A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle

by Roger Herst

  Once at home, Gabby listened to the messages on her answering machine until she heard Joel’s voice. At the moment, he was one of the very few people she wanted to talk to.

  “What can I say?” his message asked. “You and Lydia played like champions. If you want company amid this swirl of fame, I’m at home. Joel.”

  She didn’t want to be surrounded by people, but didn’t want to be alone. Her return call caught him just as he was about to leave for a bite to eat. “Can I bring something over?” he asked.

  “No. Just yourself. I really don’t feel like anything but cereal. Sounds dumb, doesn’t it? I’m so tense nothing else would stay down.”

  “How about a box of granola?”

  “Just bring yourself, silly. I’ll supply the food. And don’t try to phone me again. I’m taking the phone off the hook. Dov Shellenberg is on call through Sunday, so I’m not worried about an emergency. I’ve got a new fire raging in Anacostia. At my door, give the old Boy Scout ring: four long blasts and a staccato beep.”

  “I’m an old Eagle Scout and never heard of that.”

  “And yet I had it on the best authority….”

  She met Joel at the door with a light kiss upon the cheek.

  “I could rustle up something to eat,” she said as they meandered toward the kitchen. “I took some expensive cooking lessons a few years ago, but forgot most of the recipes. I’m good for Chinese stir-fry. You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

  They stood side by side before a nearly empty refrigerator, the sign of a cautious eater who hated to cook for herself.

  “I’m up for a bowl of cereal with you,” he said playfully.

  “You need more than that, Dr. Fox.”

  “No, Rabbi Lewyn, the truth is, that I really don’t need a single new calorie. If I’m going to have a chance in hell with a lady as fit as you, I’m going to need an industrial strength diet, like water and vitamin supplements for a year. You've become a serious problem. When we returned from Quantico I looked into a mirror at my excess poundage. It’s easy to ignore in the company of other fat people. But for the first time I had to ask myself how you might take an interested in a fatso like me. And then I took a long look at the short legs. Well, God must have had a purpose in making me short. You, better than anyone, know about such things. I can’t do much about my height, except perhaps buy a pair of elevator shoes, but I can do something about the girth. And I’m also thinking about some judicious hair transplants.”

  She turned to him and planted an affectionate kiss on his cheek. “Listen to me, Joel. Please, listen carefully. In my book you’re just fine. You don’t have to lose a single ounce on my account or seed a single hair follicle. You are who you are. What makes you refreshing is that you have no pretense to be what you’re not.”

  He answered with a wry shake of his head. “Well, well, among her many talents the lady knows how to fib.”

  She reached for a plastic bottle of low-fat milk and two bananas. From the pantry she provided him with a selection of cereals and then set out two bowls and two spoons on the kitchen table. “Bon appetite, she said.

  Once the cereal was poured, she moved to a matter that kept returning to her mind. “Between matches I had a call from Marcel Clipper, captain of the tennis team at Anacostia. A girlfriend of a teammate brought him her boyfriend’s new handgun. A Glock, I think Marcel called it. The girl said her boyfriend got a special deal from a dealer. Sounds like a Saturday night special to me. Marcel asked if he should return it to the dealer. I told him to take it to the police, but he nixed that idea cold. I told him that we’d think of something to do right after the tournament.”

  “Then you take it to the police,” Joel didn’t have to think long on the problem.

  “What will they do with it?”

  “Probably put it into a storage locker for a while. After a convenient interval, it will mysteriously disappear from the police manifest and get transferred from the storage locker to an intermediary. From this middleman, it will eventually find its way back onto the streets and be resold. Maybe back into the same part of town.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s still much better than Marcel getting shot. There’s an inexorable cycle with guns. Almost every firearm manufactured in this country since 1875 is serviceable and perfectly lethal. By some estimates, there is one gun for every citizen in the nation and that makes about three hundred million. Unlike automobiles, guns are seldom recycled into scrap metal. They’re just passed on to a new generation. Individuals can’t stop this process. If we try, we get hurt.”

