Double Fault. Lionel Shriver
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chain-link gate. “But my father wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Upchuck made him nervous.”
“His worries proved unwarranted. Contrary to your sleazy assumptions, Max never laid a hand on me. And I was dying for him to. I used to lie in bed at night fantasizing about winning some big tournament, and Max would sweep down from the stands and lift me over his head—”
“Like I did.”
“Like you did,” she said shyly. “But I never earned better than a clap on the shoulder and a slug of Gatorade.” Even now, her voice was melancholy. “At any rate, I was allowed to take the bus to Connecticut on weekends if I promised to go to college. Later I tried to renege on the deal, but Max was on my father’s side. Max said he wasn’t grooming an imbecile. Later I wondered which slot he was grooming me for. He didn’t push his other students to go to college.”
“So far I don’t understand why I’m not speaking to the second Mrs. Upchurch. That’s the usual program.”
“He was waiting. He wanted me to make an informed decision as an adult. That was his mistake.” The deserted facility was lit by the single floodlight of the moon, and Willy sank onto what for no rational reason was her favorite court. She laid her palms flat, soaking up heat from the tar.
“By this spring, the tension had become unbearable,” she continued, leaning against the fence. “Pausing outside the women’s locker room, he’d repeat some coachy tip I’d heard a million times, just to keep talking. Or we’d dawdle by my dorm before I hit the sack and stand a little too far apart because any closer and we’d have had to do something.” She shrugged. “So finally we did something.”
“But it didn’t last long,” she went on quietly. “Weeks. Oh, I won’t pretend that the first few nights weren’t a dream come true. But during practice nothing was the same. We started quarreling. I balked at his advice; I didn’t like his pushing me around. I’m sure he’d told me to ‘move my fat ass’ before, but suddenly I got offended, and I’d stomp away in a snit. Then one morning in May … Still chilly, I guess. It was eight-thirty, late for me. I started to get up. He reached for me and mumbled, ‘It’s cold. Come back to bed.’ That was the end.”
“You lost me.”
“It wasn’t cold. Not especially. And what did I care if it was five below? It was time to practice, and he didn’t give a damn anymore. I’d started questioning everything: why he chose me in Nevada, whether he really thought I was gifted or just liked my legs. His every stingy compliment sounded in retrospect like a pick-up line. I was convinced that other players were laughing at me behind my back. For years I thought that all I wanted was Max. I wanted one thing more.”
Willy reclined flat onto the court, its warmth steeping through her jeans and cotton shirt. Eric lowered himself on top of her and exhaled. “You’re warning me that I better not get on the wrong side of your racket?”
But sandwiched between Eric and number seven, Willy had her first intuition that it might be possible to have a man on one side and a court on the other. “I’m tipping you off,” she murmured, “that I’d rather play tennis than have sex.”
“I’d rather play tennis,” he said, tugging her shirttail from her jeans and sliding his hand up her rib cage, “then have sex.” He was a math major, a calculating man; he prized a small foil packet from his watch pocket.
“Right here?”
Eric flipped her on top of him. “I’ve wanted to for years. After all, tennis is like sex, isn’t it? I think that’s why you like it. Thrusting across the net—the ball is just a medium, a messenger of love and loathing all rolled up in one. That antagonism—you’re enemies but you need each other. Listen to the language! Long-body, sweet spot, throat of the racket. Dish and shank, stab and slice, punch and penetrate—it’s pornographic!” Eric sidled her Levi’s down her thighs. “Approach and hold, break, break back, stroke, regain position, and connect—it’s romantic. And we both know that libidinal high from finally finding the right partner, and how you raise each other up. You never thought you could be so good, and they never thought they could be so good, and more than caring who wins, most of all you don’t want to stop … Good God, Wilhelm.” He had grasped her buttocks, one in each hand. “Your buns are about as pliant as Goodyear radials.”
Willy faced the fact that she’d always wanted to do it here as well. It was significant that she and Max had never thought to, as if they’d sensed that number seven and Max’s bed were incompatible. When she wriggled from Eric to step from her jeans, being naked here felt normal. She always felt naked playing tennis, each blemish on her character laid bare: every unjustified conceit or nascent timidity, the least laziness, flagging, or despair. The body, in comparison, was a trench coat.
In one motion Eric shed his grungy black T-shirt, and so revealed an unsuspected artistry of torso, as the sly elegance of a surprise drop-shot is covered until the last moment of opening the face. While Willy had indulged a few flings with other athletes at UConn, the dullness of their conversation had cast a pall over their anatomies, the idealized bodies prosaic and lifeless as line drawings in Gray’s. With more than one Adonis she’d remained so unaroused that she’d dragged her shirt back on and trudged off to her own dorm. Willy had supposed it took some aching flaw—a belly sag, an appendectomy scar—to capture her imagination. But while Eric had no flaws to speak of, an intriguing stir across his shoulders flickered the moonlight from plane to plane, like the facets of a mirror ball, or a series of complex, interlocking ideas.
Eric pulled his own jeans off, balancing on one leg, then the other. He seemed to enjoy her watching. Willy had often found the prick, both its shriveled button of retreat and its strangely dissociated waving and poking when in heat, ridiculous. But Eric’s, at halfmast, drooped down his thigh at that unhurried and luxurious stage of excitation that was a man’s most alluring.
As he kicked his clothes to the side and glided toward her where she rested against the net, Eric didn’t strut with the gutsucking, chest-thrusting swag she had learned to associate with the vain male athlete who has taken his clothes off. At the same time the confidence of his stride, the wryness of his smile signaled plenty of vanity. But those vacuous hard bodies had flexed their deltoids as if to make up for other lacks. Triangular pectorals were all they had to offer and so seemed paltry, like lone finger sandwiches on a picked-over platter. Eric Underwood instead uncloaked his body as if it were a pleasant incidental, like free leather upholstery when you buy the car.
If Eric considered his physique a trifle, Willy was in awe of it. Awe in general had not been a prevalent emotion in her life, and she wore the sensation awkwardly. She scanned his body for some restful ugliness. His feet were long, but this attenuated body should have big feet. Willy was ordinarily content with her own figure; it was taut and neat. But as Eric approached in the moonlight, she was aware that her breasts, while small, sagged just enough to fail the pencil test. She recited to herself that she was in good shape, that all women have a layer of subcutaneous fat; when Eric put his hands on her waist Willy heard in her head the very phrase, subcutaneous fat. Her own trunk was smooth and bland, with none of those conniving, thinking ripples musing over his chest. Eric sighed as he traced her hip, but Willy found the slight flare too wide and envied him the clean, parallel shoot to the thigh.
The foil packet in his right palm scratched when he stroked her ribs. From the shading of dark hair, his forearms loomed in relief, while hers, blanched in the wash of the moon, looked flat, paper-doll. He smoothed his left hand from her hip to her thigh, teasing his fingers up and inward, and she panicked at what he could possibly find in the absence between her legs that could compete with the whole fifth limb that arced against her stomach. Maybe, in sufficient thrall, it was impossible to imagine that so riveting a sex could conceivably be attracted by one’s own.
“Oberdorf,” he said cryptically. She didn’t recognize the syllables, which sounded like an incantation, an open sesame from The Arabian Nights that would move boulders from caves.
“What?”