“You’re going to clean your room. I really don’t want to see you.”
“When is James coming home?”
“After dinner. Go, go. Get started, Rosie.”
“I honestly didn’t know I had a match. I thought I had a bye.” Rosie stood before her, hanging her head, pawing at the ground.
“I’m so angry with you. I want to smack you,” Elizabeth repeated.
“Why do you keep saying that, about smacking me? You never smack me.”
“Because you lied. Because you betrayed me. Now go away. Go clean your room.”
ELIZABETH spent the next couple of hours puttering, allowing time to pass, trying to keep her expectations low. Expectations are resentments waiting to happen, she told herself. But finally loneliness and remorse overcame her, and she went upstairs and opened the door to Rosie’s room. Rosie drew back, as if Elizabeth’s fist were raised. The windows were open, and the room smelled fresher. Most of the clothes were up off the floor; Elizabeth lay down on the bed, which Rosie had made. She stared at the hole she had made in the wall with Rosie’s racket. Rosie went and got her a cool wet compress from the bathroom and lay it on her forehead. Then Rosie went back to straightening up her room, singing songs she knew her mother liked, ballads Joan Baez had sung, folk songs from the sixties, softly, off key and sweet.
SOMETHING opened like a kaleidoscope inside her when James walked in the door. He hadn’t shaved in nearly a week, and he was tanned and tired. They stood in the doorway holding each other, until Rosie bounded down the stairs to see him, threw her arms around his neck, and dragged him upstairs to see her newly clean room.
Elizabeth didn’t really want to hear about his trip, she wanted to be in bed with him, done with talk, not needing to share him with Rosie but having him all to herself, holding and kissing and making love. But after he’d checked his messages, complained about their insignificance, opened his mail, complained about feeling abandoned, he wanted to tell them everything, and Rosie felt like listening. So Elizabeth sat as close as she could on the couch without actually straddling him and listened with her eyes closed; like a teenager she breathed him in, sweat and dirt and exhaustion. She did not want him to shower. She just wanted everyone to go to bed.
“I don’t really understand the concept,” said Rosie. “You just race down the river, and try not to drown, right?”
He nodded. But then after a moment, he added that he loved the muscularity of the water, like watching wild horses, he said, or Rosie play tennis. He loved the feathery vegetation along these rivers. But maybe most of all he loved being away from the phones. Elizabeth inwardly rolled her eyes. Yeah, right, she thought.
“Yeah, right,” said Rosie. “How many times did you check your answering machine?”
“Once,” said James. “No, twice. No, a little more than that.”
“A hundred times?” said Rosie. He nodded guiltily, pulled her to him, tickled her ribs, and then held her.
ELIZABETH started to doze, her head now on his shoulder. She heard him softly from far away, still talking to Rosie.
“Can I go with you next time?” Rosie asked.
“Yeah. Of course you can.”
“Rosie can never go anywhere ever again,” Elizabeth said with her eyes still closed. “She’s permanently grounded.”
“What’d you do, baby?”
“Lied.”
“Blew off a match, too,” said Elizabeth.
“I thought I had a bye.”
“Luther called me to tell me she didn’t.”
“Luther called here? To talk to Rosie?”
“No, just to tell us she was late for a match.”
“Oh, man.”
“Mom, I’m not really grounded forever, right?”
“I am not raising a liar!”
“All right. God.”
