When No One Was Looking (8 page)

“Oh, Julia, I’m not really hungry. I just want to sit here.” Kathy continued to gaze out of focus at the rushing waves that broke over the mussels and squeaky brown seaweed below. She pulled off a bunch and began to pop the ends of the slippery tendrils.

Julia broke into her mother’s drawl. “Well, whatever is eating at you, Katherine, you will always be a big heroine to every membah of this family.”

“Oh, come on, Julia, that was years ago,” said Kathy.

“Only three.”

“Well, it was nothing.”

“Dragging a hundred-pound person for nearly a mile is a pretty big deal.”

“You didn’t even weigh fifty pounds then, and it was more like a quarter of a mile, and if I’d had any sense at all, I would have left you where you were and run for help, and someone would have come much quicker in a car.

“Come on, kiddo, what is it?” Julia asked sadly. “You know you’ll tell me eventually anyway.”

“That girl beat me again this morning,” said Kathy, popping all the seaweeds at once.

“You mean that stupid Judy Gumm?”

“Ruth.”

“How could she beat you? Did she cheat?”

“No, she didn’t cheat. There’s a difference between cheating and gamesmanship. Cheating is calling a shot out when it’s in. Gamesmanship is much worse. She diddled around forever on who won the toss. Then she delayed the match by saying she wasn’t ready. Then when I got mad, she stopped the game and said I was swearing, which she couldn’t possibly have heard. Then after every changeover she waited. Just waited until she was ready to come out. Only ten seconds longer than she should, but it drove me crazy. I tried to keep the ball on her base line. Tried to keep her running back and forth, but I kept hitting it out. Then my serve went—my toss. I started flicking my wrist on my toss. I tried to correct it and I double faulted five times. Then I kept dinking my serve instead of spinning it. I don’t know. It was just suddenly over. She beat me four and three.”

“Marty give you a rough time?”

“She glared at me with those eyes of hers and ordered me out of her office, as if I were a stranger.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense to me,” said Julia, seating herself comfortably beside Kathy. “Do you know that big white whale swims a zillion laps every single morning before eight? Well, in the club swimming meet she lost the fifty yard freestyle by twelve yards to little Betsy Moran. I watched her. Betsy wouldn’t be caught dead up at six in the morning. Betsy’s not afraid of her.”

“She
is
a great white whale,” said Kathy slowly, “and she’s got my number too, just like Moby Dick had Captain Ahab’s number in English this year.” Kathy sighed. “Marty’s making me hit with her all next week, just to get her out of my system. You know what Marty said to me later? She said, ‘That big ox has your number, my dear, and I’m the only one allowed to have that.’ ”

“You know what my mother says about Marty?” Julia began.

“Oh, Julia, you’ve told me three hundred times already what your mother says about Marty,” Kathy snapped.

“You want me to leave you alone, Kath?”

“No. No. I’m sorry I jumped on you. Stay with me.”

Julia leaned over and picked up a handful of seaweed herself. “People only have your number if you let them, Kathy,” she said, “and boy, do you let them! Jody sure has it. She’s always nicking your corners where it hurts. Marty has it. So does this dumb girl. Even Mrs. Diggins. You said you could never look her in the eye again.”

“Don’t mention that. You promised not to mention it!”

“I promised I’d never mention it to anybody
else.
Jeez Louise, Kathy. You think you’re the very first person in the history of the world who ever bled into something by mistake?”

“Don’t talk about it. It makes me crawl to think about it. Last time I remembered it, I almost broke a toe kicking a chair.”

“All right. All right. But, Kathy, wake up! You let everybody who wants it have your number. You let people rip you to pieces. You don’t get even, you get mad, and you take it out on your own insides instead of on the other person. The trouble with you, Kathy, is you have no protective coloring.”

“Protective what?”

“Protective coloring. Like the birds and animals in the woods. They never show themselves until they want to. You show all your cards, and everybody gets one up on you. You should tell Jody she’s petty and jealous. You should make it clear to Mrs. Diggins you don’t give a hoot for her sofa. You should make Marty come to you—
she’s
got no future except you. You should match Ruth’s tricks with your own.”

“I can’t play tennis like that. I can’t concentrate. As for Marty, she’s the greatest coach in the world for me. She makes me work.”

Julia heaved a dramatic sigh and blew the air out between her pursed lips slowly. “Gee, Kathy, you must really want it so bad it hurts.”

“Want what?”

“To
win.
To go to the top. Otherwise you wouldn’t put up with all this garbage.”

