A strict father, a teenage daughter, and a tennis lesson.
The doorbell rang on a Saturday morning. Jamie was swimming laps in the backyard pool, her mom was getting her hair styled, and her father was sitting at the kitchen table grumbling about anti-war street protests in Chicago.
“I'd shoot every one of them,” he said to the cat. The cat arched his back, swirling around Cap’s feet. “How's my kitty? Want a treat?” Cap dug out an ice cube from his tea glass, stroking the tabby's fur. “Those hippies have no respect. Love it or leave it, I say.”
The doorbell rang again. “Damn it. Hold on. Probably some holy roller. I knew I should have gone fishing with Sam, but that kid of his. Can't stand kids.” Cap moved to the key hole viewer. He could see jeans. “God, not another candy sale.”
He opened the door, face furrowed into a frown.
“Yeah, what?” he said, patting his slacks pocket for his jack knife. He knew he should have cleaned his gun this morning. The kid at the door was Mexican.
“Mr. Fleet? I'm Pedro Martinez, I am a friend of your daughter, Jamie.”
“Oh?” He smiled as Pedro flinched. How he could make a single syllable a sarcastic insult was one Cap’s practiced skills. He'd put that boy in his place all right.
“Anyway, Mr. Fleet, my family is going on vacation, and I thought Jamie would like these tennis balls to practice with?” Pedro handed forward a dirty once-white pillow case filled with worn balls.
“No thanks. She's done with tennis.
“Shoot. She told me she was getting a coach so she could make the team. She's really a natural at the sport. We've played most of the summer.”
“Like I said, she's done with tennis,” Cap said as Jamie's voice rang through the house.
“Finished my laps, Dad. Are we still going to play a set?”
He turned and scowled. “You get showered and changed, Jamie. We're meeting your mom for lunch.”
“We are?”.
“Don't sass me. Just do it.” He didn’t want Pedro to catch a glance of Jamie in her swimsuit, all those new curves she had developed. He looked Pedro in the eye. “She's done with tennis. You just forget you ever knew her.” He slammed the door in Pedro's face.
Pedro left the tennis ball bag.
Hearing the shower whoosh on, Cap sneaked into his daughter's room, opening drawers, shaking out books, checking for love notes. He took her tennis racquet out of its case and cracked it against her desk. He blasted his fist through the strings. He held up his handiwork and grinned.
“I'm ready for lunch, Dad,” called Jamie. “How about a set this afternoon?”
Her father approached her, dangling the broken racquet by its worn grip. “Guess not,” he said.
“What? What happened?” Jamie held the racquet close to her heart, biting her cheek to hold her chin firm.
“Your little Saturday date showed up at the door, that's what happened. To think I trusted you while you sneaked around with Mexicans.”
“It was just tennis,” said Jamie. She pinched her own arm. Whining made him crazier. “Karen and I play tennis with Pedro and Oscar. They’re good teachers. It's no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. You give those people one inch of equal footing, and the next thing you know I’m grandfather to some mutt baby. You're done with tennis. Swimming. Or golf if you want.”
Jamie slipped on her sandals. “We live in California, Dad. Everybody has friends from everywhere. I’m not a baby anymore. I’m seventeen.”
“Yeah, well, you keep your distance. They should know their place.”
As they left the house, Jamie picked up the tennis ball bag.
“Can’t I at least give it back to him? Or Karen? He’ll need balls.”
“Most men do.” Cap laughed at his own joke. Never mind, it’s not a fit subject for my little girl.”
Jamie dropped the bag near the driveway and slipped into the backseat of her father’s Mustang. Pedro’s old Chevy was much more comfortable.
She stretched her head to her knees with a tremor of memory. Her dad had no idea what she knew first-hand about this Mexican and those balls.
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Reviewed by Roger BURKE
9/28/2013
Oh, what a chuckle I had. Lovely ending that was unexpected, the best kind. Great dialog, spot on.
