This Is How It Happened (not a love story)

by Jo Barrett

  It was a source of entertainment, a joke we told at parties among friends. “Maddy may look like a sweet lil’ thang on the outside,” Carlton would say, “but I dare any of you guys to play her on the tennis court.” I’d watch Carlton as he’d push a perfect lock of hair off his perfect forehead. “Talk about brutal,” he’d say. “She kicks ass.” Sometimes he’d place bets. Challenge his buddies to a “Game with My Maddy.”

  He won money, sometimes. But mostly, he won free beer.

  The night before our big investor meeting with Carlton’s father, Carlton decided he wanted to play tennis.

  “I need to let off some steam,” he said, holding up the racquets. “Care to rise to the challenge?”

  I grabbed my Slazenger out of his hand. Shook it playfully in front of his face. “Let’s see what you got, girly-man,” I said. So off we went. To the public courts.

  The Slazenger was a birthday gift from my dad. I got it after he died. He was having it specially fitted for me and the pro shop called three days after the funeral. “This is a message for Mr. Piatro. Your daughter’s racquet is ready,” it said on the answering machine.

  The Slazenger was just like my dad. Classy. Old School. With a little bit of zing. Carlton sometimes wanted to borrow it, and I let him. But it didn’t make a difference. I’d beat him with a Wilson, too. It really didn’t matter.

  Carlton said my racquet had the “Magic Juice.” But deep down, he knew it wasn’t the racquet. As a man, he had the power, but I had the finesse. And like my dad used to say, “Nothing beats a ball down the line.”

  I could place the ball wherever I wanted it to go. Carlton’s only hope was to hit it fast and hard, and get it past me before I could react.

  Carlton was naturally gifted. A born athlete. He was what you’d call an outdoors “enthusiast.” He ran, biked, kayaked, and played soccer on an intramural league.

  I knew this tennis thing really bugged him, but I refused to be a wilting flower. The type of girl who “let the guy win.” Carlton didn’t need a confidence booster. He had a solidly healthy ego, to say the least. But I never beat him as badly as I knew I could. I always held back.

  Still, Carlton tried every trick in the book; he even taunted me from the other end of the court.

  This was the tactic he was trying now. Now that he was down, four games to zero. I guess it was time to let him win one.

  It was my turn to serve.

  “Look out!” Carlton shouted, “Here comes the noodle!”

  He always did this when he was losing. Tried to get my head off the game.

  I watch him as he makes a big production of walking closer to the net. Because he knows I don’t have the strength to ace him, to get the ball past the baseline. He’s in a ready stance, bouncing slightly on his feet, his tennis racquet in both hands, peering at me. Waiting for my serve.

  “Come on, Maddy! I don’t have all day!” he shouts. Which is bad tennis etiquette. And poor sportsmanship. But he looks damn good in his white shorts.

  I throw the ball into the air, arch my body back, and whack it. Immediately, I know it’s a good serve. I can hear the ball ping against my racquet strings—it’s a good sound, that ping.

  I watch Carlton swing at the ball like he’s playing baseball. It’s ugly, but it goes over the net. I return it. He returns it. We get into a competitive volley. Each hitting the ball at different angles with different spins. I’m in motion, now. This is my thing. Back and forth. Front to back. Whap, whap, whap—

  I watch Carlton race for the ball. He’s struggling, I can tell. Thinking to himself, “Don’t hit it in the net, don’t hit it in the net.” Which, by the way, he does.

  “Goddamnit!” he shouts. He throws the racquet on the ground, stalks around in a circle. A pissed-off wildcat.

  Perhaps I should bring it down a notch.

  “You’re cheating with that racquet!” he says.

  Hmm. Perhaps not.

  I walk to the net. Calmly. Like a pro.

  “Here, babe. Let’s switch,” I say.

  He storms toward the net, grabs the Slazenger from my hand, and thrusts the Wilson over.

  “I bet this’ll turn the tide of things,” he snaps. I watch as sweat drips down his forehead. He wipes his face with the edge of his shirt.

  “Jesus H. Christ! It’s hot as a bitch!” he yells.

  “Nice,” I say.

