A Sister to Honor

by Lucy Ferriss

  On the courts, something was shifting. Yanik and Jamil lost their second games quickly, but Chander and Afran were trading points with their opponents. Shahid had risen to 10–6 amid squabbles about lets. The Singaporean kid was casting looks out at his supporters, cocking his head toward Shahid as if to say, Can you believe this raghead? The match began to tip the other way: 7–10, 8–10, 10–9, 10 all, 11–10. Suddenly Shahid’s opponent stretched up for an impossible volley and cracked it across the side and front walls, into the nick, and the second game was over. Playing to best of five, the top five matches now stood at 2–0 Harvard for Yanik and Jamil but one apiece for the other three.

  As soon as Shahid was off the court and drinking water, Lissy pulled him aside. They huddled close together on the bench. Shahid was dripping sweat. “Just stay calm,” she told him. “Keep steady. You’ve got him.”

  “He’s calling me names,” Shahid said between clenched teeth. “Chinese, you know, they hate us. Singapore Chinese specially. Pakistanis are dirt to them.”

  “We call that bigotry, Shahid. Ignore it.”

  “I could kill him. Bare-handed. I could—”

  “Beat him, Shahid. Just beat him. One point at a time.” Lissy sat back. She didn’t like the way she was talking. She never told her players to beat anyone. She told them to do their best, to live in the moment, to gain respect. Only the tide was turning—she could feel it—and Shahid was at the tip of the wave. She gripped his sweaty shoulder. “Do not retaliate,” she said in a low voice. “Just beat him.”

  When she stood up, she saw Afran exiting his court, beaming. Less than a minute later, Chander came off and high-fived his teammates. Both those matches now stood at 2–1 Enright. Lissy spoke with Afran, then stood back and let the six who had finished move in, joking to ease the tension. The Harvard crowd had quieted. Lissy stepped over to crouch next to Chander. From the corner of her eye she saw Gus hobbling to the other end of the row of glass courts, where Shahid was going back on.

  “I think I’ve got him,” Chander said. “He can handle my slice, but when I follow up on that side, he’s wrong-footed. I got five points that way.”

  “Great. But don’t count on one shot. Play a series. Use the whole court.”

  “Where’s Shahid at?”

  “Way up. Now keep the pressure on.”

  Shahid was bouncing the ball, preparing to serve, white-hot with anger. Instinctively Lissy glanced toward the bleachers—in previous matches, opposing teams had unfurled banners with slogans like Smoke the Camels—but she saw only a tense, buzzing crowd. Horton and Shears were deep in conversation. Ethan, with Chloe in his lap, was still on the top row. The dark stranger stood next to them, holding his chin in his palm. Something hostile in the guy’s stance. Who was he? She waved at Chloe and turned back to the court. Shahid was playing a laser-sharp game. He feathered the ball into the corners, attacked from the back wall. His face wore the mask of a vengeful god. And still the score climbed toward Harvard: 3–2, 3–3, 4–3, 4–4, 4–5, 4–6, 4–7.

  Behind her, the Enright crowd bloomed into life. “We will, we will ROCKWELL!” the students began chanting as Chander took a quick lead in his fourth game. Afran clawed back from 3–7 to 9–7 in his third. George Bradley was pacing before the courts, stopping to plant his hands on his hips, his face grimly set. The women’s squad jumped up and clapped for every point Enright gained.

  A strange calm took hold of Lissy. She had felt it before, this slowing of time, this rebalancing of sound. The cheers and jeers of the crowd receded; the footfalls and hot breaths of the players echoed in her ears. She had felt it at the British Open when she reached the round of sixteen. She had known the same feeling just once before as a coach, at Rutgers, when the smallest and bravest of her tennis players fought her way into a third set as the sun slowly sank, and went down in the tiebreaker. The feeling was like a dream of flying, where the destination doesn’t matter, only the need to remain aloft. And so she forgot about the fitness center, about the bomb, about Afia. Only these young men mattered—and then Chander won the fourth game, countering Yanik’s 1–3 loss and bringing the team score to 4–2, Enright.