THEY talked for a while in bed. She told him about her horrible day, Luther and the little Mexican boy, and she said she felt like there might be something wrong with her mind, that it felt rogue and scattered, forgetful and violent and weird, like it was spinning out of control all the time. Maybe you were missing me, he said. I was, she said, but it is more than that. Maybe you’re too worried about Charles. I am, she said. Oh, never mind. It was so good to have him home, to lie in bed beside him, basking in his heat, his gentle voice. Then he began to make love, and she wanted to and responded, but more than that she wanted it to be over, for them both to have come, so the cell membrane of intimacy would envelop them in quietness and love. Lying in bed, entangled in each other, smelling of the sea, talking softly in the dark—it was as close to nursing as you could get at this age. But afterward he fell asleep, apologizing as he drifted off that he and Lank had gotten up at dawn to be here on time tonight. She wanted to splutter, No! I waited a week for you to comfort me, hold me, listen, be here to help. But soon he was snoring, and as she stroked his soft fluffy hair, the feeling of resentment passed. Charles had once remarked that holding on to a resentment was like eating rat poison and waiting for the rat to die. She was glad he was home, and she smiled in the dark. A feeling of calm returned as she rubbed her face against his, breathing on him softly, warm as a mother horse. Patch, patch, patch, she thought, life and her friends kept putting patches and Band-Aids on her. Patches, and layers of repair, like the couch in the living room, the frayed back covered with a Navajo blanket, the frayed parts of the old blanket covered with an exquisite shawl Rae had made for Rosie years ago—a shawl of Rosie’s colors: light blue, deep lavender, mossy green—and covering the holes in the shawl, a worn antimacassar of the finest Belgian lace.
five
THE next day, under the gloss of a white-hot sun, James and Elizabeth sat in plastic garden chairs on the deck of an elegant club in Alameda, watching Rosie’s semifinals match on center court. Simone had defaulted again, after having entered the tournament months ago. She had called this morning to tell Elizabeth she wouldn’t be coming after all, that she had some sort of doctor’s appointment. She had been whispering. Elizabeth had asked if she had laryngitis. She had said sort of, and Elizabeth couldn’t get any information out of Rosie at all. She was just so glad that James had come along today to cheer on their daughter. She felt centered in a way she hadn’t in weeks, as if his company gave her some sort of rod inside, like the armature sculptors use so that their long clay forms won’t topple over.
Rosie was playing Renee Mettier, the second seed, and so was not expected to win. Both girls were playing with raw aggression, hitting deep angled shots in endless rallies, and Rosie, who had nothing to lose, was making winners off shots that other players could never have gotten to. Renee’s coach nodded respectfully from the sidelines. J. Peter Billings was still gone, now on vacation in Maui.
They were tied four games apiece in the first set. Several dozen people sat on the deck watching, while others milled around and studied the draw or chatted with the tournament director. Luther lay on a knoll on the far side of the court so that only his shoulders and head showed. The heads of the other spectators swiveled back and forth during the endless rallies, but Luther, loyal Luther, watched only Rosie.
At five all, thirty-love, with Renee serving, Rosie returned serve down the backhand line but missed by several inches, and she swiped lightly at the court with her racket as she walked to the backhand court to receive, looking arrogant and petulant.
“Knock that off, you little snot,” James whispered.
“Good shot,” said Renee.
“Oh, come on,” said James. “Rosie’s shot was out by a mile.”
“Excuse me?” said Rosie. “That was out.”
“No. It was right on the line,” said Renee, and walked toward the corner to retrieve the ball. Rosie looked over at Elizabeth, checking in. Elizabeth shrugged.
“It really was out,” said Rosie. “I got a good look at it.”
“So did I,” said Renee, smiling. “It was right on the line.” Rosie looked at Elizabeth again, catching her eye;
she looked puzzled and unhappy. Elizabeth shrugged again. Rosie stared off into the middle distance, slouching now, mouthing words no one could hear.
“What’s going on?” asked James.
“I don’t know. Renee just called an out ball in. She gave Rosie the point; and it was an important one. She’d be ahead forty-love now.”
The tall lovely girl smiled a secret smile at the baseline and served, a hard forehand with a lot of spin. Rosie barely got her racket on it. She squinted at Renee and then over at her mother. Then she walked to the forehand court to receive serve at forty–fifteen.
James looked over at Luther for a moment to see what he was doing. Luther’s eyes were closed, his great derelict head bobbing with admiration, and all of a sudden James said, “Ah!”
“What?” said Elizabeth.
“I just got it. That was a very sophisticated use of power on Renee’s part.”
“What do you mean?”
On the next serve, Renee aced Rosie.
“Game, six-five,” Renee trilled. Both girls walked to the bench for water.
