Once, in Lourdes

by Sharon Solwitz

  “Who knows, fucking their brains out?”

  “What? Do you mean with—”

  He shook his head unnecessarily hard. “Oh dear, oh dear. I mean they’re attending Mass. Or reading Schopenhauer. Improving their minds. What was I thinking?” He lofted a parodic eyebrow. “Don’t freak, Kay. It was a joke.”

  “Not a good joke.”

  CJ wrinkled his forehead; then he was off again. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh. CJ forgot to take his Librium! Should he up the dose? The doctors are so confused!”

  “CJ, cut it out.”

  He turned and scanned the field as if playing the part of someone scanning a field. “Fear not. Saint has to milk his goats. The great Vee needs her beauty sleep.”

  I stood. This was a violation. We four did not pair off to discuss one another. Even nice things said behind someone’s back could be disloyal, a ring of words locking a person in to be known and diminished. I unstuck my skirt from the back of my leg and resecured it to my waistband, about to try the fence again—the gash hurt, but it wasn’t bleeding now—when we saw someone walking in our direction. It was a boy from our high school, from the shadowy, blurred masses beyond our group of four. With a bound, CJ had scaled the fence and was standing with me. “Save me!” he cried.

  “From who?” said the boy. “I come in peace.”

  It was Gary Landry, the asswipe from my physics class. He was on student council, and as Vera had said he permanently acted like he was running for office. He wasn’t hateful, though. He seemed to like the sound of his own voice overmuch, but he was friendly, he’d talk to anyone: an asswipe, not asshole. Not wanting to look weird to him, I tried to climb back over the fence and managed it without a mishap. He was carrying two tennis rackets and smiling. CJ stayed where he was, clutching the chain-link, peering through like a prisoner.

  I was embarrassed for CJ, but Gary didn’t seem to think anything was amiss. “Would one of you like to hit with me?” he said, gazing democratically from one of us to the other. “Kelly didn’t show, the dweeb.” CJ regarded him as if he didn’t quite understand what had been said. “Or I can take you both on. Canadian doubles. I’m sick of working on my serve.”

  CJ pressed his face to the chain-link. One eye was half-closed, his lips squeezed into a slot in the mesh. “I’m not allowed out.”

  Gary looked confused, which only inspired CJ. He shook the fence, emitting a yodeling wolf howl. “Don’t be a jerk!” I mouthed. Gary shrugged, smiling apologetically, and started to walk away. “CJ, what is wrong with you?”

  “Hey, man,” CJ called out, “don’t let me freak you. I’m only moderately insane.”

  Gary turned around. His head sat square on his slightly stocky body, his face was placid and frank, and he looked at CJ the way a well-behaved child looks at a zoo animal. I’d never spoken to him before, and my face was hot, but I had to say something. “You’re in physics with me.” Thinking, Oh God, he knows we’re in the same class, or if not it’s because my presence is beneath consideration.

  “Where were you last week?” he said. “You missed the final. Were you sick or something?”

  I wanted to say something clever, but my mind was empty. CJ leaned into the fence, his arms outstretched like Christ on the cross. “Physics and I don’t get along,” I said. Gary smiled generously, but something more was required from me. “Uh, how did you do on the final?”

  “I don’t know yet. I got a C on the midterm.”

  I nodded enthusiastically. “Me too.” It wasn’t true. I had gotten a D. “I hate physics.”

  He laughed. “Who doesn’t?”

  I went on more forcefully, “Every time he called on me my mind went blank.”

  He laughed as if it was easy to laugh. He liked laughing. “At least you hid your ignorance. I talk even when I don’t know anything.”

  “But you aren’t afraid to ask questions. That’s a good thing!”

