by Roger Herst
Lydia was just beginning a second set in singles competition when Gabby, Mickey, and Sam mounted the two rows of bleachers flanking Court 4. Wherever Lydia played, men congregated, ostensibly to watch her hard-hitting game, but also to admire her figure in motion. Never once did her eyes rise into the stands to acknowledge encouragement from her admirers.
In the second set, her opponent, a tall, wide-faced Korean-American with classic strokes, was clearly daunted and discouraged. Unable to adjust to Lydia’s power, she internalized her mistakes, compounding her problems. Her serve alone worked, but was not enough to stave off an ignominious defeat.
When Sam Lewyn congratulated Lydia on the victory and commented that she must be exhausted, her reply was Spartan and sharp. “Truth is, I don’t even know if I’m tired or not. I only know that Gabby and I are scheduled to play a second round together. I’m the proverbial guy who can’t walk and chew gum at the same time. Can't worry about fatigue.”
After a twenty minute rest, Lydia and Gabby learned they were to play on Court 3, where five rows of seats flanked the northern perimeter. Twenty or so spectators were waiting when they arrived to take a look at their adversaries, who were already warming up. One was a chunky African American, quick on her feet with a mean chop volley. Her slower partner had sun-tanned skin and frizzy hair that protruded from her baseball cap.
As they selected racquets at the bench, Lydia whispered to Gabby, “The older lady doesn’t bend her knees, so we’ll hit low to her feet. She loses eye contact at hip level on the backhand. The black lady is so busy getting her feet into position she won’t notice if we improve ours. Let’s angle her on the forehand. I don’t think she’ll do well when stretching for balls.”
The shaking of hands at the referee’s stand was a tournament formality that Lydia usually tried to avoid. This time she was unsuccessful and, in revenge, she forced her opponents to sidestep around her in order to take their positions on the court for the warmup rallies. Gabby smiled graciously and asked about their hometowns. The white woman resided locally in Santa Monica; her partner lived in a development community north of San Diego. Gabby took a moment to scan the stands and there, in the second row, was Joel Fox’s smiling face. “Go get ’em, Gabby,” he yelled with the assurance of a dedicated NFL fan. “We’re pulling for ya!” He pointed at Donald and Ian beside him—one with pale skin and abundant freckles, the other with wild curly hair and a glittering smile as a flash of sunlight reflected off his braces.
Joel appeared flush with contentment. She had witnessed this before with parents who didn’t live with their children. She didn’t think he would be able to lip-read from such a distance but tried anyway, “Thanks for coming, Joel. Great looking kids.”
As the match began, Gabby drove a backhand return-of-service into the net, and then hit a simple forehand groundstroke wide and long. Her opponents quickly targeted her as the weak member of the duo. The black woman powered a volley at her feet, which she was unable to scoop up. By this time, Lydia’s reprimanding eyes were upon her. “Shape up and do it quickly,” they said. Easier said than done. Gabby over-reached for a volley and sent it beyond the baseline.
Fortunately, Lydia served the second game, overwhelming the receivers. Four straight points evened the set score. From then on, play was less erratic, with both sides giving and taking volleys. Lydia tipped the balance, always accelerating the pace with sharp, confident strokes. With each game, play from the other side slipped a notch. Lydia’s example inspired Gabby to ratchet up her own response, forcing her returns at sharper angles and lower at her opponents’ feet. After each point, Donald and Ian Fox cheered along with their father.
By the second game of the second set, victory for the Browner/Lewyn team was a foregone conclusion. But on the third point, the unexpected occurred. The woman with frizzy hair returned Gabby’s volley down the middle of the court, at shoulder level. Gabby, who had been covering the backhand side, moved right to cut it off, while Lydia sidestepped to her left with the same idea in mind. In that fraction of a second, each lost sight of the other, their racquets raised in preparation for half volleys. Instead of one player pulling out at the last instant, both continued their strokes until their racquets crashed into each other. Upon contact, the high-tension graphite of Lydia’s frame spiked Gabby’s strings, dribbling the ball into the net. Had Gabby not stepped away suddenly to the right while twisting her torso left, the result might not have been any more damaging than a set of broken strings. But her sharp turn and rotation in the wrong direction caused her gastrocnemius muscle to rip. Lydia recovered and turned back to her partner, but found her sinking to the ground. Gabby’s face contorted as a burst of searing pain shot up her leg. Spectators wailed aloud almost in unison and jumped to their feet, thinking that Lydia’s racquet had struck her partner’s skull and knocked her unconscious. Gabby curled into a fetal position on the warm court. Lydia stepped over, offering a hand to haul her onto her feet.
