by Roger Herst
Experience had taught Gabby that young players often played superb tennis in the opening games, but faltered in subsequent sets. When the midshipwoman’s backhand fell apart, she was unable to rally with her stronger forehand and volley, largely because Gabby would not give her the chance. Point by point, she miss-hit balls directed to the backhand side. Her rooting section continued to cheer, however, even during an ignominious double-fault that lost the match.
Joel descended from the stands to greet Gabby as she was about to leave the court. “You were just great, Gabby,” he exclaimed, his excitement apparent. His reached out to prevent a damp towel from falling from her neck. “I had no idea you were capable of such finesse.”
From under the large visor she used to block the sun, she lifted her chin and whispered, “I surprised myself. Top secret, please. I wouldn’t want my opponents to know how scared I was.”
“They probably think a woman of the clergy relies on the Almighty who, I would suspect, isn’t a tad interested in the outcome of a tennis match, whether here or at Wimbledon.”
“Who knows? HaKodesh Baruch-Hu, the Holy One, Blessed be He, might be an ardent fan.”
Lydia drew alongside. When Gabby introduced him as the person who had prevented a shooting on New Year’s Eve, Lydia mentally fit the pieces together, including the fact that he was probably making claims to Gabby's affections. On the one hand, she was disappointed with his physical presence, but, on the other, gratified by the thought that he wouldn’t be much competition.
“That’s the way I like you to play, Gabby,” Lydia said, addressing her student and cutting Joel out of the conversation, though he showed no sign of offense. “Midway in the second set, you had fire in your belly. Same strokes as before, but more fire. With that you can beat players a lot better than this Navy chick. You’re scheduled to play a hot shit from the University of Florida at four. Players from Florida think they’re God’s gift to tennis. They train hard and don’t have to contend with bad weather. I haven’t seen this gal play, but she clobbered her opponents in the opening rounds. You’ll need to take some wind from her sails.”
Lydia steered Gabby toward the newly constructed women’s locker room in the basement of the Visitor’s Center. Joel followed on Gabby’s left. “I could use a shower and a place to rest. Are you staying for the next match?” Gabby asked him.
“Wouldn’t miss it for a day of hunting. Got a reservation at the Marriott Courtyard tonight, with the hope of seeing you in the semis and finals tomorrow. If I’m lucky, you’ll have dinner with me tonight. Got some news to relate. And of course,” he glanced over to Lydia, “I’d love you to be my guest, too. Gabby has said wonderful things about you. Now that I’ve seen the results of your coaching, I know why.”
Lydia remained stone silent, to the point of rudeness.
Joel, who generally did not think in such terms, cheerfully sweetened his invitation, “They have fabulous early American food at the Maryland Inn in town. You’ll love the colonial atmosphere.”
Gabby took his arm with a friendly squeeze. “Let me have a word with my coach first. We’ll let you know at four. I need to get off my feet before facing the bomber from Florida. If I don’t, we’ll all be eating dinner at McDonald’s in the District.”
“Where are you staying this evening?” he asked.
“I think we’re in the midshipwomen’s dorm. Actually, I’m looking forward to being a college kid again. Kinda cool, isn’t it?”
“You look like a co-ed in your tennis outfit. And you play like one on the courts,” he said, before she turned away.
Gabby was on her game in the 4:00 p.m. match. The Floridian possessed good topspin strokes, but was not consistent enough to defend against Gabby’s accurate ground shots. And her serve wasn’t strong enough to keep Gabby off the net. Lydia had never seen her student so pumped up and aggressive. The victory, coupled with a bye in the first round and another win, placed Gabby in the semi-finals scheduled for the following morning. Joel phoned the hotel to make dinner reservations for three.
Lydia loathed social rivals almost as much as tennis opponents and, by this time, there was no doubt in her mind about Joel. When Gabby accepted his invitation, her disposition went from bad to worse. It had crossed Gabby’s mind that, this evening, Lydia might want to spend the evening in the dorms with the other athletes, but this was not the case. She assumed Lydia agreed to join them for dinner to shop what she saw as her competition.
