Love-all

Your tennis match is over. The late afternoon sun has already dipped behind the hills, and during the last part of the match, the trajectory of the ball over the net had been hard to follow in the shadows. Across the court, your coach and teammates are lounging on the bleachers. You are the last one to finish, and I watch them fidget like birds, elbowing one another and preening. 

After all the excitement of the earlier matches, the rest of Watt Powell Park is quiet, except for the occasional thwack from an adjacent court. Someone warming up, performing a few light drills. Noise from the street comes from Venable Avenue, cars starting up and grinding off in low gear; a truck rumbles around the corner. Overhead, the sky is clear and cloudless, with the promise of a bright starry night. The lights will come on soon for the evening round of matches. 

Behind the green windbreaks along the fence, I watch as a breeze lifts the fine hairs off your neck, almost half crazy at the wonder of you. I imagine your dad standing here, watching you. I do not know where prayers go, or what they do but, in this moment, it feels like one, for fleetingly I sense him next to me. 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” he would say, his voice husky, full of pride and admiration. 

You and your opponent jog to the net and shake hands. You do not see me but I am close enough to hear you say, “Good game.” The other girl plays for Marmet, a smaller school district southeast along the Kanawha River. She is at least a year younger than you. 

Her forehead scrunches, and I can see tears well in her eyes. Your face is kind, and you tell her she played a tough match even though you clearly walloped her. 

You bend over, hands on your knees, your skin glistening with sweat. Every now and again, I am aware of the low chuckle of your coach’s voice and the volley of laughter that inevitably follows. I want to go to you, congratulate you, but I wait. At fourteen, you embarrass easily.

“You all done?” Coach Muldoon yells from across the court. She stands up slowly like it had been a great effort to sit all afternoon. 

You nod, grabbing your bag and sling it over your shoulder. You notice me for the first time and your eyes instinctively search behind me. Disappointment flickers briefly on your face before you remember. 

I give you a little wave and hang back. A cardinal wheels overhead. It was your dad who used to come to all your practices. I am not the one you want and this crushes me a little. I would slay dragons for you, but I cannot bring him back. 

“What were you doing out there? Took you long enough to put her away,” your coach says, sounding annoyed. 

Coach Muldoon, new to Horace Mann Junior High this year, is young and inexperienced. But she is ambitious and overcompensates by trying to sound tough. I wince at her tone. 

From the sidelines, I watch helplessly as you struggle not to cry. The cords constrict in your neck, and you swallow back tears. I believe you let the girl win a few points here and there. But you won 6-0 6-0. It was a rout. 

The team rises to their feet and starts packing. Nobody says congratulations and your body slumps. I want to take your coach by the shoulders and shake her. 

“Everyone got a ride?” Coach asks, swiveling back and forth. “Get a good night’s sleep. Practice tomorrow eight a.m. sharp. The big match with South Hills is next Saturday. You’ll need to be on your “A” game—none of this dilly-dallying I saw today.” Coach flicks her hands back and forth as she says this. 

You nod in acknowledgment, muttering goodbye to your teammates. The other girls slip their uniform jackets on, toying with the zipper, up and down. They’ve all been ready to leave an hour ago. A few of them are already walking away. 

“We’re going to Valley Bell. Coming?” Melissa asks you over her shoulder. 

“My mom’s here,” you mumble with your head down, rummaging in your bag. “Maybe next time.”

I long for you to get ice cream with Melissa and the other girls like you used to. I almost say, “It’s fine. Go have fun.” But from the look on your face, I know not to interject. I give you a smile, but you do not look at me. 

Without preamble, you thrust your bag into my arms and we walk the two blocks down Venable Avenue together to Aunt Jessie’s house where I have parked the car. The lights are coming on in all the houses, warm yellow squares blinking at us. You are growing up, and I am growing older. Morning will come and then a string of tomorrows filled with afterschool tennis practice, weekend tournaments. Wins and losses too numerous to count. Friends and teammates and coaches will come and go and one day, so will you. Now these things must happen without your dad. I ache to talk to you, but all I come up with is an ancient childhood ditty. “Ladybug, ladybug, the grass is singing,” I say in a soft singsong voice. But you ignore me. As we hug the shoulder of the road, you are quiet and the only sound between us is the soft crush of gravel under your tennis shoes. 

Your pony tail swings and your arms move sluggishly when you pull open the old aluminum screen door. Except for the build-up of limescale, it looks the same as it did since I was a child. 

Inside Aunt Jessie’s house, there is the familiar smell of Pine-Sol and Old Spice. Your grandpa totters from his bedroom and stands in the hallway leaning on his cane. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says to me. 

