Ha! I thought I was finished with that there story. There's more, as it turned out.
On the drive back from the East End on the following Tuesday night, I played a sample CD given to me by a friend at Capitol Records. Now that's a good friend to have.
A couple of the songs, sounding very much like Marvin Gaye, are by a close-to-break-out R&B artist called Van Hunt. And the song is called "Character." It was raining still most of the drive home, the weather still windy and wet, a leftover from Ernesto, I'm sure.
"Who are you? In the face of disappointment? Tell me. Who are you? When heavy weather is blowin'? Where is your character? The one that keeps you going?"
Sometimes a song lyric smacks me upside the head at the exact. Right. Moment. I off-loaded the car, zipped up to the loft, fed Jake the cat, ran back down and outside, returned the car to the garage, snatched the CD out of the player, and walked a couple of long-blocks home, the whole while that song repeating in my head.
I clenched and unclenched my hands. I felt that stress in my forearms - that feeling I get sometimes when I watch a wrenching scene in a film, the sparks between the female and male leads. Rare but real. That wrist-weakening feeling.
Four hours earlier, I dropped Tennis Pro at MacArthur Airport in Islip, and just over an hour's drive west from East Hampton. That bell ain't rung out yet.
Going back to that stormy weekend, I determined not to contact him.
Instead, on Sunday, I went to The Savior's match at the Maidstone. I walked onto the grounds with ease, spotted his match, and sat at one of the tables. I watched as a butch-looking, mid-50s woman to my right, attired in khaki shorts and a polo shirt, eyeballed me with frank derision. Members in this WASP hot house all know each other - a little too well. The woman seated next to her, older than she, bore resemblance to a de Bouvier. You never know. Ms. Butch seemed fascinated, but also seemed determined to ignore me. Me, the ingrate, the infidel.
In contrast the men seemed to be simps, effeminate, too much of the "s" sound in their speech patterns. I live in Chelsea, trust, I know. Ah, the curiosity of upper class inbreeding.
The Savior won three matches in a row. He would continue play the next day. I was psyched for him.
Afterward, I headed back to my host's. And hit the pool, laps, worked kinks out of my body and mind.
And then The Savior turned up - needing a shower - the outside shower. As he pulled back the door, he said, "You seem sad, or distracted."
Like a brother, he knows me.
"I am a little. But I think I'm okay."
"(Tennis Pro)," he said. "He's not the guy for you."
"Yeah, you're probably right." But I wondered a second if he had information to which I was not privy.
He showered. I swam. Laps.
Afterward, we exchanged sentences, slightly disjoint. My host (egad, he's gonna need a nickname already), The Savior's girl: Light-adora-Duncan. We would all go to The Point, have drinks. My host had made a 10 p.m.reservation at The Palm in East Hampton. Two fixed points. I hit both.
Except. Except. Except. I was the only one who turned up at The Point. The others bagged. But I ran into other acquaintances, chatted with - good grief - more Floridian tennis pros who were up at yet another club for the summer. And the summer just about to finish. (What the fuck? Am I a tennis version of Annie from Bull Durham?)
I left in time to make the 10 p.m. dinner at The Palm. My phone jingled, jangled, and beeped once I was in range of service. But I made for the resto. And it r-o-c-k-e-d. Sometimes, nothing's better than a big, juicy steak.
After, driving, when I checked my voice mail, the message was from...Tennis Pro.
"H-squared. Call me up."
I forgot to check the time stamp. Once back at my host's a little "sleep aid," and I crashed. The next morning, I went for coffee, and pondered: Do I call him up already? Ambivalence. I thought maybe I would call and just say "Up."
I gave in and called. He answered (for once).
I almost could not bear to talk. I devolved to single syllables and awkward, longish silences.
"Are you angry? He asked. "You're angry."
"Yes. Yes, I am."
"Well why?"
(Ohforchrissakes) "I would have likes to have caught your match."
"Yeah. Why didn't you?"
"What?"
"Yeah, why..."
"...you said you would call. It was storming outside. I never heard from you. I figured it was canceled. I left you messages."
"Well it got all fucked up. We were in a rush. I had to get my brother. We had to get there in a hurry. And once I was there, I realized that I forgot my phone back at the house."
"(Chattanoogan pro) has my number."
"Yes. Yes, he does. But I didn't think. Too much was happening."
"Right." I stared blankly through the windshield of my parked car.
"You're angry. You shouldn't be angry."
"I shouldn't? Look. A person is only as good as his word. In the midst of your rush, and your brother, and getting to the club, with the rain, all of it. You sent a very clear message. I get it. (Pause) It's the end of summer anyway."
"Right then?" the timbre of his voice rose. "Right then? My brother was my priority.
"Of course he is (you idiot, I wanted to say)."
"And getting organized, getting to the club, were you in the top three of my priorities? No, you were not."