  Carlton looks down at his New Balance tennis shoes. “You’re getting me riled up,” he says, apologetically.

  “Your serve,” I say, tossing him a ball. I try not to laugh as he tries to catch it on his racquet, but he overcompensates, and the ball bounces off. “Sonofabitch!” he yells, chasing after it.

  Granted I’m no Billie Jean King or Martina Navratilova, but I’m better at this game than Carlton. So I’ll be damned if I’m going to flit around in a short, white tennis skirt and let his attitude get to me.

  I happen to be wearing a short, white tennis skirt, but that’s a minor detail.

  Carlton walks to the baseline, a man ready to win. He waves my Slazenger in the air and says, “Now who’s got the Magic Juice?”

  He arches his back and serves. The ball speeds past me.

  Carlton raises both arms in the air. “Yes!” he says, because he’s just aced me.

  He kisses the racquet.

  “Fifteen-LOVE!” he shouts.

  I move back way behind the baseline because I know what’s coming next. It’s time to have a little fun.

  Carlton whacks it again. Harder this time. But I’m prepared. My racquet catches the ball squarely on and I hear the familiar ping. The good ping. The ping that means it’s sailing down the line.

  I watch Carlton run for it, swing, and miss.

  He stares at me. “Lucky shot,” he says. “Fifteen-All.”

  Yeah right, I think.

  I know Carlton is nervous about the investor meeting, and about impressing his father, but I’m nervous, too.

  I debate whether to let Carlton win as he rips another serve past me.

  “Thirty-fifteen, BYYYATCH!” he shouts. He never calls me names like “bitch,” so I know he’s saying this as a joke. But still. Byyyatch or no byyyatch. I’ll show him a real byyyatch.

  I see Carlton smiling this huge grin at the end of the court. Mr. Perfect. Thinking he’s about to win this game.

  Think again.

  I bend down, prepare for another serve, keeping the racquet loose in my grip. Carlton rips another serve and I hit it short over the net and watch him run for it. He pops it up, and I easily hit it back. He runs and hits it back. So I decide to do this sneaky thing. This thing where I hit the ball from side-to-side and make Carlton sweat it out. I watch as he runs to the left, then the right, then the left again. Until finally, he hits it in the net. We do this a few times until I win the game. And a few more times until I win the whole set.

  Carlton curses at himself because he got beat, yet again, by a mere Maddy.

  Game, Set, Match.

  I watch Carlton as he flops down on the bench and drapes his neck with a towel. He hangs his head low. His face red and sweat dripping from his forehead. Totally spent.

  He looks at me. “I think we’re ready for the meeting,” he says. And then adds, “You’re definitely ready.”

  I plop my leg up on the bench and stretch, a little ballet stretch, with my arm over my head.

  “I think you should be the one to make the presentation, Carlton. It’s your father. His investors. They know you. Plus, you’re one of the boys,” I say.

  He shakes his head, slaps the towel on the bench. “No one knows the business model like you do, Maddy. If you can make the presentation like you just played tennis out there, we’ll be as good as gold.”

  “Tennis is easy. Boardrooms make me nervous,” I say. “Especially since I’ll be the only woman.”

  “Hey now. You just knocked it out of the park with the Meyers account. And that was all men. So this should be a piece of cake. Besides, I wan
t my dad to see you in action. He can be kind of a dick, sometimes.”

  I want to tell Carlton what Henry told me about Forest Connors. About how Carlton’s father didn’t pay Henry, and even got a nasty lawyer involved. But I hold back because I know what Carlton will say. He’ll say his father probably did take advantage of Henry, but that was a long time ago. Business is business. And maybe Henry should let bygones be bygones. That’s what Carlton will say.

  “So what are you gonna do while I’m making the presentation?” I ask.

  He slaps me on the bottom with his towel. Hard.

  “Hey!” I say.

  “You’ve got a great ass, you know that, Maddy?”

  I smile and sit on his lap. Then I writhe around a little. Like I’m a stripper giving him a lap dance. I’m a saucy little tart sometimes.

  Carlton reaches around and cups my breast in his hand. I can feel him getting aroused. I turn and kiss him on the mouth.

