Sudden Death (6 page)

“I love it when you look at me. You know I want you to be happy, and when you win, that makes you happy.” Harriet was very careful never to overemphasize winning. Carmen used to complain about an earlier lover who would get so completely wrapped up in Carmen’s game that she would sulk when Carmen lost. Harriet didn’t really care about tennis. If winning made Carmen happy, then she wanted Carmen to win. If Carmen had been a stockbroker or a supermarket clerk, Harriet would have loved her just the same.

“How can I win if you aren’t there?”

“Oh, Carmen, you can win anywhere and anytime. You’re the best.”

“I want to be the best with you, not without you. Please come with me on that exhibition tour. You’ll get to see Europe.”

“Honey, that won’t work.” Harriet laughed. “We only see hotel rooms and stadiums.”

Carmen sighed. “Please, please. I don’t want to be alone. I really need you. I love you. I’ll never love anybody but you.”

Harriet turned around and ran her fingers through Carmen’s hair. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll come with you.” Carmen felt for the first time that Harriet was hers, one hundred percent hers. The emotional and sexual connection was the deepest either of them felt. Carmen dropped off to sleep afterwards, happier than she’d ever been in her life.

A decision was made. A peacefulness follows any decision, even the wrong one. Harriet nestled up behind Carmen, slid her arm under the long and graceful neck, and drifted off into a glittering nebula of love. She slept, as do all lovers, with one synchronized heartbeat, for she was one with another human being and the universe as well.

“Crosscourt, crosscourt, crosscourt!” Miguel shouted from the sidelines.

Beanie, practicing with Carmen, stifled an urge to blast an optic yellow ball right down his throat. What prevented her was that she found him terribly attractive. Carmen was irritated, but she didn’t openly flare up at Miguel. When she did flare, it was at linesmen, waiters, or cab drivers. Anger was directed downward, not upward or in lateral motion. She gritted her teeth, thumped to the baseline, and hit deep into Beanie’s forehand court.

“What angle? Where’s the angle?” Miguel kept it up.

“I need to hit a couple more shots.”

“You don’t get a couple more shots in a match.” As he drummed on her, Beanie slashed a backhand down the line.

The down-the-line, crosscourt drills were tedious to Carmen. Some players enjoyed practice. Carmen endured it. She came to life under the pressure of competition. Practice was like a dry hump. Beanie would hit a backhand down the line and Carmen, being left-handed, would blast it crosscourt with a backhand. Then they reversed the procedure, Carmen’s forehand down the line, Beanie’s forehand crosscourt. There were countless drills, all of them useful, and as far as Carmen was concerned, all of them boring.

Miguel reached inside his jacket, extracted a handkerchief, and strode onto the court in the middle of a rally. Beanie put her hands on her hips.

“Here!” He put the handkerchief at the baseline corner, backhand court for Carmen. “Hit this.”

The veins on her neck stood out. Carmen picked up three balls, stuffed two in her shorts, and started again.

“Hit it.”

She concentrated, and with a powerful stroke, she caught it. She missed the second time but came close the third.

“You call that control?”

Furious, she twisted her entire torso into the shot and
pinpointed the handkerchief, knocking it behind the baseline. Miguel cheered, and their practice continued for another forty-five minutes.

Beanie and Carmen dragged into the locker room which was painted a ghastly orange.

Beanie said, “Christ, he’s bloody tough. Was he like that when you were a kid?”

“Pretty much.” Carmen slowly sat down on a bench.

“I’d ’uv taken his head off. My Dad and I used to go at it, hammer and tongs. You’d ‘uv thought it was his match, not mine.”

“He only wants the best for me.”

The sound of the pinball machine in the players’ lounge punctuated their remarks.

“You going to Kansas City?”

“We’ll be there. I take off the week of Cincinnati. How about you?”

“Playing both this year.” Beanie pulled out a bottle of non-Tomahawk shampoo, hid it under her arm, and streaked for the showers. Beanie had her favorite shampoo and no corporate sponsor was going to keep her from those penetrating bubbles.

The crowd filled up the arena early. Today was the final match. No surprises. Rainey Rogers versus Carmen Semana. So far, the tennis had been good, but nothing electrifying. Lavinia, encased in an eggplant-colored jacket and lemon pants, gave orders. Harriet and Miguel occupied the complimentary seats grudgingly given by Tomahawk to friends and family. The sponsors liked Miguel in the audience. His presence could be milked for a bucket of publicity—beloved brother puts aside legal career to coach beloved sister.

Lavinia took the mike and walked out onto the center of the court after a traditional version of the national anthem. Linespeople filed in wearing forest green jackets, Tomahawk’s color. Next came a battalion of ball boys and ball girls, wearing forest green T-shirts and feathers in their hair, all of whom were thanked for a week’s service. Lavinia at the mike created terror in Tomahawk’s hearts. She liked to talk. After ten minutes of explaining the inception and development of women’s indoor tennis sponsored by Tomahawk, the audience was thoroughly bored. Had she said anything more complimentary about Howard Dominick, he would be expected to walk on water.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to introduce Carmen Semana’s first coach, her older brother Miguel.”

