Sweat
The next day I was back at the courts again, waiting—as usual—for Jilly and Hayward to finish up with tennis for the day before bringing them back home to get ready for the big night at the club.
As was my habit, I wandered over to the court where Jonathan was giving a private lesson with his regular eleven o’clock tennis student, Olivia.
She had on a new tennis outfit, but her attitude remained unchanged. After three shots in a row sailed past her—easy shots, even I could tell that much—Jonathan set his racquet against the net and walked over to her.
“What’s going on?” he said. “You could have returned those shots.”
“I’m bored,” she said. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Everybody has their off days,” Jonathan told her. “You have to power through them.”
“I’m sick of tennis,” she told him. Off on the side, I could see a group of girls, the ones Olivia hung out with at the club. They all had their fancy drinks in hand. They were waiting for her to join them, no doubt.
Jonathan made one more attempt. “Your mom’s paid up for another six lessons,” he said. “It was a package.”
“Big deal,” she told him. “I’ll say I had an anxiety attack.” She was already off the court when she shot him a quick glance. “Have a nice life.”
I studied Jonathan’s face. He was probably no more than twenty-two, though to me he qualified as a grown-up. This would not have been his first experience with a kid who had more interest in hanging out with her friends than playing tennis.
As his eyes followed Olivia’s departure from the court, they landed on me, sitting on a bench with my book.
Jilly and Hayward had taken off for their semiprivate by that point.
I picked up my book. I was at the part in Cujo where the dog’s infection has just started to get out of hand and he kills the neighbor.
“Hey, what’s your name?” Jonathan called out to me. “You’re always here. You a member?”
“Mother’s helper,” I told him. “I don’t know how to play tennis.”
“I’ve got an extra racquet,” he said. “Why don’t you give it a try?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“I’ll give you a few pointers,” Jonathan said. “I’m not doing anything anyway.”
I knew nothing about the game, just what I’d picked up while watching other people’s lessons.
“What do you have to lose?” he asked me.
I stepped onto the court.
Except for times I packed for the children’s lessons, I’d never held a racquet.
I’d heard Jonathan talk about forehand grip and backhand grip and follow-through, and I knew to keep my knees bent and my feet moving—and sometimes, when Forrest had the television on, watching a match, I’d watch with him.
That was the extent of my experience with the game of tennis.
Jonathan set me up at the mid-court line to start with. He hit me a ball. I surprised myself by returning it. He hit it back.
We did this for a while. Then he came over to my side of the net to offer a few pointers on my swing.
“You’re doing great for your first time,” he added. “Let’s get you back to the baseline.”
I hit a few wild ones, but after a couple of tries, I started getting the hang of it. We hit like that for another ten minutes. I wasn’t wearing the right shoes, but I covered the court surprisingly well. There was a fierce kind of energy in me I hadn’t known existed.
A boy showed up. “My next lesson,” Jonathan said. I handed the racquet back to him.
“I wouldn’t lie about this—I’m surprised,” he told me. “You really never hit before?”
I shook my head.
“Listen,” he said. “Show up tomorrow, same time. If Olivia doesn’t have some amazing change of heart about the game of tennis, which something tells me she won’t, you can take her hour. She’s got another six paid for. Those can be yours. But you need to look into better footwear.”
I could probably borrow sneakers from Regina. She had a closet full of them, and all she ever wore were slippers.
“See you tomorrow,” he said.
I walked my bike over to the court where the children were just finishing their lesson.
Hayward seemed to be studying my face.
“Your face is red,” he told me. “There’s sweat under your armpits. No offense, but you kind of stink. I could give you some deodorant if you wanted.”
Something about the way he said this made me uncomfortable.
“I’ve got my own,” I told him. I didn’t, actually. I hadn’t needed it before. But I hadn’t chased after a tennis ball before either.