  “ ‘The question is,’ said Humpty Dumpty, ‘which is to be master?’ ”

  The interjection came from CJ. But instead of attaching him to our fragilely constructed society, his remark broadcast his isolation. He’d dropped the Christ pose but remained behind the fence. “To be or not to be. Maybe that’s the question?” he said. “Hey, I had Carstairs last year. He’s not exactly inspirational.” Gary set his bag down. CJ twitched his small, amused squirrel’s nose. I prayed for words to charm the boys, merge the worlds across the chain-link. I leaned back on the fence and whispered fiercely to CJ, “Go play tennis with him!”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  Quick and fluid as a squirrel, he scrambled up and over, jumped, then gave us a bow. “I can play a little tennis,” he said. “I can also talk and chew gum at the same time.” He sprang into a handstand, arched his back, and declaimed, in a British accent: “ ‘When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them…’ What kind of bands did they have in those days? Help, youse guys!”

  Gary couldn’t look away from CJ, who shifted his weight from hand to hand, maintaining the arch of his back. CJ went on, with a German accent now: “Undt to assume amonk the powersss of the earth the separate and equal station to vich the Lawsss of Nature and Nature’s Gott…” He flopped over onto the grass. “Sieg Heil!”

  I couldn’t smile like this was funny, nor could I roll my eyes and side with Gary against CJ. My stomach ached, not only for CJ, who barked at strangers like a jealous dog, but for Gary, who seemed honestly bewildered.

  “Were you named, by chance, for Gary Cooper?” CJ asked. Gary said he was named for an uncle who died in the invasion of Normandy, but CJ wasn’t listening. “Do not forget me, oh my darling,” said CJ.

  Every once in a while, as I said, you act against type; you can’t help it. There were times in my life as a shy person when my shyness would suddenly vanish to the point where I would risk near-certain humiliation. On the bus once, on my way home from day camp, I responded to a call for volunteers by standing up in the aisle and trying to lead the other campers in a song I didn’t know, and didn’t know I didn’t know till I tried to sing it. I sang a line or two, then stood like a dolt till someone else took over. That day in the park, feeling bad for Gary, I offered myself as a tennis partner, although my tennis history comprised two sets of lessons: an Evanston Park District summer course, in which I was the worst of six children my age, and two years ago at Arlyn’s club, where I was more coordinated but more inclined to fatigue and had to sit down every twenty minutes. “This is my tennis dress,” I said, pointing to my skirt configuration. “Do you still want to play?”

  On the court Gary was skilled and patient. His balls came gently; he flooded the court with goodwill. But the grip of the borrowed racket made it feel like a club, and I swung as if at a marauder I was hopeless against. On the adjoining court Lynda and Susie’s balls hopped rhythmically back and forth over the net. Their legs were slim and tan, their waists narrowing to meet their tennis skirts. To keep my skirt tucked I kept a hand on my waistband. “Sorry,” said Gary each time I missed. Then a ball came that I thought I could hit. It lofted over the net and dropped like a shuttlecock. I drew my racket back and waited for the bounce as I had been taught, the rise and partial fall—there would be time this time. I stiffened my wrist, swung through, and watched the ball sail into the girls’ court. Lynda sent it back. “Thanks, Lyn,” Gary called out, and then to me, “Take a step back.”

  I followed his advice and that of my former tennis instructors, bringing the racket back before the ball bounced, swinging from the shoulder, but my goal had become to give Lynda and Susie no reason for further annoyance with me, and I either missed the ball or hit into the net. By now the sky had turned white. Wind blew. My hair came loose from my rubber band and caught in my mouth. The hem of my skirt fell out of its tuck. I’m so bad! I wanted to call across the court, as if the self-censure would console poor Gary, who was sending out patient ball after ball. But my brea
th burned my throat, and I didn’t want my apologetic voice befouling the clean, sure sounds of good tennis.

  The wind intensified, the girls waved goodbye. From overhead came the rumble of thunder. The sky was thickly clouded now, the air gray and damp. But the rain held off, and Gary gave no sign of impatience. I hated the heavy air in which I could barely move, I hated my skirt dragging on my legs, I hated Gary’s superhuman patience with me and my failure to control the ball, not to mention everything else in my life, and I swung at the hard white whizzing thing as hard as I could. It flew over Gary’s outstretched racket and the fence behind him. So what? Let him despise me. The next ball I hit hopelessly. It cleared the net and dropped down on the other side of the court inside all the lines.

  On his bench outside the court CJ applauded theatrically. Gary was grinning as he hit the ball back to me. But that was enough. I staggered to the net, dripping sweat. “This is a good place to quit. Yes?”

