Good sportsmanship. In some, it's as hard to win gracefully as it is to lose.
But as game followed game the balance of authority gradually shifted, Lucius with his bizarre first serves and Stacey's lover with his dogged rushes to the net and unpredictable backhand wore The Senator and Ray Annick down, the sun too and the gusty wind and the St. Johns' court that needed repair, Kelly slipped tactfully away before the final set ended not wanting The Senator to see her observing, as, smiling in defeat, making a joke of it, he shook his young opponents' hands, not wanting to hear what the men said to one another, at such times, as a way of not saying other things.
No: she was walking along the beach her hair whipping in the wind, the yellow mesh tunic loose over the white swimsuit and her long legs smooth, strong, pinkened by the sun. She was walking along the beach and beside her was the tall broad-shouldered handsome man, big bearlike man, gray-grizzled curly hair, a famous face yet a comfortable face, a sunflower face, a kindly face, an uncle's face—the blue eyes so blue so keenly so intensely blue a blue like washed glass.
How keen, how intense his interest in Kelly Kelleher. How flattering.
Asking her about her work with Carl Spader, her background, her life; nodding emphatically saying yes he'd read her article on capital punishment in Citizens' Inquiry—he was certain he'd read it.
Curious too, though he kept his tone casual, with a crinkled avuncular smile, if she had a boyfriend at the present time?
And if she'd ever been attracted to working in Washington?
And if she might consider joining his staff— sometime?
Murmured Kelly Kelleher, flushed with pleasure, yet level-headed too like any lawyer's daughter, "That depends, Senator."
Of course.
How canny The Senator had been at the 1988 Democratic convention, declining Michael Dukakis's offer of the vice-presidential candidacy. Let Bentsen have the second-best position, paired with the absurd Quayle, he would have the presidential nomination, or nothing. Yet more canny, not at that time to have very actively pursued the nomination himself since he'd understood, as Dukakis had not, that the Democrats' best efforts in that election year were doomed.
As Kelly Kelleher had not understood. Those Reagan years, the dismal spiritual debasement, the hypocrisy, cruelty, lies uttered with a cosmetic smile... surely, the American people would see.
Yet it had been Kelly who'd been blind, and what a fool. Laughing about it now on this Fourth of July years later strolling with a United States senator passing miniature American flags set in the sand by the children of Buffy's neighbors, making of her exhaustion and heartbreak an amusing anecdote to tell against herself.
But The Senator did not laugh. He said, vehemently, "Oh Christ. I know. I wanted to die, nearly, when Stevenson lost to Eisenhower—I loved that man."
Kelly Kelleher was startled to hear such an admission. A man loving another man?
Even in political terms?
The Senator spoke of Adlai Stevenson and Kelly listened attentively. She had an imprecise, however respectful, knowledge of Stevenson, for of course she had studied that era in American history, the Eisenhower years, the Eisenhower phenomenon her professor had called it, but she did not want to be tested. She did not want to allude to her father's contempt for the man and she could not even recall whether there had been a single campaign, or two. In the early 1950s?
Cautiously she inquired, "Did you work for him, Senator?"
"The second time, yes. In nineteen fifty-six. I was a sophomore at Harvard. The first time— when he might actually have won—I was just a kid."
"And were you always—political?"
He bared his big teeth in a happy smile, for clearly this was his question.
"'The state is a creation of nature, and man is a political animal'—by nature."
He was quoting—was it Aristotle?
Kelly Kelleher who had been drinking an unaccustomed amount of beer much of the afternoon laughed happily too. As if this were a fact to be celebrated. It was the wind whipping her hair, it was the beauty of the island. Grayling Island. Maine. The pounding surf like a narcotic, the high-banked beach, pebbly sand stretching for miles festooned with wild rose and the enormous wind-sculpted dunes, those curious creases or ripples in them as if a giant rake had been combed through them with infinite care. How blessed was Kelly Kelleher's life, to have brought her here]
It was unlike her to be so bold, so flirtatious. Asking The Senator archly, "'Man'—and not woman? Isn't 'woman' a political animal too?"