“Hi, dad.” I give him a peck on the cheek. 

His eyes light up when he sees you standing next to me. “About time, kiddo. We were getting worried.” 

You give him a tired smile. “Hi, Grandpa. I won my match.” 

“That a girl!” His voice quavers, and he punches his fist over his head in celebration. “Go get yourself a 7-Up from the fridge.” 

My dad always shares his 7-Up with you. You go to the kitchen and grab a cold green bottle and pop the top, drinking greedily. 

The living room has changed little since I was your age. My dad’s slippers are lined against the baseboard by the front door. A stack of Reader’s Digests leans precariously by Aunt Jessie’s rocker, and little squares of white doilies are scattered like large snowflakes across the furniture. 

Aunt Jessie shuffles into the room, leaning heavily on her walker. Her white hair is flat on one side. When she tries to fluff it, there is a tremor in her hands. She eases down into her rocker with a groan, and asks you about your match. 

You sink into the couch and I can tell you are pleased to be the center of attention. You hold the bottle of cold 7-Up to your face as you give them a play-by-play and even tell them about shaking the girl’s hand afterward over the net, “just like the pros do on television,” you say. 

“The district match next Saturday is a big game. South Hills is always a powerhouse. We probably don’t stand a chance against them as a team, but a few of us might win a set.” 

I experience a moment of déjà vu, and Aunt Jessie winks at me. You rest your head against my shoulder. I do not dare move. When you fall asleep, Aunt Jessie and I lapse into idle chatter. 

“Edie reminds me so much of you at that age,” she whispers. After a pause, she says, “She’s going to be fine, Margaret.” 

The street lights come on, lobbing shadows against the walls. A baseball game roars from the radio in my dad’s bedroom, and you startle awake. “I have practice at eight tomorrow,” you say, rubbing your eyes. My shoulder feels the sudden absence of your warmth. 

“Tomorrow morning, already? After your big match?” Aunt Jessie asks, swatting the arms of her chair.

“We should go,” I say, knowing you must be starving.

On the drive home, you lean your head against the window. I can smell the teenage sweat soured on your body. “Congratulations on your match. I’m proud of you,” I say. 

You shrug and pick at your shoelaces, staring out the window. You are pensive and avoid talking about your match or Coach Muldoon. I am still angry with her, and contemplate phoning her later this evening after you have gone to bed. Your dad would tell me not to interfere. “Let Edie work things out,” he would say. I rally back and forth, indecisive, until we are home.

Out of habit, I set the table for three until I remember. I quickly remove the extra place setting before you can see. Outside, tree frogs begin their nightly serenade. In my head, I can still hear your dad’s voice deep and humming as if he is there in the ghost-like space between the bark. 

After a shower, you join me in the kitchen and we finish preparing supper together. “Why is it called love?” You ask suddenly, ripping spinach and romaine into small bits for our salads. “You know—in scoring. Love is literally zero. It makes no sense.” 

“I’m not sure,” I say. “I think it’s from the French.” 

But a zero is shaped like a hole. Like the one in my heart. In both our hearts. Love-all. It makes perfect sense to me. 

“Wind sprints,” Coach Muldoon yells the next morning. 

I skulk in the shadows behind the wind screens watching practice. No one can see me and in the morning glare, I am all but invisible. Last night I lay awake, listening to your weeping until overwhelmed by sleep, I heard nothing but the lone hoot of an owl somewhere in the darkness. You barely spoke to me at breakfast. You do not want me here. 

“We’re going to work on quick feet today. I really want to see some hustle.” She points at you and the other eighth-grade girls. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” 

I know it is punishment for yesterday. The other girls lost their matches and even though you won, coach is punishing you for the way you played. You and your teammates line up on the side of the court and run the lines. The whole practice goes like that. Coach barking. Your team groaning. Nobody wants to be here today. You normally do not mind practice, but I can see your legs are dragging this morning.  

Linda sidles next to you. “Yesterday,” Linda says panting, out of earshot of Coach Muldoon. “We all thought you were going to lose to that six-grader. Coach was pissed when you missed a couple of easy overhead volleys.” 

You sit down with your back against the chain-link fence to catch your breath. “Seventh-grader,” you say as Linda squats next to you.  

“Coach ragged on you the whole time,” she says. “You’re the reason she’s running us into the ground this morning.”

Linda has a high nasal voice. I want you to point out that you were the only person on the team to win your match. Instead, you give the seventh-grader some props. “She played a good game.” 