"That's the first true thing you've said," I said. "Seriously. I get it."
"Wait. I thought you were there."
"What?" I thought I'd give him the perfect exit line. Part of me was in knots. Part of me wanted this to be done.
"When we pulled in, I swear to god, there was a car almost just like yours in the lot, with what looked like your stuff in the back. And I said to my brother, 'I guess she's already here'".
"Well. I was not."
No. You weren't."
Another long-ish silence. He broke it.
"I didn't get back to the house until way late. We went over to (another tennis fellow's home)."
"Yes, (Chattanoogan pro) told me. He told me the whole story, the match, everything."
"Yeah. And what was that all about?"
"What?"
"(Chattanoogan) took a call and crept outside, hiding, like under an eave, some secret conversation or something. When he came back into the house, I asked him, 'Who was that?' And he just said, 'Holly Hodder.' And I thought, oh, they must have some private thing or something."
"What? You were there - with him? He told me you weren't there, that you had gone to get pizza, that my call was the first he received due to the crap cell service out here, that he was standing outside in the rain, wearing a blazer, that the match was wild. I felt awful I would have liked to have been there, is all. I asked him to tell you that I had tried to reach you, would he let you know, and he said he would."
"I'm telling you, he can be such a jealous little bitch."
"Listen, (losing patience), he's your friend. That's between the two of you. I am not part of any of this. Who's to say what little game the two of you are playing?"
Pause. Pause. Pause.
"Look," he resumed. "Come over to the club for lunch. In like fifteen minutes. Please come on over here."
"I don't know..." I felt suddenly exhausted.
"Come over."
"I want to catch The Savior's tournament at the Maidstone. I watched him play three mixed doubles matches yesterday. And he won."
"He did? Wait. (Ambient noise in the background) Come over. Come over to the club. I'll be taking lunch."
I looked out the window. I rubbed my forehead.
"Okay. I'll be there."
How many conversations have I had like that in my life? How many conversations like that have any of us had? How many times does it feel like too big a compromise? How many times, when it happens, you feel like some of the magic is lost, irretrievable?
My ribcage felt like a closing clam shell.
I went. I met him. He jumped into my car, full of southern "Sweet Pea's," reaching out to my body, my mouth, seeking affection. And I felt numb - or blank. And hung my head, hands on the wheel, I turned they key, shifted the car into reverse.
We drove off. He got pizza. We sat outside. The sun was diffuse, but everything felt too bright.
We tried to deconstruct the events. His brother, meanwhile, had left. The crossed wires, the mixed signals. The "cluster fuck," he said. Yes.
I dropped him back at the club. Data points: He was having dinner with the fellow who put him up for the summer. He was leaving, returning to Florida the next day. He would return in a week for the USTA Men's 35 National Grass Championships at the Meadow Club (The Savior was runner-up in that same tournament a year ago). He'd see me then, right?
I told him maybe. I have plans the weekend preceding the tournament.
We parted, friendly. There's a term in the filmmaking: Meet cute. Perhaps we left cute.
I returned to my host's, jumped into the pool again, and started laps. Something hit my head. I looked up and thought, "Wow, that's big for a dead bug." Bugs and leaves in pools - it happens. It's the country. But no. It was a dead mouse. I jumped out, and scooped the water-logged critter out of the water, then jumped back in for more laps. Once again, something hit me in the head. That same bloated mouse? No, another dead mouse. What? Were they like lemmings or something? A trail of dead field mice in the pool? I jumped out again, scooped out the mouse, tossed it with the other one, but bagged more laps.
My host returned.
"Holly Hodder. Let's go over to B. Smiths."
Heck, yeah. I put my hair back and we zipped over in his toy car, a vintage Alfa convertible. Jean set us up again. Social conversation was light and amiable. Light-adora dropped by for a quick drink, then zipped off to dinner with The Savior. He won the Maidstone tournament. Right on.
So what happened? We, my host and friends, wound up on the beach at Sagg Main, next to a bonfire. I stayed another night. And there, watching the moonshine on the ocean, I thought, "The hell." I left a message for Tennis Pro. I told him that I stayed over, and if he wanted a ride to the airport, I'd take him, on my way back to town.
The next morning, I picked up two messages from him, breathless-sounding. And so yes, later that day, I drove him to the airport. More rain.
"I'll see you in New York, Holly Hodder," he said, at the terminal drop.
"You'll never come to the city."
"Yes I will."
"I'll be surprised if you do."
"You'll be surprised. And you'll come to Florida."
(Right. I don't care for Florida much.)
As I drove away, I choked up, but only a little. We break our own hearts, I maintain. And this was no more than a bruise. A slight discoloration. It would fade.
I stopped in to see The Depilitator on my way home. But that's a whole other story.
Tennis Pro and I are in touch. He's coming back to the East End this weekend. The tournament begins Monday. I'm going out to see it.
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