“Is he here today?”
“I really couldn’t say. He stops by maybe once or twice a week to see how we’re doing. Very nice man, very friendly and interested.”
“Yes, he’s an old friend of mine. I thought I might say hello.”
“No telling where to find him. He’s got other shopping centers and an office in New York.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Enjoy the book.”
“Yes, I’m sure I will.”
Sandy stopped for lunch at one of the two restaurants within Ye Olde New England Village. The waitresses wore long cotton skirts. “Ready to order?”
“Yes,” Sandy said. “I’ll have half a brain with cottage cheese on the side.”
“I’m sorry, did you say . . .”
Sandy looked up and slowly repeated her order. “Half a cantaloupe, cottage cheese on the side.”
The waitress laughed. “For a minute I thought you said half a brain. Boy, my ears must really be clogged.” She tapped the side of her head with one hand.
HAD SHE REALLY said half a brain, she wondered, on the drive home? Was her subconscious beginning to take over? Could that happen? No, of course not. She had complete control. She knew exactly what she was doing and saying. Didn’t she?
She wasn’t home five minutes when the phone rang.
“Mrs. Pressman?”
“Yes.”
“This is the plumber over at the new house.”
“Yes?”
“We’ve got a little problem here.”
“What is it?”
“You ordered American Standard fixtures in Desert Sand.”
“That’s right.”
“And we just got word from the company that Desert Sand has been discontinued. They’re putting out two new colors though, one’s called Beechnut and the other’s Suntan. I’ve got the samples here. If you’d come up we could put the order in right away.”
“It’s almost four.”
“I can wait.”
“Well, it’ll take me half an hour . . . I might run into traffic.”
“The sooner the better but like I said, I’ll wait.”
“Okay.”
Sandy went outside, got into the car, and drove toward the new house. . . .
HE WAS WAITING for her, as promised, standing next to his truck, guzzling Budweiser from the can. Hello, Mrs. Pressman. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. I’m Frank Monzellini, the plumbing contractor.
Frank Monzellini?
That’s right. I work with Joe Fiori, the general contractor. I’ve met your husband but I don’t think I’ve met you.
Are you the Frank Monzellini who used to live in Tudor Village Apartments?
Yeah, how’d you know that?
This is so funny, Sandy said. You used to live next door to my sister, Myra Lefferts. Of course, it was a long time ago. The twins are going on fifteen.
Sure, I remember now. Myra Lefferts, how about that?
Frank was about forty-five, graying, with a beer belly, but still attractive, although the undershirt had been replaced by a blue work shirt.
So you were Myra’s little sister . . .
Yes I’m Sandy.
All grown up now, huh?
She smiled and fiddled with the belt on her skirt.
Small world, isn’t it?
Yes, Sandy said, and about those samples . . .
Oh, sure, right here, in my truck. He reached in, took out the samples, and handed them to Sandy. We were pretty good friends, me and Myra.
She mentioned that just the other day.
She did?
Yes. Do you think I could look at these tiles in the bathroom, the light might be different.
Yeah, sure. He followed her inside and up the stairs. They went to the master bath first. Now, this here’s the Beechnut and this here’s the Suntan, he told her, spreading them out on the floor, his thigh brushing against hers.
I always liked the hair under your arms and all over your chest, Sandy said.
Well, I still got it. He took off his shirt. You see.
Very nice, Sandy said, running her hands across his chest. Here, let me do that, she told him, unbuckling his belt. She unzipped his work pants, reached inside, and pulled out his cock. It was soft, but as she held it, it grew hard. Oh, you’re big!
Yeah, ten inches, stiff.
I guess I knew you would be. Myra said you were sexy although I’ve read that size doesn’t mean a thing. It’s what you do with it that counts.
Yeah, well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with it, he said. I’m going to bury it in you. I’m going to move it in and out real slow until you scream.
My mother had a friend who liked his women to scream.
Never mind your mother.
Don’t hurt me, Frank. Please. You’re so big I’m afraid.
Don’t be scared. I never hurt a woman.
Is this how you did it to Myra? Sandy asked, her legs around his back, in a semi-sitting position, the unfinished floor rough and uncomfortable beneath her.
Yeah . . . yeah . . .
Does it feel better with me?
Yeah . . . yeah . . . real good . . .
Fuck me, Frank . . . harder . . .
Yeah . . . yeah . . . scream now . . . scream . . .
HE WAS WAITING for her on the front steps. “Mrs. Pressman?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Carl Halloran, the plumber.”
“Thank you for waiting.”
“I have the samples upstairs, in the bathroom. I figured you’d want to see them up there, the light might be different.”
“Yes, of course.”
He followed her up the stairs, down the hall, and to the master bath. Sandy looked at the samples, thought for a minute, and said, “I think the Suntan is more what I had in mind.”
“I figured you’d pick that one but I couldn’t be sure.”
“Yes, you can order it for both upstairs baths.”
“Very good. I’ll call first thing in the morning.”
“Thank you.”
