Sudden Death (35 page)

Divorce is the one human tragedy that reduces everything to cash. Harriet hated every minute of it. Carmen, if she cared at all, never offered to alleviate this distress. When it was finally settled, Carmen foamed at the mouth about how she was taken to the cleaners by Harriet, the lesbian gold digger. Harriet took her half of the house money and tossed it
in a high interest certificate and rented a house in town. She wanted time to think.

Aside from the house money, she had no income. Friends at Cazenovia College and Syracuse University arranged for her to tutor doctoral students and advise them on their dissertations. It about paid the rent and bought food. Harriet found out that being a lesbian was a very costly proposition. She regretted Carmen’s leaving her, and she regretted Lavinia’s smear campaign. But she didn’t regret telling the truth.

Lavinia and Siggy set new policy for the Women’s Tennis Guild by sweeping through the employees like a white tornado. All dykes were out. All female employees must wear nail polish, nylons, fragrance, and skirts. A player didn’t even have to be gay, she need only be suspect. It was tennis’s version of the McCarthy period. Unfortunately, the homosexuals were accustomed to the paranoia. Only the straights complained.

F
lushing Meadows, site of the U.S. Open, is aptly named. People filter through the turnstiles for the first two weeks of September to witness flamboyant tennis stars as well as umpires with egos that belong in the Met’s production of
Aïda
.

The U.S. Open is a loud, brash tournament, ready to destroy any tradition as long as the profit sheet merits it. Sponsors fought over exactly where their banners would be placed. Tomahawk, a tangential sponsor still committed through the end of the season, solved the problem by painting the name of the latest fragrance, “Moccasin,” on the backs of the toilet stalls.

The crowds were good this year. The rich still hung on in Bar Harbor or sailed around Newport. The U.S. Open attracted the middle classes who had to return from summer vacation if they wished to remain employed. A smattering of lower-class Americans attended, but truthfully, tennis would never be their sport.

Lavinia darted everywhere. The only place the bright yellow dress was never seen was at the top of Louis Armstrong Memorial Stadium, an arena which seats twenty thousand people. She didn’t want to pass out from lack of oxygen.

Carmen was the number two seed. Page Bartlett Campbell was the number one seed. She’d won the U.S. Open the last four years in a row. Carmen smoldered over the ranking. She tucked two of the Grand Slam events under her belt, and the committee still stuck behind Page.

Siggy Wayne and Seth Quintard wore out a pair of shoes daily running from players to corporation executives. The U.S. Open, a fertile ground for deals, had both men in hog heaven.

Bonnie Marie strolled in and out of the locker room, usually forbidden to outsiders. She was at home in locker rooms. The female guards at the gate must have thought she was another player. She was, in her way.

The players raced through crowds to get to their matches if their matches were played on outside courts. The soaking heat trapped in the artificial surface of the courts flamed up their legs like napalm. The landing gear of planes approaching La Guardia Airport threatened to impale more than one tall player. The subway noise at Forest Hills seemed a lullaby compared to squealing airplanes.

Harriet didn’t want to go to the U.S. Open but Jane begged her to come down for a few days. She could stay in Princeton and visit old friends. Lonesome, Harriet agreed.

The first night at Jane and Ricky’s she received a strange phone call. “Alicia! How did you know I’d be here?”

“A wild guess. I bet you’re wondering why I’m calling you.”

“Yes.”

“You know I left Susan.”

“Five will get you ten that’s not how Susan tells it.” Harriet had no quarrel with Alicia but she did wonder what was up.

“The Hitler of the tennis world.”

“Oh, she’s not that bad. Maybe Ivan the Terrible?”

Alicia giggled. “I’m going to have a baby. I’m not getting married though. I’m having this baby all by myself.”

“That takes courage. Why are you telling me this, Alicia? It’s not like we’re bosom buddies.”

The high-pitched voice hesitated. “No, but I never took sides openly. I never disliked you, but Susan did. You know, ever since you said what you said in Hilton Head, I decided I liked you. At least you weren’t afraid to love. Susan was always afraid.” She paused. “What do you think about my having a baby?”

“I wish you luck, Alicia.”

“I’ve got to tell you something. I don’t know why. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

Harriet plumped up a pillow in the bed. If she was going to hear true confessions, she might as well be comfortable. “Okay.”