  “Let’s take this home,” he says.

  “There’s no one around,” I say. I slip my hand inside the front of his pants.

  “Jesus, Maddy. We’re going to get caught.”

  I lift up my white tennis skirt, put the towel over my lap, and let Carlton enter me from the back.

  “No one can see a thing,” I say, as his breath gets faster and faster.

  “I love you, Maddy,” he whispers.

  I rock back and forth on his lap, going faster and faster.

  “Good game, sport,” I say, breathlessly, in his ear.

  Carlton moans. He grabs my waist and pumps me up and down on his lap. Hard. Like a man who’s had his ass handed to him on a tennis court. He’s gotta make up for his bruised manhood so he’s decided to punish me.

  I kind of like it.

  “You’re a naughty li’l thang,” he says, and his voice is hoarse in my ear.

  “I haven’t even gotten started yet,” I say.

  And we do it like animals, right there on the tennis court.

  Chapter 19

  Wednesday morning rolls around and I’m desperate. I log onto the Internet and search revenge books on Amazon. There are more than I expected. The titles all sound alike:

  10,000 Dirty Tricks to Pull on Your Ex-Husband

  Down and Dirty Revenge Tactics for the Scorned Woman

  Screw Him—The Ex-wife’s Guide to Getting Even

  A sample chapter is called “Five Revenge Tactics to Get Him Good.”

  The advice borders on obnoxious:

  1. Kidnap His Dog.

  Hmm, Carlton hates animals.

  2. Put a For Sale Sign in Front of His House When He’s Away on Business.

  But Carlton’s renting.

  3. Place a Singles Ad for Him in a Gay Newspaper.

  That’s pretty funny. But Carlton will think it’s a prank from an old fraternity brother.

  4. Cast a Revenge Spell.

  Hmm. Good one. A revenge spell. Despite my occasional fantasies when baking brownies, I’m no witch. But I bet I can hire one.

  I type in the words “witchcraft spell” and arrive at the website of the California Astrology Association. It reads:

  Want to right a wrong?

  You’ve come to the right place.

  We guarantee you won’t be disappointed!

  Now it’s your turn to fight back!

  Now we’re talking, I think. I scroll down the page.

  The Retribution Spell is a powerful way to get even with someone who has no regard for others.

  Has someone insulted you, tricked you, embarrassed you? Do you feel powerless? Well now there’s something you can do. For only $19.95, we will cast a retribution spell on your behalf.

  Hmm. Twenty bucks. Not a bad price. I guess witchcraft has gotten cheaper these days. Even witches give a good bargain.

  I keep reading. This witchcraft website has me mesmerized:

  A retribution spell will lower his self-esteem, deplete his energy, and throw him off-kilter.

  Perfect, I think. Just what Carlton needs. A little lowering of his huge, blimp-sized self-esteem.

  I click the “ORDER NOW” button and a shipping information page comes up. I type in my name and credit card info. In the last box, it says, Details for the spell. And Please be specific! I pause for a moment and then type:

  Carlton Connors.

  Austin, Texas. 36 years old. Manipulated and lied to me. Deserves retribution spell and more! Incantation should include the fact that he’s seeking a trophy wife to match his trophy life. P.S. Please make sure he never gets the sailboat he always wanted.

  I hit the send button and get an instant reply. Your spell has been cast.

  Good, that should do it, I think, sitting back in my chair. I can’t help it. I begin to cry.

  Rushing to the bathroom, I lean forward and stare in the mirror. My eyes are puffy and dark underneath. I feel swollen, bruised. Angry. Overwrought.

  And fat.

  The pores on my nose look dirty. Like someone threw pepper in my face. Rainforest facial, my ass. I would’ve been better off with a giant blue tub of Noxzema. A cheap three-dollar fix.

  Oh well. So I got ripped off at the spa. So what? I guess this calls for chocolate. Maybe a milkshake. Or some comfort food. I consider dialing my brother, but I call Heather instead. Heather is light and airy. My brother would probably start praying for me. And I’m really not in the mood for a Hail Mary today.

  Fifteen minutes later, I hear a light tap on the door. Heather’s such a lady. The way she knocks. So politely. As if she’s a little unsure of herself.

