Sudden Death (27 page)

Unfortunately, winning was no longer good for Susan. She hated losing more than she loved winning. What was a source of self-confidence and joy in her youth, became a contest for sanity at thirty. She willed herself to win. She had to prove to herself that she could win one more time. Each year further reduced her chance of winning the Grand Slam. Each year further reduced her.

Even her own love affairs became impoverished. In her twenties she loved them and left them. She still did that, but in her twenties, she experienced thrills, chills, highs, and lows. Now, though she experienced orgasms at regular intervals, she felt mounting irritation with any intrusion on her life and suppressed the secret horror that no one understood her. She suffered from spiritual anorexia.

The overcast sky hung so low it seemed pierced by the barbed iron fence that surrounded the stadium. Susan took the court. This was the first event in the Grand Slam. If she could stop Carmen now, she’d be content. She wanted to win the Slam, sure, but stopping Carmen consumed her. Hating to lose, Susan reduced herself further by transforming Carmen into her enemy. She cursed the day she took Carmen to bed. She was twenty-four and Carmen was sixteen. She must have been out of her mind. Carmen resembled an auto mechanic in those days before Harriet cleaned up her act. Susan wanted to forget that brief, ridiculous affair. She wasn’t lonesome. She had a lover stacked away in the hills as well as Craig. It wasn’t even lust. She let Carmen stay in her San
Francisco house during that tournament. One night Carmen crept into her bed and Susan didn’t kick her out.

Carmen’s recollection was substantially different. She remembered a great player paying attention to her when all she showed was potential, not accomplishment. She remembered Susan delighting in feeding her her first McDonald’s hamburger, taking her to her first American movie, and unfolding San Francisco at her feet. She remembered being swept up by Susan’s charismatic presence and believing everything Susan said. She was dying to sleep with Susan but it was fair to say that at sixteen she was dying to sleep with anybody. For the first three days of the week, she gave Susan a back rub every night before retiring to the guest room at the end of the hall. One night she stayed. Susan didn’t throw her out. She rolled over and pretended to sleep, but with clumsy encouragement from Carmen, she woke up.

No one ever told Carmen that if God wanted to punish her, he’d answer her prayers. The person she admired most in the world was in her arms. It was a love too perfect to bear. After the tournament was over, Susan went on to Houston and Carmen returned to Buenos Aires. Every minute she relived those days, those nights, with Susan Reilly. Susan didn’t call her, but then it’s hard to call Buenos Aires and very expensive. Carmen didn’t mind that. She had a calendar inside her address book. She crossed off each day with a red X. She’d be playing tournaments in America in three weeks. Those were the three longest weeks of her life. She made up her mind to leave Argentina in all but name only. She had a taste of America. She had a taste of Susan.

Susan refused responsibility for Carmen by dumping her the day Carmen appeared at her door. Since she refused responsibility by dumping her other lovers, that was nothing special. The only thing that kept Carmen from going over the edge those months alone in a strange country, struggling with a strange language, was her increasing mastery over her
own body. Tennis kept her alive. Then, after months of silence and rejection, Susan asked Carmen Semana to be her doubles partner. Susan wanted to win as many doubles titles as singles. With this kid she could do it. When she asked Carmen at a Boston tournament, Carmen said yes. She hoped it meant more, but it meant doubles only. Resigned, Carmen played her heart out. She couldn’t keep from loving Susan. Susan noticed only the tennis.

Over the years, the innocent love of a sixteen-year-old faded. The more Carmen saw Susan throw people aside like old shoes, the less she liked her. But she couldn’t come to grips, even now, with what Susan had done. By virtue of being her first lover, Susan Reilly owned a ragged corner of Carmen’s heart. Carmen would love those days in San Francisco even as she learned to hate Susan Reilly.

The two squared off. The match started slowly. Each player kept her serve. So far no surprises.

“Out?”

The linesman responded in French. Susan responded in foul English. The linesman, a true Parisian, pretended he couldn’t understand a word of it. Susan stalked to the backcourt and awaited serve. Carmen won the first set seven-five.

The second set, peppered with a few more Reilly outbursts, picked up speed. The points weren’t shorter, not on clay, but the pace was tougher. Both women were in splendid condition.

Susan became angrier and angrier at Carmen’s exacting aggression. Why hadn’t Carmen cracked into fourteen pieces, scattered about the court? Hadn’t she been rocked by the recent scandal? Wasn’t she mortified to show her face on the court, knowing everyone thought she was a lesbian? Susan’s concentration shifted imperceptibly from the game to the inside of her opponent’s head. Before Susan collected herself, Carmen broke her serve and was ahead four-three. Susan fought back, but she’d drifted a little too much and
couldn’t find her rhythm. Her increasing frustration sapped her game. Carmen soundly closed out the second set six-four.

