The Switch

Chapter 2

TEN TO NINE, Sunday morning. Mickey, in a plain white scooped-neck tennis dress, stood at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee and the Sunday Detroit Free Press--the linoleum floor cool and a little sticky beneath her bare feet. She had showered and was hungry, but would hold off the bacon and eggs until Bo came down.

She flipped through the sections of the thick Sunday edition--from the front-page headline, Witnesses Finger Teen Gang Leaders ... past Sports, BoSox Rout Tigers 10-2 ... to the Women's Section, and stopped. God, there it was. With pictures.

TENNIS MOMS

Children's Games Become Their Career The story, covering the entire first page of the section, was illustrated with five action shots of moms and their kids: the kids swinging tennis rackets; the moms staring, chewing lips, one smiling.

Mickey saw herself, slightly out of focus, beyond Bo's clenched jaw, racket chopping down hard. The caption read: "Bo Dawson smashes a volley while his proud mother, Margaret 'Mickey' Dawson, watches from the sidelines. Bo's home court is Deep Run Country Club."

Her gaze scanned the columns of type, stopping to read about a mom who had canceled a trip to Europe in order to take her son to the Ann Arbor Open.

A Grosse Pointe mother had persuaded her husband to buy controlling interest in an indoor tennis club, then moved in as manager to promote her daughter's career full time.

Nothing about Bo's mom yet.

A Franklin Village mother, whose husband was in cardiac care at Sinai, told a friend, "I've lived my whole life for this (Southeastern Michigan Junior Championship). My husband isn't conscious; there's nothing I can do for him. But I can be with my daughter and help her."

In the third column, mothers were sweating out their children's matches, nail-biting, chain-smoking. There it was ...

"Watching her son Bo in a match at Orchard Lake, Mickey Dawson claimed she wasn't the least bit nervous. Except there were 10 menthol cigarette butts at Mickey's feet by the end of the first set."

... Thrown in with the rest of the clutched-up tennis moms. She had told the relaxed young woman writer she wasn't nervous, not at all, and was sure she'd smoked no more than four or five cigarettes. The other butts could have been there before. If she had smoked ten--it was possible--it had nothing to do with Bo. Frank had been there too, growling, calling shots, officiating for the people in the stands.

There were quotes from moms agonizing: "Oh Kevin, oh Kevin, oh Kevin, please--that's it, baby. That's my baby."

Another one: "If only I had been there. Missy needed me and I let her down."

A mom complaining, her voice breaking: "They've got the seeding all backward. I can't believe it."

Rationalizing: "You start to figure if you combine your intelligence with your son's ability you can go all the way."

A minimizing mom said: "Not me, I have a husband I adore. I love to party, travel ..." Her husband: "Any time you ask her to do anything, she has to check her calendar to make sure Scott doesn't have a tournament."

"Bo's father, Frank Dawson, shaking his head, but with a merry grin on his handsome face:

"'If I told you what it cost a year, would you believe six, seven thousand?'"

". . . a merry grin on his handsome face." Frank loved to say "would you believe." He loved to talk about money, what things cost.

At five to nine, though, he didn't seem ready to talk about anything. Frank came into the kitchen wearing his yellow golf outfit and carrying an old pair of loafers, his eyes watery, glazed.

"You didn't call me."

"I didn't know you were playing."

"I never play on Sunday, uh?"

"I mean this early. You didn't say anything." "We've got a 9:30 starting time. Overhill and some guy that works for him."

"Who's Overhill? Aren't you gonna have coffee?"

"No, just some juice, tomato juice. You know him; we had them out last year. Larry Overhill, the big guy with the laugh. He's got a slice and about a thirty-five handicap."

"Why're you playing with him then?"

"You kidding? He's loan officer at Birmingham Federal. Listen, I was thinking--" He paused to drink down half the tomato juice. "Since I'm going to Freeport the end of the week--I told you that, didn't I?"

"I don't think so, you might have."

"We've got some investors, a group, coming all the way from Japan, if you can believe it. All the islands over there, they're looking in the Bahamas.

So--I thought why not fly down with Bo this evening, see your folks. They probably have some questions, how late he can stay out, all that."

"I've been on the phone with my mother practically every day this week," Mickey said.

"Also it'll give Bo and I a chance to talk," Frank said. "See if I can get a few things straightened out about his attitude."

Mickey watched him pour another ten-ounce glass of juice. Was he kidding or what? He looked terrible, as though he could use another five hours of sleep; but he kept busy, putting on his shoes now, trying to act as though he felt normal. In their fifteen years together, Frank had never admitted having a hangover.

"The flight's at 6:30," Mickey said.

"I know, I called and made a reservation." He glanced up at her. "Couple of days ago. I thought I told you."

He was rushing it at her. "Let me get it straight," Mickey said. "You'll drop Bo off, see my folks and what, hang around Lauderdale a few days before going to Freeport?"

"Either way. I can see your folks. Then, I can stop at the tennis camp on the way back, like Friday, and come home Saturday."

"So you'll be gone all week."

"Now you've got it," Frank said.

"Well, okay. Then I'll drive you to the airport?"

"No, I'll drive, leave the car there. It's a lot easier, in case I get in late." Frank finished his tomato juice, getting every drop. "I drive, Bo and I can talk in the car."

There were questions she wanted to ask; but he would tell her he didn't have time now; later. So she said, "Bo has a match at one, the Inter-club. Are you gonna watch it?"

"I'll see. It depends on what time I get finished. So--"

She raised her face for the kiss on the cheek and felt his hand slide down the tennis dress to pat her can.

"--I'm off."

"Your name's in the paper, Frank."

"Hey, really? The club championship?" Turning back to her, his eyes seemed almost bright.

"No, it's about kids playing tennis. Remember we talked to the girl, the reporter? At Orchard Lake."

"Oh." He picked up the paper, glanced at the page a moment and dropped it on the counter. "Good shot of Bo. What's it say, anything?"

"You can read it later."

"Yeah, save it. Well--I'm off." He always said, "I'm off."

Frank went out the door that led to the attached garage. The door closed behind him. Mickey waited. The door opened again and Frank was looking in at her, frowning, scowling.

"What in the hell you do to your car, for Christ sake?"