Sudden Death: A Novel

ONE

Miguel Semana lifted a cut crystal glass full of golden brandy to his moustachioed lips. He had been in America for two weeks in order to celebrate Christmas with his famous sister, Carmen. For the last six years, Carmen hovered somewhere among the top three players of women’s professional tennis. Miguel, a gifted athlete himself, hated the discipline of sport. He hated discipline, period. Carmen hated it, too, but she put in just enough practice time to keep her extraordinary natural skills sharp. Miguel loved his sister as much as he loved anybody. When they were children, he coached her, played with her, and made her game what it was today because he never gave her a break. When she was good enough to compete on the pro circuit, it was Miguel who pleaded with his father to let her leave Argentina. He accompanied her during her first year on the road; she was fifteen. After that he attended college, as was planned, and emerged a lawyer. While he was pondering torts, wills, and other subjects of ultimate boredom, Carmen was rising steadily in the tennis firmament to become a great star.

Now twenty-four and at the peak of her physical powers, Carmen again had Miguel by her side. She wanted to win the Grand Slam of tennis, a nearly impossible feat, but one which would guarantee her athletic immortality as well as gorge an already fat purse.

To win the Grand Slam a player must win in the same year the French Open, Wimbledon, the U.S. Open, and the Australian Open. In the history of tennis only four players ever achieved this feat: Don Budge in 1938, Maureen Connolly in 1953, Rod Laver in 1962 and 1969, and Margaret Court in 1970.

Miguel knew that this year would be Carmen’s chance. She was a serve and volley player, and they take longer to mature on the court than do backcourt players. They need to be quite strong, so their bodies must reach full development. They also need to settle down emotionally. Carmen was at the top and free of injury. This would be her year, and both she and Miguel knew it. Now or never. Just as timing was critical to her serve, so was it critical to her whole career. She was in the right place at the right time.

Miguel looked over Cazenovia Lake, a beautiful four-mile stretch of fresh water in upstate New York. The smooth waters glistened in the pale afternoon light. Miguel, raised in luxury, was not especially impressed by the beautiful mansion that commanded a view of the lake and hills beyond. The Semanas enjoyed the privileges of an upper-middle-class family in Buenos Aires, so Carmen’s surroundings left him cold, literally. Winters in Cazenovia were fierce and sometimes lasted eight months. Four feet of snow covered the ground. When the whole continent of the United States was at your disposal, why sit in snow? Miguel frowned as the warm brandy glowed inside his stomach.

Carmen’s roommate, Harriet Rawls, was a professor at the little college in Cazenovia. When Carmen moved here, they bought the house together. That was three years ago. Within the first year of their living together, Carmen talked Harriet into resigning her post and traveling full time with her. Miguel thought they might be lovers. If Carmen chased girls as well as forehands, he didn’t want to know about it. The possibility that a feminine woman might want a woman lover escaped him. Miguel was, after all, a very Latin, very handsome man. He flirted outrageously with Harriet, since she was the only woman in sight and she wasn’t bad to look at, but he never got very far. He was anxious to get on the road with his sister. There had to be more receptive game out there.

Miguel also needed to make money. He gambled. He could control it, but he had a worse vice—he loved power and beautiful things. Being a lawyer in Buenos Aires wasn’t enough for him. For twenty-eight years he had been a dutiful son; now he wanted to do things his own way. His sister would win that Grand Slam if it killed both of them in the process. Miguel wanted the win. As her new business manager, he would have success at last. The fact that Carmen did not know her brother was to be her business manager didn’t bother him. He’d get to that in good time.

Side by side, viewed from the rear, Miguel and Carmen looked like brothers, so closely did their bodies resemble each other’s. Only when they turned around, could one see that the taller was male, the shorter, female. Curly black hair, aquiline nose, and dove-gray eyes were their common heritage. Broad white teeth set off a charming, slightly crooked mouth. Like all the Semanas, they had beautiful, beautiful hands. These traits made Miguel the very image of what a man should be. Carmen, however, was left midway between male and female. A generous soul would call her androgynous. As a child, Carmen was subject to ridicule. Tennis saved her. She might not be gorgeous or sweetly subservient, but, by God, she was the best at what she did. Her entire adult identity was bounded by the perimeters of a tennis court. At this point in Carmen’s life, if people found her masculine, they said it behind their hands. To her face, people shouted only praises. She loved the praise, and she earned it. If she ever wondered what people really thought of her or what she thought of herself, she locked it deep inside. Her tennis glory would make up for whatever wounds she suffered in her childhood.