“Susan Reilly tipped off Martin Kuzirian about you and Carmen. She set you up. She’s smart that way. You walked right into it.”

“Carmen walked right out.”

Alicia bluntly said, “She’d have done that eventually. She turns in her lovers when she’s tired of them.”

“For a new lube job?”

Alicia giggled again. “Kinda. Harriet, I wish you wouldn’t be a lesbian. There’s no stability in those relationships. You’d make a good wife and a loving mother. You need a man to take care of you.”

“Right now, I think you need the man more than I do.” Harriet had heard this argument all her life. She knew it was said with the best of intentions. In Alicia’s case it was said as much to convince Alicia as to convince Harriet.

“Think about it.”

After hanging up the phone, Harriet jumped into her
robe and tiptoed over to Ricky and Jane’s bedroom. The door was open, and they weren’t asleep.

“You’ll never guess what Alicia told me!” Harriet related every syllable.

“I’ll be damned.”

“I knew it.” Jane smacked her thigh.

“No point in telling Carmen.” Harriet sat on the edge of their bed. “You look tired, Jane.”

“Old age.”

Harriet looked at her. “Not you.” But she couldn’t fail to notice the dark circles under Jane’s eyes.

“Well, this proves my theory.” Ricky put his hands behind his head.

“Go on, Einstein.” Jane waited.

“You can’t judge love by its results.”

In an electrifying semifinal, Susan Reilly defeated Page Bartlett Campbell. Susan now faced Carmen in the finals. Carmen had a slightly easier time of it in her semifinal, for Rainey Rogers pulled a groin muscle.

The early September day sweltered. Before the first serve was tossed both women were drenched.

Susan, playing strongly, won the first set six-four. Carmen fought back to take the second set, seven-five. If they could have changed their sticky clothes before the third set, each woman would have felt better. The men can peel off a shirt between sets, towel off, put on a fresh shirt, and charge back out. Not the women. Their clothing hung on them like chains. Their tempers, like their bodies, were boiling. It was only a matter of time before someone blew.

Timothy regally imposed himself in one of the reserved seats behind the baseline. Bonnie Marie folded herself into a
much less conspicuous seat. Miguel sat next to Timothy and ignored him.

At three-two, after a particularly vicious rally, Susan charged the net. She had Carmen forty-thirty, and it was Susan’s serve. She bristled with confidence. Carmen rifled a ball down the side. Susan reached it, and it flew back on the baseline. The ball was clearly on the line.

“Out,” called the linesman.

Carmen walked over to the line and looked at it. She knew to shut up. Miranda Mexata, the sun in her eyes, could not have seen that ball and Carmen knew Miranda couldn’t, in good faith, override the linesman.

Susan flamed by the net. “That ball was in by a mile.”

The tv camera for the viewers at home also showed that the ball hit the line squarely. But the video meant nothing on that court. The situation was agonizing.

Susan howled, and the fans howled with her. The linesman was obstinate. The heat fired him up, too.

“Carmen, do you want to win the match this way?” Susan pleaded.

Carmen said nothing.

“We’ve played for years! We’ve never cheated one another.” Susan stretched the point.

Carmen wavered.

“Just tell him what you saw.”

Miranda said, “Ladies, next point please.”

“Tell him.”

“I saw the ball good,” Carmen hoarsely told the uncomfortable linesman.

“Miss Semana, I saw it out.”

“See, even my opponent knows it was good.”

“Susan, if you don’t serve the next ball, you will be penalized a point which will make it Miss Semana’s advantage.”

Something snapped. Too much tension. Too much heat.
Too much left unspoken between two former lovers heading for disastrous fulfillment. Susan vaulted over the net. She raged before the linesman. Carmen sensibly walked over to the deuce side.

The crowd fumed. Everyone was mad. Susan kicked the linesman out of his chair.

“Guards, remove Mrs. Reilly from the court. This match is over, ladies and gentlemen. Carmen Semana wins by default.” Miranda Mexata had seen officials ground into mincemeat at the U.S. Open. This was one time the promoters couldn’t dilute her authority. The situation was clear. No player is bigger than the game. Susan Reilly committed a hideous offense against the linesman, her opponent, the spectators, and the game of tennis itself. Out!