by Jason Starr
After breakfast, we took a walk in town. “Town” was several quaint streets with small, artsy stores. It was a sunny, windy, chilly day. Most of the shops were open, but the streets were mainly empty and bleak. Paula seemed to be enjoying herself though, browsing in crafts stores. I was bored and sat down on a bench and read The New York Times. Later, at about ten-thirty, we decided we would go back to the room to change for tennis.
There were two courts at the end of town on Main Street. It was warming up outside, but it was still cool in the shade. Both courts were taken so Paula and I waited behind the gate.
Finally, the two older men who were playing on the court nearest to us finished their match and Paula and I went on.
I was out of shape and it showed. My timing and footwork were off and I couldn’t get my backhand going. Paula was having difficulty covering the court too, but she was playing a lot better than I was.
“Excuse me!”
I looked over to my left and there was a guy, about my age, with wavy brown hair, standing alongside an attractive, dark-haired woman who looked like she was about twenty.
“Do you think we can hit with you for a while?” the man asked.
I thought this was pretty ballsy of him, especially since Paula and I had been on the court only for a few minutes. But then, remembering seeing a sign on the fence that the courts were for “Stockbridge town residents” only, I said, “Sure, I don’t see why not.”
The couple came onto the court and greeted us at the net. Their names were Doug and Kirsten. Paula and I introduced ourselves and we all shook hands. Kirsten had a very small head. She was pretty, but vacuous-looking. Doug was about my height, but he was in great shape with thin, toned legs and cut muscles. They both sounded like they were from New York—definitely not locals—and I already regretted inviting them to play with us. Doug was wearing an expensive tennis outfit—a short-sleeved sweater and matching shorts—and Kirsten was wearing a clean white tennis dress. They each had brought three rackets and Doug had a large gym bag stuffed with God knows what.
I looked at Paula, rolling my eyes, but she didn’t seem to understand what I thought was so funny.
The four of us started hitting and I knew right away that this wasn’t going to be fun. Doug and Kirsten had good strokes, but they were taking themselves much too seriously. The way he grunted and she squealed after each shot, it sounded like they were having loud sex.
After rallying for about ten minutes, Doug said, “So are you guys ready for a match?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Why not?” Paula asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, if everybody else wants to play I guess I’m game.”
Doug came to the net and wanted to spin his racket to decide who served first, but I said, “It’s all right. You guys can serve.”
“Then you choose the side.”
“This side is fine,” I said.
“Okay, if you don’t want the wind. Whose balls should we use?”
“We can use mine.”
“When did you open them?”
“Today.”
He examined one of the balls suspiciously. “They’re Spalding and we prefer Wilson. Do you mind if we use our balls?”
“Be my guest,” I said.
Doug served the first game. After double faulting, he shouted “Fuck!” and when Kirsten missed a volley at the net during the next point he yelled, “Come on!” I thought of the old saying, how a person’s true personality comes out on the tennis court. If this was true, Doug was the world’s biggest jerk.
After we won the first three games, Doug became increasingly nasty. He kept cursing at himself and at Kirsten and when I called one of his balls out he gave me a long, John McEnroe–like stare. I was afraid he was going to start throwing his racket.
Meanwhile, Paula and I were getting winded, breathing hard after every point, and Doug and Kirsten won the next few games. Now that they were playing better, Doug stopped yelling, but he was just as fiercely competitive. After I hit a weak return of serve, he hit an overhead that just missed Paula’s head. He said he was sorry, but I knew he was aiming for her.
We wound up losing the set. I was willing to call it a match right there, but they wanted to play best two out of three and, for some reason, so did Paula.
At this point, I couldn’t care less who won, but now Paula was taking the match as seriously as our opponents, as if Doug’s cutthroat personality had rubbed off on her. When I missed a backhand on a ball hit to the center of the court, she said seriously, “From now on let those balls go.”
“But it was on my side of the court,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter—let me take them. My forehand is a lot better than your backhand.”
If we were alone, I wouldn’t have let a comment like that go, but I didn’t want to get into a big shouting match around strangers.
We wound up losing the second set and the match. Victorious, Doug’s personality changed. He greeted us, smiling, at the net.
“Great game, guys,” he said.
I was ready to shake hands and leave, but Paula wanted to stick around and have a conversation. It turned out that Doug and Kirsten were boyfriend and girlfriend, and that they lived in separate apartments in Manhattan, on the Upper East Side, not far from Paula and me. It also turned out that they were staying at the Red Lion Inn this weekend. It annoyed me that we suddenly had so much in common.
“It’s a nice place,” Doug said in regard to the inn, “but looks like the geriatric crowd’s up here this weekend, huh?”
Paula laughed, although I knew if I made a crack like that she wouldn’t have thought it was funny.
Kirsten was smiling with her perfect white teeth.
Doug talked for a while about the Berkshires versus the Hamptons and how much better the Hamptons were. Then he said, “I have an idea—if you guys don’t have any plans tonight, how about you join us for dinner?”
Before I could make up an excuse, Paula said, “That sounds great.”
