Sudden Death (37 page)

Carmen warmed up. Each woman hit with authority. The returns boomed back on the baseline. They both looked relaxed. Susan’s new honey practically blew kisses every time Susan met the ball.

Carmen glanced around the stadium. She automatically looked up for Ricky. She’d heard, of course, that Harriet was there. She hadn’t seen her. When she looked up this time, Carmen saw her. For an instant it was as though nothing had
changed—Harriet was squinched against the wall out of camera range, Ricky had his earphones on, and … no Jane. Carmen blinked and hurriedly looked for Bonnie Marie to reassure herself. She pushed her thoughts away and faced her oldest opponent, aside from herself, across the net. Susan had the look of eagles.

The first set, hard fought, went to Carmen. The second set saw Susan, a madwoman, take it down to the tie breaker and bag it. Each successive point, drenched in hatred, permeated the crowd. The Australians were like the Italians; they quickly seized the drama in any situation. They handled it differently, but they vibrated like tuning forks. Carmen hit one forehand crosscourt so hard her racquet shivered like a struck lance.

If smoke wafted up from the court, no spectator would have been surprised. These two despised one another with savage intensity. Every point was a challenge, a duel. There was no defense in this match, it was all attack and counterattack. Even the drop shots seemed edged in venom.

Neither woman could break the other’s serve. Surely one would have to slow, tire, falter. Susan grew maniacally stronger with each point, whether she won it or lost it. If she heard the crowd, she never seemed to. Carmen’s lips were drawn tightly across her teeth. Deep furrows ran alongside her mouth. She looked ten years older than her twenty-four years. The tension redoubled her concentration.

In war, there’s a killing zone. Tennis has one, too: no-man’s-land. On either side of that zone, midway to the net, a player might live. In the middle, she greeted death. Speed and a carbon-steel half-volley might save her ass. Otherwise, lights out.

The third set sped by even though the points were long. Susan deliberately blasted away at Carmen’s adequate but unspectacular backhand. It was the only weakness in her arsenal. There are two theories in tennis and only two: Either
break down the opponent’s weakness or break down his strength. Breaking down the strength is harder, but if accomplished the results are faster, since the opponent’s game will fold quickly. Susan chose the longer but surer route. The body loses one percent efficiency each year over twenty-five. Susan was a split second slower than when she was in her prime. She was calculating enough about her abilities to know that. At her own peak in her mid-twenties, she would have tried to crush Carmen’s forehand. Now she utilized her years on the court, and she planned every point. She wouldn’t blow Carmen away, she’d pick her apart.

Carmen, physically at her peak, was everywhere. Even the unrelenting Australian heat couldn’t wilt her. Susan’s nibbling at her backhand didn’t frighten her. She’d slice the ball and keep it low. Since they were on grass, the ball often skidded with a slice. Carmen could live without a supercharged, topspin backhand.

High overhead, Harriet watched what she and everyone else knew: This would be reckoned one of the greatest matches in tennis history. It was a pleasure to see two evenly matched combatants. The heroic proportions of the struggle compensated for the lack of depth in women’s tennis. The tedious, lopsided early rounds were forgotten in the splendor of the final.

Carmen looked so powerful on the court. Odd, how athletes are assumed to be mentally strong because of their physical prowess. In truth, they are usually people unable to cope with the outside world. Physical strength has never corresponded to emotional strength. Perhaps Harriet expected too much of Carmen. How could the Argentinian be an adult when she was surrounded by children, pursuing the goals of youngsters? Games are glorious, but they’re for kids. Carmen could only be what she was—basically a good person with a short attention span, no ability to face emotional conflict or disappointment, and one who only wanted to be happy.

The people around Carmen most emphatically did not want her to think about anything but tennis. She lined their pockets. How could she grow up when fifty-year-old promoters, tight-faced from cosmetic surgery and hair transplants, also echoed the same childish concern—to be happy. Why wasn’t every day Christmas? It should be, or so they thought, as they put one more contract in front of her.

It takes an extraordinary person to withstand the seduction of professional sport. Carmen’s skill was extraordinary. She was not.

The last game of the third set, Susan’s serve held true to form. Each point was a marathon. Susan closed out her serve with a murderous forehand crosscourt that nicked the corner line and scudded across the grass. Magically, Carmen was there and sent the ball crosscourt with a flick of her wrist. Susan, caught off guard, was pulled wide.