The Maryland Inn prided itself on dating back to George Washington’s day, though the original structure, a roadside tavern, had been razed and rebuilt several times. A plaque erected near the entrance proclaimed that the nation’s supreme commander had lodged there during his historic march south to defeat British General Charles Cornwall at Yorktown, Virginia and win independence for the fledgling United States. Across the street, at the Maryland State House, General Washington had resigned his commission with the Continental Army in 1783. To create a colonial ambiance, the hotel dining room was dark—its tables and chairs wooden, its place-settings pewter. A single candle illuminated each table, providing barely sufficient light to read the menu.
Once they settled at a corner table with a partial view into Lord Baltimore Street, Lydia fell into a retiring mood and ceased communicating altogether. Not knowing that she could be quite good company under different circumstances, Joel had no benchmark by which to measure her sullenness. After several attempts to draw her into conversation failed, he spoke directly to Gabby, almost as though Lydia were not there.
They ordered Cornish game hen. Joel poured a California Zinfandel and toasted their tennis champion, an early salute to victory the next morning.
“Now hold on, Joel. A win doesn’t make a champion,” Gabby said, reluctant to drink more than a quarter glass. Lydia, who usually consumed no more than a sip or two, drank as though she were imbibing Gatorade after a dehydrating match, refilling her own glass before Joe could seize the opportunity.
“I want you to know that I’m filing suit in California,” Joel informed Gabby, looking over the rim of his wineglass. “I tried reasoning with Agnes. I offered to go out there and talk for as long as she wanted. But she made it clear she won’t negotiate under any conditions. As far as she’s concerned, I’ll take the kids over her dead body.”
“Have you retained local counsel here in Washington?” Gabby asked.
“A woman with shark’s teeth and the bite of a scorpion. Moran, Skilling, and Wilford has an office in San Diego, so the West Coast branch will do the footwork out there.”
“What do your boys think?”
“I called them to discuss it. They’re unhappy, of course. A knock-down-drag-out legal battle is not something they can comprehend, though I believe they’d still rather be in Washington than California. Isn’t that strange? The Golden State has every possible attraction. Miles and miles of sandy beaches. Mountains for skiing. Lakes for boating and fishing. But Washington is still their home.”
Lydia did not try to hide her fury. She could not imagine what Gabby saw in this short, overweight man with a complicated family entanglement. She had seen hosts of intelligent, professional women make idiotic choices in men, but had, somehow, thought Gabby was different. She directed a scowl at Gabby, speaking with disapproving eyes. Did Gabby really want to get mixed up in a complicated domestic affair like this?
“I feel better now,” Joel said, responding to Gabby’s questions. “Before I was sitting on the fence eating my kishkas. Indecision is exhausting. At least now I know the direction. Win or lose, I’ve got a plan. I’ve already written off the kids’ college fund. Next goes my pension and stock portfolio. Then my house. My practice will always feed us. The kids will have to live with me in a rented apartment and attend state universities.”
His hand rested on the tabletop. She reached out to touch it and traced the indentations of his knuckles with her index finger. He turned his hand up to take her fingers in his own and held on. “I thin
k,” she said, “that Donald and Ian have a father who loves them very much. Someday, maybe not soon, but someday, they’ll appreciate the sacrifices he made on their behalf. I can’t wait to meet them.”
***
The semi-final match on Sunday morning started well but did not end in success for Gabby. Pitted against a sinewy, almost masculine looking player from Charlestown, South Carolina, Gabby took a 3-0 lead in the first set, then proceeded to lose five straight games as her opponent confidently rallied. Lydia, who had made a point of not sitting beside Joel in the stands, was furious. Old errors she had been trying to root out of her student’s game had returned. The forehand suffered most and Gabby's opponent exploited the weakness. Gabby lost the first and second sets by wide margins, abruptly ending her participation in the tournament. She was crestfallen, but pleased with the success she’d achieved against younger competitors. Once out of the competition, she saw no reason to remain in Annapolis.