"Some women.Sometimes. We know that. But, most of the time, women find politics boring. The power-play of male egos. Like war. Eh? Boring in its monotony, beneath all the turmoil?"
But Kelly was not to be led. As if this were a seminar, and Kelly Kelleher one of the stars, she said, frowning, "Women can't afford to think of politics as 'boring'! Not at this point in history. The Supreme Court, abortion—"
They were walking much slower now. They were breathless, excited.
The tender soles of Kelly's feet stung from the heat of the white-glaring sand. Yet the wind was raising tiny goose bumps on her arms: it must have been twenty-five degrees cooler here than back in Boston.
The Senator, noticing the goose bumps, drew a forefinger gently along her arm. Kelly shivered the more at his touch.
"Are you cold, dear?—that thing you're wearing is so flimsy."
"No. No, I'm fine."
"Would you like to turn back?"
"Of course not."
Touching her arm.That sudden intimacy. Standing so close, staring down at her.
Deliberately, slowly as if with exaggerated courtesy The Senator gripped Kelly Kelleher's shoulders, stooped to kiss her, and her eyelids fluttered, she was genuinely startled, surprised, yes and excited too, for how swiftly this was happening, how swiftly after all, yet as he kissed her after the first moment she stood her ground firmly, heels dug into the crusty sand, she leaned to the man taking the kiss as if it were her due, a natural and inevitable and desired development of their conversation. And bold too, giddy too, parrying his tongue with her teeth.
How nice. How nice, really. You can't deny—how nice.
As the black water filled her lungs, and she died.
EXCEPT: AMID BLINDING LIGHTS SUDDENLY SHE WAS being wheeled on a gurney flat on her back strapped in place amid lights and strangers' eyes and that harsh hospital smell they were pumping the black water out of her lungs, the poisonous muck out of her stomach, her very veins, in a matter of minutes! seconds! the team of them, an emergency room crew, strangers to the dying girl yet she was of such enormous concern to them you would have thought it was one of their own being resuscitated, and how swiftly! how without hesitation! she was trying to explain to them that she was awake, she was conscious, please don't hurt me, how terrifying the clamps that held her fast on the table and her head gripped firmly by the gloved hands of someone who stood behind her and the hose forced down her throat, the thick fat hideous hose that was so long, so long, you would not believe how long and how much pain scraping the back of her mouth, her throat, choking her so she wanted to vomit but could not vomit, she wanted to scream but could not scream and in the midst of a convulsion her heart lurched and stopped and she died, she was dying but they were ready, of course they were ready, elated by this challenge they were ready scarcely missing a beat of her faltering heart they stimulated it with powerful electric jolts. Ah! yes! good! again! like that! again! yes! and the dying girl was revived, the young female corpse was revived, the heart's pumping restored within five seconds and oxygen restored to the brain, and by degrees the marmoreal skin took on the flush of color, of life: the eyes leaked tears: and out of Death there came this life: hers.
Don't let Lisa die, dear God don't let her die, don't don't she was waiting in the outer room, she and several others, Oh God please in that calm of mutual hysteria three or four of them, girls from the residence hall, and the dorm resident who was only a few year
s older, Kelly Kelleher was the one who'd seen Lisa Gardiner collapse in the bathroom, Kelly Kelleher was the one who'd run screaming to the resident's suite, now keeping vigil in the waiting room beyond the emergency room of Bronxville General and the shock of it, the trauma of it, seeing one of their own carried out on a stretcher unconscious and open-eyed open-mouthed her tongue convulsing drooling as in an epileptic fit and Kelly Kelleher staring, knuckles pressed to her mouth, had thought, Why it isn't Lisa's life it's simply—life seeing how it was draining away in her like water down a sink and perhaps she was already dead and could they restore that life to her?
Could, and did.