Dr. Arturo Semana never intended to wound his children. They were glutted with material possessions at home and whacked into severe piety at the most aristocratic Catholic school in Buenos Aires. Miguel, the elder child and only son, felt daily pressure from his father to be a man in all things. Carmen received an equal pressure from her mother, one of Buenos Aires’s leading hostesses. When Carmen became the athlete instead of Miguel, Theresa Semana took to her bed for a week. Arturo resigned himself to Carmen’s career and eventually took pride in it. Theresa reached the point where she didn’t blanch at the mention of her daughter’s accomplishments but she still found the tennis life unacceptable for any woman, her only daughter included. Small wonder that Carmen confined her visits home to once a year. No matter how many trophies or how much money she won, when she saw her reflection in her mother’s clear eyes, she saw a failure.

Miguel didn’t understand the peculiar pressures of being female, but Carmen was his sister, and he loved her. Besides, he had his hands full with his own pressures. The two of them formed their own bond against their loving but demanding parents. It was as though brother and sister lived in a very elegant war zone, two soldiers from different backgrounds on the same front. In their case instead of class or geography being the difference, it was sex. And though neither sibling could look into the heart and mind of the other, they depended upon one another and loved one another. It was their strength, and also, their undoing.

The telephone pierced dinner. Harriet got up from her spaghetti with pesto sauce to answer it.

Merry Christmas, Harriet. Jane Fulton’s throaty voice echoed on the line.

Merry Christmas to you, too, and to Ricky.

How’s the visitation program going?

It’ll take time.

That’s what Mother said about my breast development when I was thirteen. Look at me now.

Jane’s voice was overshadowed by Ricky in the background, saying, Anything more than a handful is a waste. Merry Christmas to everyone and to everyone a good night.

Harriet smiled. Ricky sounds full of spirit.

Carmen called from the table, Merry Christmas!

Miguel joined in. Happy New Year! He spoke with an English accent as did his sister.

Carmen explained to him Ricky’s love of eggnog. Miguel had not yet met Ricky Cooper but anyone who liked a good belt now and then sounded like his kind of man.

Are you two covering the Tomahawk Championships? Harriet asked. Tomahawk, the cosmetics division of Clark & Clark, a huge pharmaceuticals company, sponsored women’s indoor tennis. Their theme was Slay Your Man. Ball girls wore feathers and war paint and this theme was beaten to death with banners, advertising copy, and the packaging itself.

We’ll be there. Staying at the same place?

Yes, all three of us.

Okay, we’ll take you to dinner. We want to meet Miguel. Is he as handsome as his photo?

He’s pretty handsome. Harriet laughed as Miguel preened his moustache for effect. They invited us all to dinner in Washington, D.C.

Perfect. Miguel beamed.

Can’t wait, Jane. Kisses to Ricky. Merry, merry Christmas.

Ricky Cooper and Jane Fulton were a well-matched couple. She was a reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer and Ricky covered sports for The New York Times. He also did the on-camera coverage for the new sports cable network. When they married, instead of sacrificing one career to the other, they very sensibly settled in Princeton, New Jersey, which is midway between both cities. Ricky was in his forties and Jane was in her late thirties. Closer to Harriet in age, they were also closer to her as friends, but they adored Carmen who lived for the day and never gave tomorrow a thought. To Protestants drenched in the work ethic, that was an incredible thought.

You hit forehand crosscourt, and I’ll return crosscourt.

Okay. Carmen trotted back to the baseline.

Miguel, right-handed, drove deep into his sister’s forehand side. Since she was left-handed, he did this off his own backhand.

Too shallow. Come on, lazy, drive me way back.

It’s Christmas Eve. Give me a break.

He cracked the ball harder, singing a Christmas carol as he did so. Soon she joined him in song, and the two pounded the ball to lyrics in English and Spanish.

You know what you’ll get under your tree, Migueletta? He called her by her old nickname.

Don’t tell. It’s supposed to be a surprise. Hey, no fair. I slowed down to talk.