Livid, Susan crawled to the net. She slid her hand across Carmen’s outstretched palm. She couldn’t look Carmen in the face. If she did, she’d hit her again.

“I blew it!” Susan smashed a racquet against the bureau in the hotel room.

Alicia patted her on the back. “You’ll catch her at Wimbledon.”

“Goddamn me. That was my fault. I lost my concentration.”

Alicia patted her again. Susan brushed her hand aside. Gloom settled in. “It can happen to anybody.”

“Now I have to wait until next year to try for the Slam.” Susan kicked the broken racquet.

“You’re good for years to come,” Alicia lied.

“I thought I had her. I thought this lesbian bit would take her mind off tennis.”

A warning light flickered inside Alicia’s head. “What?”

“The bad publicity—I thought it would wear her down. You know how emotional she gets.”

“Yes, it does seem odd.” Alicia meant that in more ways than one.

“Escape artist! I’ve known that creep for six years, almost seven. She won’t face anything until it hits her in the face. She’ll withdraw into tennis. Fuck. Well, the world will pry her out. Sooner or later, she’ll be rocked. She won’t win the Slam.”

Alicia vaguely felt that Susan wasn’t doing too badly as an escape artist herself. “You really hate her, don’t you?”

“It’s worse than that. She bores me.” Susan threw her socks against the wall.

“Do you have any idea how that lesbian mess got started?”

Susan whitened. “Why would I know anything about it?” Her voice rose.

Alicia appraised her. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s practice early tomorrow. I’m going to practice eight hours a day if I have to.”

Most people in Carmen’s situation would have charged into Miguel’s room and demanded an explanation about the Jaguar. They would have also suffered obvious anguish over the fate of their lover. But Carmen wasn’t most people. She swept these issues out of her head and was concentrating only on the French Open. If at all possible, she wouldn’t think about anything until after Wimbledon.

Back in the United States, Howard Dominick of Tomahawk couldn’t stop worrying. Lavinia Sibley Archer’s reassurance that she’d haul Carmen into line didn’t soothe his worries. Howard assumed sportswriters were hacks. They wouldn’t criticize players or organizations because if they did, the controllers of those teams or individual players would cut off access. A reporter without interviews is like a tennis player without a serve.

In the past, the sportswriters could be counted on to weep, exult, chastise, and coo in unison with Lavinia or Athletes Unlimited. Martin Kuzirian burst that cozy arrangement wide open. Since Kuzirian couldn’t get any more interviews, Howard figured he’d close up shop. But Kuzirian didn’t. He got tougher. He began to dig around for the financial dealings
among promoters, sponsors, and players. Not that the dealings were always dishonest, but more and more tournaments were losing money. That was worse than being dishonest in Howard’s book.

Kuzirian was using the lesbian issue to advance his career as a hard-hitting reporter. If he was going to be hated by the front office, then he was going to be hated with style. More people read his column than ever before.

Disgusted though he was, Howard knew if one reporter showed some balls, others might try to follow. The role of sports reporters as shadow publicity men was drawing to a close. Howard’s only consolation was that most of them still didn’t know how to collect evidence, much less write.

That was his only consolation. Tomahawk couldn’t afford a scandal in women’s tennis since it was so heavily identified with the sport. Prestige once lost was usually not recovered.

In addition, the novelty of women as pro athletes had worn off. Continued sponsorship of Lavinia’s girls would yield diminishing returns. It might be good for women’s tennis, but was it good for Tomahawk? As head of the Tomahawk division of Clark & Clark, Howard clearly knew where his responsibilities were. The lesbian scandal would give him a good reason to get out without anyone looking into the books. His ass was on the line. If he discontinued support of women’s tennis, he had to do so in a way that would preserve his authority. And if God were good to him, he’d find at that same moment the next Brooke Shields. No more tomboy look for Tomahawk.

The morning of her finals against Page Bartlett Campbell, Carmen spat at Harriet, apologized, turned around and did it again when Harriet asked her a question about pressing a
skirt. Harriet traveled with a portable iron and touched up Carmen’s outfits. She couldn’t stand for her to go on the court with one wrinkle.

“I’m taking a shower.” Carmen slammed the door.

Carmen came back into the room after drying her hair and sat down to finish her cantaloupe. The silence continued for fifteen minutes.