The Switch

Chapter 6

LOUIS HAD BEEN HERE ABOUT THIRTEEN YEARS AGO, right after he got out of the Navy and was going to Wayne and the guy in his Introduction to Psychology class asked him if he ever played golf. He'd forgotten the guy's name--a first name that was like a last name, Stewart--that was it.

The place looked different now. The fairways on the right, driving in the winding road through the trees, that was the same; but he didn't remember all the tennis courts on the other side--about eight or ten of them, over there behind a wall of bright green windscreens. There seemed to be a lot of people over there. They heard a quick cheer and some clapping, not very loud.

Louis remembered he had shot about 120 and lost 13 of Stewart's golf balls, some he couldn't even find on the fairway. Stewart never invited him back. The prick. No, Stewart was all right. He wondered if he'd recognize Stewart if he saw him.

The clubhouse looked different too. Louis remembered a big white frame colonial looking building. He didn't remember the pillars by the entrance or the ivy growing all over the sides. Ordell made a circle around the entrance, past the young guys who parked cars--the young guys giving the van a look--and drove into the parking area along the side of the clubhouse away from the tennis courts. They could hear kids yelling, sounding as though they were playing in a swimming pool. Louis didn't remember a pool.

"How do you know?" Louis said.

"It was in the paper," Ordell said.

"I didn't see anything about it." Louis held up the women's section.

"Saturday paper. Tell about the different tournaments and the kid's name was in it." Ordell crept the van, looking for a parking place. "Everybody out at the club," he said. "Nice sunny day." He came to a stop at the end of the aisle, giving up. Louis looked at him.

"You can't park here."

"Go ahead. I'll wait for you."

They looked out past a chain-link fence at sailboats on the lake. There was the sound of an outboard, off somewhere. A Cadillac crept up behind them, then swung over to the next aisle.

Louis said, "You don't want to walk around over there, huh. People think you're the shoeshine boy come out for some air."

"I don't need to go," Ordell said, "I've seen her."

"Yeah," Louis said. "Let me borrow your sunglasses." He got out and walked through the lot and past the clubhouse toward the tennis courts.

The big fifteen-year-old kid had won the first set 7-5 and was on top of Bo Dawson 4-1 in the second, standing back and returning everything Bo hit at him, making Bo play the big kid's slow, steady game. Bo would run out of patience and jump on a shot to put it away and that's why he was losing.

That's what the people in the stands said who were watching the match in their tennis and golf outfits. They said somebody should talk to Bo, slow him down before he blew the match. Bo wasn't playing his usual game; he was off stride. Someone said Mickey was probably dying. Looks would pass between the people in the stands, eyes raised, a slow head-shake. Comments were made quietly because Bo's mother was sitting on the bottom row of the stands that were built along one side of the court. On the other side, beyond a second court, another crowd watched from a line of umbrella tables.

Someone said Bo wasn't stroking; he was too anxious and his timing was off.

Louis wanted to say the kid was concentrating on his acting instead of the match, going through a lot of tragic motions. He'd blow a shot and then strike a dramatic pose: look up at the sun--Why me, Lord?--or closely study the strings of his racket. A couple of times, when people were moving in and out of the stands, Bo looked over and glared and waited until the people were seated.

Something he learned watching TV, Louis thought. Louis couldn't understand why tennis spectators were so polite. Why there had to be silence during a match. He'd think of a major league ballplayer in a tough situation: a batter with a three-two count waiting for the ball to come in at him ninety-five-miles-an-hour, and the fans screaming and banging seats. Louis wondered if he'd have to sit here the rest of the match. He didn't see how he'd get down without disturbing people.

He had a pretty good view of Mrs. Dawson, on an angle looking down, and could see her face when she turned to look at the right-hand court. When her son was over there she faced that way most of the time. She looked even younger than in the picture, not more than in her late twenties; but she had to be older to have a son Bo's age. She didn't look like a girl who got knocked up in second-year high and had to get married. She looked like a girl, a woman, who had money. What was it about a woman like that? Her hair maybe. It wasn't overdone in some bullshit hairdo like you saw on waitresses. Or the way she sat. She seemed at ease; though Louis could tell she was strung-out inside, nibbling there on her lower lip and smoking one cigarette after another.

Bo blew another one, an easy putaway. He tried to kill it. The ball cracked hard against the tape along the top edge of the net and dropped back into Bo's court. People in the stands said, "Awwww," and made sympathetic sounds as Bo let his racket fall and stood looking at the net with his hands on his hips.