Courageously Carmen tore up toward the net. In a fury at what she thought was an untouchable shot, Susan twisted her whole body into the ball and followed it into the net as well. No one could believe what they were seeing. Both women were caught in no-man’s-land. Defiant, each held her ground and pounded the shit out of the ball. Neither would retreat and neither could advance. The point was played like a doubles point at the net. People sat motionless in their seats, awestruck.

Carmen fired a ball at a sharp angle past Susan’s reach but Susan was there, and she hit the ball at Carmen’s feet. Carmen picked it up a trifle too high, and Susan returned it sidearm down Carmen’s backhand side. Susan held her serve.

The tie breaker went into effect. Neither woman lost her serve in the tie breaker. Sudden death turned into lingering death. One woman had to win by two points. Carmen broke Susan’s service. The crowd went insane. Susan, reaching to Mount Olympus, broke back. The score was even again.

Carmen had another serve. If she could only get one up
and break again. She thundered a serve, spiraling it into Susan’s body. It was a tremendous display of power. Susan returned it as though it were a powder puff. That point sizzled for another two minutes of hammering play until Carmen was sabered by Susan’s backhand.

She walked back to receive Susan’s serve. As if by instinct, she looked up at Harriet. She covered her eyes for an instant, as though she’d gotten a bug in her eye or the sun had given her spots. She collected herself. Susan hit the ball so hard they saw it go by in Brisbane. Carmen was lucky to stop it. The ball flew back across the net. Susan pressed. She flung herself into the ball, twisting her body, and hit a withering forehand down the line. Carmen returned it, but it wasn’t that deep. Susan moved in and drove the ball back. Carmen lobbed. Susan hit a pulverizing overhead right at Carmen’s body. The ball hit Carmen. Susan had just won the Australian Open.

The crowd, emotionally exhausted by the match, broke free. They hollered and yelled; a few even tried to climb onto the courts. Susan, the victor of the Australian Open, waited at the net. Carmen had sunk to her knees, her head almost down on her knees. She was right on the service line. The crowd kept screaming. Susan looked at Carmen with contempt, then turned and walked up to the umpire and shook hands. The umpire scurried down from her chair and walked quietly over to Carmen.

“There now, Miss Semana, let’s get off the court, shall we?” She put her hand under Carmen’s elbow, and Carmen meekly got up. The crowd roared again. The umpire walked her back to a chair and told the announcer to give Carmen time to pull herself together.

The Australian Open was the beginning of Susan Reilly’s end and the end of Carmen’s beginning. Susan would never have a moment this high again. Since she’d built her personality around athletic victory that meant eventually her sanity would be at stake.

In one searing moment Carmen discovered beginnings are easy, it’s continuity that’s hard. She couldn’t keep up the pace. Susan had wanted this win more than she did. Athletic immortality was within her grasp, and she let it slip. What dashed before her eyes when she saw Harriet up there? A murderous shaft of light? A ragged shadow of guilt? Perhaps nothing.

Carmen sat in her chair, towel over her head, sobbing. Was this loss karma or the law of averages? Was this loss a small pain compared to the relentless future? Carmen dimly perceived that this was her first payment on subsequent maturity.

Harriet, sitting high over Carmen’s head, cried along with her. Ricky carefully put his earphones on his legal pad.

“Still love her?”

“I wanted her to win this! There aren’t many more chances left in her business.”

“No, but how wonderful that she got this far.”

Harriet stopped crying and quietly said, “If there is life after death, I’d like to think we’ll all find each other again. I’d like to think the wrongs we’ve done will be forgiven. I’d like to think that God will strengthen the love between us. Is that such a foolish dream? Is there never a time when people are bound by more than scar tissue? Ricky, I don’t know but I want so very much to believe such a love can come to pass, if not here on earth, then in heaven.”

Ricky embraced her. “Love is never lost, only the people.”

Rita Mae Brown is the bestselling author of
Rubyfruit Jungle, In Her Day, Six of One, Southern Discomfort, Sudden Death, Bingo, High Hearts, Venus Envy, Dolley: A Novel of Dolley Madison in Love and War, Riding Shotgun, Loose Lips, Starting from Scratch: A Different Kind of Writers’ Manual
, and an autobiography,
Rita Will:
Memoir of a Literary Rabble-Rouser
.
She is the co-author with Sneaky Pie Brown of the Mrs. Murphy mystery series and
Sneaky Pie’s Cookbook for Mystery Lovers
. Rita Mae Brown is also an Emmy-winning screenwriter and a poet. She lives on a farm near Afton, Virginia.

Visit Rita Mae Brown’s website at
www.ritamaebrown.com
.