“Tip number three,” he said. “The College Board likes to make nice.”
“So pick the Beatles answer?”
“We have made progress,” Julian said.
Brandon walked Julian to the front door, watched as he got on his bike. Julian pedaled down the driveway, stopped at the street, looked back. “The Beatles of ‘All You Need Is Love,’ ” he said. “Not ‘Helter Skelter.’ ” Then he rode off down Robin Road. It wasn’t much of a bike compared to Brandon’s, never used anymore, but Julian went very fast and was soon out of sight.
7
S
aturday had always meant sports: soccer, baseball, softball, volleyball, basketball, figure skating, even (for five minutes) hockey. By now, thank Christ, she was down to two:
Tennis, the family sport, for some unlucky reason. A game of running back and forth on a pattern of squares and rectangles, huffing and puffing, calling out the score in a crazy language, getting jolts up and down your arm, arguing, losing over and over to Kyla the lob-lob-lobber. Not to mention Erich, with his blond-tipped back hair curling over the collar of his polo shirt, his year-round tan the color of Dad’s distressed-leather briefcase from Orvis, and those eyes, practically sharing a socket.
And archery, which was her own. No huffing and puffing in archery, no lobbing, no disputes. And the word itself, one of her very favorites.
Tennis
sounded like a disease, but
archery
the word, first encountered in a coloring book of myths and legends she’d had as a little girl, on the page with Diana the huntress—blue tunic, yellow hair—had got her interested in archery the sport. A very cool word, just the sound, and then that double arch, the arch in the bow and the arch in the flight of the arrow. Plus all the other cool words:
nock
,
fletching
,
cock feather
,
quiver
. Instead of boring ones like
in
and
out
, and nasty ones like
fault
,
double-fault.
Dumbest of all,
love
meant nothing.
Ruby stepped up to the shooting line, took one deep breath, let it out slow, the way Jeanette said. She loved the whole routine: nocking the arrow, not too snug, the cock feather—hers was yellow, the other two feathers blue—making an L with the bow; then the draw—hand, wrist, forearm, all straight, lined up with the arrow, point resting on her knuckle, string barely touching the tip of her nose, grazing her lips, anchored. The anchor position: she could make a list of the things she liked about just that one part of archery.
1. The strength of the bow before she even fired, like a living thing in her hands.
2. How her fingertips on the nock united the bow and the arrow, made it all possible.
3. Everything so still, the distant sight of the target over the top of the arrow stillest of all.
4. The center circle of the target, gold like the pot at the end of the rainbow.
5. Best of all, that little kiss good-bye of the string against her lips at the moment of release.
Ruby released.
Just let go, let the string slip away.
That slipping away part was pretty good too.
Her arrow flew, the blue and yellow of its tail blending together, blue for the sky, yellow for the sun, which was why they were her colors—not favorite colors, but colors like a knight’s. Also good, the flight of the arrow, when she’d done all she could and now whatever happened happened. One New Year’s Eve before she was born, when Brandon was four, Adam had tossed him a tennis ball on the very last second of the old year and Brandon had caught it on the very first second of the new. The flight of the arrow was something like that.
Thwack.
Not
thwack
because Ruby couldn’t possibly hear the arrow striking the target, forty yards away; but there her arrow was, in the gold. Gold, yes! In the outer, close to the red, but not touching, definitely gold. She gazed at her final six of the day, not what you could call grouped, but still: one black, one blue, two red, two gold, one of them an inner.
“You go, Ruby,” said Jeanette. Jeanette ran the kids’ program for the archery club. Once Ruby had actually seen her split an apple from the men’s seventy-meter line.
The kids walked down the range, pulled their arrows out of the straw targets. Jeanette rolled up behind them in her pickup, hoisted the targets into the back two at a time, said, “Hop up.” The kids hopped up. She drove them over to the line of parent cars, waiting by the old practice field at West Mill High, a mom or dad motionless behind every wheel, engines running, heaters on.
Ruby got in the Jeep. “You must be freezing,” Mom said.
Jeanette heard that through the open window of the pickup. “Never too cold for shooting, right, Rubester?”
“Right,” said Ruby.
“Keep ‘em sharp,” Jeanette said.
“You bet,” said Ruby, holding her belt quiver between her knees. Jeanette—one more good thing about archery—reached out and closed the door for her with a thump.