  It’s sweet.

  I swing open the door and see my best friend is wielding a large potted plant. She’s dressed head to toe in a little flowery dress and little matching flowery flip-flops. She’s even got flowery barrettes in her hair. It’s as if Laura Ashley threw up all over her.

  But Heather can pull it off. She looks adorable, of course.

  “For you!” she titters, hoisting the plant into my arms.

  I stare down at the plant like it’s my enemy.

  “You know I’m a black thumb,” I say. “Remember what happened with the last plant you gave me?”

  Heather bites her lip. “That one was touchy.”

  “It was a cactus!”

  My best friend squeezes past me into the living room and takes a seat on the couch. She crosses her legs and folds her hands prettily on her knee, like she’s on an interview.

  “Relax,” I tell her. “You’re pregnant. Take a load off.” (P.S. When I’m at home, I prop my feet up on the coffee table.)

  “I am relaxed,” Heather says, smiling perkily. She’s sitting erect, her back as straight as an ironing board. I imagine her presiding over a Tri-Delt sorority meeting.

  I set the plant down next to the front door. “You’re taking this with you when you leave,” I say, pointing my finger at her.

  “C’mon, Maddy. You could use a little greenery in this apartment,” Heather says. She stretches out both her arms and motions around like a game-show hostess. “It’s like a morgue in here,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  “No, I mean. It’s nice to have a plant. A plant is Life, Maddy.”

  “I killed a cactus, remember?”

  “Even a cactus needs a little TLC,” Heather says. “You left it on the windowsill and forgot to water it.”

  “Since when does a cactus need water!”

  Heather shrugs. “Everything drinks,” she says, simply.

  Jesus, I could learn a few tricks from her.

  I sink down on the couch next to my friend and try to sit up straight and tall, but it’s too much damn effort. I fall back into the cushions. A heap of grungy sweat pants, stinky T-shirt, and stringy hair.

  “What’s wrong, Maddy?” Heather demands. She whirls around and gives me a worried look. The type of look the ambulance driver gives the gunshot victim.

  “Allergies,” I say. I grab a Kleenex off the coffee table and dab underneath my nose for effe
ct. “I’m stopped up tighter than Martha Stewart’s bed sheets.”

  Heather rolls her eyes. “Don’t make fun of my Martha,” she warns. “I love that woman. In fact, you remind me of her.”

  “Why? Because I’m so damn prickly?”

  “No, because she’s a great businesswoman. She’s got a great mind. And so do you.”

  “Aw shucks,” I say.

  “I’m serious,” Heather says.

  “Look, if I was a great businesswoman, I would still be in charge of Organics 4 Kids. Instead, I’m stressing about what movie I’m going to rent tonight.”

  “Come over for dinner,” Heather says. “Michael and I are doing Shabbat. I’ve hired Rabbi Moscowitz to come over and cut the bread for us.”

  “You’ve hired him?”

  “You know what I mean, Maddy. Don’t give me grief.”

  “Sorry.”

  “He’s coming over and he’s slicing the holler bread.”

  “Challah bread, Heather. Not holler.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Ooh!” Heather claps her petite little hands together. “And I bought some kosher wine,” she titters. “But don’t worry, it’s the good stuff,” she says, nodding her head approvingly.

  “Ah, a good Manischevitz.”

  “Oh yes,” Heather exclaims. She presses her hand against her chest. All prim and lady-like.

  “There are wonderful vineyards in the Golan,” she gushes. “In fact, Michael says all the fighting for the Golan Heights—it’s really for the wine.”

  I look at Heather and see that, bless her heart, she’s completely earnest. She doesn’t even realize when her husband is jerking her chain.

  Don’t get me wrong, Heather’s a smart girl. But she’s not book smart. She’s smart in more subtle ways. Like she knows how many fat grams are in tomato bisque. She knows Brad Pitt’s birthday. She knows if a Hermes scarf matches a certain pair of shoes. She’s that kind of smart. Girly Smart. And that’s no small thing, believe me. I’m the last person on Earth who could pick out the differences between off-white, cream, and taupe.