Sam Lewyn was first out of the stands, with Joel Fox on his heels. He moved with the long, purposeful strides of a physician preparing to asses an emergency. It took him only a few seconds to see that Gabby had not suffered a blow to the head or, for that matter, to the body; she focused his evaluation by pointing to her calf. Sam, an avid sports spectator, possessed a working knowledge of common muscle injuries. Professional basketball and football players tore their gastrocs all the time. His fingers knew just where to probe the calf and he could feel where blood was already hemorrhaging into the wound.
“Sorry, Gabby. That’s the end of this match,” he said sympathetically, but with professional firmness.
“No. No,” Gabby replied. “Just give me a moment and I’ll be back on my feet. I’m sure I can still play. It isn’t fair to anyone here.”
“Sure, sure” he replied, looking at Lydia and offering a hand to lift his daughter onto her feet. Gabby immediately transferred weight to her right side and, with her father’s helping hand, pulled herself upright.
Sam cocked his head in his daughter’s direction. “Now, put some weight on that wounded paw and let’s see you move around.”
When she tried, a new bolt of pain flashed from her leg into the spine. She ground her teeth together to stop herself from howling. A second attempt at walking was no more successful than the first.
“You see,” said her father, placing a shoulder under her armpit for support. “As I said before, this match is over. And for you, so is the tournament. There’s no way, short of a divine miracle, that your gastroc will heal in less than three weeks.”
Lydia rudely elbowed herself in front of Gabby. Never had she withdrawn from tournament play because of an injury, and she had no intention of establishing a precedent. With both hands she cupped Gabby’s cheeks forcing her to look directly into her own eyes. “Listen to me, girl. You’ve gotta play through it. You understand? Play through it. If you concentrate, you won’t feel the pain. Never let something like this beat you. It’s a matter of control, right? Do you control your body or does your body control you? We don’t retire unless we get whipped. And, as far as I can see, these ladies can’t whip us.”
“Nonsense!” Joel interjected. “That’s sheer cow manure! You heard Dr. Lewyn. This isn’t a temporary muscle pull. The gastroc is ripped. And if she manages to hobble through this match, what are you going to do about the next one? Have Gabby stand on the court like a barber pole?”
Lydia had disliked Joel from the start, and right now she liked him even less. “Bug off, bozo,” she growled. “Since when do you dictate when a match is over? I haven’t noticed you with a racquet in your hand. As far as I know, the only thing you can run is a dental drill.”
“He’s right,” Sam Lewyn seconded. Rather than enter into a dispute with Lydia, he addressed his daughter directly. “Don’t tempt fate, honey, and injure yourself more. Your wound could easily tear further and then you’ll be on crutches for months rather than weeks.”
“How do you fix this?�
�� she asked.
“Nothing but rest. Torn muscles heal by themselves. You need to give the ruptured tissue a chance to heal. And for the pain, we’ll get you some naproxen sulfide. A set of crutches will keep you mobile. If we can’t find a shop that sells them today, we’ll go to UCLA Hospital. I know people in the Orthopedics Department.”
“Fight,” Lydia shouted at her furiously. “Fight this, goddamn it. I’m telling you. Don’t let them weaken your resolve. We’ll beat these gals. We’re already on our way.”
The opposing team broke through the cordon around Gabby to offer sympathy and praise their opponents. Winning by default had not been in their game plan. A few moments later, Donald and Ian Fox arrived.
“Hey, Rabbi, you’re a darn good player,” Ian said. “Sorry you got hurt.”
Gabby, in pain and close to tears, tried her best to respond cordially.