Later, they'd learned, and some of them resented it, that Lisa Gardiner and her twin sister Laura (whom they had never met—Laura went to school at the Concord Academy in Massachusetts) had tried to kill themselves by taking sleeping pills in a suicide pact, three years before when they were living at home, and in eighth grade in a public junior high school in Snyder, New York.
Why did some of the girls resent this fact?—because the near-death of Lisa had disturbed them so, churned them up so, there was no subject except Lisa and the emergency team rushing up the stairs and into the bathroom and carrying Lisa away and the fact that strictly speaking Lisa had died, her heart had stopped, and how weird! how terrible! how amazing! and you grew simply to resent it, all that fuss over Lisa Gardiner who always had to be the center of attention, and all that fuss over death, and dying, how exhausting by the end of the term!
When Lisa returned for a visit, Kelly Kelleher was the one who made a point to be friendly with her, yes and to talk earnestly with her, the two girls who had not been particularly close or confiding previously now observed in an intense conversation in the lounge and what was Lisa Gardiner saying, why was Kelly Kelleher so fascinated, Lisa with her rather low forehead, her nose too wide at its tip as if she were continually sniffing in finicky disdain, Kelly with her peaked, pretty face, her somber mouth—"There isn't that much difference between people, and there isn't that much purpose to people," Lisa was saying in a flat, nasal, bemused, bullying voice, "—if you're one-half of a twin set you know."
No I don't, no I reject that I reject you, I am not your sister, I am not your twin, I am not you.
SHE COULD HEAR THE SIREN, SHE COULD SEE THE AMbulance speeding along the sandy rutted nameless road, the red light on its roof spinning like a top.
She was gagging, the hose already in her mouth. A snaky black hose so thick! so long! you wouldn't believe how long! Lisa had giggled.
Stretching her arms, out, out... That look of radiant madness in her eyes and she was licking her lips.
Wild! Buffy St. John had said, years later. That's really sick.
Buffy had pinched her, Buffy's teasing-pinch that, damn it, hurt. Saying, pouting, as Kelly Kelleher was hastily stuffing her things into her suitcase, Yes but why leave now, can't you leave a little later?—and Kelly Kelleher murmured, Oh Buffy—I'm sorry, that sunburnt flush on her throat, face, knowing how Buffy would speak of her afterward, not of The Senator but of her, Kelly Kelleher I thought was my friend, for Christ's sake—! But Kelly was too embarrassed to say what both she and Buffy knew.
If I don't do as he asks there won't be any later.
As he kissed her those several times, kissing, sucking, groping as if, though they were standing fully clothed on a beach that, though not very populated, was nonetheless not deserted, he was in an agony to find a way into her, she felt the jolt of desire: not her desire, but the man's. As, since girlhood, kissing and being kissed, Kelly Kelleher had always felt, not her own, but the other's, the male's, desire. Quick and galvanizing as an electric shock.
Feeling too, once she caught her breath, that familiar wave of anxiety, guilt—I've made you want me, now I can't refuse you.
Close up, Kelly saw that The Senator was not a handsome nor even perhaps a healthy man exactly: his skin was very flushed, unevenly mottied, tiny broken capillaries in the nose and cheeks, and his eyes, that distinctive blue but the lids were somewhat puffy, the large staring eyeballs threaded with blood. He was sweating, almost panting as if he'd been running and was out of condition.
"Kelly. Beautiful Kelly."
And when Kelly could think of no reply, adding: "What am I going to do with you, Kelly?—so early in the day, am I going to lose you?"
One of his aides had gotten him a room in a motel in Boothbay Harbor, not an easy accomplishment on the Fourth of July, but he had the room, he'd checked in, it was waiting for him and where was Kelly Kelleher staying the night?
At Buffy's of course. Kelly was a house guest of Buffy's planning to stay the full weekend: until Sunday.
