When No One Was Looking (18 page)

“People don’t die of practical jokes,” said Kathy.

“Honey, a four-year-old wouldn’t try to
kill
somebody by putting chlorine in the water. No, no, no.
If
it was intentional, honey, somebody only meant to incapacitate the girl’s vision, or maybe her sinuses, very slightly, and our only concern here is the New England Lawn Tennis Association and whether they suspend you from the Newport tournament. Not the police, Kathy, the NELTA!”

“Well, what
are
we going to do about the NELTA?” Kathy’s mother asked suddenly. “What
are
we going to do if they suspend Kathy from the tournament Saturday.”

“I’m not playing anyway,” said Kathy. “I’m giving up tennis.”

“Don’t be a fool!” snapped her mother. “Don’t be a—”

“Ladies! Ladies!” said Mr. Hammer, and this time he held up both arms like a prize-fight referee.

“Nobody’s going to get suspended from anything. I’ll talk to Caroline Collins myself. Nobody’s going to get suspended from anything.”

“Marty’s been suspended from the club,” said Kathy.

“Honey,” said Mr. Hammer, “your Marty is a crazy lady. She’s got a very, very nasty little reputation. She didn’t get that for nothing.”

“Well, Marty’s a little direct sometimes, but ... Kathy faltered.

“Honey, this Marty is talking to an Italian police chief about the Mafia. She’s going on with a mouth like a longshoreman. She’s a crazy, crazy lady.”

“She didn’t do it.”

“Honey. Are you aware ... well, at a certain time of life certain women pass through a stage, particularly when they’re not married and don’t have kids. They get like all twisted up inside. Everything’s out of proportion to them. She was a fine, fine player at one time, but she’s washed up, and now, Kathy, she’s gone and put all her eggs in one basket, and that basket is you.”

“Listen to Mr. Hammer,” said Kathy’s mother.

“Honey, look. Even on the off chance she did do something of this kind, there’s no way to prove it. All the cops have is a little itty bit of red clay that could have come off anybody’s shoe, and that includes your mom, your sister, Oliver English, you, and even your little brother, Bobby. Ruth herself could have gone in there for some reason. No judge would look at a case like this. Nobody is going to be arrested, Kathy. Not Marty, not anybody. The personal feud between Molina and your coach was bound to erupt over something. All we want to do is get you clear and the NELTA off our necks. Understand?”

“You’re trying to pin it on Marty,” said Kathy.

“Put her to bed,” said Mr. Hammer without his smile.

Jody’s voice suddenly rang clearly from the partially opened living-room door. “Can I come in now?” Jody asked.

“Jody, please go to bed,” said her mother. “It’s after ten.”

“I have something to say, Mom.”

“Well, say it.”

“I remember when I was home alone that night. The night you’re talking about. I was doing the dishes, and I put on one of my records.”

“Jody, what is this about? Can it wait?” asked her father. “Mr. Hammer doesn’t have much time.”

“It would be helpful to Kathy.”

“Come in, honey,” said Mr. Hammer. “Come on in. I hear you’ve got a pretty strong right arm too!” He chuckled.

Jody did not smile. She sat cross-legged and composed on a hassock. “I remember exactly how I was feeling that evening,” she said. “Listening to my record. I was happy to be listening to my record instead of having to listen to a baseball game on TV. I hate baseball,” she added firmly to Mr. Hammer. “Anyway, I remember thinking that it was a waste because I’d looked it up in the paper that afternoon and the ball game wasn’t on TV anyway.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mr. Hammer.

“Well, it was a waste, you see, because even if I hadn’t been alone in the house, I could have played my record anyway.”

“Jody, you’re talking in circles,” said her mother. “This has nothing to do with Kathy.”

“But,
Mom,
don’t you see? If Kathy went to Fenway and saw a game that was
not
televised, all she has to do is give a pretty good description of it, and then she can prove she was there.”

Mr. Hammer clapped his hands together. “One smart cookie you’ve got there!” he said. “Okay. All right. Now, come on, Kathy. We’re getting somewhere. I’ll have Dom D’Amico order the videotape of the game from channel six. All the games are videotaped even if they’re not broadcast on TV. Any little thing you can remember, Kathy, that wouldn’t be in the papers or on radio will do the trick.”

It was then that Kathy realized, for the first time, that she actually might be in real trouble herself—that people might not believe her story. Suddenly she wanted to sit in her father’s lap.