17
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON Sandy and Norman played in the mixed doubles tournament at The Club. It seemed foolish to Sandy to participate in a tournament when she’d played only two games of tennis in her life, plus, of course, her series of twenty-five lessons, which weren’t over yet, but Norm had it all figured out. “You just keep out of the way,” he said that morning. “I’ll return everything. You’ve got to serve and receive serves, but other than that, every shot is mine. Just move fast, away from the ball, and we can take anybody, got that?”
Sandy nodded.
“Can you get your serve in yet?”
“I think so.”
“I hope so.”
Before their match began Norm said, “Why don’t you wipe that white goo off your mouth?”
“I can’t,” she explained. “I need it—it’s zinc—without it, in this sun, I’ll have a herpes tomorrow.”
“Couldn’t you use lipstick instead, just for our match?”
“We’re not on TV, you know!”
“But there’s a crowd. You want to look good, don’t you?”
“I thought all that matters is how I play.”
“No, that’s not all. It’s our image as a couple too.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Norm, but I can’t go out there without zinc.”
“Oh, all right.” He grabbed both his racquets, adjusted his sweatbands and eyeglasses and they walked onto the court.
Sandy was already sweating, one of her peds crept down inside her shoes, and she had the remains of a blister on her right thumb, which hurt, even though it was covered b
y two Band-Aids.
They played against Millicent and Harvey Sommers. Millicent couldn’t return Sandy’s serves. “They’re just too slow,” she cried, “too soft. Are they even legal?”
“Damn right!” Norman called.
And Harvey said, “Just keep your eye on the ball, dear.”
Bounce . . . thwack . . . bounce . . . thwack . . .
“Look at that!” Millicent cried again. “He’s taking all her shots. Is that fair? Is it even legal?”
“She’s serving and receiving our serves,” Harvey said. “That’s all she has to do, dear. Just keep your eye on the ball and try to concentrate.”
“I think it’s very unfair! We might as well be playing singles against him!” Millicent threw her racquet to the ground.
Norman ran up to the net. “As chairman of the Grievance Committee it is my duty to inform you that throwing your racquet on the court is a punishable offense. Look at that mark you’ve made.”
“Try to control yourself, dear,” Harvey said. “It’s only a game.”
“It’s not only a game,” Millicent informed him through clenched teeth. “It’s a goddamned tournament!”
Sandy and Norman won their match 6-3, 6-2. Norman was ecstatic. “What’d I tell you?” he laughed, hugging Sandy. “You’re great. I always knew you could do it.”
“But Norm, I didn’t do anything. You did it all.”
“Never mind, never mind. As a team we’re great. The best. Unbeatable!”
Until their next match, when they were knocked out of the competition by Luscious and Ben, who smashed every ball directly at Sandy.
“Jesus,” Norman muttered, storming off the court. “Six-two, six-one. I told you to move out of the way, didn’t I? But you didn’t. You just stood there like a lump of clay.”
“I was moving . . .”
“In the wrong direction. You moved toward the ball every goddamned time.”
“How was I to know where they were going to hit it?”
“Anticipation! Hasn’t your teacher taught you anything?”
“Which teacher?”
“Your tennis teacher . . . what’s wrong with you . . . don’t you listen?”
“I tried my best,” Sandy told him, feeling the beginning of tears and hating herself for letting him get to her this way. “Do you think I enjoy this . . . this humiliation? Do you think this is any fun for me?”
“Oh, Christ! Stop crying. Everyone can see.”
He took her by the arm and tried to lead her away from the crowd but she shook him off shouting, “Let me go.”
They didn’t speak to each other until Monday night, when she told him she’d been busy and hadn’t prepared any supper. They went to Lee Ann Fong’s. Lee Ann sat down at their table and said, “Tomorrow’s the ABCD tournament. It’s my first. Boy, I can’t wait!”
SANDY CALLED FOR THE WEATHER report at seven-thirty the next morning. “Hot and humid . . . chance of thundershowers . . . temperature ranging from the mid-eighties to the upper nineties, inland . . .” She hung up and thought about staying in bed. But Norman would never forgive her. No, she had to go, had to play in the tournament. She dressed and drove to The Club. The sky was already gray and threatening.
Sandy checked the board in the locker room and found that the rest of her foursome consisted of Millicent Sommers, Brown, and Lee Ann Fong.
Great, she thought.
“It’s going to be a hot one,” Myra said as Sandy tied her shoelaces.
She nodded. “What did you decide to do about Gordy?”
“I haven’t decided anything yet. I’m still thinking about it.”
“Don’t do anything foolish.”
“I don’t intend to.”
Outside, Lee Ann Fong was waiting in a golf cart, calling, “Sandy, Sandy, you ride with me.”
Millicent and Brown were in another golf cart, ready to go. If a foursome took two carts, they were also required to take along a caddy, to carry their putters and spot their balls. The lowest-ranking caddies were awarded this job.
“Oh, not him!” Millicent cried, as the caddymaster beckoned to Steve. “He’s so slow. Can’t we have someone else?”
“He’s not that slow,” Sandy said. “I take him every day.”
“Oh, what do you know?” Millicent muttered.
