Wifey (15 page)

“I figured you’d pick that one but I couldn’t be sure.”

“Yes, you can order it for both upstairs baths.”

“Very good. I’ll call first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

17

O
N
S
UNDAY AFTERNOON
Sandy and Norman played in the mixed doubles tournament at The Club. It seemed foolish to Sandy to participate in a tournament when she’d played only two games of tennis in her life, plus, of course, her series of twenty-five lessons, which weren’t over yet, but Norm had it all figured out. “You just keep out of the way,” he said that morning. “I’ll return everything. You’ve got to serve and receive serves, but other than that, every shot is mine. Just move fast, away from the ball, and we can take anybody, got that?”

Sandy nodded.

“Can you get your serve in yet?”

“I think so.”

“I hope so.”

Before their match began Norm said, “Why don’t you wipe that white goo off your mouth?”

“I can’t,” she explained. “I need it—it’s zinc—without it, in this sun, I’ll have a herpes tomorrow.”

“Couldn’t you use lipstick instead, just for our match?”

“We’re not on TV, you know!”

“But there’s a crowd. You want to look good, don’t you?”

“I thought all that matters is how I play.”

“No, that’s not all. It’s our image as a couple too.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Norm, but I can’t go out there without zinc.”

“Oh, all right.” He grabbed both his racquets, adjusted his sweatbands and eyeglasses and they walked onto the court.

Sandy was already sweating, one of her peds crept down inside her shoes, and she had the remains of a blister on her right thumb, which hurt, even though it was covered by two Band-Aids.

They played against Millicent and Harvey Sommers. Millicent couldn’t return Sandy’s serves. “They’re just too slow,” she cried, “too soft. Are they even legal?”

“Damn right!” Norman called.

And Harvey said, “Just keep your eye on the ball, dear.”

Bounce . . . thwack . . . bounce . . . thwack . . .

“Look at that!” Millicent cried again. “He’s taking all her shots. Is that fair? Is it even legal?”

“She’s serving and receiving our serves,” Harvey said. “That’s all she has to do, dear. Just keep your eye on the ball and try to concentrate.”

“I think it’s very unfair! We might as well be playing singles against
him!
” Millicent threw her racquet to the ground.

Norman ran up to the net. “As chairman of the Grievance Committee it is my duty to inform you that throwing your racquet on the court is a punishable offense. Look at that mark you’ve made.”

“Try to control yourself, dear,” Harvey said. “It’s only a game.”

“It’s not
only
a game,” Millicent informed him through clenched teeth. “It’s a goddamned tournament!”

Sandy and Norman won their match 6-3, 6-2. Norman was ecstatic. “What’d I tell you?” he laughed, hugging Sandy. “You’re great. I always knew you could do it.”

“But Norm, I didn’t do anything. You did it all.”

“Never mind, never mind. As a team we’re great. The best. Unbeatable!”

Until their next match, when they were knocked out of the competition by Luscious and Ben, who smashed every ball directly at Sandy.

“Jesus,” Norman muttered, storming off the court. “Six-two, six-one. I told you to move out of the way, didn’t I? But you didn’t. You just stood there like a lump of clay.”

“I was moving . . .”

“In the wrong direction. You moved toward the ball every goddamned time.”

“How was I to know where they were going to hit it?”

“Anticipation! Hasn’t your teacher taught you anything?”

“Which teacher?”

“Your
tennis
teacher . . . what’s wrong with you . . . don’t you listen?”

“I tried my best,” Sandy told him, feeling the beginning of tears and hating herself for letting him get to her this way. “Do you think I enjoy this . . . this humiliation? Do you think this is any fun for me?”

“Oh, Christ! Stop crying. Everyone can see.”

He took her by the arm and tried to lead her away from the crowd but she shook him off shouting, “Let me go.”

They didn’t speak to each other until Monday night, when she told him she’d been busy and hadn’t prepared any supper. They went to Lee Ann Fong’s. Lee Ann sat down at their table and said, “Tomorrow’s the ABCD tournament. It’s my first. Boy, I can’t wait!”