Linda is the unofficial team captain and Coach Muldoon’s favorite. You and Linda are not friends. Since grade school, you two have always been at odds. 

“Girls! Practice isn’t over, grab your racquets and go to the net. Let’s go!” Coach shouts, looking directly across the court. For an instant, I believe she sees me through the windbreaks. 

Linda jumps up and skips over to the bench and grabs her racquet. She is the first one to the net.  Coach sits on the bleachers, scowling. She directs you and another girl, Melissa, to the baseline opposite Linda. Everyone takes turns hitting to Linda, round robin-style, rushing the net then volleying from the baseline. 

Coach keeps yelling from the bench. “Hustle, girls! I want to see fast feet!” 

You and the other girls are red-faced and huffing, but no one complains.

“Out!” Linda cries when you slam an overhead from the net. The ball lands squarely on the line. Even from my vantage, I know it was a good shot. You frown but do not challenge the call. 

Speak up! I want to shout. But you do not and head dutifully back to the baseline. 

Were you always this compliant? I want to ask your dad as if he could reveal the whole of you. I am ashamed that I do not know the answer, doubly anguished that I cannot ask.

 Is this a prayer, or petition? I hardly know. 

“Edie! Don’t rush it. Follow through! Keep your eyes on the ball,” Coach bellows. “It was a perfect setup. You had plenty of time.”

Coach stops practice for a moment. “Look, girls. Everyone needs to pay attention. You can’t win hitting the ball well only some of the time.” Coach shakes her head and tells your team how you are never going to win against South Hills if everyone does not focus and give it their all. 

I tune her out after a while and watch baseball practice on the other side of the tennis courts. Somehow, I feel she is talking mostly to you and I seethe. 

As punishment for infractions I cannot perceive, Coach has you and the rest of your team run laps around the courts and do push-ups after each lap. She eventually dismisses everyone, although she seems reluctant. I think she likes having power over you girls. 

As you are packing up, one of the younger girls grumbles under her breath. “What was that all about? I thought she was never going to let us go.” 

You look up and shrug your shoulders, but you do not join in the grumbling. 

Everyone is sweating and breathing hard. Linda glares at you. “Thanks,” she says under her breath. She yanks the zipper on her bag and slings it over her shoulder. She stomps away then turns back to you. “You know what? This was all your fault.” She points a finger at your chest. “Your attitude is bringing the whole team down.” She shakes her head like your coach and storms off in a huff.   

“Don’t mind her,” Melissa says to you after Linda is gone. “Linda’s just embarrassed because she didn’t win her match yesterday and you did. The Muldragon is freaking out about South Hills.” 

Melissa is trying to make up for Linda calling your ball out earlier and perhaps for other things, and your face softens. “Yeah, maybe,” you say. 

I am still hovering in the shadows behind the fence, unseen, and suspect the real reason Linda is angry is because you are ahead of her on the team lineup. Someone shucks a ball at someone else. Linda is gone and Coach Muldoon has already driven off, so some of your other teammates start kidding around waiting for their parents to come pick them up. Melissa is singing and shimmying, while some of the girls look on giggling. The atmosphere is so different when Linda and your coach are not around, I stay hidden. I want to watch a while longer.

You toss your racquet into the grass and walk over to fill your water bottle at the fountain by the concessions. Kayla, a ninth-grader, is standing next to the concession stand. She is a year older and was on the tennis team last year.    

As you lean over to fill your bottle, the water comes out in a high stream and you get water down your shirt. You squeal and your face cracks wide open as you laugh. Kayla laughs with you. I am too far away to make out your conversation but your laughter sounds like a favorite song I have not heard in a very long time.

When you get back to the bleachers, you do not notice me standing across the court. The rest of the girls have gone so you sit and watch some of the tennis pros giving lessons. One of the boys is tall and has red hair like Kayla. He is quick on his feet and favors a backhand shot. The frontcourts are full of young kids getting tennis lessons and weekend warrior types are playing on the backcourts. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” I say, walking up from behind. “Done with practice?” I ask, feigning ignorance. 

“Hi,” you say, not looking up. I sit next to you and we watch a while, not speaking.

Last year, you were one of the slowest girls on the team. This year, you are faster and inches taller. Your legs are longer, sleeker. You are like your dad in so many ways it makes my heart twist. I want to tell you how much you remind me of him. “You have worked so hard,” I say instead, watching you obsessively adjust the strings on your racquet. 

When you do not respond, I say, “You’re going to dominate next week.”