Joel suggested they find a restaurant for lunch and afterwards catch a tour boat sailing the Severn to the Chesapeake Bay. Lydia, angry with Gabby on multiple levels, wanted to return home to the District immediately.
“Tuesday afternoon,” she scolded Gabby before leaving, “we must work on your forehand—a lot. Budget at least two hours. And expect to be exhausted afterward. If we don’t fix your game, we’ll get creamed in the Los Angeles Invitational. They know how to divide and conquer there. California players will spot your weakness and direct everything they can at you. I won’t be able to do more than stand by and watch the massacre.” She completely ignored Joel.
The moment Lydia left, Joel said, “Wow! Doesn’t she understand that making the semi-finals is damn impressive? What’s with this Lioness of Sheba? Where does she get off talking to you like that? I’ve got to hand it to you, Gabby. I would have walked away or, better yet, thrown a punch at her pretty jaw.”
“Her bark is worse than her bite. It’s a persona she cultivates. She’s a fabulous coach and player and when I get frustrated, I remind myself that I wouldn’t have gotten this far without her. And we’re a good doubles team. The L.A. match is just a warmup for the Pro-Amateur Charity Tournament in Washington this May.”
“When are you going to California?” he asked.
“Weekend after next. I’m visiting my father. He’s got a new lady friend he wants me to meet.”
“I’m scheduled to see my boys this coming weekend, but maybe I can switch to the next week. I’d love to introduce you.”
“It’s going to be a busy time, Joel, especially if Lydia and I stay in the tournament more than a few rounds.”
“It’s important to me, Gabby,” he said, putting a retaining hand on her arm.
“Well, let’s see how things go. No promises, but I’ll do what I can.”
Lydia’s departure was a relief. The idea of a quiet lunch and boat ride on the Chesapeake appealed to Gabby. They chose a restaurant on the wharf that was crowded with families enjoying Sunday brunch, and the service proved extremely slow. While they waited for their salads, Gabby excused herself to call the number she had for Marcel Clipper. She expected to leave a message, but, to her surprise, he was spending the weekend at his aunt’s house.
“I wanted to update you,” she told him. “I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Shaboya to talk about the team.”
He was clearly puzzled that she’d called him.
“I want a definite commitment from Shaboya to support you guys. I know he’s got other things on his mind, but I’m hoping to whet his appetite with money for the program. I don’t think he’ll be indifferent to that, do you?”
“He don’t talk to me, but I know he’s always thinking about money.”
“On Thursday evening, I’m meeting with Bart Skulkin’s family and a wealthy businessman who regularly donates substantial sums to local causes. I’m going to sell him on contributing to your program in Mr. Skulkin’s memory. My appointment with Dr. Shaboya is at 11:00 a.m. on Wednesday morning. Can you and the team meet me during the lunch period in the cafeteria? I’d like to talk with the fellows. By the way, how’s your own tennis?”
“Okay, I guess, but it ain’t improving. How about yours?”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I just got whipped in a tournament. A college girl from South Carolina blew me off the court with the consistency of a ball machine. I’ll tell you the miserable details on Wednesday. At the cafeteria? At noon?”
“I’ll talk to the guys. They like you, so I think they’ll come.”
The salads were on the table when Gabby rejoined Joel. They consisted of a nondescript combination of lettuce and tomatoes, with a pedestrian honey-mustard vinaigrette dressing. It didn’t matter. Both felt comfortable in each other’s company and conversation was easy. Normally losing a match depressed Gabby, but today she was relieved to be done with competition. How was a thirty-four-year-old expected to beat women in their twenties who had the luxury of training at least five days a week and playing in competitions every weekend? And, at the moment, Joel’s praise for having reached the semi-finals felt far better than Lydia’s recriminations.
The double-masted Chesapeake schooner Gabby and Joel boarded for a three-hour sail had once delivered produce and lumber to villages scattered around the Bay. It spoke to Gabby of an earlier, simpler era when farmers and watermen worked the rich waters and fertile fields of Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Small sailboats, dancing in the gusting winds, entertained them. Just off starboard, a troop of wide-winged terns glided on air currents alongside the schooner, enticing passengers to throw scraps of food that they snatched from the air in feats of aerial acrobatics. The afternoon passed enjoyably. On the Annapolis dock, as they separated for the drive home, he promised to call to ensure that she had arrived home safely.