  Lissy turned to Afran’s game. Her breath skipped. The score was 10–7 in favor of Afran. In what seemed like slow motion to Lissy, Afran charged awkwardly across the court in front of his opponent. He tripped, or was tripped, and sailed across the court into the side wall. The crowd groaned. Lissy nodded at the trainer, Sandy, who made his way swiftly through the standing spectators. From the court, Sandy called for a five-minute medical time-out. He brought Afran, limping, off the court, and Lissy shooed the rest of the team away to crouch at his side.

  “Is it your ankle?” she asked.

  Afran shook his head. As he pulled off his goggles, tears glimmered in his eyes. “Fucker tripped me,” he said.

  “Call for a stroke. If he tripped you, you can take all the time you need—”

  “He’ll say I charged him. I know this guy. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why?”

  Afran nodded toward his right wrist, which Sandy was examining. As he applied pressure, Afran winced.

  “Sprained, I think,” Sandy said. “I can tape it, but if there’s a fracture—”

  “Give me the racquet,” Afran said. Lissy handed it to him. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and gripped. Then he let it clatter to the ground.

  “If he caused the injury,” Lissy said, “it’s your match.”

  “He caused it. But I didn’t call it in time.”

  “You can call it now,” Lissy said. She held her breath. Afran’s match would make it 5–2 Enright, and a clear win.

  “You said we were out for honor, Coach,” Afran answered after a pause. “You think waiting five minutes to call dangerous play will gain me any honor?”

  Lissy met his eyes. Bursting with sorrow and pride in him, she shook her head. Afran stood. He held his left hand out to his opponent. “Nice match,” he said.

  Enright was still up, 4–3. She glanced toward Jamil’s court. He was in his fourth game, facing match point. “Tough break,” Bradley said, coming to stand beside Lissy.

  “What do you think happened?”

  He glanced sideways at her. “You’re going to say my guy tripped yours.”

  “I’m not saying anything. I’m asking.”

  “Basil’s the sweetest kid on our squad.”

  “Then I’m sorry they couldn’t finish the match.”

  They looked at one another. There was no going back. Afran might have made the wrong call, but he had done the right thing. “Well, I’m sorry for your guy,” Bradley said. “He’ll be out a while, I guess.”

  “Perils of a contact sport,” said Lissy wryly.

  Then, with her heart shifting in her chest, she looked over to Court One. Shahid had lost the third game; the score stood at 2–1 in favor of his opponent. He was slumped on the bottom bleacher, and Gus sat next to him, the white cast jutting into the lane between bleachers and courts. Gus was leaning close, gesturing with his hands. Slowly Shahid’s face widened, eyes and mouth, as if something inside were pressing his bones outward. He turned. He fished in his bag. He bent over, pushing numbers on his cell phone. He stared at it. Then he stood. He began packing his bag.

  “Time,” Lissy heard Bradley say.

  Gus was up, unsteady on his crutches. “Hey, man,” he was saying as Lissy pushed through the crowd. “That’s supposed to inspire you. You can’t quit.”

  Reaching the two players, she leaned close. “What did you tell him?” she hissed at Gus.

  “That she’s alive, she’s okay. He was bummed. He was losing. I thought—”

  But Shahid was moving, shaking his head at the guys crowding around him, making his way to the exit. Lissy wove around him and stood at the door, legs apart. She stared him down. “Jamil’s losing. That takes
us to four all,” she said. “It’s your match, Shahid.”

  “Let me go, Coach.”

  “There’s nothing for you to do outside this door. Not right now. Inside, you’ve got a job.”

  “I know where she is.” His eyes burned at her. His face glowed with sweat. He was going to knock her down.

  “No, you don’t,” she said. Then she saw the cell phone in his hand. She remembered. We’ve got this family map thing. Afia hadn’t called Gus from the cabin. She’d gone somewhere to use her cell, and kept the cell on. “Twenty minutes,” she said desperately, “won’t make a difference. You owe this to us, Shahid.” She nodded at Gus, who had hobbled up next to Shahid. “You owe it,” she said in a voice of iron, “to him.”