Kathy ripped off a new batch of seaweed. “I never thought of it that way,” she said at last. “But you’re right, you know. I do want it that bad. I want to be New England champion this year. I’d run to the North Pole barefoot if it meant I’d win. Stupid, of course, because I don’t have a hope this year. But it’s almost like a taste in my mouth. It’s like when your mouth is parched and you see a big glass of water and you can just taste it. Promise you won’t tell anyone I said that. I’d be laughed out of tennis if anyone heard me mention the New England championship.”

Affectionately Julia placed her arm around Kathy’s shoulders. I don’t think it’s funny. I think you have a shot,” she said. “By the way, I forgot to give you this. Marty gave it to me.” Julia reached around to the back of the pointed rock and brought out a trophy labeled Ladies’ Doubles Championship—Plymouth Bath and Tennis Club. Kathy and Marty’s names were yet to be engraved on the plaque. Kathy grabbed the trophy, looked at it, and tossed it into the sea, where it banged once against a half-submerged rock and sank. Julia watched it go. “What’s the matter, kiddo? What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

“This afternoon,” said Kathy, “I spent an hour beating the crap out of two sweet old ladies because Marty made me. It broke their hearts.”

K
ATHY’S MOTHER PLACED A
large platter of corn fritters and sausage on the kitchen table. Over it she distributed half a tub of margarine. “Eat!” she directed, smiling. “It’s your big one, tomorrow, honey. You can win the whole shebang. I got your favorite dessert, Twinkies.”

Kathy thought briefly about the eclairs she had eaten at Julia’s house. “The Sox are in first place,” she said, helping herself to six fritters.

“I wish we lived in Toronto,” said Jody.

“Toronto?” asked her father.

“Toronto has a last place team,” said Jody. “Kathy’d never root for a last place team, and then I wouldn’t have to listen to all this baseball talk.”

“What would you rather talk about, Jody?” Kathy asked. “Poetry?”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt,” said Jody.

“How about ‘Casey at the Bat’?” joked her father, but Jody did not laugh. When Jody appeared to be finished, her mother told her she could be excused without doing the dishes.

“Why don’t you wait until I go to bed if you want to talk about something I shouldn’t hear?” said Jody.

“Sometimes, Jody,” said her mother with a sigh, “you are too smart for your own good.”

“What is this?” Kathy asked. She wished Oliver were there. Oliver’s presence usually modified things somewhat.

Jody left for the den with Bobby and with the parting shot that it looked as if everybody was planning a bank robbery.

“Well, you start, Frank,” said Kathy’s mother when the door to the den had slammed and the television’s noise came through to the kitchen. Kathy’s father shrugged and raised both hands in the air in response. Kathy guessed that her mother had won some argument with him but that parts of it remained unsettled. He lit a cigarette in an irritated way, shaking out the match as if it were as stubborn as an eternal flame.

“What is this?” Kathy asked again.

“Well,” he said, “to be blunt and simple, Kathy, your mother has pulled some strings.”

“That’s a fine way to begin, Frank,” said Kathy’s mother.

“Well, that’s what it is, isn’t it?” he asked.

“You don’t have to put it that way, honest to God, Frank.”

“Okay, okay. Honey, Mom went to see Ken Hammer the day after Mrs. Diggins came to see us about your algebra. Remember?”

“Yes, Dad. Who’s Ken Hammer?”

“Oh, Kathy,” her mother broke in, “Kenneth B. Hammer is the superintendent of Plymouth public schools. You’ve seen his name on a hundred forms you’ve ...

“Okay,” her father said. “Anyway. Your Mom went to see him. He’s a real nice guy, by the way. Loves sports. Loves sports.”

“Yes?” said Kathy uneasily.

“Well, Mr. Hammer is running for local office this November.”

“Frank, you are putting the complete wrong slant on it. Why begin that way?”

“Well, he wants the Plymouth schools to have a big new sports complex. Tennis courts, everything. He has to raise a bond for it, of course.”

“Mom,” Kathy implored, “what does this have to do with me? I use the public courts at night, and we have courts at school.”

“Honey,” said her mother, “you’ve got to do well in the Newton tournament. Really well. If you can get through the finals, you’ll make it into the top five. If Alicia deLong plays badly enough, you just might get invited to the National girls’ fourteen and under. It’s not likely, but you might. Mr. Hammer said it would be a great honor for the town, you know?”

“Yes?” said Kathy.

“Well, he was thrilled with the idea, as a matter of fact.”

“But I was going to try and do that anyway,” Kathy said.