Mom glanced out at Jeanette, shivered. They drove off as a huge flock of dark birds swooped low over the empty field, then up, like a rising black wave. Ruby knew she could never shoot at a bird or any other living thing, but that didn’t stop her wondering if she’d be able to hit one in flight. She practiced doing it in her mind—leading, leading, release,
thwack;
and feathers drifting down.
“My aim is true.”
“What’s that, Ruby?”
“Nothing.” Good grief, she’d said that aloud. She checked on Mom with a tricky sidelong look. Mom was thinking about something else, no follow-up coming. And the birds were almost out of sight, a tiny cloud now, darker than the rest and moving the other way. Those feathers drifting down weren’t funny: she could never shoot a living thing.
“S
erve ‘em up, gentlemen,” said Erich in that funny accent of his.
Saturday afternoon doubles, the only tennis Scott played now, except for batting it around with Brandon once a month or so. Not Ruby, who had walked off the court the last time he’d hit with her.
If you’re going to make the ball bounce that high you can forget it.
The kids could be damned disrespectful, both of them. Brandon probably needed his tail whacked, but no one did that anymore, and Scott doubted he could have in any era. As for Ruby . . . He was still trying to find the completion to that thought when Tom laid the balls on his racket.
“Start us off,” he said.
Saturday afternoon doubles: Scott and Tom played Erich and whomever Erich brought along. They hit hard for an hour and a half, cracked jokes, maybe worked up a sweat, sat in the steam room, sometimes went out for a beer, losers paying. Today was a little different because first, Scott was planning to nudge Tom a little on the Symptomatica deal. Second, the player Erich had brought along today was Mickey Gudukas.
Why? Erich had never invited Gudukas before and although Scott hadn’t actually played him, he’d seen him on the court a few times, enough to know that Gudukas wasn’t on their level. Not that they were great—Scott and Tom had both played in college, and Erich had kicked around the satellite circuit and claimed membership on the Swiss Davis Cup team at one time, although Sam had checked their rosters going back twenty-five years on the Internet and failed to find him. That made them pretty good, a long way from great, even back when they’d been at the top of their game, but too much for Mickey Gudukas, probably a 4.5 player at best.
That was one problem. The other was:
Bald lefty who foot-faults all the time? A real sleazeball?
Tom was a stickler for court etiquette. Scott, at the baseline, held up the balls and said, “Play well, gentlemen,” hoping Gudukas caught the gentlemen part.
“And have fun,” added Erich, in the ad court on the opposite side.
Half fun,
it sounded like. Did a funny thought hide in there somewhere?
Gudukas, waiting at the baseline on the deuce side, said nothing. He looked a little too intense for Saturday afternoon doubles, crouched low, too low, in too-tight shorts, the lights glaring on his bald head and sweat beads already gleaming on his mustache; and inching toward his backhand, the way players with weak backhands tried to make that big forehand space enticing.
Good luck. The old man had put them straight on that one before they’d even had a formal lesson: if there’s a weakness, why hit anywhere else? Scott bent a slice wide to Gudukas’s backhand. A real nice one, with bite: he was going to have a good day.
“Nope,” said Gudukas, not even twitching.
Caught the line. Not just caught it, but landed smack in the middle, as Scott could confirm just from the set of Tom’s back at the net, although Tom hadn’t moved a muscle. Bad calls were even worse than foot faults. No expression on Erich’s face, of course; he took whatever he could get, a habit formed in the boonies of the satellite circuit, if not ingrained.
Scott went with his kicker on the second serve, down the middle where Gudukas wanted it. Scott never used the kicker anymore because of his shoulder, and he felt this one right away, that old twinge, deep inside, but even though this match didn’t mean anything he couldn’t help being a little pissed.
Gudukas swung and missed completely. Fifteen-love.
“Gott im Himmel,”
said Erich. “Second-serve ace. Perhaps it is better we go right to the showers.”
Tom came over, bounced him a ball. Their eyes met.
“What’s
Gott im Himmel?
” Scott said.
“No idea,” said Tom. “That showers thing’s what scares me.”
Scott laughed. Tom laughed too. This was fun, not half, but total. Tennis was still in their blood. What had Ruby said? Just like math? Was she going to be one of those people who didn’t know how to have fun? Kind of like Linda, maybe, the way Linda was now. Scott pushed all that out of his mind and served to Erich, forehand side.