Promptly at 9:00 p.m. her home phone rang.
“You were great this weekend,” he said.
“Not enough to win.”
“In my book you were. I don’t know of a single professional woman of your caliber who could play a match half as well. The young always supplant the old. It’s a credit to you that you did so well. Say, what’s with your friend, Lydia? Did I do or say something that offended her?”
Gabby laughed. “Lydia’s a complex person, Joel. A damn good coach and player, but her emotional life is very complicated. She was in a bad mood. Take my word for it, she can be absolutely charming.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“At least she doesn’t dissimulate.”
“Think there’s a chance she might come to like me, or at least be civil?”
Gabby laughed again but didn’t explain. “No,” she said, “not a chance in this world.”
“Is there something I could do to make things better between us?”
“It isn’t your fault. Please, trust me on this one. Just don’t let her irritate you. If she wants to be sour, that’s her business. I like you just the way you are.”
Anacostia High School
April
It seemed to Gabby that DC schools were constantly under fire by well-intentioned but distant educators, irate parents, and ambitious congressional staffers, all of whom demanded top to bottom reorganization to fix what they deemed to be irreparably broken. Cannon fodder in this process of renewal, school principals were frequently moved, retired, or terminated. One by one, Dr. Caleb Shaboya’s colleagues had fallen victim to seasonal purges, yet he had demonstrated a remarkable survival instinct and managed to remain employed either at the downtown headquarters or in one or another of the troubled high schools. Passed over for advancement into the senior administration some ten years before, he had consigned himself to completing his career at the challenging helm of Anacostia High.
But the years of politics had taken a toll on him. The defeatism rooted in well-entrenched bureaucracies had stolen his zeal to make a difference in the lives of his students. What seemed possible at the beginning of his career now seemed mere fantasy. So long as the urban
black community rested on the shoulders of impoverished single mothers, their children could expect little more than a rudimentary education. Shaboya would have happily accepted an invitation to retire early, but it was never offered.
His gait was burdened as he lumbered through the school hallways, greeting his youngsters with avuncular kindness, on his way to meet with Gabby in his office. Few white women, other than consultants to the Department of Education, visited his school, and Gabby’s presence lifted his spirits. He greeted her with a wide smile, revealing extremely healthy teeth. She was later to learn that the coarseness of the hand he offered for a handshake resulted from his passion for growing vegetables. The care he was unable to bestow upon his students, he lavished upon tomatoes and cucumbers on a three-acre farm he owned in Charles County. His faculty received bib lettuce in the spring and tasty cherry tomatoes during the last month before summer recess.
“Yes, yes, yes…” he said, showing Gabby to a chair opposite a desk piled high with folders. Three tremendous Rolodex spindles on his desk suggested his refusal to enter the computer age and bequeathed the marvels of cyberspace to a succeeding generation. “The police have been at school many times asking questions about Bart Skulkin,” he said slowly, pronouncing each syllable as though he were introducing a new word into English. “It’s a shame they can’t apprehend the criminal. You can’t replace a man like Skulkin. We have a committee looking into how we can keep his memory alive at school. A plaque outside the gym, perhaps. Something with a tennis theme. Or maybe, a showcase in the study hall displaying his text books on American history.”
This is what she had expected, but not what she had in mind. “I was hoping for something closer to Bart’s heart, Dr. Shaboya. I’ve known him since he was a boy. He adored the kids on his team—Marcel Clipper, Horace Sklar, Diamond Moore, and the others. I suppose he loved coaching tennis because he always defended the underdog. I understand that only a few students play tennis at Anacostia. They tell me basketball is king here. I can understand that. But tennis can also have a place in the lives of young people. And, unlike basketball, it’s a game they can play all their lives, not just in their school years. It’s my conviction that Bart sacrificed his life for his boys.”