The Senator's manner was bemused, not at all coercive. Just bemused. Asking her another time, as if he'd forgotten he had already asked, if she had a boyfriend? a fiance? one of the men at the party? that interesting young black from M.I.T. perhaps?
The Senator's navy blue knit sports shirt fitted his upper arms tightly and was damp with perspiration. His seersucker trousers were rumpled at the rear.
An odor about him of beer, after shave cologne, frank male sweat. Kelly's nostrils pinched half-pleasurably. She smiled.
Explaining now sobbing and angry to both her parents that she was not a bad girl, truly she was not. The man was married but not living with his wife and it was the wife who wanted the separation, the wife who had asked me to leave, kicked me out, fortunately both their children were adults now and capable of assessing the situation for themselves, a man like The Senator with a love of life a love of people both men and women a zest for meeting new people for exchanging views an appetite for... perhaps it was appetite itself.
Biting, sucking the very marrow. Thrusting yourself into it to the hilt. Christ how otherwise do you know you're alive?
Mr. Kelleher understood, it seemed. Yes Daddy you'd be a goddamned hypocrite not to.
Mrs. Kelleher was upset, distraught. Kelly squirmed with guilt seeing that look in her mother's face but it made her fucking angry too. Mommy just stop thinking about me, that way I mean. My girlfriends' mothers—they handle it perfectly well.
The difference is, Kelly, I love you.
Oh hell. Give me a break.
I love you, I don't want you ever ever to be hurt Kelly that's the one thing I want to shield you from, that was my thought... you might not believe this but that was my actual thought... when they gave me to you, in the hospital when you were born, and I knew you were a girl and I was never so happy in all my life before or since, I vowed I would never let my daughter be hurt as I have been hurt I will give my life for her I swear to You God.
Mommy was crying, and Kelly was crying, turning her head from side to side spitting and gagging, tasting the oil, the gasoline, the sewage, not entirely certain any longer where she was, why her spine so twisted, both her legs twisted, she was upside down was she?—in the dark not knowing where is up, the pressure of the black water on all sides now, churning, rising, eager to fill her mouth, and her lungs.
Saying, relenting, All right Mommy I guess so. Yes.
Take me home from here Mommy. I'm here.
It was not clear whether Mr. and Mrs. Kelleher had been summoned to the scene of the accident and were standing now on the embankment as the car was being lifted out of the creek; or whether they were already at the hospital, waiting outside the emergency room. Kelly was puzzled too seeing their faces not as she remembered them, but so young—so attractive. Her own age?
Mommy such a beauty, her face unlined, her eyes so clear—and that stiff-glazed bouffant hair, so silly so regal!
Daddy so handsome, and so lanky!—and his hair, my God his hair, thick and curly and coppery-brown like Kelly's own, as she had not seen it in years.
Yes she'd loved them all her life even more now in her own precarious adulthood than previously but how do you say such a fact?—how choose the words?—and when of all occasions should they be uttered?
Mommy, Daddy hey I l
ove you, you know that I hope, please don't let me die I love you, okay?
She was running in her little white anklet socks on Grandma's prickly carpet having kicked off her shiny new patent-leather shoes, squealing giggling as the quick hard hands swooped from behind to lift her, it's always a surprise how hard, how strong another's hands are, a man's hands, and he cried Who's this! who's this! mmmm who's this little angel-bee who's this! lifting the kicking squealing child high above his head so his arms trembled and afterward she overheard Mommy and Grandma scolding him about his blood pressure, what on earth are you doing you might have dropped her.
He'd winked at her. Grandpa loved her so.
And now she tasted cold, and the unspeakable horror of her situation washed over her: if the black water filled her lungs, and she died, and the news came to her parents and grandparents, they would die, too.
Oh God no, oh no. That can't be.
They loved Kelly so, they would die, too.
Except realizing then suddenly, a bit of relief: Grandpa Ross was dead, himself—so he'd be spared, knowing.
And maybe they would not need to tell Grandma?—Kelly saw no need, frankly she saw no need.