Erich was all over it, pouncing in his bandy-legged way, angling his return right at Scott’s feet as he came in. Scott dug down for the ball, popped it up, practically on Gudukas’s strings. An easy put-away, but Gudukas overhit it, might have been trying to put a hole in Scott, actually; and somehow popped it right back up off the top of his frame. Tom stepped across and smacked it past Gudukas’s outstretched backhand in that decisive way he had, quick and sure.
Thirty-love. Gudukas had trouble patty-patting up the ball with his racquet. Erich, standing behind him, made a face, like this was going to be a long afternoon. Scott, thinking of Symptomatica, decided to go easier on Gudukas the next serve. Another slice, but not as hard as the first, and to the forehand this time, where he wanted it. Gudukas took a big backswing—a messed-up musclebound stroke, beyond fixing—and hammered at the ball. From the way he was set up it should have gone crosscourt, but instead it came right at Tom, a screamer. Tom was fooled completely. The ball hit him in the middle of the forehead.
“For pit’s sake,” said Erich.
Gudukas held up his hand to show it wasn’t intentional.
Scott took a few steps toward his brother. “You all right?”
Tom turned, reached in the pocket of his shorts, bounced him a ball. “Thirty-fifteen,” he said, and that was all. There was a colorless, bloodless circle on his forehead. He didn’t even look at Gudukas, just moved to the deuce court, took his place at the net.
“We are all right to play?” Erich said.
Neither of them, Scott or Tom, replied. Everything, life even, was simple for a moment or two. They were brothers, on the same side, together, and would now wipe the court with Mickey Gudukas. Tom signaled behind his back: closed fist, meaning Erich’s forehand again, but this time Tom would poach. Scott tossed the ball in the air, rocked back.
A cell phone went off, a loud one. Scott broke off his motion, an awkward halt that hurt his shoulder even more than serving the kicker. Gudukas yelled, “Time,” and struggled with a cell phone stuck in the pocket of his too-tight shorts.
There were signs in the lobby, the locker rooms, on the double doors to the courts: No Cell Phones in the Building. Add to that Gudukas’s foot faults, bad calls, clumsy game: like he’d done research on how to piss Tom off and his real purpose was to kill the Symptomatica deal good and dead.
Gudukas talked on the phone. Scott, Tom and Erich gathered at the net, Erich doing little tricks with his racquet, rolling it up and down his arms; Scott doing little tricks with the ball, bouncing it in that back-and-forth walk-the-dog style perfected by Boris Becker; Tom standing still, holding his racquet across his chest.
Gudukas was one of those people who talked loudly on the cell, like farmers on crank-up phones in old movies. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” he said. And: “I don’t fuckin’ believe this.” He glanced over at them. They all looked away, except for Tom, who hadn’t been watching anyway.
“How is Sam?” Erich said.
“Good,” said Tom.
“Still likes Andover?”
“Loves it.”
“And the team is good?”
Tom nodded. “They’ve got one senior took early decision at Stanford and another’s getting a full ride at Duke.”
“Stanford is good tennis,” Erich said. “I know Billy Mixer.”
“Who’s he?” said Tom.
“The coach.”
“Yeah?” said Tom.
“We made the doubles finals in Estoril in eighty-nine,” Erich said. “The kid going to Stanford—he plays number one at Andover?”
“Yeah.”
“And Sam?”
“Looks like he’ll be number two this spring.”
“I could call Billy, perhaps,” said Erich. “Put in a word.”
Scott stopped doing the Boris Becker thing.
“You think Sam could play for Stanford?” Tom said. He sounded surprised, and pleasantly.
Erich considered. While he was considering, Gudukas yelled, “What a stupid asshole.”
Erich blinked. “Sam’s mentality is good,” he said. “I’ll call Billy.”
“Thanks,” Tom said.
Was that how big things got done?
Scott thought.
So easy?
“Hey, guys,” Gudukas called, coming over. “Some shit’s come up, can’t wait. Just when it was shaping up to be a good match—we’ll have to do it again. Thanks for the invite, Erich. See you, Scott. Nice meeting you, Tommy.”
Tommy.
No one called him that, or ever had.
W
hen he’d gone, Scott said, “We could play a little Canadian.”
Erich waved the idea away. “You boys play. I’ve got a million racquets to string.”
Scott and Tom looked at each other.
“I don’t know,” Tom said.
“Yeah,” said Scott, “let’s just bag it.”
Tom started toward the bench where they’d left their sweats, racquet covers, water. Scott lowered his voice a little.