Double Fault

by Lionel Shriver

  “Sörle didn’t try?” he asked soberly.

  “Well, of course he did!”

  “Are you saying he handed me the match? I thought I played pretty well.” Eric’s eyes were small.

  “No, no! Sweetheart, I didn’t mean that!”

  “It sounded to me as if that’s exactly what you meant.”

  “Honey! I was just making conversation! I thought it was time I stopped hacking on you for—”

  “You’re an efficient woman,” he interrupted. “Or person. Whatever you are. I have never known you to simply make conversation.”

  “Please forget it.”

  He didn’t.

  Willy was on good behavior for the next few months but disliked watching her p’s and q’s with her own husband. As she treasured the unedited flow of tennis in a zone, so Willy valued immediacy in banter at home. Amid forced compliments, hastily masked flashes of who-do-you-think-you-are, and double-checkings of impulse remarks to make sure they weren’t malicious, Willy’s domestic discourse was marked by the same infinitesimal delay between thought and action that characterized both second-rate tennis and tactful cocktail chatter. Talking to Eric was becoming depressingly like talking to anyone else.

  Willy herself had a fruitful spring. She’d heavily booked the season, hell-bent on breaking to the pivotal number 200 that Max insisted she achieve before he backed her for the international tour. Thus the couple shared a few luminous spring evenings aglow with mutual victory, launching to Flower of Mayonnaise in the hand-in-hand rah-team spirit that had powered the early days of their relationship.

  But this sensation of joint accord was fleeting. If their careers were parallel trains, the nose of Eric’s engine was steadily edging up Willy’s cars. He had drawn attention to himself as the dark horse who outran Hans Sörle. Tournament promoters were asking Eric to play, whereas Willy had to enter solely on the basis of her ranking; likewise, he was invited into a better class of contest than his statistics should have permitted. Further, for 1994 Eric was already making substantially more money than his wife, and no longer leaned on Axel. That Willy had supported herself with her winnings while Eric hit his father up for rent had provided her title to a moral high ground that she was reluctant to share.

  In all, the spring of 1994 duplicated a sensation common to runs in Riverside Park. Tripping nimbly around gasping anorexics and jiggling hefties, Willy would occasionally discern a pad-pad at her back. Often a touch of application was enough, and the jogger who’d been gaining ate dust. Still, though she outpaced most of the park, at five-three Willy was no sprinter. In running as in tennis, she applied constant, steady pressure with an eye to the long haul. Admirers would call her relentless; detractors, dogged.

  So if Willy hated being overtaken, it happened. As the pad-pad grew louder, she pushed a bit harder, training her eyes to the front. But the man drawing alongside—it was always a man—was generally much taller and racing his own clock. Sometimes the runner waved appreciatively as he surged in front, or slapped her palm with a fraternal high-five, but Willy’s returning smile would be wan. Fight the impulse as she might, chasing his heels it was almost impossible not to flag a little in disappointment.

  The Chevrolet Challenge was held in early June, nestled between the French and the Stella Artois. Scheduled when public consciousness of the sport was high, the Chevy was the highlight of the hopeful’s calendar, having helped hoist dozens of names to international scoreboards. Not only was the tournament specifically designed for the up-and-coming to break out, but it was one of the only events all year in which the ATP and WTA operated in concert. Conventionally the organizations were distant, if not antagonistic. But it was difficult to attract attention to any tournament without highly ranked seeds sprinkled in the draw; only shoulder-to-shoulder cajoling convinced ESPN to broadcast the Chevy to showcase promising unknowns.

  The year before Eric had had nowhere near the ranking to enter without hacking through the prequalifiers, but his progress up the ladder had been so rapid that this year he was admitted to the draw. Willy was of two minds about Eric’s eligibility. It would be nice to enter a tournament together for once, catch the same train to D.C. At the same time the Challenge was the jewel in the satellite crown, and victory in the Chevy was a virtual guarantee of rescue from the exhausting treadmill of the lower circuit—three-week marathons for a handful of points like coins thrown to beggars. Having been in the game longer, Willy felt she should get a shot at the Challenge first. Tennis, of course, only modestly rewarded diligence and positively punished seniority. Still, Willy had always regarded the Chevy as awaiting her, and with Eric entering the men’s singles as well she felt crowded.

