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.'
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
