The Switch (10 page)

Ordell was looking down at him through the windshield when he beeped the horn. The big black guy jumped, trying to look around as he kept running, and Ordell punched him with the blunt front end of the van. Hit him and braked, seeing the guy get up and start running again, looking back big eyed. Ordell punched him again with the van, Ordell flinching, pulling back from the steering wheel, as he saw the guy's Borsalino crush against the windshield, right there in front of him. He jammed
the brakes and the guy went down, disappeared. Louis came back and bent down, taking the guy's wallet, then throwing it aside and helping the guy over to the curb where he sat with a dumb dazed look on his face.

Ordell waited, watching Louis get in with the wad of bills folded in his hand.

“How much it cost him?”

“Couple hundred,” Louis said. “I hope he learned something, but I doubt it.”

 

ANALYZE IT
: Why was it hard to talk to Bo? Because she was tense with him, guarded.

Why?

Because she was afraid to level with him.

Why?

Because she was always defending an untenable position. Playing make-believe, pretending everything was nice. So it wasn't Bo's fault at all, was it?

No, it was her own fault, always trying to be Nice Mom. Protecting him from what? Why in hell couldn't she be straight with him?

“Jeez, what'd you do to your car?”

“I guess I parked crooked. Your dad backed in—”

Bo waited.

“—and I guess my car was over too far in the center.”

“He was smashed last night, wasn't he?”

“No, he wasn't
smashed
. That's an awful thing to say.”

“I heard you. I mean I heard
him
. Did he throw something at you?”

“Of course not.”

“How'd his trophy get broken?”

“It fell. He was putting it on the dresser and something was in the way. It fell off.”

“How come he brought it upstairs?”

“I don't know, to look at it, I guess. He won the club championship—he's proud of it.”

Silence. Mom and son in tennis clothes driving to the club twenty minutes before noon: Bo studying the strings of his Wilson racket, pressing the gut with the tips of his fingers; Mickey waiting for the lighter to pop, reaching for it and looking straight ahead at the road as she lit her cigarette.

“Where's your sweater?”

“I guess I left it out there.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don't know. I guess so.”

“You packed everything you'll need?” She knew he had; she'd checked his suitcase.

“I guess so.”

“You're not going to have much time to get to the airport.”

“I don't see why all of a sudden
he
has to go.”

“Bo, how many times? You don't say
he
.”

“You know who I mean.”

“That's not the point.” She stopped before adding something about respect.

“Okay, how come
dad's
going all of a sudden?”

“Because he has a meeting in Freeport next week and he thought—” What did he think? “—it would be nice if the two of you could fly down together. Give you a chance to talk.”

Why did everything have to be nice? Like a TV family. Hi, mom. Where's dad? Dad's in the den smoking his pipe, wearing his old baggy sweater and working on your model airplane. Mmmmm, you making brownies, mom? Change the script and see what would happen. No, I'm smoking grass. What do you think I'm doing?

She wondered if Bo had ever smoked. She wondered what he was thinking right now. All she had to do was ask.

But she said, “Dad'll stop by Nana and Papa's with you and make sure—” What? “—you get settled all right. And I think he wants to call the tennis camp.”

“I thought it was all set.”

“It is. Just, you know, to make sure.”

“He's gonna hang around and watch me?”

“No, I told you, he's going to Freeport.”

“How about today? Is he gonna be there?”

“He'll try to. He's playing with a customer.”

“I hope he doesn't come.”

“Bo—” Now what do you say? “That isn't nice at all.” The word again. “He loves to watch you.”

“He loves to tell me what to do and he doesn't know shit.”

“Bo!”

“Well? Does he?”

“He tries to help you.”

“He does?”

“He's encouraging you, he wants you to win.”

“How can he help me? He doesn't know a topspin volley from a groundstroke.”

“He knows the basics. You don't have to be an expert to offer advice, do you?”

“If you say so, mom.”

She waited and stopped herself from calling him “young man,” and saying something traditionally altogether dumb. If he was right, why couldn't she agree with him?

She wanted to say something, desperately. But she held back. She tried it in her mind several times. She tried it again while she drew on the cigarette one last time and rolled the window down and threw out the butt.

“Bo—” she stopped.

“What?”

“When you come back—we don't have time now.”