  This sensation was alleviated somewhat by a solicitation from Slick Chick, an upmarket glossy building a story around the Chevrolet Challenge and featuring a particular player who, according to the editor on the phone, “was emblematic of the next generation of sportswomen, and who represented the values of their magazine.” As for what the magazine “valued,” Max Upchurch had tipped off the staff that Willy Novinsky was not only set to do well in the tournament, but was, ahem, “presentable.” Several more highly ranked women had been dismissed, the editor despaired, for being too “chunky, mannish, or plain.”

  So Willy would be a fool to expect a serious profile, but attention was attention, and wannabes had to take what they could get. A puff piece, however sickening, would be an enticing addition to her portfolio should Willy become prestigious enough to court panty-shield sponsorships. Yet it did rankle a bit when the journalist arrived at 112th to twitter into her microcassette about Willy’s cute ball-discard coffee table. The lady wasn’t interested in Willy’s game; she grilled her subject instead on dieting tips and hairstyles. It was hard to imagine that were Eric ever interviewed he’d be pressed for his opinions of this year’s tennis outfits.

  A photographer arrived an hour later. He was toting a sequined wardrobe of evening wear, as well as a makeup case swelling with pots of pink and maroon glop. Willy had assumed he’d want action shots on the court, and had cleaned a plain white tournament dress for the occasion. Bad call. Helplessly, she submitted to being poked at, powdered, and primped. Willy wore little makeup ordinarily, and at the end of this ordeal the mirror revealed a vapid, vampish stranger. The dresses were too long, and had to be pinned; the photographer was displeased with her muscular shoulders, and insisted she drape them with a shawl. When they dragged her to the Boat Basin for outdoor shots, Willy begged the man to at least photograph her with the clay courts in the background. Instead he posed her in a slatternly slouch on the rail, the George Washington Bridge forming a tiara behind her moussey, teased-up do.

  Being prepped, painted, and arranged was humiliating, but still a taste of fame, inspiration to someday do well enough to tell these pretentious fuss-budgets just where they could shove their mascara brush. After all, the only thing worse than being approached for a four-page glossy layout was not being approached for a four-page glossy layout.

  Willy was still removing smears of blue shadow from around her eyes that night when Eric arrived home from another of the ATP’s Challenger Series, this one played in Philadelphia. The upward swing of his head after he set down his bags was a giveaway.

  “You won.”

  “I won. Hey, I did a little calculating on the train.”

  “When are you not doing a little calculating?”

  “These numbers are soft, of course, dependent on the competition’s performance; you and your buddy Marcella are neck-and-neck. But it looks as if when you take the Chevy, you’ve made it, Willy—to 200!”

  “The Chevy isn’t cake, Underwood. It’s the most coveted trophy on the lower circuit.”

  “So what? Who’s out there you can’t handle? But this is even neater, Wilhelm. If I take the men’s singles in D.C.? I’m 200. Isn’t that great? You and me, dead even. It would make great publicity, too: husband and wife win the Chevy together and head for the big time at ide
ntical rankings. Barcelona, Tokyo, here we come!”

  “Aren’t you counting chickens? We’re not through the first round.”

  As Eric extolled a positive attitude, Willy didn’t admit that she’d come up with these numbers herself. But she hadn’t quite the same festive reaction to the arithmetic. Something about the perfectly parallel digits seemed unlikely. Now that she was so close to what she’d wanted all her life, Willy’s stomach didn’t yowl with appetite, but clenched in clammy, dyspeptic fear.

  Though Eric won the final of the Chevy with his usual detachment, he gambled like mad: dozens of his shots barely grazed the absolute outer edge of the line, and with a less scrupulous umpire the score would have turned out otherwise. Scrutinizing her husband from the front row, that night Willy finally glimpsed his secret: he didn’t care very much. Eric’s game was beside him; tennis was something he did but not what he was. He had the advantage of any poker player who could easily bluff through his hand, because while bettors like Willy had put their very souls on the table, for Eric the chips were plastic.