  He made me play a few more balls so I’d know it wasn’t a fluke, and after a few tries I once again landed a ball in the right general area. “All right, Billie Jean! Seriously, isn’t it kind of fun? Just the running?” He followed me off the court, bouncing a ball on his racket head. He loved everything about the game of tennis, he said. The smell and feel of a USLTA-approved ball, the bonk off tight strings.

  My cut leg hurting again, I collapsed on CJ’s bench. “Don’t say a word,” I said. CJ batted innocent eyes. But, as it turned out, he had a new agenda. He took my borrowed racket and sprang to his feet. “I haven’t played in a while,” he said to Gary. “Will you put up with me too?” His offer accepted, CJ bent to tighten his sandals. “I’ll have to play like a country boy.”

  “We’ll take it easy,” Gary replied.

  It was broiler-oven-hot now, the rain clouds pressing down on us without unloading. I sat on the bench with pain ticking in my leg. But I was moved by Gary’s pleasure in being on the court, which reminded me of my feeling for bridge. Courteously, the boys offered each other the advantage of the first serve till Gary prevailed. Because rain was coming CJ declined practice serves. I watched lazily. He planted his sandaled feet behind the baseline, tossed the ball gracefully upward. His racket arm rose. Gary had time to turn, that was all, as the ball veered to a corner just inside the service court.

  CJ served assorted slices that bounced erratically. Gary could reach them but couldn’t return them with any power. It began to drizzle, but the game went on. Gary’s first serve was strong but inaccurate, and the next one CJ pounded back. I wanted to yell, Go easier on him! but didn’t want to call attention to the inequality.

  The set was over in thirty minutes and CJ had won every game. The boys shook hands over the net. “Ouch,” said Gary, smiling with some effort. “You aren’t bad. Why aren’t you on the team?”

  “Want to play one more? The rain’s stopped.”

  “Thanks, I’ll take a pass.” Gary held out his hand for his spare racket, then said more genially, “Just wait till I take a few lessons.”

  Something in his voice gave me goosebumps. His courage, if that’s what it was, or resilience. “I have to confess,” I said to Gary, “I got a D on that test. Our physics midterm.”

  His face loosened. “Really?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I lied.”

  “Me too,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I got a D too. God knows how I did on the final. I’ll probably have to take the course in the fall.”

  “Oh, screw physics!”

  We laughed at the same time. The joint laugh felt good in my throat and to my ears. I was liking Gary.

  18

  Busted

  After Gary was gone, CJ couldn’t stop talking. “Why aren’t I on the team, since I am amazing? Darling, speak to me.” We walked over to our tree. I sat down with my back to the trunk and looked around for something to look at. “Kay, love, what’s the matter? I can beat anyone with a weak backhand. With all my lessons I should be at Wimbledon.” He talked to the air. “Are you pissed? He’s a dork. You aren’t pissed, are you? You don’t get pissed. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  I heard. I was pissed. I had nothing to say to him.

  “Tell me. Or do you want me to guess? Okay, twenty questions. Does it start with a G? Is it our friend Gary Cooper? Should I have lost to him, is that what you wanted?”

  “He’s not a dork! He was nice to you, really nice! To me too.” I couldn’t speak without crying, but I was angry. “Asshole!”

  “He didn’t feel that bad. Didn’t you hear him?”

  “Yes! Yes, I did. I heard everything!”

  I glared in CJ’s direction, waiting to be swept over and demolished by one of his breezy, unanswerable remarks. I wanted to say mean things, knock him off the pedestal of his superiority over everyone. I stared hard into his eyes till he looked away.

  Then I felt bad. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.” He was my friend, and Gary obviously could take care of himself. “Isn’t it amazing?” I said. “That he could lose like that and not be crushed?”

  CJ was silent for an unusually long time. Then he agreed.