A wicked Cajun Fairy named Robes Pierre entered the impenetrable Magical doll land of Sha Bebe. Queen Faustina, the ruler of the doll land, thought she had destroyed him, but he's back! Will the doll land survive his evil ways?
Let this coming of age story of a boy named Bean take you back to a simple time. Set in a small southern town in the 1960's, encircled by a river and gleaming white cotton fields.
The doorbell rang on a Saturday morning. Jamie was swimming laps in the backyard pool, her mom was getting her hair styled, and her father was sitting at the kitchen table grumbling about anti-war street protests in Chicago.
“I'd shoot every one of them,” he said to the cat. The cat arched his back, swirling around Cap’s feet. “How's my kitty? Want a treat?” Cap dug out an ice cube from his tea glass, stroking the tabby's fur. “Those hippies have no respect. Love it or leave it, I say.”
The doorbell rang again. “Damn it. Hold on. Probably some holy roller. I knew I should have gone fishing with Sam, but that kid of his. Can't stand kids.” Cap moved to the key hole viewer. He could see jeans. “God, not another candy sale.”
He opened the door, face furrowed into a frown.
“Yeah, what?” he said, patting his slacks pocket for his jack knife. He knew he should have cleaned his gun this morning. The kid at the door was Mexican.
“Mr. Fleet? I'm Pedro Martinez, I am a friend of your daughter, Jamie.”
“Oh?” He smiled as Pedro flinched. How he could make a single syllable a sarcastic insult was one Cap’s practiced skills. He'd put that boy in his place all right.
“Anyway, Mr. Fleet, my family is going on vacation, and I thought Jamie would like these tennis balls to practice with?” Pedro handed forward a dirty once-white pillow case filled with worn balls.
“No thanks. She's done with tennis.
“Shoot. She told me she was getting a coach so she could make the team. She's really a natural at the sport. We've played most of the summer.”
“Like I said, she's done with tennis,” Cap said as Jamie's voice rang through the house.
“Finished my laps, Dad. Are we still going to play a set?”
He turned and scowled. “You get showered and changed, Jamie. We're meeting your mom for lunch.”
“We are?”.
“Don't sass me. Just do it.” He didn’t want Pedro to catch a glance of Jamie in her swimsuit, all those new curves she had developed. He looked Pedro in the eye. “She's done with tennis. You just forget you ever knew her.” He slammed the door in Pedro's face.
Pedro left the tennis ball bag.
Hearing the shower whoosh on, Cap sneaked into his daughter's room, opening drawers, shaking out books, checking for love notes. He took her tennis racquet out of its case and cracked it against her desk. He blasted his fist through the strings. He held up his handiwork and grinned.
“I'm ready for lunch, Dad,” called Jamie. “How about a set this afternoon?”
Her father approached her, dangling the broken racquet by its worn grip. “Guess not,” he said.
“What? What happened?” Jamie held the racquet close to her heart, biting her cheek to hold her chin firm.
“Your little Saturday date showed up at the door, that's what happened. To think I trusted you while you sneaked around with Mexicans.”
“It was just tennis,” said Jamie. She pinched her own arm. Whining made him crazier. “Karen and I play tennis with Pedro and Oscar. They’re good teachers. It's no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. You give those people one inch of equal footing, and the next thing you know I’m grandfather to some mutt baby. You're done with tennis. Swimming. Or golf if you want.”
Jamie slipped on her sandals. “We live in California, Dad. Everybody has friends from everywhere. I’m not a baby anymore. I’m seventeen.”
“Yeah, well, you keep your distance. They should know their place.”
As they left the house, Jamie picked up the tennis ball bag.
“Can’t I at least give it back to him? Or Karen? He’ll need balls.”
“Most men do.” Cap laughed at his own joke. Never mind, it’s not a fit subject for my little girl.”
Jamie dropped the bag near the driveway and slipped into the backseat of her father’s Mustang. Pedro’s old Chevy was much more comfortable.
She stretched her head to her knees with a tremor of memory. Her dad had no idea what she knew first-hand about this Mexican and those balls.