“Of course, but while I was talking to Mr. Hammer I just mentioned in passing that you have, you know, a lot of pressure on you and all with your schoolwork, especially math.”

“Yes?”

“He said there shouldn’t be too much of a problem. He was so understanding. You know? He laughed. He had Mrs. Diggins when he was in high school. Can you imagine? Anyway, he said just to keep up the good work this summer with her. By the way, Mrs. Diggins will be going to a teachers’ conference just before school starts. When you have to take the algebra final again? Anyway, he said you could take the final in the principal’s office with him as proctor. Isn’t that an honor? Superintendent of public schools! Anyway, he’s going to set up a special program for talented and gifted students next year. Kids like yourself. You’ll have a special course worked out and tailored to your special talents! His exact words. Isn’t that nice?”

“I don’t understand, Mom. What does this have to do with sports complexes and elections?”

“Nothing, nothing. Go get me the latest
Tennis Magazine
on the porch. I’ll explain.”

As Kathy got up and left the table she looked at her father, who had been so silent. He was cutting his sausage in smaller than usual pieces, using table manners he normally reserved for company, as if a stranger were present. When she brought back the magazine, her mother flipped through it anxiously and, finding an article on Tracy Austin, “Baby Tiger,” read out a description of the courses that her California high school required: “English, Western Civ., whatever that is,” read her mother, “Typing, Public Speaking, and Office Assistant. Office Assistant,” her mother repeated for emphasis. “Can you just see it?” Kathy listened raptly. Her mother went on. “Anyway, you can’t take stuff like that at Plymouth without being in the nonacademic course. You know, the General Course for the dummies? That wouldn’t do you too much good college-wise, so you’ll have to take regular classes next year, but Ken Hammer said he was going to ... Here her mother paused for the right words. “Well, you’ll be in a brand-new program. Same courses but not the same work load, so you can practice and all.”

“Mom, what does this have to do with Mr. Hammer’s election?” Kathy asked.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with that. Nothing!” said her mother. “That doesn’t have a thing to do with you.”

“Then how come you were talking about it, Dad?”

Her mother answered this. “Kathy, Mr. Hammer is also going to have some work done in Daddy’s lab, that’s all. That’s Daddy’s business, and that’s why he was talking about it. Daddy’s doing Mr. Hammer’s campaign photography and printing up his literature at the shop. It’s a nice job for Daddy. It doesn’t have anything to do with this. Won’t it be nice if he gets elected and the school gets six new courts, though?”

“I don’t need them,” Kathy said. “I play in Swampscott anyway because Marty’s there. How come ...

“By the way,” her mother interrupted, “I spoke about this to Marty, and she thinks it’s a terrific idea. Fabulous. It’s what you deserve, honey. You’re never going to have to kill yourself over the books again. Isn’t that great?”

“I guess so,” Kathy agreed. She watched as her father left off eating rather quickly, put his plate in the sink, and disappeared into the living room. She tried to make sense of the many threads of things she’d heard. Finally she said, “A special program for talented and gifted kids like myself.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Well, there’s Jimmy Morrow, who’s a junior and all-state basketball, but there
aren’t
any kids like myself, Mom.” Kathy looked behind her chair to where her mother stood at the sink, her arms elbow deep in suds.

“You bet, there’s no one like you,” her mother agreed.

“But I didn’t mean it like that, Mom,” Kathy began.

“Kathy, you know what?”

Kathy expected an off-putting remark about being too young to grasp certain things. “What?” she asked cautiously.

“You’re going to be New England champion this year, honey,” said her mother without turning around.

Later on in the evening, after Kathy had settled herself in front of the television, Jody mentioned Mr. Hammer’s visit that afternoon. “Mom and Dad aren’t charging him for the campaign photographs and printing, you know,” she said.

Seated on the bench for what Kathy knew would be her last game of the afternoon, she relaxed, and she smiled for the first time that day. She smiled because she had won her first round easily and was beating Betty Schultz in the second round by a score of six-one, five-love. She smiled because Ruth Gumm had been placed way down the draw from her with a first-round match against the number one player, Jennifer Robbins the great. Kathy smiled at the sixteen beautifully swept red-clay courts, pride of the Newton Country Club, difficult for some of the girls, easy for Kathy’s game, and she smiled because Oliver was watching from somewhere, not wanting to show himself because of Marty. Marty was also watching from somewhere. She had come to Newton on official club business, but she stood under the grandstand at times and behind a speaker’s platform at other times, keeping track of Kathy’s games. Had Oliver sat up front and had Kathy done badly, Marty would have forbade his presence forevermore.