“With Rainey Rogers, the vacant heir, waiting in the wings.” Harriet felt a drop of what she hoped was bird pee, not a shower.

Jane shielded her eyes and looked up. “It never fails—rain.”

“The joys of an outdoor tournament.”

“The French Open.” Jane grimaced.

“Open season on Americans!” Harriet shouted, and they ran for shelter.

So much rain dumped on Stade Roland Garros during that two-week period, it resembled the evacuation of Dunkirk. The crowds stayed home. A decent day brought them back again, but the players enjoyed no respite. If the court could take them, if the rain was over, out they went. Players stumbled back, red up to the knees. Inner thigh muscles ached from the sliding. On clay, it was so tempting to slide into the ball instead of moving one’s feet. The grounds keepers would go out and tend to the court after every one of these gut busters.

Unless one was playing a paraplegic, there was no such thing as an easy match. Defeating even an unskillful player took time. A player who could be dispatched mercilessly on grass or even Deco Turf would hang on by his fingernails at the French Open. It was as though these low-ranking players became poisonous dwarfs. They were so exhausting to play that even the top-seeded players felt half dead.

Carmen was no exception. Her temperament, unsuited to anything or anyone slow, took a beating with her body. Her knee was sore; her torso, strong as it was, screamed after each match. She would rarely sweat, but the combination of rain and then heat brought the beads to her forehead. She hated headbands, but she wore one.