Sandy didn’t answer. She could feel the storm brewing and hoped that it wouldn’t hit until they’d finished the front nine.
“Let’s go . . . let’s go . . .” Millicent called, as Sandy missed several shots in a row, winding up in the heavy rough. “You could use some lessons!”
“I’m just having an off day,” Sandy told her. “I’m sure you’ve had your share of those.” She wanted to smash her with a golf club.
They stopped for hard-boiled eggs and Welch’s grape juice at the Halfway House, wet paper towels and draped them around their necks, and in ten minutes were on their way again. Sandy dreaded the back nine. The holes were long and tedious. She was already tired and hot. The sky was still gray and the humidity oppressive.
Just as Millicent hit her tee shot on twelve it began to thunder. They were as far as they could get from the safety of the clubhouse. An open shelter stood nearby but that didn’t ease Sandy’s fear. “Listen,” she said, “wasn’t that thunder?”
“Probably,” Brown answered.
Try to stay calm, Sandy told herself. “Don’t you think we should go back?”
“No,” Millicent said.
But at her first sight of lightning Sandy, trying to keep her voice from breaking, said, “Look, it’s going to storm. I really think we should head back now.”
“One-two-three-four-five-six,” Brown counted. The thunder followed. “It’s at least six miles away.” She teed off and landed in the sand trap to the right of the fairway. “Oh, shit!”
At the second lightning, when the thunder came after the count of three, Sandy told them, “I’m going. This could be dangerous. Anyone else joining me?”
“This is a tournament,” Millicent reminded her. “You can’t walk out on a tournament.”
And Lee Ann said, “I’m playing too good to quit now. This might be my best round.”
Brown said nothing.
So Sandy jumped into a golf cart and took off.
“Come back here, you bitch!” Millicent yelled. “You’ve got our clubs!”
Oh, god, the clubs! Rule Number One: If caught on a golf course in a thunderstorm get rid of the clubs. Sandy stopped the cart, dumped the clubs off, then remembered Rule Number Two: Get rid of your spiked shoes. She kicked hers off and left them with the clubs, jumped back into the cart, and floored it.
“You’re going to live to regret this!” Millicent screamed across two fairways.
Sandy didn’t turn around. Hurry, hurry . . . lightning to the left . . . don’t think about the storm . . . just concentrate on getting back.
She left the cart outside the locker room door and rushed inside, shaking. But she was safe now. It was going to be all right.
The storm hit ten minutes later and the golfers followed, in groups of four, rushing into the locker room, drenched, some laughing, others, kvetching. Sandy hid in a toilet stall. She didn’t want to see any of them.
Click . . . click . . . click . . . the sound of spiked shoes on the tiled bathroom floor. Millicent: “Just wait till I get my hands on that little bitch. Where is she?”
Myra: “Who?”
Millicent: “Your sister.”
Myra: “I don’t know. What’d she do to get you so riled up?”
Millicent: “Took off in my cart with my clubs before it even started to rain!”
Myra: “Sandy’s afraid of lightning . . . always has been . . .”
Millicent: “That’s n
o excuse!”
Steph: “Calm down, Mill, the tournament’s been called anyway.”
Millicent: “You can ignore this if you want to, but we’ll see what the Grievance Committee has to say about it!”
Myra: Laughing. “Sandy’s husband is chairman of the Grievance Committee.”
Millicent: “I know!”
What shit, Sandy thought. What was she doing here? What was she trying to prove anyway? And to whom? You need to control your own destiny, Lisbeth had said. Yes, Sandy answered to herself. Yes, I want to control my own destiny. All her life she had let others decide what was going to happen to her. Maybe now it was time to please herself. Call her own shots. She laughed out loud, remembering the two times she had made her own decisions; to vote for Kennedy and to name her baby Jennifer. Two times in thirty-two years that her decision was not based on someone else’s feelings, someone else’s choice.
As soon as the sky was light again Sandy left the empty locker room, ran across the parking lot to her car, and drove home.
She took a hot bath and wrote to the children.
At three the doorbell rang.
Florenzia answered and called, “Mrs. Pressman, you got some company.”
“Who is it?” Sandy asked.
“Some boy. He be riding a motorcycle.”
Was he back? Was he really here, in person, ringing her doorbell? Should she call Hubanski? No, not yet. After all, she wasn’t alone. Florenzia was here. He wouldn’t do anything in front of Florenzia, would he? She ran downstairs and peeked out the window next to the front door. It wasn’t him. It was Steve. Relief, and then, disappointment.
She opened the door. “Hi, Steve. I didn’t know you had a motorcycle.”
“For two years.”
“What kind is it?”
“Honda . . . XL 175 . . . do you ride, Mrs. Pressman?”
“No.” She laughed at the idea. “Just curious. Well, come on in.” She turned to Florenzia, who was standing right behind her. “It’s all right, Florenzia.”
Florenzia disappeared down the hall and Steve followed Sandy into the house. “This is nice,” he said.
“Thanks. It’s for sale. We’re moving soon, to Watchung.”