That’s your problem. If you don’t keep your eye on the ball, what am I supposed to do about it?

For spite, she clobbered the ball. He returned it with his full weight behind it. They went on like that for an hour until Miguel called it quits.

I’m not playing on Christmas Day.

How tragic. He wiped the sweat from his forearms.

You’re worse now than when we were kids.

You’re still a kid.

Just keep it up and you won’t get anything under your tree.

I’d like Margot Kidder adorned in a red ribbon.

Carmen thought that wouldn’t be so bad for herself but kept her mouth shut. You’ll have to wait and see.

After Christmas, we’ve got to work out longer.

What for?

Your backhand has zero topspin, that’s what for.

So what woman has a topspin backhand?

You’re strong enough and so is that new German kid.

Carmen ignored his remark. Christmas took precedence over work. She’d bought Harriet a set of Erté prints, and she hoped her lover would like them. For Miguel she purchased a gold Rolex watch. It was hideously expensive, but she knew it would please him enormously. Longer workouts. She patted him on the back.

And weight workouts.

Miguel.

Yes. This is your year. Everything’s got to be perfect. He walked over to the soda machine and bought a Coke for himself and a sparkling water for Carmen. Do you mind if I read over your contracts—the product endorsements and all that stuff?

No. Why would I mind? I never read them. Seth Quintard does all that. I just sign on the line.

I’m sure he gets the best deal he can; that’s an agent’s job. But I’m a lawyer, and I’d like to carefully go over everything. I might see something he missed.

Fine. Is it snowing again?

He walked over to the clubhouse window. Yes. At any moment Santa Claus will appear.

Bet it’s hot at home.

Guess we should call them tomorrow.

Miguel put on his parka. You know, it’s the damnedest thing. Telephones link up everyone in the world. It’s one world technologically but no one can get along with anyone else. I still can’t get over the fact that we went to war with England.

Carmen wrinkled her nose. She hated politics. Even more she hated war. It made not one bit of sense to her even though she was very patriotic. As far as she was concerned, the Malvinas belonged to Argentina, but war? Why didn’t the leaders of bickering countries pick up tennis racquets and go settle it on the court? Or they could play golf if they were too old for tennis. Winner takes all. There’d be nothing to argue about.

With two days to go before they departed for Washington, D.C., and the Tomahawk Championships, Carmen practiced double time. Miguel, resplendent in new sportswear, accompanied her in the mornings and sometimes the afternoons.

Cursing, Harriet leaned over the ironing board to attack one more recalcitrant box pleat. She liked ironing, but today, ironing didn’t like her. She ironed the wrinkles in as opposed to out. As she smacked the steaming instrument down one more time, she heard the car roll into the driveway. Only one door slammed. Carmen, flushed, danced through the kitchen door.

Joe is taking Miguel to Syracuse. Joe was one of Carmen’s practice partners.

That’s nice. Harriet missed the import of the news since the shirt demanded her attention.

They’ll be there at least an hour and a half. Maybe we’ll be alone for two hours.

Did you say alone?

I did. She tossed her racquets on the kitchen table.

Mirabile dictu.

Are you going to stand there and iron that shirt?

No. Harriet yanked the plug out of the wall. The two chased one another up the stairway to the bedroom.

Lovemaking suffered under the continued presence of Miguel. By the time Miguel was asleep, Harriet and Carmen were usually exhausted. Harriet never was the greatest fuck-of-the-night to begin with. Her true abilities displayed themselves in the afternoon.

Will you get in the bed? Harriet shivered under the covers.

I better take a shower first.

We haven’t time.

I’m sweaty from practice.

I’ll suffer. Harriet reached out, grabbed her sweat pants by the waistband, and flopped Carmen on the bed.

Wait a minute. Let me get out of these goddamned pants.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—

What are you doing?

Counting up to a minute. Harriet pulled a now naked Carmen under the covers. Warm me up. Consider it a charitable act.

Carmen kissed Harriet’s neck, her forehead, and her lips. Tennis was what Carmen did second best. Her greatest achievement was kissing. Her mouth must have been like Ganymede’s, cupbearer to Zeus, so perfectly formed were her lips. She could take up to an hour simply kissing. Today, they didn’t have that kind of luxury. She slid her body over Harriet’s small frame and worked her way down.