“For what?”

“A talk. As soon as you come back. Bo—let's cut out the baloney and tell each other how we really
feel. All right?” She had rehearsed saying, “Let's cut out the bullshit,” but couldn't do it.

Bo looked at her. He didn't seem surprised. He just looked up and said, “Okay.”

She felt relieved, just a little self-conscious. “I think I understand how you feel. I mean about dad. Sometimes we let people bother us too much and we feel guilty when we really shouldn't.”

“I don't feel guilty.”

She was injecting her own problem. “I don't mean necessarily guilty. I mean we sometimes feel distressed, you know, disturbed, when there's no reason to. We sort of let things get out of hand.” She was using words instead of sticking to feelings and losing him.

Bo didn't say anything. Mickey was conscious of the silence. She wanted to fill it, quickly.

“Are you worried about your match?”

“Why should I be worried?”

“I mean have you been thinking about it, planning your strategy?”

“I played this kid before,” Bo said. “He's big, he's almost sixteen. But he's got a piss-poor backhand.”

“Well,” Mom said, “you should beat him then. Right?”

Mickey waited for Frank in the main hall off the lobby. She wandered past the entrance to the grill, looking in, thinking the room was empty, and was trapped.

Tyra Taylor called out, “Hi, celebrity!” The three ladies in tennis dresses, at the table near the window, waved and motioned her to join them. “We were just talking about you. Come on and have a Bloody.”

Celebrity
. Tyra would hang onto that all day and use it to death. At least there were no other members in the grill. Mickey approached their table shielding her eyes with one hand, squinting, knowing Tyra by the annoying sound of her voice, but not able to see faces clearly with the wall of glass behind them and the sun reflecting off the lake. Tyra Taylor, Kay Lyons and Jan something, with three Bloody Marys and three empties, getting a good jump on Sunday. Tyra said she loved the article, it was darling. Jan agreed and told Mickey she should be proud. Mickey said thank you, not sure what she should be proud of. Kay asked her, straight-faced, what it was like being a tennis mom.

But Tyra was still saying the article was darling and the picture of Bo, Bo was darling, wasn't he darling? So Mickey didn't have to answer Kay.

She wrinkled her nose a little and said she didn't think much of the way it was written, though it was probably accurate as far as it went. (She wasn't trying to be cute with the nose wrinkle. Why was Kay looking at her like that?)

Kay said, “The girl wrote it straight, didn't she? The moms did the talking?”

“I guess what I'm saying, I thought it was loaded,” Mickey said, “out of balance.”

“What you're saying,” Kay said, “you're not a real tennis mom and you wish the hell you hadn't been there.”

Kay smiled—she was still a buddy—and Mickey was instantly relieved. Tyra could call her a celebrity and belabor the darling write-up and it wouldn't matter so much. At least someone knew she wasn't a tennis mom. If she had time, she wouldn't mind joining them, she liked them.

But sitting with the ladies—it was a strange thing—Mickey would be with them but not with them. She would be perched somewhere watching the group, herself in it—the same way she saw herself with Frank when they were arguing. Never completely involved. The ladies appeared to talk in turn, but they didn't. There was an overlapping of voices and topics changed abruptly. Mickey wondered if there was something wrong with her, why her attention span was so short when it came to cleaning ladies, cub scouts, the PTA, clothes, golf scores, tennis strokes, historical love novels written by women with three names, dieting, what their husbands liked for dinner, how much their husbands drank, how their husbands tried to make love on Saturday night and couldn't, face-lifts, boob-lifts, more dieting—

She would think, What am I doing here? Then think, But if I weren't here, where would I be?

She would try to think of something she would like to talk about. She would think and think and finally give up. (One time she had asked, “Do you know how people communicate with each other on the planet Margo?” But no one asked how, or even seemed to be listening. Barbara or someone was telling what her kids liked for breakfast.)

Mickey would watch and half listen, or let her mind wander, or find herself studying Tyra Taylor's perky moves, asking herself, Do I do that? Tyra was forty pounds overweight in a size 14 tennis dress. She would sit with her back arched, her head cocked pertly and nibble celery like a little girl. She was deceiving. Tyra appeared animated, but told long, boring stories in a nasal monotone about her maid's car trouble and her dog's hemorrhoids. Her dog, a miniature schnauzer, was named Ingrid. (Tyra would give Ingrid doggie treats saying, “Her's hungry, isn't her? Yes, her is, yes, her's a nice little girl,” over and over, mesmerizing Mickey who didn't often speak to dogs. She was never sure what to say to them. She would think, Try it. But she couldn't.)