  Trembling into the trusty white tournament dress for her own final the next afternoon, Willy was constitutionally unable to avail herself of Eric’s indifference. Eric was now number 200; he had as of fourteen hours before exceeded her ranking, and the next two hours would determine if she kept pace. It was impossible to convince herself that it didn’t matter.

  Poetically, Willy’s final opponent was Marcella Foussard. Marcella was too hoity-toity to dress in the locker rooms provided, and had primped in her hotel. She had just ducked in to touch up her vermilion lipstick. Strapping and buxom, Marcella must have spent an hour arranging the coils of her bottled-red hair over her peach silk headband. In the last six months Marcella had starved off some of her baby fat, and was now sucking in her cheeks under the misguided impression that a gaunt bone structure would finally emerge from her lollipop face. Slimmer, yes, but Marcella was stuck with those hammy thighs for life.

  “So your hubby took the men’s singles, Wilhemena!” Marcella cooed. “He’s doing awful well, isn’t he? I thought he was kinda funny-looking at first, you know, a little knobby. But lately he seems sorta debonair, you know?” Marcella smiled. “I guess he’ll be watching.” The lipstick had smeared on her teeth.

  Playing Marcella was lucky in a way; Willy would face no surprises, though the two rarely practiced together at Sweetspot. Willy couldn’t stand it. She found Marcella’s style aesthetically deplorable. If the ersatz redhead had dropped a few pounds, her game was still fat: her looping moonballs plopped on the baseline, monotonous and unabating as weather. The texture of Marcella’s shots was wet, formless, and soft; like oversized snowflakes, they melted on the bounce. Any energy in a point had to be generated by her adversary, who often found the job debilitating. And no matter how much pace you fed Marcella, she ate it, blocking back these plump, languid blobs. Yet Marcella’s placement was nefarious, and though she appeared to move about the court with the lazy boredom of an overfed cat, she was tall, and faster than she looked.

  Through the first set, Willy held to Max’s advice: resist the impulse to massacre the ball right away. Marcella’s approach was taunting, and Willy’s Pavlovian urge to strangle her was dangerous. Ease it right back, Max had said of moonballers, naming no names. Moonballers love zip, they use it against you. Don’t give it to them. Lie in wait. Only mow down the ball full-throttle when you’re sure you’ve got your opening. Until then, bide your time.

  Adherence to this counsel took fantastic self-control, but the strategy worked. Fighting her instincts aided concentration. Willy took the first set with a comfortable margin of 6–3, though it must have been a tedious exhibition to sit through. From the front row, Eric discreetly raised his thumb. He could see what she was doing; he meant, keep doing it.

  The second set began almost too well. Breaking Marcella in the first and third games, in no time Willy was leading 4–0. She had got her tactics down to a formula: press, press, and press, until you get one ball just a tad shallower than the others and slam a severe, short cross-court, which Marcella couldn’t handle even if she could see it coming; at best her desperate stab would dink back, and Willy could close at the net. But with the luxury of such an ample lead, Willy’s mind began to stray. Too far ahead and it is actually hard to pay attention. This blancmange tennis still didn’t suit Willy’s palate, and if the sport were always so toothless she’d have opted for a career in squash.

  More than once between points she turned to Eric and smiled and that was a mistake. Though she should have savored spooning Marcella’s thick, heavy game point by point into her own pudding dish, Willy was not enjoying herself. She wanted this match over, badly. Something twisted in her middle, as if a Phillips-head had tightened a screw.

  Receiving at 4–0, Willy broke again, but the game went to deuce. The game should not have gone to deuce. Marcella’s serve had spin and placement, but no verve. Nobody but Willy seemed alarmed that the fifth game was close. A few onlookers were gathering their picnic baskets, assuming that at 6–3, 5–0 the match was pretty much over.

  The screwdriver twisted another turn. Willy shook out her arms, jumping up and down on the baseline. A mysterious shadow crossed Max’s face. Eric looked horribly encouraging.