  “Horrible,” she sighed. “That’s just horrible, and, somehow, I can’t accept your stoicism. You could argue that tooth decay is natural, so don’t try arresting it with floss, or, Heaven forbid, go to a dentist. Why do we put fluorine into the water supply if decay is inevitable?”

  He had been over this ground many times and didn’t feel in the mood for a debate. So he conceded with a friendly smile. “You got a point there. I’ll take my persuasions back to the drawing board.”

  After eating, they migrated from the kitchen to Gabby’s den and sat comfortably on the couch where she could rest her pulsating gastroc muscle. He volunteered to massage it, and his touch was gentle and precise. Under the circular motion of his fingers, the muscle began to relax and the tension eased from her body. To help her relax, he avoided both guns and tennis. At 10:00 p.m. he rose from the sofa, saying to her, “You know I’d love to stay here with you, but you need rest for tomorrow’s play.”

  She rose beside him, brushing his lips with hers. At the front door, they turned to hug, wrapping their arms around each other and holding on for a long moment. Gabby whispered into his ear, “I’d love you to stay with me too, Joel. It’s hard for me to say, but deep down I don’t trust most people. Maybe it’s the way I was raised. Maybe it’s my genes. But you’re different. Being with you is so easy.”

  “I appreciate that,” he whispered back.

  “The truth is that I’m not really a very good player. Better than average, perhaps. But only marginally so. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I would someday play before so many people. The idea of competing in a tournament court never crossed my mind. Then suddenly, here I am. It’s cool, but also scary.”

  “Just play your best, and let the chips fall where they may,” he replied. “To be tops with me, Gabby, you don’t have to win a single new point. You’re wonderful with or without a trail of glory. I’ll be rooting for you. And you’ve got a great partner, though I haven’t a clue why she’s so hostile to me.”

  Gabby smiled softly. “Someday I’ll explain it. But not tonight.”

  Sunday morning Gabby’s injured calf still ached. Joel’s massage had done little lasting good. Normally, she refused to medicate for aches and pains, fearing the side effects of pain-reducing drugs. But this morning she was prepared to make an exception by using what was left of the naproxen sodium her father has prescribed in Los Angeles.

  ***

  The morning sun burned through a thin film of moisture from the previous evening and threatened a scorching day. The forecast called for temperatures in the high eighties—not good tennis weather, particularly on the tournament court where, sheltered by the stands from air currents, the temperature rose twenty additional degrees. Gabby left her home two hours before the 10:00 a.m. match, telling herself it was better to pace nervously around the women’s locker room than to pace nervously around her kitchen. At least at the stadium she wouldn’t have to worry about traffic.

  A small package waited for her in the locker room. Under a tissue-paper lining was a bright yellow T-shirt with the words BART SKULKIN TENNIS CENTER and a tennis racquet logo embossed in flamboyant crimson across the front. ANACOSTIA HIGH was printed on the back. A card inside read, “Good Luck. Love, Joel.” A second box, addressed to Lydia, obviously contained a duplicate.

  She was touched. Normally, she was too self-conscious for anyth
ing but conventional white tennis garments. And this was particularly true under the scrutiny of many spectators. But Bart’s kids would be in the stands today. Wearing the shirt for them was an entirely different matter.

  Lydia was not amused by the shirts, particularly when she learned who had sent them. She’d come ready for play in a baby blue top and a short white skirt. Unlike many women playing the circuit, she wore no earrings, necklace, or watch—absolutely nothing to jangle and nothing to distract.

  “This is how she holds it together,” Gabby said to herself. The realization banished her irritation with Lydia’s tunnel vision. It hadn’t occurred to her that Lydia, for all her bluster, might be just as nervous about the match to come. She replaced her white top with the Anacostia High shirt. Her partner barely seemed to notice.

  “No matter what happens,” said Lydia, testing the feel of several different racquets for balance, “we’ll have to hit as hard as possible. These guys don’t take women seriously. They’ll show off and try to get the better of us by acting aloof and superior. The trick is to humiliate them. They’ll resent every point we make. And that will probably cause them to make serious errors.”