Mickey got away from the Bloody Mary ladies saying she had to see Frank and then get out there and be a tennis mom—ha, ha—but she'd have a
drink with them on the porch later. She waited in the hallway a few minutes, watching the door that led to the men's grill and locker room, then came back into the main grill and sat at one of the near tables. When Rose appeared, Mickey asked her if Mr. Dawson had been eating lunch. Rose said no, he was in there having a beer. Rose said she told him his wife was in the big room and he said fine, he'd be right out. Mickey thanked her—she felt awkward—and said she might as well have an iced tea. She lit a cigarette and continued to wait . . . hearing Tyra's voice . . . nodding and saying hi to the members in tennis and golf clothes coming in for lunch.

They'd stop and act surprised to see her and ask what she was doing all by herself. What's the matter, was she anti-social or something? Didn't she have any friends? Mickey would smile or pretend to laugh and go through the story about Bo's match and waiting for Frank, just having a quick iced tea.

Why did she pretend to laugh? It was all right, everyone did. But why was she tired of it? If she felt like giving them a smart-ass answer, why didn't she?

Because she couldn't think of a smart-ass answer fast enough.

No, that wasn't it. It would be fun, though, if she had the nerve. They'd say, “How come you're all alone?” And she'd say, “Because I break wind a lot.” Or they'd say, “How come you're all alone?”
And she'd say, “Because shithead knows I'm here and he's making me wait.”

Marshall Taylor said, “What're you thinking about?”

He squinted across the grill and waved to Tyra, then looked down at Mickey again with a solemn expression and winked. Marshall Taylor, with a Deep Run golf cap sitting on top of his head and golf gloves on both hands, winked, leaned in over the table and seemed about to tell her something confidential.

He said, “How are you?”

“I'm fine,” Mickey said. “How're you, Marshall?”

He frowned as though in pain as he glanced over at the window. Maybe he didn't like Marshall; the name. Most of the members called him Marsh.

“I seem to recall saying something last night while we were dancing. You remember?”

Mickey remembered, but looked puzzled. “What?”

“I asked you if you'd have lunch with me.”

“You were drinking—we all were, we say things—” showing him how pleasant and understanding she was. “Don't worry, I didn't take it seriously.”

“But I
was
.” He stared at Mickey with a pretty straightforward, serious look too. “I meant it.”

“Isn't Tyra waiting for you?”

“If she's watching we're talking about the piece in the paper. I haven't read it yet—”

“Don't.”

“What I'm gonna do is cut out the picture, put it in my wallet.”

“Marshall, come on—”

The name wasn't right. Marshall was too formal for a guy trying to fool around. But Marsh was too soft for a six-four hulk who'd played defensive end at Michigan State and now owned a company that made steel extrusions.

He said, “I mean it. I want you to have lunch with me.”

“But there wouldn't be any point. I mean, why?”

“I like to talk to you.”

“We talk. We're talking now.”

“You remember any of the things I said last night? I told you how I've been thinking about you—”

He had told Mickey how different she was. He had told her, dancing—his hand moving over her back and trying to work in beneath her arm for a feel—she was like a little china doll. So much easier to dance with than Tyra. Dancing with Tyra was like driving a semi. She was putting on weight. Lived only for herself. Spent money like it was going out of style. Always buying clothes—but could never look as good as Mickey did in her simple little outfits. And—his wife didn't understand him.
The club lovers actually said that. “My wife doesn't understand me.” Mickey wondered if she was supposed to say, “Oh, then let's fool around. Frank doesn't understand me either.” It was true, and maybe the club lovers didn't get along with their wives; but why did it mean she would want to have lunch with them? What happened to those guys on Saturday night? A few drinks and respectable family men, dads, became lecherous pains in the ass. At one time she had
thought maybe she should drink more at club parties, join in and quit watching. Everyone seemed to be trying to get involved with someone else. But why get involved and pretend to have fun simply to pass the time? If she was bored—