  Soon afterward, our friends showed up. Vera and I went over to the spring-fed fountain and she helped me rinse my cut with the alleged healing water—which would work, she said, if I only believed. “Do you believe?” I said. We’d never talked about this before. She cut her eyes at me, then patted my leg dry with the hem of her shirt and blew on it lovingly, like a mother would. “It’s working!” I cried. We checked out each other’s tattoos and how well they were healing. Hers was perfect. Mine was getting there. Ceremonially, we dabbed the images with the miracle water and placed our Band-Aids in a nearby trash can.

  Saint was in a great mood. He put an arm around CJ, then he picked me up and ran me around the field. I was teary with pleasure and relief. He had brought a joint, and we smoked and played cards, all of us In the Moment, beyond everything that might have oppressed or distracted us. Then, light and free in the bronze sunshine of late afternoon, I strolled off from the group, and everything I saw reinforced my joy: the perfect oblongs of the tennis court nets, the low orange sun hanging over the lake. The crowns of trees glowed green as if lit from within. I held an imaginary ball of string, with one end tied to the tree where my friends sat, and it played out as I walked. From time to time I looked back to make sure they were there. Then the lowering sun cast a net of gold over the lake. The shadow of the fence on the grass was crisp as lace, and so were the shadow-tendrils of my hair, blowing. Forgetting the Pledge and its time constraints, I thought of growing my hair down my back. My hair was wavy and kind of thick. Would it look good long?

  —

  I arrived home as the family desired, with plenty of time before dinner. Elise was setting the table. Feeling sisterly, I lifted my skirt and showed her my tattoo. “We all got them,” I said. “The same one. It’s almost healed.”

  She smiled, then shook her head at me. “You’re in trouble,” she said.

  “Groovy,” I said. The dregs of the joint were still with me and I was starving. I took a bowl of grapes out of the fridge. “Are these washed?” I bit down on a grape and my mouth took in the pleasure of the squirt. “So, um, how’s the campaign? Did you change any capitalist pig minds?”

  Her look of concern hardened. “Don’t you want to know what’s going on, Kay?”

  “Not really,” I said, then added, since something else seemed required, “Trouble is my middle name.”

  She stood in the middle of the kitchen with forks in her hand. “You’re being incredibly casual.”

  I put another grape in my mouth, then spit it out into the Disposall. I didn’t need this grape. “You’re always happy,” I said to Elise. “How do you do that?”

  “I’m not always happy. Listen. Mom tends to get obsessive about things. Be cool and she’ll mellow out. Seriously, do I really seem that happy to you?”

  “Yes. W
ell, no. I don’t know.”

  I made a pro forma contribution to the table setting, then went up to my room. Before I could shut the door, though, Arlyn was standing before me, in gold sandals and pants so crisply white she might just have put them on, though she had probably worn them all day.

  “You look nice, Arlyn. The table’s done. Is there anything else I can do?”

  She gave me a brisk, disapproving nod, a far cry from her usual strained friendliness. “I’m glad you’re home. Let’s go outside. We need to talk.” A tiny shiver ran down my spine.

  “I’m not the least bit hungry,” I said, which had become true. “I don’t even need dinner.”

  She was halfway downstairs, though, and I followed, taking in less and less air with each breath. At the sliding glass doors I was panting. She was already out on the patio, waiting for me in one of a pair of lawn chairs set side by side. I tried to focus on the flower beds, the newly mowed lawn. I wanted peace tonight. Even counterfeit kinship. I wasn’t ready for any kind of struggle. Beside the patio was a young tree she had planted, its slim trunk wrapped in wire mesh. At the end of the yard my dad was putting a golf ball toward a machine that shot it back. I sat down in my appointed chair. “That’s a nice tree,” I said. “Do you know what kind it is?”

  “Jonathan apple. It’ll bear next year. But that’s not what we need to talk about.”

  I scanned for other objects of my stepmother’s interest. Arlyn loved having a yard. In Chicago she and Elise had shared a one-bedroom apartment on the tenth floor, with a view of the lake if you craned your neck from the small balcony. I watched my father’s golf ball roll smoothly into the machine. I watched the arc of its just-as-smooth return over the short grass. Elise came out with a book. She pulled a chaise lounge far enough from us not to intrude but close enough to hear us. “Tomorrow I’ll come home earlier,” I said to Arlyn. “I’ll help cook.”