Right, Louis thought, blame the fucking net. He noticed Bo's mother wasn't watching the act; she was lighting another cigarette. People were saying it was a tough break and, awwww, that was too bad, wasn't it? Louis liked the tall kid on the other side. The kid looked awkward, but he stood very calmly watching Bo. The kid was cool; he was content to let Bo beat himself.

Match point: Bo slammed one that sailed over the tall kid's head. The tall kid approached the net with a big grin, wiping his hand on his shirt, getting ready to offer it. Bo turned around and threw his racket at the fence. He stood with his hands on his hips for awhile, people moving around now, crossing the court. Louis watched him. Finally Bo walked up to the net and gave the tall kid a brief handshake, not giving it much or saying anything. Bo's mother reached him as he was walking away, toward the umbrella tables, and put her hand on his shoulder and said something, no doubt sympathizing.

Why did everybody sympathize with him? Louis wondered. Why didn't somebody kick his ass?

Louis stood up in the stands, looking around. He noticed Bo's tennis racket still lying a few feet from the windscreen-covered fence, where it had bounced off. People walked past the racket going over to the umbrella tables and the other courts beyond, but nobody seemed to notice the racket lying there. Two couples walked out on the court, one of the men opening a can of balls. Louis stepped down the boards of the stands, walked over to the fence and picked up the racket. It was a Wilson Jack Kramer. He had picked up a Wilson at Palmer Park--it must have been twenty years ago--tried playing tennis, found out it was about a hundred times harder than it looked, and sold the racket to a kid for five bucks. This one was probably a much better racket. The strings were so tight he couldn't move them at all.

He'd say to Ordell, "Tennis anyone?" No, he wouldn't, he'd think of something else or let Ordell say something first. But Ordell would know he had a line ready and wouldn't ask him where he got it. So he'd throw the racket in the van and not say anything. The racket would stay there, in back by the rear speakers and the ice chest, on the red carpeting. Neither of them would say anything about it, though one or the other would pick it up from time to time and fool with it. See how long they could go, neither of them mentioning it. He liked to do things like that with Ordell.

Right now he'd like to find a men's room. He should've gone at Richard's house. Jesus, Richard was a spooky guy. Or wait till they went someplace to eat. Grass always made him hungry, the same as when he drank beer he was taking a leak every fifteen minutes after about the fourth one. He'd tell Ordell he had to go bad and Ordell would say, "What's the matter, you nervous?"

That's why Louis went into the clubhouse--to find a men's room--in the main entrance past the big colonial pillars. The time before, thirteen years ago, they had gone in a door that led directly to the men's locker room.

He hadn't been in the lobby before. He wondered if he'd see Stewart or recognize him if he did. There was a wide carpeted hallway. He saw people eating in a dining room with the sun on the window. He could hear voices, people laughing. People passed him in the hallway. He felt them looking at him and at the tennis racket, knowing he wasn't a member. All right, he was a guest. And the tennis racket was like any other Wilson Jack Kramer. He looked fine. No flashy print or colors, but the cap and sunglasses, nice light-blue sportshirt and tan flares were all right. He had almost put on jeans this morning at Ordell's apartment, but didn't because it was Sunday.

That was strange. Something left over. What was the difference, Sunday or any other day? Like Sunday was still the day of rest: get dressed and go to mass, have the big pork roast dinner at noon. That was a long time ago. Louis found a men's room in the hallway. He came out, recrossed the lobby to the main entrance, opened the door and stepped back as Mrs. Dawson was right in front of him, saying, "Oh, I'm sorry," hesitating. Louis moved aside, holding the door open with the tennis racket hand. She was really nice looking, right there close, moving past him.

Louis said, "Mrs. Dawson?" And watched her expression as she turned to look at him, expectant, a little surprised. Dark brown eyes.

"I think this is your son's racket. I found it out there, I was gonna hand it in at the desk."

It seemed to make sense, but he wasn't sure. She didn't question him. She took the racket, looking at it, and said, "Yes, it is. Thank you very much," still a little surprised. Her eyes raised with a very calm, pleasant look.

Louis wanted to say something else, hear her voice again, but he couldn't think of anything. He said, "That's okay," pushed through the door and got out of there.

In the van, sitting in his captain's chair, Ordell was sipping a can of beer, looking out at the sailboats. He swiveled around as Louis climbed in.

"You see her?"

"We had a nice chat," Louis said. "She said yeah, she'd love to spend some time with us."