S
ANDY CALLED FOR THE WEATHER
report at seven-thirty the next morning. “Hot and humid . . . chance of thundershowers . . . temperature ranging from the mid-eighties to the upper nineties, inland . . .” She hung up and thought about staying in bed. But Norman would never forgive her. No, she had to go, had to play in the tournament. She dressed and drove to The Club. The sky was already gray and threatening.

Sandy checked the board in the locker room and found that the rest of her foursome consisted of Millicent Sommers, Brown, and Lee Ann Fong.

Great, she thought.

“It’s going to be a hot one,” Myra said as Sandy tied her shoelaces.

She nodded. “What did you decide to do about Gordy?”

“I haven’t decided anything yet. I’m still thinking about it.”

“Don’t do anything foolish.”

“I don’t intend to.”

Outside, Lee Ann Fong was waiting in a golf cart, calling, “Sandy, Sandy, you ride with me.”

Millicent and Brown were in another golf cart, ready to go. If a foursome took two carts, they were also required to take along a caddy, to carry their putters and spot their balls. The lowest-ranking caddies were awarded this job.

“Oh, not him!” Millicent cried, as the caddymaster beckoned to Steve. “He’s so slow. Can’t we have someone else?”

“He’s not that slow,” Sandy said. “I take him every day.”

“Oh, what do you know?” Millicent muttered.

Sandy didn’t answer. She could feel the storm brewing and hoped that it wouldn’t hit until they’d finished the front nine.

“Let’s go . . . let’s go . . .” Millicent called, as Sandy missed several shots in a row, winding up in the heavy rough. “You could use some lessons!”

“I’m just having an off day,” Sandy told her. “I’m sure you’ve had your share of those.” She wanted to smash her with a golf club.

They stopped for hard-boiled eggs and Welch’s grape juice at the Halfway House, wet paper towels and draped them around their necks, and in ten minutes were on their way again. Sandy dreaded the back nine. The holes were long and tedious. She was already tired and hot. The sky was still gray and the humidity oppressive.

Just as Millicent hit her tee shot on twelve it began to thunder. They were as far as they could get from the safety of the clubhouse. An open shelter stood nearby but that didn’t ease Sandy’s fear. “Listen,” she said, “wasn’t that thunder?”

“Probably,” Brown answered.

Try to stay calm, Sandy told herself. “Don’t you think we should go back?”

“No,” Millicent said.

But at her first sight of lightning Sandy, trying to keep her voice from breaking, said, “Look, it’s going to storm. I really think we should head back now.”

“One-two-three-four-five-six,” Brown counted. The thunder followed. “It’s at least six miles away.” She teed off and landed in the sand trap to the right of the fairway. “Oh, shit!”

At the second lightning, when the thunder came after the count of three, Sandy told them, “I’m going. This could be dangerous. Anyone else joining me?”

“This is a tournament,” Millicent reminded her. “You can’t walk out on a tournament.”

And Lee Ann said, “I’m playing too good to quit now. This might be my best round.”

Brown said nothing.

So Sandy jumped into a golf cart and took off.

“Come back here, you bitch!” Millicent yelled. “You’ve got our clubs!”

Oh, god, the clubs! Rule Number One:
If caught on a golf course in a thunderstorm get rid of the clubs.
Sandy stopped the cart, dumped the clubs off, then remembered Rule Number Two:
Get rid of your spiked shoes.
She kicked hers off and left them with the clubs, jumped back into the cart, and floored it.

“You’re going to live to regret this!” Millicent screamed across two fairways.

Sandy didn’t turn around.
Hurry, hurry . . . lightning to the left . . . don’t think about the storm . . . just concentrate on getting back.

She left the cart outside the locker room door and rushed inside, shaking. But she was safe now. It was going to be all right.

The storm hit ten minutes later and the golfers followed, in groups of four, rushing into the locker room, drenched, some laughing, others, kvetching. Sandy hid in a toilet stall. She didn’t want to see any of them.

Click . . . click . . . click . . . the sound of spiked shoes on the tiled bathroom floor. Millicent: “Just wait till I get my hands on that little bitch. Where is she?”