Lydia looked around for allies but found none. She knew that torn muscles often cripple athletes and, against every instinct, had to admit that Dr. Lewyn was probably right. She might have tried to play through an injury like this, but she knew Gabby wouldn’t. And deep down, little as she liked to admit it, she knew she shouldn’t. To indicate that she now accepted the inevitable, she ducked under her partner’s free shoulder to offer support. Together, the three of them hobbled from the court.
On the sidelines, Joel introduced himself to Gabby’s father as a friend from Washington. A moment later he relieved Sam of his daughter’s weight, and instructed his boys to retrieve the tennis equipment Lydia and Gabby had deposited on the bench.
In the parking lot, beside Dr. Lewyn’s huge Chevrolet Suburban, Lydia and Joel glowered at each other as they eased Gabby into the rear seat. Mickey Charles, who had been silent throughout the episode, climbed into the front passenger seat. Joel’s sons stowed Gabby’s athletic paraphernalia in the rear storage compartment, then stepped beside the open passenger door.
“Thanks again for coming,” Gabby said to Joel, just before her father slid the door shut. Through the open window, she continued, “Sorry, I let everybody down.”
“You didn’t,” Joel declared. “An accident like this can happen anytime, to anybody. I’ll call you at the Hilton tonight. Take care of yourself and, as we say in the dental profession, don’t try chewing rock candy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind as I turn into a couch potato before the boob tube.”
Beverly Hills Hilton
A little practice with her new aluminum crutches had helped Gabby learn how to move around without placing weight on her injured leg. And the setback had provided her an opportunity to share an unexpectedly pleasant Shabbat dinner with her father and Mickey at their home. Afterwards, Sam drove her back to the Hilton.
There, she learned that her partner had advanced to the singles quarterfinals without losing a set. When Lydia returned to their room after dinner with tennis friends, she refrained from mentioning their earlier collision. Just as well, Gabby thought. She didn’t care who had been responsible for the collision and didn’t much want to discuss it. She’d propped her bad leg on a chair and was watching, but not listening to, CNN news. The effects of the naproxen her father had prescribed had begun to wear off, and an additional dose would be required—more medication than she felt comfortable taking. At the moment, she was worrying about how she would manage the backlog of work awaiting her in Washington.
After a shower, Lydia emerged from the bathroom draped in an immense terrycloth robe and stretched out on her bed. Gabby admired her shapely feet and long, straight toes that had never been disfigured by high-heel shoes. Unlike most other women she knew, Lydia didn’t need them to slenderize her ankles.
“So what do you think of Mickey Charles?” Lydia asked.
“Country club woman, if you know what I mean. She’s spent a lifetime doing lunches at the Hillcrest Golf and Country Club, occasionally playing the back nine holes when not monopolized by men. She’s probably never worked a day in her life and has managing to find one man after another to support her life style. My father is today’s chicken. The minute he can no longer support her in the manner to which she’s accustomed, he’s toast. If he gets sick, I doubt she’ll stick around.”
“She seemed attentive enough today.”
“My guess is she’s putting it on for the out-of-town daughter. This is Hollywood, you know. It’s easy enough to worry about his sweet tooth, but wait until he gets a coronary or an enlarged prostate and must get up four times a night. She’ll disappear in a heartbeat.”
“That doesn’t sound like the non-judgmental, charitable Gabby Lewyn I know.” Lydia lifted her legs over the bed and planted her feet on the floor. “I’m usually the one picking away at the frailties of others, and you are always defending them.”
“I know,” said Gabby, a little chagrined. “But we’re talking visceral reactions here. Remember that, for me, Mickey is not my dad’s date, but my mother’s replacement. She may become my stepmother.”
“Your father seems happy enough.”
“I try to keep his welfare in mind when the catty bitch in me rears its ugly head. His happiness is paramount; I can’t forget that it’s his life. If I lived in L.A., things might be different.”
“What does Terry think?”
“She’s wrapped up in her own family and delighted Dad has company. Terry doesn’t want the responsibility. And when Mickey Charles disappears and Dad needs care, she’ll excuse herself as caregiver because she’s too busy with her own family. It seems perfectly logical to her that, since I’m single, I should be the one to provide.”