James turned to Elizabeth. “Renee just assumed the power in this match. Don’t you see? She just told Rosie, when she called that ball in, ‘I’m in charge now. I’m going to give you a point here because I choose to, but I am going to beat you anyway; and that is how it is. So play on.’ ”
After the changeover, Rosie, shaken and anxious, stood at the baseline like a tourist trying to figure out if she should get on this streetcar or not. Renee waited, bouncing on the balls of her feet, confident and businesslike, as if she might have a month-at-a-glance date book in her back pocket. Rosie whispered something to herself. Elizabeth turned to study Renee. She hated the girl, so full of herself. In twenty years she’d be in charge of the PTA, putting down all revolts the way she was putting away volleys today. Elizabeth cast an evil eye on her.
Then she watched her daughter look at Luther, who held his palms two inches apart to show how far out that shot had been. Her look was beseeching, his full of knowledge. Elizabeth’s heart lurched. “Stop,” Elizabeth hissed at Rosie. “God,” she said, turning to James, “look at—”
But Rosie just squinted grimly, and then smiled, and served an ace. Then she aced Renee again. James smashed a fist against his palm. Rosie tried a drop shot on the next point that landed in the net, but she won the fourth point when she tried another and made it. James clapped.
“That drop shot took balls as big as cantaloupes,” James said to Elizabeth, who shushed him. She was still buzzing with adrenaline; she heard an inside whine of confusion and fear. She closed her eyes to quiet it. Then Rosie hit a winner down the forehand line, and the set was tied at six games each.
During the tiebreaker, each girl held serve until three all, on Rosie’s serve. She hit a low-angled forehand, a beauty that hit the top of the net and hung in the air for a second, then rolled over and down Renee’s side of the net. Renee looked as if a cow flop had just dropped onto her court.
“Come on come on come on,” James whispered.
With Renee serving, a long tense rally ensued. Rosie hit another fantastic drop shot that Renee somehow got to one split second before it bounced again, and she continued up to the net. Rosie lobbed it over her head, and Renee got to the lob and lobbed it back, but her shot landed an inch or so past the baseline. “Yes,” said James. “All right.” Rosie stopped the ball, caught it, took a long deep breath. Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief.
But Renee tilted her head quizzically at Rosie. “You’re not serious, right?” she said.
Rosie froze. James leaned forward.
“It was out,” said Rosie, pointing with her racket to a spot on the court.
“No, it wasn’t,” said Renee.
Rosie looked over at James and Elizabeth. Renee looked over at her parents, who nodded to her, and she lay her racket down on the ground and walked haughtily off the court.
“What the hell?” James asked loudly.
“I’m going to go get the umpire,” Renee called over her shoulder.
“It was out,” Rosie said weakly.
“Someone should have done this a long time ago,” Renee’s mother said loudly to Renee’s father.
James was up in a split second. “What the hell does that mean?” he said, and Elizabeth saw that he was moments away from putting up his dukes. She pulled at the sleeve of his shirt.
“Sit down,” she hissed, and Renee’s parents got up, so smug and indignant that now Elizabeth wanted to give James the go-ahead to slap them both around, but he had sat down beside her again and waved to Rosie with concern and encouragement. Rosie stood mute, staring down at the court as if a deep shaft had opened at her feet and at its bottom she could see a pile of gold coins, or bodies. The silence was long, fraught with tension.
“Why is she taking it so hard?” James wondered. “Was it good?”
“It was out,” said Luther loudly, to Rosie.
Elizabeth held her breath.
“I know it was,” said Rosie.
“Do you?” he asked, more softly now. He tilted his head slightly, questioning her, daring her; his face was stolid, dark and warm at the same time.
Elizabeth froze. Rosie gazed into Luther’s face, considering him. She nodded, holding his gaze, then sat down on the court and retied her shoes. Braiding her bangs, looking around from time to time, she crouched there as if something might be gaining on her.
“This is outrageous,” James whispered. “That girl’s implying Rosie cheated. God, I can’t stand that rich little snot.”