  Fifteen–love, yes. Thirty–love, yes! But Willy knew that she was rushing. Her play was impatient, and in yearning to conclude this ordeal, to fall into Eric’s arms in relief, at triple match point Willy lunged at Marcella’s obese corner forehand, now wandering into the backcourt and heading for the stands. Any midmatch coaching, even with hand signals, violated WTA rules; Max sat duly mum and immobile in the front row. His low, ragged voice whispered in Willy’s ear all the same: This isn’t the opening; you don’t have time to set up. Press deep to her backhand, recover ready position, and wait for a ball on a silver platter to come clanking over the net. But Willy wanted out of this match, wanted her number 200, wanted to go to Europe, wanted to hold her head high with her husband, to keep him tight up against her ranking as he wrapped tight to her back in bed. Crouching, she whipped the ball cross-court for the same short, sharp angle that had netted her so many points this set.

  What was netted was Willy’s shot. She’d arrived too late to throw her weight forward. Still, there was no need to be flustered. Two more match points. No problem. Cake.

  But there was a problem. Each time Willy pounced on the wrong ball, overhitting in her anxiousness to be done. Willy didn’t want to win so much as to have won. Deuce.

  Ad-out.

  Game.

  Stupid, bonkers. Three match points in a row donated to charity. Well, let Marcella have her one game. See if it keeps her warm at night, that she got that one off me. Now let’s close that prissy doughball out.

  At 5–2, a few of the spectators who had gathered their things sat back down. Marcella’s hanging in there was the kind of gritty spitting in the face of the inevitable that audiences always admire. And look at that! Imagine breaking back a second time that far behind!

  But 3–5 wasn’t far behind. For tennis arithmetic is insidious. Huge leads seem to collapse in one game. At 5–2, the odds of your beleaguered opponent catching up appear laughable. At 5–3 you stop laughing.

  A familiar rope-skipping headache pinched Willy’s eyes. “Idiot,” she mumbled under her breath, rather than the usual uppsyching “Stay on your toes.” One more game was all Willy needed, but having let three match points slip through her fingers grated and kept grating. If Eric’s maxim was “Don’t look down,” Max’s was “Don’t look back.” “Never cry over spilled milk,” he always said. “Let it go. I can’t say about the rest of life, but in tennis regret will destroy you.” Yet Willy was awash in spilled milk, rapidly souring in the muggy June afternoon. Her own perspiration had the rank, turned smell of yogurt.

  Her coach’s visage, commonly impassive, had sagged from grave to deathly. A dimple of concern dented Eric’s forehead, on which the TV cameras hungrily zoo
med in. Willy could have delivered the commentary herself: Here we see the Chevy men’s singles champion, displaying perplexity that his wife is allowing a bimbo with a game like porkpie to nuke a lead the size of North Dakota...

  At 5–4 Willy had to ask herself what was wrong, but she asked too late. She had forsaken her strategy. She was no longer lying in wait. She was trying to clobber every one of Marcella’s flabby baseline shots, to haul off and clout them with the spanking they deserved, but Willy was hitting out of frustration. I am out of control, she admitted. But by the time you admit you are out of control, you are—obviously—out of control. What you have lost is not substantive but mechanical, the very means by which any end like “control” might be achieved. In such a state, it was as absurd for Willy to demand she “get herself together” as to insist that she try once more to reel in a fish when her entire rod and tackle had fallen into the sea.

  On the changeover, more ESPN broadcast in Willy’s head: Oberdorf is already drafting his European itinerary, and promises to call home from time to time, where his wife will be knitting sweatbands for her man on the tour...

  After losing the second set 5–7 Willy went into shock. She could not have been more ahead in the match without winning outright. Victory had lain in her lap, a gift for unwrapping, and now as the sky grumbled with displeasure, out of some dark miracle she and Marcella were dead-fucking-even. No one in the stadium was packing to go home.

  Between sets a thundercloud exploded, and though the rain was brief the army of young boys who squeegeed and blasted the court with hot-air dryers took half an hour. The delay gave Willy a lethal amount of time to think, and Marcella the opportunity to change her outfit. As Foussard bounded to her baseline in a tutti-frutti skirt and fresh lemon headband, the air was cooler, almost chilly. Marcella’s cheesecake for the cameras revealed that she’d wiped the lipstick off her teeth, and it seemed as if they were beginning a whole new game.