Doug suggested that we meet on the front porch of the inn at seven o’clock, then he and Kirsten continued to play tennis, grunting and squealing.
Walking away next to Paula, I decided not to say anything. I was so angry I knew that it would be impossible to have a normal conversation and that I was better off waiting until I cooled down. But Paula never let anything go and after about a minute or two of silence she said, “So why are you so mad at me?”
“Forget it,” I said.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “You didn’t want to have dinner with them tonight?”
“No, I’d love to have dinner with them. Tennis was so much fun, dinner should be a blast.”
“If you didn’t want to go you should have said something.”
“Maybe if you gave me the chance—”
“I can’t tell what you want to do. I’m not a fucking mind reader.”
“Asking me might’ve helped.”
“What’s so bad about having dinner with them?”
“They’re annoying.”
“I don’t think they’re so annoying.”
“Well, I do. Besides, I thought the point was to spend a weekend alone.”
“It’s just dinner.”
“And what was with your attitude before?”
“My attitude?”
“You were getting so competitive.”
“We were playing a game.”
“Exactly—a game.”
“The object of a game is to win.”
“No, the object of a game is to have fun.”
“It’s possible to win and have fun.”
“You didn’t seem to be having much fun.”
“Me?”
“Miss My-Forehand-Is-a-Lot-Better-Than-Your-Backhand.”
“So I got competitive. It’s better than being lazy.”
When we got back to the room I locked myself in the bathroom and took a long shower. Knowing th
at Paula was sweaty and anxious to wash up, I took my sweet time.
I knew what Paula had really meant was that I was lazy with my career, that I wasn’t ambitious enough. She had hit me with similar put-downs over the years, ever since she had gotten her MBA. She used to encourage me to go back to school all the time, casually mentioning the husbands of friends of hers who had just completed law school or gotten their MBAs—hint, hint! Her passive-aggressiveness cooled while I was raking in the big bucks at my last job, but now that she was a vice president and I was fighting to keep my sales career alive she was starting to get her digs in again.
Finally, I came out of the bathroom with a towel around my waist. Paula was lying in bed, watching a movie on TV.
For a few minutes, while I was getting dressed, we didn’t speak. Then Paula said, “I’m sorry. You’re right—I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you.”
“It’s my fault,” I said, tired of being angry at her. “I was making a big deal about nothing.”
“If you really don’t feel like having dinner with them tonight of course we can cancel. You know I’d rather eat alone with you—I just didn’t want to be rude.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “Maybe I just had a bad first impression of them. Maybe they’re not so bad.”
After Paula showered and got dressed, we took a drive up Route 7 to Lenox. The small New Englandy town catered to the Tanglewood Music Festival, which wouldn’t open for another couple of months, so it was even quieter and more deserted than Stockbridge.
I didn’t want to complain to Paula, but so far this weekend had been depressing and not very relaxing and I wished we had just stayed in the city.
Back in the room, I napped while Paula watched TV. I slept in an awkward position and woke up with neck pain and a headache. I took a couple of Tylenols, which helped the pain, but I was still groggy and in a generally lousy mood. Paula got surprisingly dressed up for dinner, wearing a black cut-velvet dress she had bought a few weeks ago for four hundred dollars at a boutique on Madison Avenue. I put on a pair of chinos and a black button-down shirt from Banana Republic.
At seven o’clock, we arrived in the lobby and saw Doug and Kirsten waiting near the main entrance. They were decked out. Kirsten looked like she had stepped out of Vogue, in a long brown dress with two- or three-inch heels, and Doug was Mr. GQ in a beige linen sport jacket and a white linen shirt and beige slacks. We exchanged hellos, then walked in the cool night to the restaurant. Doug was talking about tennis—how he had been playing since he was five years old and how he was once a ranked amateur player in New Jersey. I zoned out, still trying to get out of my bad mood. The sun was setting and the wind had died down.
The restaurant was small, but surprisingly active. There were about six or seven tables and they were all filled. Doug had made a reservation, so we were seated ahead of the two couples waiting at the door.
Doug worked on Wall Street and he and Paula started a discussion about the stock market. Paula mentioned some stock her company was researching and Doug chimed in with comments about “p.e. ratios,” “hedge funds,” and “the Asian markets.” Judging by their intensity and enthusiasm, I think they both forgot that Kirsten and I were sitting at the table. Finally, I struck up a dull conversation with Kirsten. My initial impression of her was dead-on—beyond her pretty smile there wasn’t much there. She worked as an executive assistant at an ad agency and it seemed as if her responses to anything I said were either “really,” “wow,” or “no way.” She seemed like she would be an easy person to get along with, though—definitely not as headstrong as Paula. It made sense that Doug would be attracted to her, since he seemed like the type of guy who had zero tolerance for opinions that differed from his own.
“So what do you do, Robert?” Doug asked, as if noticing me for the first time.
“It’s Richard,” I said.
“Richard, right. Sorry, must’ve gotten a little heatstroke on the tennis court today.”
Paula laughed.