  Her remarks were interrupted by a series of muffled cheers that penetrated the locker room’s thick cinderblock walls. It sounded more like a football game than a tennis match, and Lydia frowned. Gabby watched her withdraw into the distance she assumed from those who came to watch her. “I’m scared too,” she thought. But she wasn’t, at least not nearly as much as she had been. The realization that her intimidating partner was as human as everyone else had unaccountably lightened her spirits.

  A single fluorescent light illuminated the passageway from the locker rooms to the tournament court, forcing Lydia and Gabby to walk through near darkness into blinding sunlight. As their pupils narrowed to accommodate the brightness, a spontaneous cheer exploded on their right and seemed to travel the entire length of the arena. Gabby lifted her eyes to a solid wall of yellow in the upper tier of grandstands; she saw hundreds of yellow T-shirts, identical to her own, all embossed in crimson with Bart Skulkin Tennis Center. There was not a single vacant seat; even the exits were crowded with standing spectators. Had the entire student body of Anacostia High come? In the space before the first row, four cheerleaders with bright yellow pompoms encouraged the students’ enthusiasm.

  The other fans in the arena had caught the spark of enthusiasm and stood cheering as the women entered. The kids made them acutely aware that the future of tennis in Southeast Washington was at stake, and the story, given extensive coverage by the media, of the dedicated high school teacher and beloved tennis coach who had been gunned down in a Southeast park touched them. Gabby was stunned and humbled by the tumult; even Lydia paused for a moment to stare at the crowd.

  Gabby’s scanned the faces in the stands, searching for Marcel Clipper, Horace Sklar, or Diamond Moore. She couldn’t pick them out among the students, but the solid figure of Dr. Shaboya, standing next to the cheerleaders, was unmistakable. He’d donned a yellow shirt and his arms were raised, as though he were invoking a blessing from the Almighty. When he saw her looking, he flashed her a victory symbol.

  Dick Melbourne, a former astronaut, had achieved fame by rescuing an imperiled NASA shuttle. His heroic external repair of a cargo hold had allowed the crew to bring the craft back to earth safely, and won him a place as one of America’s top black personalities and a career on the lecture circuit. His Pro-Am teammate was the handsome Senegalese, Fara d’Estang, an accomplished serve-and-volley player known for comedic antics on the court. In a charity match, Fara was expected not only to batter his opponents with volcanic serves and volleys, but also to entertain the crowd by clowning around with a medley of circus shots.

  Excited by the student rooting section, partisan fans began cheering for the women players even before the opening point.

  Fara d’Estang won the coin toss and elected to serve. His first service jammed Lydia close to her ribs, upsetting her timing and forcing her return into the net. For his effort he received muted hisses from the stands, foreshadowing what was to come. As the game progressed, the crowd moved from hissing to outright heckling at each point the men won. This was something neither d’Estang nor Melbourne had experienced, and both were at a loss to understand what they had done to deserve such treatment.

  When d’Estang, in an extraordinary show of athleticism, batted a ball from between his legs into the narrow space between Lydia and Gabby, only a few fans rewarded him with applause. He was unaware of the history at Anacostia High and mystified by the partisanship, especially in a charity event. He and Melbourne had pledged their winning to the American Cancer Society, in the name of Michael Sarbance, a black US Open finalist who had recently died of melanoma.

  Melbourne and d’Estang managed to win the first of three sets but failed to earn respect from the bleachers. The umpire’s reprimands to the spectators and attempts to explain the decorum of tennis to the students hadn’t helped the situation. Nor had Caleb Shaboya, who exacerbated matters by treating each point the women made as if it were the determining point at Wimbledon. His sharp, staccato voice could be heard above the cheerleaders’ chants.

  D’Estang and Melbourne lost their lead and slipped in the second set, losing by a score of 6-3. In the third, they staged a determined comeback, despite equal determination from Lydia and Gabby. But as Lydia had predicted, lost points had humiliated their adversaries, and the kids had managed to upset their consistency and undermine their natural aggressiveness. In the end, they won only two games in the third set, losing it by a score of 2-6. The moment it was over, pandemonium broke out in Anacostia’s rooting section and spread throughout the stadium.