“Mom, don’t.” You grab your bag and racquet and by some unspoken agreement we start walking to the car. We slide onto the vinyl seats already hot on the back of our thighs.

“On the way home, we’ll stop by Aunt Jessie’s first.” It is something your dad used to do on Saturdays after picking you up from practice. 

“Whatever,” you say, shrugging your shoulders.

After I come in from grocery shopping, I hear your voice in the living room. 

 “I’m pretty sure I can win at least one set,” you say. “I saw them practicing the other day. The girl I’m going to play has a weak backhand. I think I can score a few points if I wear her down.” 

“That a girl. Already analyzing the competition. I like it,” my dad says. 

“Well, grandpa, everybody’s got a weakness,” you tell him, parroting what your dad used to say.

“That’s right, that’s right,” he says, but he is looking at me.

“Listen up!” Linda is yelling above the idle team chatter before practice on Monday. I am taking the afternoon off to attend your practice. I have chosen a spot behind the vee of a large tree trunk to watch out of your peripheral vision. I believe I am hoping to glimpse the real you. But maybe part of me is still hoping to catch a glimpse of your dad, too. 

After the friendly banter, Linda’s voice is jarring. You and Melissa share a look during the team huddle and give each other a high five behind Linda’s back. 

“Well, girls,” says coach. “You know you’re in for it this week. It’s either you or South Hills for District champs this year. Saturday is the last match of the season. I’m counting of every one of you to give one hundred and ten percent. You ready to do this?” She goes around the half-circle and looks each of you in the eyes. 

You all nod and murmur assent but coach is not satisfied. “I’ll ask again,” she says and yells, “You ready to do this?” 

Everyone musters the energy and you and your teammates start shouting, “Hell, yeah!” and “Let’s do this!” until your coach finally tells you to settle down and to line up for wind sprints.

The whole practice passes in a blur. There is little breeze in the shade, and sweat gathers at the base of my neck. Coach runs you ragged with sprints and drills for ninety minutes. When you are done, you sit down on the side of the court and Melissa collapses next to you. No one held back in practice, and both of you are wobbly. You gulp hungrily from your water bottle.

Linda eyes you and Melissa on the sidelines. “What are you guys doing?” Linda asks, her face is a scowl. “We’re not done.” She lines up on the baseline, racquet poised in front of her. Her face is red and sweat is pouring off the back of her neck and legs.

Before you or Melissa can answer, coach calls the workout. Linda’s shoulders sag and she lowers her racquet. She stalks off toward coach without looking back. 

They whisper together while the rest of you and your team droop off the courts to gather your gear. 

“Well girls, I’ll see you tomorrow at practice. Go home. Eat a good dinner. I want you in bed early. No staying up late watching television.” Coach does not wait for anyone before she heads to her car.

Everyone begins drifting off the courts, and I hang back, waiting for you. You linger with Melissa by the bench, talking and toweling off, as everyone grabs their gear. Linda appears to be waiting for you two by the entrance. Melissa glances at you and you both shrug. The South Hill match is still a safe five days away and I wonder what Linda wants.

Linda follows you with her eyes and they narrow as you two approach her. Linda takes a big breath but before she says anything, you say, “Well, Linda, how does coach feel about practice today? Our team would like to know. Did she think we brought it today? Care to comment?” You hold an imaginary microphone to her mouth. 

Melissa elbows you lightly and you both have big grins on your faces. You two keep walking and leave Linda standing speechless. 

I am a little shocked at your swagger, but proud, too. Served her right, I think. 

Melissa peels off down the block and I step out from behind the trunk. “Hi,” I say. 

You do not ignore me this time and instead, greet me with a small smile. Maybe your tussle with Linda gave you courage, or maybe you have had it all along. 

“Mom, you don’t have to keep coming to my practices.” 

My instinct is to deny it, but realize you must have seen me. “But I like coming,” I finally say. “I’m sorry I never came to any before.” 

“Mom,” you say. 

It is just one word, but the way you say it is a gentle scold, and suddenly I am the child and feel caught out.

I put my arm around your shoulder and ask, “Well, can I at least come to your matches?” 

You nod. “Just not to practice anymore. It’s fine. Really. Okay?” 

“Okay,” I say, and for the first time since your dad died, I feel this to be true. 

“Can we go to Valley Bell?” You ask as we walk to the car. 

“Sounds perfect,” I say. 

For the first time, you talk to me, rehashing practice and sharing petty gossip about the South Hills team. You are positively drenched in enthusiasm, and I do not know why. And yet, why not? I would not persuade you from talking for the world. 

And what could this be if not a prayer?