  Shahid took a long look at Gus. His eyes traveled from his teammate’s pale face to his braced torso and the decorated cast. His hand gripped Gus’s shoulder for a moment. “I owe more to her,” he said. Then he muscled his way past Lissy, into the hallway and down the metal stairs.

  “I’m sorry, Coach,” Gus said. “I thought—”

  “Don’t,” she said. She held up a hand. George Bradley was coming her way.

  “Looks like your guy’s got an emergency,” he said.

  “Looks like.”

  “So he’s defaulting?”

  Lissy fought back tears of panic and frustration. “Looks like,” she managed. She turned to the Singaporean, the one who had been calling Shahid names. “Congratulations,” she said.

  They would lose, now. Team score was tied at 4 all, and Jamil had been down 2–1 in games and 10–6 in the fourth game. Glancing into the stands, she saw Ethan on his feet, his arms raised from the elbow, palms upward, universal for What the hell? She shook her head at him. Suddenly Don Shears was at her side. “What in God’s name is happening here?”

  “I can’t explain it, Don. This isn’t like Shahid.”

  “Well, I’ve got almost a million dollars sitting in the bleachers, says we need a miracle.”

  Lissy didn’t answer. She needed to leave. She needed to try the landline again, or call the Hadley police. Was there a Hadley police? Had Afia even been calling from there, or had she stepped out to the country highway and thumbed a ride into Albany?

  “Coach,” she heard Chander say. And then Yanik: “Coach, you got to get over here.”

  Numb, she left Shears to follow her players to the far court, where Jamil sat sucking water from his thermos. Above his court, the game score stood, incomprehensibly, at 2–2. Jamil had won the fourth game 15–13. “It’s bash, innit, Coach?” he said, grinning.

  “Sure is,” said Lissy. She sat next to him. If she had Afia’s cell number, she thought, she could reach her, warn her.

  “I don’t know can I do it or not,” Jamil said. “They say Shahid gone and defaulted.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Jamil. What’s your strategy?”

  “He’s a fast little bugger. I wear him down. Way to beat a rabbit is make the rabbit run.”

  “We’re with you, man,” Yanik said. “All the way, man.”

  Jamil went back out. From the way he played the first point—hitting through the ball, pounding the rails, chasing every drop—Lissy knew he would win. It hardly mattered. She seemed to be floating above it all, circling like a hawk over New England, trying to guess where Shahid’s red Honda was heading.

  “You got one guy on a roll,” said Ethan, appearing at her side. He had Chloe in his arms, her jacket over his elbow. “But the other’s taken off. What the hell’s going on?”

  “Do me a favor, honey.” Lissy pulled out her phone. “Don’t leave yet.”

  I won’t help you, he’d said, if it gets messy. But there was no one else to turn to.

  “Chloe needs her supper.”

  “One of the players can take her to the snack shop. Please.” She pressed the green button on the phone, and the number at the cabin appeared. “Call,” she said, handing it to him. “And keep calling, okay? Every five minutes?”

  Ethan stared at the phone. “Lissy, shit,” he said. “This is Hadley.”

  “I know.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. “If she answers—”

  “You mean Afia? You took Afia to Hadley?”

  “Tell her . . . tell her Shahid knows where she is. Tell her he’s coming.”

  “I can’t believe you used the camp. My family’s camp, Lissy.”

  “I know. Sweetheart, I know.” Quicksand, up to her waist, sucking her down. “And no matter what she says, you should call the police.”

  “Hadley police? I don’t even know if there are—”

  “Whoever answers 911.”

  Ethan set Chloe down. “Are we staying?” Chloe asked.

  “For a little bit, honey,” Lissy said, trying to keep her voice light. “You can take off your coat. You see Chander, on the first step? Go sit next to him for a second.”

  Chloe dropped her coat and scampered off. Lissy picked it up. She could see Ethan weaving his way through the spectators, out to the lobby where he could make the call. She started to follow him, but a roar from the crowd drew her back. “Coach, look,” Yanik said, grabbing her forearm.