“Anybody go out on the field?” Mr. Hammer asked. “Any streakers, kids? Anything like that? Any fan make a spectacular catch? Anybody lean over the fence to get a foul ball? Fall on the tarp, say?”

Kathy shook her head. “Guidry was pitching,” she said after a pause. “The Yanks were winning six to nothing. Jackson hit a home run into the right-field seats.”

“Something that wouldn’t be in the papers, Kathy,” said Mr. Hammer patiently.

“It was just ... an old ball game. A boring one. The trouble is I was so upset about having to play Ruth the next day I could hardly concentrate. I just remember sitting there in my seat thinking I was going to be sick. Maybe default the match. Maybe I would get a migraine. I know it’s awful, but I was crossing my fingers that maybe Ruth would get sick or—”

“That’s a no-no, Kathy,” said Mr. Hammer. “Try to remember the ball game.”

“I just really remember one thing. Coming through the gate, you know? After you go up all those stairs inside the dark stadium? I remember when I saw the field for the first time. It was so green, so green ... like an emerald with the lights on it and the sky still light. I remember how white all those little baseballs looked during the warm-up. And the Boston uniforms. So white against that green.”

Mr. Hammer advised Kathy to sleep on it. He then congratulated Kathy’s parents on having one daughter so talented and the other so smart. Kathy did not hear this as more than a distant buzz as she fell asleep in her chair.

“W
HERE IS YOUR MIND
, my dear?”

Kathy did not flinch at this question. She scooped a backhand low off the court and with it hit one of the ball can targets that Marty had set up near her base line. She watched the can fall over and banged her racket head on the hard court. “I hate these courts,” she said.

“It’s nothing to do with the courts,” said Marty. “You have played on these courts many times.” She popped the ball across the net. The wind whipped unsteadily off the marina. Marty’s hair flew around her head in all directions. The boats banged against one another at the dock, and Kathy realized she’d been listening more to the sounds of the boats and the crying of the gulls than to Marty. “Concentrate!” Marty ordered. Kathy knew Marty did not like the public courts either. First because she despised anything public and also because in her playing days hard courts did not exist for anyone above the hack amateur level. Kathy became aware of a particularly large brown gull which landed on the pro-shop roof, and she netted an easy forehand.

“Are you aware, my dear, that tomorrow morning at ten o’clock you will be starting your first round in the New England Championships?”

“I know, Marty.”

“Then why, please, are you looking at the quaint New England scenery that you’ve seen every day of your life?”

“I’ve hit the can twenty times, Marty. What’s wrong with that?” Kathy asked. She was bent low, shifting her weight from foot to foot, holding her racket ready.

“There’s nothing wrong with that. I am watching your face. There’s something wrong with that, I’ll tell you.”

Kathy sighed loudly. “What? What’s wrong with my face?”

Marty stood at the net with her hands on her hips; the gusty wind at her back still blew her hair around wildly. “A year and a half ago,” she said in a bright and snappish voice, “when I first saw you play in that free clinic, I watched your expression as you hit every shot. You didn’t get many balls in the court the first few times, but you hit every single one like a winner. You looked hungry and mad as a cornered cat. Also you enjoyed it. Now you look like some kind of modern dancer with her head in the clouds.”

“I’m sorry, Marty. I’ll concentrate. I’m cold. That’s all.”

“Do you think you’re going to get beyond your first round tomorrow playing like a sick parakeet? You can completely destroy all the good you did yourself in Florida.”

“Marty, please.”

“Don’t ‘Marty, please’ me. Get back behind that base line. Now I’m going to stand here and serve to you from the middle of the court. These are smashes, Kathy. I’m going to place the ball all over. You miss one and you get ten more. I don’t care if I have to do it a hundred times. Now move your feet and you’ll be cold for about two more seconds.”

Gamely Kathy chased down Marty’s vicious shots, which even under normal circumstances would have been difficult to return. She lunged for one and fell.

“Get up,” said Marty. “Here’s another one.” Kathy ground her teeth together and charged across the court clumsily. When she missed it completely, Marty propped her racket against the net, folded her arms, and announced, “You are playing tennis completely without heart.”

“I’m sorry, Marty.”

“Do you think I’ve given you half your lessons free, wangled you into the Plymouth Club, and poured my lifeblood into you just to watch you fold over at your first big challenge?”