  “Bart Skulkin! Bart Skulkin!” chanted the students as the players changed of sides for the next set. D’Estang demanded that the umpire take control, and, when he failed to get the desired response, returned to the court with an expression of disgust. “Get down from your perch and clear the stands. This match is a circus,” he cried.

  The umpire, who’d been able to hear only a portion of d’Estang’s remarks, returned the stone expression he assumed when professionals tried to make him change a line-call.

  As play resumed, the students began a syncopated chant that infected others in the stadium and the umpire intervened. He bellowed into the microphone for quiet. Caleb Shaboya stood on his seat, turned to face his students, and waved for them to desist. Only when his students settled down did he sit himself.

  “Right at their groins,” Lydia had whispered to Gabby while they were waiting to resume. She was a master at changing strategies and prepared to switch from angled shots to a frontal assault. Melbourne’s slow reflexes made him an easy target. While falling away from the net to protect himself, he made one error after another. D’Estang, who knew exactly what Lydia intended, aimed a vengeful overhead directly at Gabby. The ball brushed past her right breast and grazed her shoulder. Burning pain flashed through her chest, and, for an instant, caused her to curl into herself. Fans gasped in unison. Gabby stumbled and felt her right leg twist. The rebellious gastroc erupted in pain. She immediately righted her imbalance.

  “Are you all right?” Lydia asked anxiously. Gabby could tell she was furious.

  “Yeah, I’ll be all right. It probably looked worse than it is. The ball only nicked me. Sorry I was so slow.”

  “When I catch him in the groin, Fara will wish he hadn’t aimed at your chest. They’ll have to haul him off the court on a stretcher.”

  “Don’t do that, Lyddy,” Gabby countered, her voice commanding. “He’s only frustrated. I would be, too. Whatever is going on here, this isn’t the tennis I’m proud of. This is a charade.”

  “Get real, Gabby. We’re not competing before the Heavenly Gates. Contrary to legendary locker room pep talks, you don’t score points for sportsmanship. The only score anyone gives a shit about in this game is whether you win or lose. We either prevail or get our asses busted. Y
ou understand me? And your Bart Skulkin will be forgotten like thousands of other unfortunate victims massacred in our happy urban jungle.”

  When her rooters perceived that Gabby wanted to resume play, they eased back into their seats, registering their disfavor by booing the men. D’Estang responded with French expletives.

  “Would you like to rest for a few minutes?” the umpire inquired of Gabby.

  She stretched her leg, lifting it high toward her hip and clasping it with her free hand. “No, sir. I’m okay now.” She then gave nod to Fara d’Estang. “Let’s move on.”

  From that incident, everything went downhill for the men. The crowd did not stop jeering and the men didn’t stop making errors. With everything she had, Lydia ripped a forehand volley at d’Estang, who he adroitly batted it away. But its intent was not lost on the spectators, who stood to express their delight and encourage her to try again. She didn’t. The match ended in victory for the women. Dick Melbourne made the best of the loss with a handshake. Fara d’Estang avoided the courtesy. He snatched up his equipment and threw a contemptuous scowl at the audience, still mouthing French expletives. In frustration, he drove an abandoned tennis ball clear across the court into the fans.

  A commentator from Home Team Sports TV tried to speak with Gabby en route to the locker room, but did not pursue when she feigned pain in her chest. Her grastroc muscle hurt more, which she knew would give her considerable trouble in the final match. Where was Joel, she wondered? She hadn’t been able to find him in the stands. She wanted to ask him how he’d been able to produce a sea of T-shirts so quickly. It must have cost a fortune.

  As they waited in the locker room, Gabby and Lydia received updates about the progress of the second semi-final match being played on the Tournament Court. Lydia was acquainted with the two professional contenders, but Gabby had never heard of them. Both were familiar with the celebrity contestants—Secretary of Health and Human Services Tito Espinoso and an Iranian-born international playboy from an immensely wealthy industrial family with holdings throughout Eastern Europe. Lydia decided to sneak a look at the match to probe their weaknesses.