the goddamn nose, again and again and again; pounding, booming shots that never came back. The sound of the ball off her racquet was frightening. They lost 4–6, 4–6.
The umpire handed out trophies, big ones for the winners, little ones for Francie and Anne. The winners stayed on the court to have their pictures taken. Anne, her face now draining of blood and as blank as a shell- shocked soldier’s, went into the locker room, Francie behind her.
A fancy locker room, with whirlpool, sauna, steam, all deserted on a Saturday night. Francie started to lay her hand on Anne’s shoulder, held back. What to say? All she could think of was “Jacuzzi?”
“In a minute,” said Anne, not looking back at her. Anne turned down the row that led to her locker; Francie moved on to hers.
She sat on a stool without stirring for a minute or two, the muscles in her legs tingling, a human version of the hum of idling machines. She felt great. What other potentials were locked up in her? The potential for love had already been freed by Ned, and others still inside probably had to do with the children she’d never had and never would. She felt less great.
Francie stripped off her clothes, opened her locker, put on the faded maillot hanging inside. The whirlpool was at the back of the locker room, near the showers. She switched on the timer, got in, closed her eyes, and had a crazy idea almost at once: Why not just take off for somewhere far away, by herself? The Atlas Mountains, Prague, Mombasa. She’d driven through the Atlas Mountains years ago with Brenda, stoned on kif-that many years ago- remembered robed Berber children holding up chunks of amethyst by the roadside, stunted magicians performing their purple tricks. Why couldn’t Francie opened her eyes. Had she heard something over the sound of the bubbles? She twisted the timer down to zero, listened, heard it again, then got out of the whirlpool and followed the sounds to Anne’s locker.
Anne was sitting on a stool, her back to Francie. She was wrapped in a towel, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
“Anne?”
No reply, just her sobbing, full-throated and ragged. Francie moved around in front of her. “Anne. Please. It’s only tennis.”
Anne looked up, tears streaming down her splotchy face, snot, too: misery undisguised. “It’s not the tennis, Francie. I-” The sobbing took over. Her towel slipped, exposing her breasts, but she didn’t notice. Francie couldn’t help noticing, even at that moment couldn’t help comparing them to her own: the two pairs of breasts in Ned’s life.
“Please, Anne.” Francie touched her shoulder. “Everything’s all right.”
At her touch, Anne fell forward, grabbed Francie around the waist, clung to her, her wet face against Francie’s wet bathing suit. “Help me, Francie.”
“With what? What’s wrong?”
And then Anne’s face was tilted up at her, imploring, and Anne, fighting the sobbing demon inside her for control of her own voice, got the words out. “It’s N-it’s Ned. I… I think he’s having an a-a-affair.”
Francie, stroking the back of Anne’s head, went still. The towel had fallen to the floor, and Anne, naked, was holding on to Francie harder than ever, her crying eyes locked on Francie’s, desperate, pleading. “Oh, God,” Francie said, doing all she could not to cry herself. “I’m so sorry.”
At that moment, with them in each other’s arms, Francie saw Nora standing wide-eyed at the end of the row of lockers. Francie shifted her own eyes once in the direction she wanted Nora to go. Nora went.
Anne made a sound, partly smothered by Francie’s breast, somewhere between laughing and crying. “Don’t you be upset, Francie. It’s not your fault. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. She’s”-the laughing component vanished-“she’s just so much prettier than me, and so much smarter. I guess he couldn’t resist.”
Francie stepped back, freeing herself from Anne’s grasp. “Who are you talking about?”
Something-the new distance between them, the change in Francie’s tone-made Anne grow aware of her nakedness. She reached for the towel, rewrapped herself, rose unsteadily to her feet. “No one you know, Francie. It’s terrible of me to inflict this on you, especially after that exhibition out there.”
“Fuck that,” Francie said. “Who?”
“Her name’s Kira Chang. She’s high up in some big media outfit in L.A. She even had dinner in my house. Can you believe it?”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure?”
“That it’s happening. That he’s… doing this.”
“I haven’t walked in on them or anything, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I just do.” She shivered like a baby after a long cry.
“But based on what?”
“Little things, but a wife always knows deep down, doesn’t she?”
“What little things?”
“Like the other night, the night he drove you back here. He didn’t come home for hours and he had some feeble story about a flat tire. I know he was with her.”
“How?”
“She called him. It must have been about the arrangements. She’s that brazen.”
Brazen. Francie flinched at the word; did Anne not see? “But how can you be sure?” Francie said. “What’s your evidence?”
Anne stopped mopping her face with a corner of the towel, stared at Francie. “You think I’m stupid.”
“You know better. Why do you even say things like that?”
“It’s your tone. I haven’t heard you like this before, so impatient.”
Francie took a deep breath. Anne had the right story but the wrong name; that meant she really knew nothing, not with certainty, and it had to stay that way. What Francie was seeing now wouldn’t compare with what would happen to Anne if she ever learned the truth. “I just don’t want you jumping to any false conclusions,” Francie said. “How do you know he didn’t have a flat tire, for example?”
“I checked the spare. He said he hadn’t been able to use it because it was flat, too, but in fact he hadn’t even unbolted it to look.”
“Does he have a pressure gauge?”
“Pressure gauge?”
“One of those little sticks to put on the valve. That’s all you need to check pressure-the tire can stay where it is.”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s what I mean about jumping to conclusions.”
“Do you think I should ask him?”
“Why not?”
“I’m not good at that kind of thing.”
“Then-then just look in his car.”
“That’s a good idea. You’re so smart, Francie.” She stared at her feet. “God-what I’ve put you through tonight.”
“It’s still early.”
Anne looked up, started laughing, laughter that threatened several times to turn to tears, but did not. “You’re the best, Francie,” she said, and embraced her again, kissing her on the cheek. “Don’t be mad at me.”
“Let’s just hope he has that pressure gauge,” Francie said, hating herself for it, but it was just the kind of pragmatic remark she would have made if Kira Chang really were a suspect, and she had to stay in character, Anne’s tennis partner and newfound friend.
“Oh, Francie. Do you think he does? I love him so much.” Her eyes filled with tears, but not tears of misery this time; she had hope, was starting to believe in her marriage again. “I even have these fantasies of us getting old together, going for long walks in the woods, that kind of thing. Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Have fantasies like that.”