Myra: “Who?”

Millicent: “Your sister.”

Myra: “I don’t know. What’d she do to get you so riled up?”

Millicent: “Took off in
my
cart with
my
clubs before it even started to rain!”

Myra: “Sandy’s afraid of lightning . . . always has been . . .”

Millicent: “That’s no excuse!”

Steph: “Calm down, Mill, the tournament’s been called anyway.”

Millicent: “You can ignore this if you want to, but we’ll see what the Grievance Committee has to say about it!”

Myra: Laughing. “Sandy’s husband is chairman of the Grievance Committee.”

Millicent: “I know!”

What shit, Sandy thought. What was she doing here? What was she trying to prove anyway? And to whom?
You need to control your own destiny,
Lisbeth had said.
Yes,
Sandy answered to herself.
Yes, I want to control my own destiny.
All her life she had let others decide what was going to happen to her. Maybe now it was time to please herself. Call her own shots. She laughed out loud, remembering the two times she had made her own decisions; to vote for Kennedy and to name her baby Jennifer. Two times in thirty-two years that her decision was not based on someone else’s feelings, someone else’s choice.

As soon as the sky was light again Sandy left the empty locker room, ran across the parking lot to her car, and drove home.

She took a hot bath and wrote to the children.

At three the doorbell rang.

Florenzia answered and called, “Mrs. Pressman, you got some company.”

“Who is it?” Sandy asked.

“Some boy. He be riding a motorcycle.”

Was he back? Was he really here, in person, ringing her doorbell? Should she call Hubanski? No, not yet. After all, she wasn’t alone. Florenzia was here. He wouldn’t do anything in front of Florenzia, would he? She ran downstairs and peeked out the window next to the front door. It wasn’t him. It was Steve. Relief, and then, disappointment.

She opened the door. “Hi, Steve. I didn’t know you had a motorcycle.”

“For two years.”

“What kind is it?”

“Honda . . . XL 175 . . . do you ride, Mrs. Pressman?”

“No.” She laughed at the idea. “Just curious. Well, come on in.” She turned to Florenzia, who was standing right behind her. “It’s all right, Florenzia.”

Florenzia disappeared down the hall and Steve followed Sandy into the house. “This is nice,” he said.

“Thanks. It’s for sale. We’re moving soon, to Watchung.”

“It’s nice up there too.” He held out a brown grocery bag. “I brought your golf shoes.”

“Oh, thanks, that was very thoughtful.” She took the bag and set it on the floor, under the foyer table, thinking about Norman, and how he’d carried his damp underwear out to the car, after their dates.

“And I took your clubs to the storage room and cleaned them off.”

“Thanks again.”

“And I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate what you said this morning when Mrs. Sommers was complaining about getting me.”

“I told the truth, that’s all.”

“Well, thanks. It was real nice of you.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Sure is hot. Storm didn’t help much.”

“No.”

“Could I by any chance trouble you for a drink, Mrs. Pressman.”

“Sure. Lemonade?”

“Sounds great.” He followed her into the kitchen and placed his helmet on the table.

“Have you seen
The Graduate?
”

“Yes, I have.”

“I’ve seen it three times. I really dig that Mrs. Robinson.”

Sandy carried the pitcher of lemonade and two glasses to the table.

“She’s older but very . . . very, uh . . .” He made circles with his hand.

“I’ve always liked Anne Bancroft.”

She filled both glasses. He gulped his down without stopping for a breath.

“I’ll tell you something, Mrs. Pressman, you’re the nicest woman at The Club.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

“Some of the others are okay but mostly, when you get right down to it, they’re a bunch of bitches, you know?”

“Yes, I know.”
Okay, Mrs. Robinson, get him out of here now.

“Mind if I have another glass of lemonade?”

“No, please, help yourself.” She fingered his helmet. It was bright yellow with a tomato stencilled on one side and his name on the other.

“I designed it myself. You like it?”

“Yes, very much. I have a friend who wears a stars and stripes helmet.”