“I sell computer networking services,” I said.
“Oh, a techie,” Doug said. “Hey, maybe you could swing by my room later and fix my laptop. I can’t seem to get my modem to work.”
“I’m not a computer technician,” I said. “I sell networking systems.”
Paula gave me a nasty look.
“Oh, I get it,” Doug said. “So you must go out of town a lot, huh? Leave your wife all alone.”
“No, most of my business is in the city,” I said.
“Oh, well, that’s good,” Doug said. “Of course, at my job I have to travel a lot—meet with division heads all over the world. I just came back from Singapore last week.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Singapore,” Paula said excitedly.
Doug went on, in his loud, grating voice, trying to impress us all with his world travels. Meanwhile, I couldn’t stop noticing the way he was flirting with Paula. He wouldn’t take his eyes off her and he was sitting closer to her than he was to Kirsten.
I watched as Paula seemed to be having the time of her life, drinking wine, laughing at every dumb wisecrack Doug made. Not wanting to get back into the alcohol habit, I was drinking iced tea. I hoped that no one would want to order dessert or coffee so we could get out of the restaurant as soon as possible.
Then I snapped out of my stupor when Doug said, “So are you two planning to start a family soon?”
“In a year or two,” I said.
“No kidding?!” Drinking was making Doug even louder and more boisterous. “So are you going to stay in the city or move to the suburbs?”
“Move to the suburbs,” I said. “That is, if we can ever find a way to unload our apartment.”
“That sounds like a great plan,” Doug said. “I grew up in northwest Jersey, in a house with a big backyard and a tennis court. I don’t think a kid should have it any other way.”
The waiter came and asked if we wanted dessert. At first, everyone said no—thank God—then Doug said, “I can’t resist—I’ll have the tiramisù.”
The waiter left and I looked over and saw Paula glaring at me. It was only a quick glance, but I could tell she was furious. I had no idea why. The only reason I could think of was that it had something to do with dessert. Maybe she’d seen me make a face.
For the rest of the meal, I knew Paula was still fuming, but I doubted Doug and Kirsten realized anything was wrong. Finally, the check arrived. Doug suggested we split it down the middle, even though he’d had the most expensive entrée, drank the most wine, and was the only one to order dessert.
Walking back to the inn, Doug said, “You know, there’s a little nightclub in the hotel, in the basement. I don’t think it’s gonna exactly be like the China Club down there, but there’s supposed to be live music. I guess that’s opposed to dead music.” He laughed. “Anyway, it’s probably the most exciting thing to do up here at night.”
I was about to say no thank you, but Paula beat me to it.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m not feeling too well.”
“Oh no,” Kirsten said. “Was it something you ate?”
“I don’t know,” Paula said. “Maybe.”
“Are you all right?” Doug said, overly concerned, as if he were Paula’s father.
“I’m fine,” Paula said. “I just want to go back to the room and rest.”
In front of the inn, Paula and I said goodnight and then we headed through the lobby.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Just leave me the fuck alone,” she said.
Jesus, here we go again.
“You know, I’m really getting sick of this shit,” I said.
“I really don’t care what you’re getting sick of.”
“Every two minutes getting pissed off at me, having these ridiculous fights.”
We walked upstairs in silence. On the second floor, Paula said, “I’m going to sleep.”
“I wish you would tell me what I did wrong.”
When we were inside the room, Paula said, “Don’t you think we should discuss if or when we’re having children before you start making public announcements?”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “You always said you wanted kids before you were thirty-five.”
“And when was the last time we discussed that?” she said, glaring at me.
“Jesus, why do you have to pick fights about every little thing?”
“Having a family isn’t ‘little’! I haven’t heard you say a word about children since . . . I don’t know when. Then, all of a sudden, it’s all decided—we’re having kids ‘in a year or two.’ ”
“I thought that was the plan.”
“Whose plan? There’s a lot up in the air right now. You don’t know what’s happening with your job, I just got a new job. I’m not ready to stay home and raise a family. And I definitely don’t want to move out of the city to a house in the suburbs—where the hell did you get that idea?”
Paula walked away into the bathroom and I followed her.
“I hope you’re not serious about any of this,” I said.
“I’m very serious,” she said. “I’ve been talking about all of this with Dr. Carmadie. I’m not sure what I want yet.”
“And you say I’m the one who doesn’t discuss things? You’ll talk about kids with your fucking therapist, but you won’t talk to me!”
I felt like I was losing control, that if this went on any further I’d start saying things I’d regret.
“We can discuss it right now if you want to,” she said.
“You know what I think?” I said. “I think this has nothing to do with whether you want kids or not. I think it has to do with me. You’re not sure you want my kids.”
“Oh, really—”
“Maybe I’m too lazy for you,” I said. “Maybe you want some arrogant hotshot Wall Street guy like Doug.”
“What?”
“I saw the way you were flirting with him, laughing at every fucking word that came out of his mouth, like he was Robin Fucking Williams. See, I’m right—your face is turning red. You were flirting with him, weren’t you?”