Lydia slid off the bed and stepped over to Gabby, whose eyes remained on the flashing television screen. She dragged a chair from a nearby table and positioned it beside Gabby’s injured leg, touching her shin and speaking with uncharacteristic tenderness. “I’m sorry about what happened today. You know me, Gabby. I want to win so badly I lose track of the facts. I thought it was just a minor muscle pull and didn’t appreciate how badly you were hurt.”
Gabby hadn’t been angry; she’d long ago realized that aggressiveness was simply part or Lydia’s personality, and had learned not to be offended. Nonetheless, she felt something in heart soften, some stiffness melt away. “Not to worry,” she replied. “I felt guilty watching you play so many consecutive sets. Your chance of winning in singles is much better now.”
Lydia, her hazel-blond hair still damp from her shower, moved her hand toward the knee, then dropped underneath to the torn gastroc. “Let’s see if I can feel the rupture,” she said, probing gently with her fingers.
Gabby elevated her leg slightly to relax the muscle and moved Lydia’s hand over the wound. “You can feel the tear when you press. It’s very sore.”
Lydia bent forward to gently message the area with two fingers. Close to the injury, the tissue was too sensitive for any pressure; she lightened and lengthened her stroke below the knee, her fingers barely touching Gabby’s skin now. With her other hand, she began to loosen the cramped muscles in Gabby’s calf and shin, moving down toward the ankle. Her fingers massaged the Achilles tendon and followed the plane of Gabby’s foot to the toes, which she separated and massaged individually. Gabby felt her body relax as the pain began to ebb away from her consciousness.
As Lydia worked, the robe slipped from her shoulders revealing her small, but perfectly proportioned breasts. She made no effort to pull the garment back into position; with a slight shoulder movement, she freed it to fall further. Her swanlike neck seemed to blend into her sternum, which Gabby noticed, in some distant part of her mind, was without sun blemishes or age wrinkles, despite countess hours of outdoor exposure.
Lydia’s hand moved along the top of Gabby’s leg, above the knee, tracing the quadriceps. Her touch was now gentle as a feather, an exquisite sensation poised midway between pain and pleasure.
“You like this?” she asked softy. But it was more declaration than question. Gabby’s relaxed body and heightened breath provide
d any necessary answer.
Still, she voiced her reply. “Yes,” she said very softly.
Lydia’s eyes were now fixed on hers, the fingers still moving along the top of her thigh. “Since Kate left, there’s been a void in my life. I’m quite capable of living by myself, you know, but I don’t like it. I don’t think God created people to sleep alone, no matter what their sex, but then that’s you’re department. I won’t have trouble finding a replacement for Kate, but I’m very particular about the women in my life. There are a number of eligible ladies who would love to fulfill their fantasies by mothering me to death. But you’re different, Gabby. You’ve got a professional life. You’re a jock. And you don’t need somebody like me for anything other than companionship.”
For an instant, Gabby’s eyes closed and she contracted into primal yearnings. No woman had had ever affected her like Lydia did. She’d known, of course, that despite the societal proscription women could be and were attracted to other women. A number of her congregants had confessed this kind of attraction to her; usually they’d been women encountering a side of themselves they’d never suspected and looking for understanding. She would remind them that the quest for human bonding was neither heterosexual nor homosexual, but universal, transcending the physical. Many thinkers, reaching as far back as Plato and forward into the modern era as Oscar Wilde, had written about the phenomenon. It had usually seemed to help; human beings are almost invariably comforted by context. Now, she was mildly amused by the tiny part of her mind still stubbornly thinking.
“You like what you see, don’t you?” Lydia asked, her voice soft and seductive.
“Yes, you’re beautiful, Lydia.” She reached up to touch her face softly and Lydia sighted, leaning her cheek into Gabby’s hand.
“No one understands a woman’s body better than another woman—the secret crevasses and hidden spots of tenderness. Men can never really know what a woman feels. They can only guess. Even if they’re good at sex—even if they’re attentive and as gentle as they can be—their experience is second-hand and mediated. Their bodies are designed to pump and push, to dominate and penetrate. It’s ironic when you think about it. Society says that heterosexual love is sublime, when, in reality, it is simply practical. Nature has programmed mammals for procreation, and procreation is a matter of selection followed by sexual domination. But lesbian love is different, intimate in a way you haven’t experienced.”