  He led her to Jamil’s court. Already the score had climbed: 6–3 Jamil, 6–4 Jamil, 7–4 Jamil. A few minutes later, he’d won, 11–6. The team began jumping, pounding each other on the back, pounding Lissy. Chander had Chloe on his shoulders, clapping.

  “You pulled it out,” said George Bradley, shaking her hand, “with two defaults.”

  Lissy glanced toward the lobby door. Through the glass she saw Ethan turning in circles, touching the keypad on the phone, putting it to his ear. No answer at the cabin yet. There was time. There was time. Around her, cheers erupted. She felt like a mole coming into the light, stunned by the reversal of everything she had counted on. Her faith in her squash team, insofar as she had any, had been faith in Shahid Satar. She had urged the others on, listened to their hopes, their fears, their complaints. But she had not believed in them, and she should have. “I’m as surprised as you,” she said to Bradley. “Do I still get those recruits?”

  He nodded toward her briefcase; two folders peeked from underneath. “And I’m still interested in your boy,” he said. “Though he’s got some ’splaining to do.”

  Shears and Horton were making their way down, buttoning their jackets. Quickly she moved in their direction. “Well, Madame Director,” said Horton. “You’ve pulled off a small coup.”

  “It was a close match,” she said. “Our boys are tough.”

  “Most of them.” He looked toward the door. “What happened to that Persian guy?”

  “Shahid was . . . he was ill,” she said, feeling Shears’s gaze. “Fortunately it’s a deep team.”

  “Ought to get even deeper, once they get their fancy-ass machines.” He nudged Shears. “Maybe she’ll get my son Drew and his buddies on them, who the hell knows?”

  “I’m grateful, Mr. Horton. Truly. But if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Oh, go on, go on. You’re a working girl.”

  Ethan came in from the lobby. “No answer,” he said grimly. He handed back the phone. “Now do you want to tell me—”

  “I’ll explain, I promise. In a sec.” Lissy checked her watch. Twenty-five minutes since Shahid had clattered down the stairs. The women’s team had massed by the courts. The men were high-fiving, gathering their gear. Chander had Chloe by the snack machine, picking out a treat. Gus, leaning on his crutches by the drinking fountain, was the only idle player. His face was a storm of confusion and anger. She stepped over. “Gus, can you get the girls’ team on?”

  “What the fuck’s up with Shahid?” Gus swallowed. “You think he set that bomb, don’t you? You”—he swiped with his sleeve at his nose—“you know where Afia is. You just didn’t want Shahid locked up. And there I was practically accusing her, o
n the phone. All because you wanted—”

  “Gus, that’s not it at all. Look, we’ll talk. Really. But can you get the girls on now? Please? Here’s the lineup.” She handed him the form. He stared at it, wiped his nose again. His eyes were red. He nodded.

  Stepping into the lobby, she found Shahid’s cell number on her phone and keyed it in. On the second ring, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Ethan. She turned to him. Shahid’s number rang again, once more, then cut to voice mail. Shutting her phone, she said in defeat, “I don’t know what to do.”

  Ethan’s voice was solid and cold as stone. “You have another match to coach.”

  “I didn’t mean about that.”

  “You mean about Shahid. About where he’s headed.”

  “Oh, God, Ethan. It’s messy.” She felt a small hand in hers, Chloe’s hand. She gripped it.

  “Chloe should get something besides candy bars in her.”

  “I’m on it.”

  He crouched. “Take care of Mommy.” Standing, he nodded at Lissy’s phone. “If you reach the girl,” he said, “tell her I’m on my way. If I need to, I’ll contact the cops.”

  Gently he placed his hand on her cheek, thumbed the bruise by her temple. Then he was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Walking back to the cabin took far longer than walking to Hadley. The road ran uphill, and Afia’s blister made her limp. Her throat burned, from vomiting. She had to act, to do something on her own. She knew that now. And she would lose Gus. Maybe she had already lost him. And lost or not, she was sick with love for him. This was what they sang about, in all those Western love songs—the pain, the firing and freezing of the blood, the waiting, the loss. Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. She hugged herself as she walked, for the warmth but also the comfort. The sun plummeted behind the pine-thick hills.