The Switch

Chapter 7

BO'S EXPLANATION FOR LOSING: "That kid, all he did, he kept standing back at the baseline. What was I supposed to do, keep lobbing with him? It'd be like a couple of girls playing."

Mickey's explanation of why Frank was still at the club, drinking at several tables pushed together on the screened porch: "He has customers. He can't just rush off and leave them."

Bo said, "Well, isn't dad going? I thought he was so anxious."

"He said he'd call and get you, both of you, on a later flight."

Bo said he didn't want to take a later flight, get there in the middle of the night. He didn't even want to go. Why did he have to?

She wanted to say, "To learn how to play tennis. To learn how to lose without making excuses." She didn't though.

Bo said the whole thing, the tennis camp, was dad's idea. If he thought it was such a red hot idea why didn't he go to the camp? God, he could use it. Bo said he'd like to meet the kid again when the kid learned some tennis and knew how to play instead of dinking around.

They got home from the club at 5:15. Frank drove in at a quarter of eight, mad.

"All I said was"--very patiently, standing at her dresser, holding onto the edge with her elbow as she watched Frank pack--"at a quarter to five I said--"

"You said in front of everybody you were leaving."

"All I said was, I'm taking Bo home. The flight's at 6:30, you haven't packed and it takes an hour to get to the airport."

"Forty minutes."

He was packing now, moving between his dresser and the Gucci-striped suitcase open on the bed. She watched him drop in at least a half dozen dress shirts.

"All I said was--" He mimicked her, overdoing it. "I have to get Bo home and fix his dinner and clean the house and make some cookies--"

"I didn't say anything like that."

"Your tone, it's the same thing," Frank said.

"Goody goody. Oh, isn't everything nice." He continued packing, laying resort clothes in the bag now, enough for at least two weeks.

Maybe she did use it a lot. All I said was-- Mickey could hear the words. And maybe it was self-serving, playing nice, a cover-up for what she felt. But what was wrong with keeping the peace? Why antagonize people? Except she did antagonize Frank, without trying too hard.

Okay, start over and get the tone right. She knew her thinking was fairly straight. It was just that she backed off whenever the chance came to express how she really felt, not wanting to offend. Or, wanting everybody to like her. But why couldn't she talk to her own husband?

Keep it harmless. "What time's the flight, eleven?"

"Eleven oh five."

"You sure you don't want me to drive you?"

He gave her a look: she was on dangerous ground again.

"That's right, you want to have a car out there," Mickey said. "And you'll be back ... Saturday?"

"I said Saturday or Sunday. But it might be next week, if I stop and see Bo on the way back. He's gonna be gone a month."

It was in her mind to say, Why? You hardly ever see him when you're home. But Frank would come lashing back, or make it sound as though she was nagging him. Something was strange. This morning he'd said he was coming home Saturday, be gone a week. (Usually on his business trips to the Bahamas he was gone three or four days, at the most.) Now he was talking about staying, either in Freeport or Fort Lauderdale, until the following week. She tried to picture him, briefly, entertaining a busy, scurrying group of Japanese investors ... then, standing in the sun, watching a bunch of kids at a tennis camp.

Mickey said, "I'd better call my mother, tell her you're coming in later."

"Why don't you do that?" Frank said, the edge still there ...

But gone without a trace only minutes later, mixing vodka and tonic at the kitchen counter, talking to Bo while Bo sat at the breakfast table with a bag of potato chips. "I'm sorry I didn't catch your match," the dad said. "That was a shame. I understand the guy wasn't too aggressive."

"Aggressive, he played like a girl." Bo had sympathy and was pouting. "All he wanted to do was lob."

Mickey listened.

"He didn't have any backhand. He'd push at the ball, you know, like he was playing Ping-Pong, hit it up in the air with a little spin on it."

And Bo would break his back trying to kill it. Mickey stacked the breakfast and supper dishes in the dishwasher but didn't turn it on yet.

"The ball comes down, God, it'd hang there. You got so much time, you know, you want to kill it. What was I supposed to do, keep hitting lobs?"

Justifying, making excuses. He didn't get that from his mother. But then she wasn't sure.

Bo said, "If I played the way he wanted we would've looked like a couple of girls."

"I know what you mean," the dad said. "That's why I don't play mixed doubles anymore. It isn't worth it."