“Shh-shh-shh,” Elizabeth whispered. A moment later, Renee and her parents returned to the court, this time with the tournament director and a young woman in tennis whites with a stopwatch on a chain around her neck. They summoned Rosie up to the net, and Rosie, now red with shame, hurried forward. She appeared to be concentrating very hard on what the tournament director told her and nodded, obsequious, worried.
“Oh, darling,” Elizabeth whispered. She held on to her stomach, which ached with tension.
“Oh, for Chrissakes,” said James.
The girls moved back into position, Rosie to the baseline, Renee to serve on the forehand side. Rosie led, five points to three. The lineswoman took her position at the net, and the tournament director walked imperiously off the court and back to his desk.
Renee bristled with electricity and self-righteousness. Rosie stood hunched, dark, hunted; to Elizabeth she looked like an aged French dwarf who might suddenly dart onto the lawn of Renee’s service court and steal all the mushrooms. But Renee hit a serve so full of power and spin that Rosie could only whack it back low into the net, where it got stuck in the strings like a small animal.
“Five four,” said Renee. “Your serve.”
“Breathe, darling,” Elizabeth whispered. Rosie was actually panting. Renee sliced the serve down the line for a winner.
Five all. Rosie served well enough, but it was clear now that she was rattled, and Renee easily won the next point. Now she was ahead six-five, set-point. She strolled forward briskly, like a hunter, to retrieve the ball that was still caught in the net. Rosie stood waiting for her to return like a mortified foreigner.
“Renee is going to be a dominatrix when she grows up,” James whispered to Elizabeth.
“Shhh …” She looked at him gently. He made jokes like this when he was most tense, to cover the rage, the sense of injustice, to cover feeling so exposed. She reached out and took his hand.
“She’ll advertise for men to play tennis with, then come onto the court in high heels and a black leather bustier and challenge half their calls.” He was quiet for a minute. Elizabeth was aware of the price this was exacting deep inside him, and she was touched and grateful. “This is the Old West,” he said. “It’s time for Rosie to pull her guns.”
Rosie at that moment happened to look toward Luther, who held up his thumb and forefinger two inches apart, to show once again how far the ball had been out, held
it up as if it were a slide he wanted her to study. And it was as if all of a sudden a switch were thrown inside Rosie, and the lights came back on. Crouching to receive Renee’s serve, Rosie began to bounce lightly on her feet, slowly at first, stiffly, then side to side in place, taut as a panther.
“ ‘I’m still here,’ she’s saying,” said James, smiling, and Rosie hit a winner down the line off Renee’s first serve. Renee served again, and Rosie hit it crosscourt so hard that Renee could only tap it past the net, where Rosie stood casually, all but tapping her foot with impatience as she waited for it to waft into position. The crowd clapped when she put it away.
“Six-up,” she said quietly.
“She’s in the zone now,” said Elizabeth, flooded with relief.
“Justice has been achieved in Alameda,” said James. “It’s ‘Baby, gas up the tanks; we’re invading Poland.’ ”
And when Rosie won the next two points for set, Luther, on the knoll, closed his eyes, his hands clasped as if in prayer.
THE phone was ringing when they stepped inside the kitchen. James answered it. It was Simone, still whispering.
“Is Rosie there?” she said, and he put her on.
“Hi,” said Rosie, looking nervously at her parents. “Pretty good. I lost to Renee in three sets. How did your appointment go?” Elizabeth happened to glance at her daughter just in time to see a look of bewilderment cross her face. “What?” she said. “Again? Why did you cancel?” Rosie exhaled sharply. “God, Simone. You’re totally whacked. What did Natalie say? Yeah? Right. I’m going to call her then. I’m hanging up now, Simone.”
She hung up but continued to look at the phone in disgust.
“What appointment?” Elizabeth asked.
“Just with a doctor.”
“But why are you so angry?”
“Because she’s stupid. Everyone is right who says that.”
“And why are you so upset?”
“Because she’s ruining her stupid life. And just mind your own business.” She stormed out of the room, and they listened to her stomp upstairs.