Kathy brushed at her dirty, bleeding knee and shook her head.

“What are you crying about?”

“I’m
not
crying.”

“Oh! Is it raining then? Come here.”

Kathy ambled up to the net. She could feel the vibrations of fury and fear in Marty more than she felt the sharp wind.

“You know, don’t you?” Marty asked softly.

Kathy nodded.

“You didn’t have any breakfast, I bet.”

“Couldn’t eat,” said Kathy, wiping the cold sweat off her mouth with her sleeve.

“Come on. We’ll go over to the diner. I’ll get some eggs and bacon into you.”

Only one other customer was present in the diner at this hour. Idly he dinted his spoon against his coffee cup as he read the paper.

“Stop that!” said Marty after he had done it for a full minute. When a plate of eggs, bacon, and English muffins was delivered to each of them, Marty announced that she had noticed Mr. Hammer’s car in Kathy’s driveway the evening before while she happened to be driving by. “And what did our fine, fat school superintendent have to say for himself?” she asked. Before Kathy could answer, Marty turned again to the man in the booth behind her. “If you don’t stop that irritating banging,” she said, “I’m going to take that spoon away from you.” The man glanced at Marty with guilty eyes. He folded his paper, dropped a quarter on the table, and left.

“So!” said Marty cheerfully. “Now we’re alone. Eat your eggs before they get cold. What did Mr. Hammer have to say?”

“Well, they kind of smoothed everything over,” said Kathy, toying with an egg.

“Yes? And how do you like Mr. Hammer?”

“He ... well, he scares me. I think he’s a male chauvinist pig,” said Kathy.

“I can do without the birdbrain lingo of your generation. What did he say?”

“Everyone seems to be ... upset about what happened to Ruth Gumm.”

“No kidding?” said Marty.

Kathy heaved a sigh. “I don’t care anymore,” she said.

“What don’t you care about?”

“Tennis. The fun’s gone out of it. I was awake all night thinking, Marty. What I was supposed to be thinking about was a ball game I went to at Fenway Park the night before Ruth drowned. If I can remember something about the game, I guess I can prove I was there. But all I could think about, over and over in my mind, was that maybe somebody who cares about me, maybe even somebody who loves me ... did this thing for me, and if I ever have a chance to do something decent in my life, maybe I should make some sacrifice. The biggest one I could make, to kind of atone for what happened. I don’t know. Maybe it isn’t even a big sacrifice anymore. I don’t feel like playing a game if it involves tricks like this.”

“That she drowned, died, was an accident,” said Marty, “no matter how you look at it.”

“It doesn’t matter. It was done on my behalf by somebody who ... who ...

“By somebody not too nice? Is that what your Mr. Hammer, who let you cheat on an algebra exam, told you?”

“How did you know about the book he left in the room?”

“It was obvious. The minute your mother told me he was going to proctor your final exam, I put two and two together. Tell me something, my dear.”

“What, Marty?”

“In all the time I’ve been coaching you, no matter how much of an impatient, intolerant, prejudiced old maid I may seem to be, have I ever, ever once told you to call an opponent’s ball out when it’s on the line? Have I ever told you to blink at a serve that just hits the back of the tape? Have I ever sat in the stands and given you a bunch of signals? Haven’t I told you before every match that if you just
think
a ball is out, you call it in and give your opponent the benefit of the doubt? Haven’t I?”

“Yes, Marty.”

“And why do you think I’ve instilled this into every girl and boy I’ve ever coached?”

“I guess because deep down you’re an honest person.”

“No, my dear,” Marty said, “that is not the answer at all.”

Kathy sat silently, confused, as she waited for Marty to swallow her coffee. She tried to take a bite of her English muffin, but it tasted horribly dry. She washed it down with water.

“Because cheating is stupid, my dear,” said Marty, glaring at Kathy’s down-turned eyes. “Either you can do a thing or you can’t, and that’s the beginning and the end. Do you think Einstein cheated when he made up the theory of relativity? Do you think Van Cliburn cheats when he’s playing at Carnegie Hall? Do you think Margaret Court ever cheated at Wimbledon? Sure you can win a few games. Maybe even up your ranking a couple of notches if you’re clever, but nobody ever gets any place cheating. There will always be another Ruth Gumm around the corner for you. Do you know that?”