God help me, Mickey thought. She could beat Frank in straight sets and he knew it. But she didn't say anything. After a moment she began to wonder. Maybe he didn't know it.

The telephone rang while they were still in the kitchen. Frank, with a fresh drink and a plate of cheese and crackers, was sitting at the table with Bo. Mickey stepped over to the wall phone to answer.

Marshall Taylor's voice said, "Hi. Is this the Coast Guard? I was wondering if the coast is clear?"

Mickey said, "What?" She took another moment and said, "Oh, he's right here."

She listened to Frank say, "No, partner, I told you this morning I'm gonna be away. You remember now? ... That's right. Yeah, Bo and I are leaving eleven oh five ... You bet, partner. Shake it easy."

Coming away from the phone Frank said, "I think Marsh's getting hardening of the arteries."

Leave by ten they'd have plenty of time to make the flight, Frank said. He preferred to race to the airport rather than wait around at the gate with the amateur travelers who checked in a half hour or more ahead of time.

When they had finally gone, Mickey sat down at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee and her grocery list note pad. She wrote at the top of the page:

EXCUSES --JUSTIFICATION

She was thinking of Bo. Maybe he did get it from her.

No. She didn't make excuses. At least not out loud. She kept them to herself. What she did, when Frank annoyed her she would make harmless-sounding remarks she knew would irritate him-- not often but often enough--then innocently cover up with, "All I said was--" She would jab lightly with the needle and then duck, instead of getting mad and letting him know how she felt.

Now then--In a stab at self-analysis she wrote:

Why don't you ever speak up to Frank when he (she almost wrote "pisses you off") does something you don't like?

She began listing the reasons, adding her reactions to the reasons, her excuses, as she went along.

Because you shouldn't get mad. (Says the goody-goody)

If you raise your voice, Frank raises his louder. (An assumption, you've never raised yours)

Frank won't listen to you anyway. You're only his wife.

(Poor me. Meant to be funny (?)

Frank isn't aware enough to know there's a problem, a personality conflict.

(How could he if you keep it a secret?)

The final reason drew no reaction. There was no excuse for the excuse and it remained simply:

No guts.

Marshall called back at 11:30, the house quiet, Mickey upstairs getting ready for bed. He said, "Now is the coast clear?" The jerk.

She tried to sound a little annoyed. Don't call again, please. She had no intention of having lunch with him and that was that. Then said, "Let's not do anything dumb, okay?" Including herself in the game so he wouldn't be blamed entirely. Why couldn't she simply tell him to bag his ass?

"We'll talk about it. I mean we'll talk about us tomorrow," Marshall said. "I'll pick you up about one o'clock."

"I won't be here." Desperate. "I have to take my car in tomorrow."

"What's wrong with your car?" "Oh--somebody ran into it."

"Let Frank take care of it," Marshall said. "Listen, the only time I can make it is around one. I'll call you first, give you the exact time. See, then I'll pull up in back, you run out and jump in. Right? Right. I'll see you." He hung up.

She wondered what it would be like if she did fool around a little, had an affair. Go to bed with someone else. If somehow it was all right.

Out of all the men at the club, which one would she pick?

Mickey thought about it, putting on her long pajama top, getting into bed, and reached a conclusion before turning out the light.

None of them.

At 3:30 the phone rang again. Mickey groped for it in the dark.

Her mother said, "Mickey?" making sure. Well, Bo arrived safely but hungry. She had given him a piece of homemade lemon pie and a glass of milk and finally marched him off to bed in the guest room that would be Bo's room for the next month, with his own bathroom, his towels and washcloth laid out ... and on and on and on, so Mickey was to relax and not worry about a thing. Mickey said that's fine, Mom. She said, "Are dad and Frank still up?" Her mother said, Frank? They wanted him to come home with them and offered to drive him back, but Frank said it was too much trouble. He was on the 7 o'clock shuttle to Freeport and insisted on staying at the airport. Said we'd just get home and have to come back. After a moment, Mickey said, "Well, you know Frank--" Her mother said, Do I. Frank and your father, those two would be up all night talking business. She said well, that's all she had to report. Mickey could sleep in peace now.

Mickey said, "Thanks, mom, g'night." And lay awake for at least an hour.