A spotlight zeroed in on Miguel, now standing. The crowd applauded.

Lavinia launched into an explanation of the nature of the two finalists’ games—the attacking player, Carmen, versus the backcourt artist, Rainey. Rainey Rogers seethed in the walkway, waiting to come on. Cheap publicity, this brother crap.

Mrs. Rogers was in a holding pattern nearby, also seething. Miguel Semana couldn’t have sacrificed more than she and Bill, Rainey’s father. Why didn’t the press pay more attention to Americans? Rainey was a homegrown product. She made the cover of
Seventeen
. What are a couple of Argentines with their flashing smiles to being on the cover of
Seventeen
? Oh well, she thought, soon Miguel will be as ignored as everyone else in this world who isn’t actually swinging the racquet on the court. Mrs. Rogers’ shoes were tight. She wiggled a toe in vain hope of stretching them just a bit. She tried to keep her mind busy until the match actually started. Then her adrenaline would pump up the same as Rainey’s.

Lavinia relinquished the microphone with reluctance. Miranda Mexata took the chair, and to everyone’s relief, the match began.

To everyone’s surprise, it was a close match, though not exciting. The carpet was Carmen’s surface. Rainey almost took her to three sets, but Carmen closed it out in a lopsided tie breaker. It was sudden death for Rainey.

The postmatch ceremonies exceeded the prematch ceremonies in orchestrated tedium. Every sponsor came forward with a necklace or check or lifetime supply of aspirin. Everyone praised the victor and patted the vanquished, telling her she put up a great fight, better luck next time. When the microphone was passed to Rainey, she also praised her opponent in a jesting manner. The crowd always loved that act. As this was the major Tomahawk event, the culmination of the prior year’s indoor season, Howard Dominick presented the winner’s check.

Mike in hand, Carmen trotted through the well-rehearsed plaudits to ball girls, ball boys, and sponsors—especially Tomahawk. “And thank you to all you fans who came out here this week. You are what makes women’s tennis what it is today. Thank you.” The fans cheered. In Carmen’s case, routine though the acceptance speeches were, she really did like the fans. She was a creature of performance. An audience could affect her far more than a player like Rainey who locked in on a single wavelength and blotted out the rest of the world, including the fans.

Ricky was at courtside and interviewed Carmen. “What a way to start the New Year.”

“Right.” Carmen smiled.

“Rainey chipped away with short backhand crosscourts. You didn’t have much trouble with that shot today.”

“Rainey pulls you wide with that and then threads the needle off your weak return. Today the surface favored me a bit, and I was moving well.”

“Do you have any New Year’s resolutions?” Ricky paced technical data with personal.

“Well, I’ve got to give up hot fudge sundaes.”

“Anything else?”

Carmen paused a moment, then said, “Yes, I’m going for the Grand Slam this year.”

“Good luck to you.”

“Thanks, Ricky, I’ll need it.”

Watching Carmen on television was Susan Reilly, bounced out in the round robin semifinals by Rainey Rogers. Susan’s bags were packed for a flight to Kansas City in another three hours. There was nothing to do but watch the tube. Craig and Lisa left for San Francisco last night. Seated next to Susan in the king-sized bed was Alicia Brinker, her latest. Happy Straker once tried to warn Alicia about Susan’s love’em and leave’em pattern, but Alicia was sure she could change all that; love was the answer. Love might be the answer but it had better be well hidden. Alicia was so far in the closet, she was in danger of becoming a garment bag. Her ranking was high enough so she didn’t have to play too many qualifying tournaments to get on the “A” circuit, tennis’s version of the major leagues. But when they were playing in the same tournament, Alicia and Susan checked into different rooms on different floors, and the players joked about Alicia sliding down hallways so that no one would see her go into Susan’s room. Other than laughing about Alicia’s paranoia, the players ignored the affair. The beaches of every continent were strewn with the corpses of Susan’s discarded lovers.

As of this moment, however, Alicia was in no danger of being dumped. She and Susan were watching the tv screen intently as Carmen told Ricky she was going for the Slam this
year. “Like hell she will!” Susan said, flicking to another channel.

Susan had done everything there was to do in tennis. She won every title in singles and doubles, but she never put together the French Open, Wimbledon, the U.S. Open, and the Australian Open in the same year. She never got that Grand Slam. Now thirty, she should have known better. The years of repetitive competition had taken their toll on her body, but she possessed a fanatical determination regarding the one goal that eluded her—the Grand Slam. She wanted to win it, but if she couldn’t win it, she’d make sure no one else did. Not while she was alive.