Undercover work, Carmen whispered.

Harriet smiled and ran her fingers through Carmen’s silky black hair.

Carmen kissed and licked Harriet’s groin. Suddenly she stiffened. Ouch!

What’s the matter? Harriet lifted the blankets and discovered two glowing eyes at the bottom of the bed. Baby Jesus, get out of there.

Baby, Harriet’s eighteen-year-old cat, burrowed under blankets, then lay flat on her side so she couldn’t be seen under the bedspread. She resented this disturbance of her slumber. Biting Carmen’s heel was the result.

Come on, Beejee Weejee, coaxed Carmen.

This syrupy comment met with a snarl of disgust. It was bad enough Carmen stuck her foot in Baby’s face. Having to endure the Beejee Weejee routine heightened the ancient’s foul temper.

Your mother is speaking, Harriet commanded. Out of the bed.

A suspicious silence followed.

Shit! Carmen howled. She bit my other foot.

That does it. Harriet threw off the covers, picked up the beast and lovingly placed her in her fur-lined sleeping box, replete with catnip toys, scratching post, and stuffed bird. Baby sat in this splendor for less than one minute and then grandly vacated the bedroom.

I’ll kill that cat someday. Carmen nursed her heel.

She has an artistic temperament.

Will you look at my foot?

Harriet noted the small indentation made by two fangs. No blood rose to the surface, but Baby didn’t strain herself overmuch. Here, I’ll kiss it and make it well.

That feels better. Could you move up a little higher?

Harriet laughed and began to work her way up Carmen’s muscled leg.

Lavinia Sibley Archer, breasts heaving like a flight deck, navigated her way through the sponsor’s opening night cocktail party. Lavinia won Wimbledon in the late forties as well as the U.S. Open the following year. After her illustrious career, she settled down with a man too dull to be born and became both a housewife and the terror of her country club. Wendell, her husband, passed on to his reward in the mid-sixties. She’d forgotten the exact date, but he was convincingly dead.

By this time, women’s tennis, struggling for professional status and recognition, found its young lion in Billie Jean King and now had its business bear in Lavinia. Lavinia did a great deal for the game. For one thing, she gallantly faced the horror of working for a living. Using different titles in different years, Lavinia was really the tennis version of the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. She wasn’t God, but she came damn close. You didn’t cross Lavinia Sibley Archer.

Lavinia didn’t like Harriet Rawls and Jane Fulton because they didn’t take tennis as seriously as she thought they should. This kind of intellectual treason tried Lavinia’s famed nerves of ice. She was billed as nerves of ice in her heyday. She was also billed as carrying around the biggest tits in tennis, but that was whispered as opposed to set down in type.

Worse, Harriet and Jane once did something both unpatriotic and in bad taste. Tiring of endless renditions of the national anthem—Jane called it our national anathema—they committed their dastardly sin during a tournament in Seattle. The semifinals and finals of every tournament are the nights on which promoters make money. Over eighty-five percent of the gate comes in at that time. Lavinia found a charming mariachi band, which is hard to find in Seattle, to play the national anthem for the semifinals. Lavinia thought it would be good for relationships with third world groups. Where she expected this roaring host of Mexicans to come from in the Pacific Northwest, only she knew, but the mariachi band was a significant cultural event in her mind. The glittering group of men, waddling under their giant sombreros, stood in the center of the tennis court and sang The Star-Spangled Banner. The crowd, as usual, turned to face the flag. As Old Glory was hoisted up the pole and unfurled, a cascade of brassieres and jockstraps delicately floated to the earth below.

Lavinia vowed to find the perpetrators of this horrendous and sophomoric deed. No one would have known a thing except that Jane had tossed in a bra of Carmen’s. This evidence in hand, Lavinia cornered Carmen and ripped her three ways from Sunday. Truthfully, Carmen protested her innocence.

Harriet, of course, neglected to tell Carmen of her plans. How was she to know Jane would grab bras from the dryer down at the locker room? Unfortunately, Carmen’s name was neatly sewn on the strap. Harriet hit the locker room just in time to gleefully confess.

By the time news of this scene reached the press booth, Ricky Cooper was laughing so hard he didn’t know if he could pull himself