Summer of '69(34)

Jessie follows her grandmother to the reception desk, but then Exalta sees Mrs. Winter, whom Exalta has known since the previous century, and Jessie is left alone. The receptionist smiles at her. Her name tag says LIZZ. Lizz is pretty with blond hair and straight white teeth. Everyone who works at the Field and Oar is attractive enough to model in catalogs.

“I came for my tennis lesson,” Jessie says. “The last name is Levin.”

“Levin, you say?” Lizz scans her clipboard. “I don’t see a Levin. What time was your lesson?”

“Um…eight?” Jessie holds her breath, wondering if a miracle has occurred and Exalta made a mistake. Maybe Jessie will be set free. She can go home, climb on her bike, and follow Pick to Surfside Beach. He leaves for the beach every morning at nine, he told her, then he comes home for lunch around two, although he sometimes gets a burger at the shack. He goes into work at the North Shore at four thirty, gets home between ten and eleven, and does it all over again the next day.

Suddenly, Exalta swoops in. “Jessie has a tennis lesson at eight. Jessica Nichols.”

“Nichols,” Lizz says. “Ah, okay. She told me Levin.”

“Levin is my last name,” Jessie says.

“Nichols,” Exalta says. “Nichols is the member name.”

“I’ll go tell Garrison you’re here,” Lizz says. “You can head out to court eleven.”

“The court closest to the water,” Exalta says. “Aren’t you lucky.”

“I don’t understand,” Jessie says as they start walking. “Mom uses the name Levin when she comes here.”

“She does that only to distress me,” Exalta says.

“And Blair, Kirby, and Tiger use Foley,” Jessie says. There’s a challenge in her voice. “Right? They do. You and I both know they do.”

“Foley is different,” Exalta says.

“Because it’s not Jewish,” Jessie says. She stops in her tracks. She can’t believe the fury that has taken hold of her. She grips the handle of her racket, which Exalta bought her brand-new for these lessons, a Jack Kramer–autographed Wilson. She would like to smash it against the brick walk.

“No,” Exalta says. “Because Lieutenant Foley was on his way to becoming a member here before he died. Your father has no interest in becoming a member here.”

Jessie wants to ask if he could become a member here if he wanted to. But the words get stuck; the sun is beating down on the part in her hair, and she can see a boy in whites standing patiently outside the court closest to the water—Garrison, her tennis instructor.

“I’m not taking my necklace off,” Jessie whispers angrily.

“No one is asking you to,” Exalta says.



Jessie fears that Exalta is going to stay and watch Jessie’s tennis lesson, offering commentary and criticism, but the allure of drinking mimosas on the patio with Mrs. Winter proves too great. Exalta hands Jessie over to her instructor and says, “I’ll see you in an hour. Listen to this gentleman, please.” And then to Garrison, the instructor, Exalta says, “Under no circumstances are you to teach her a two-handed backhand.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Garrison says. His voice has a Southern twang. Jessie realizes she was wrong in thinking that everyone who worked at the club could be a catalog model because Garrison is funny-looking. He has a long torso and long, thin arms and legs, and the way he holds his racket vertically in front of his chest reminds Jessie of a praying mantis. He wears thick glasses that make his eyes look small and far away under the shade of his visor. Jessie had been hoping to get Topher for her instructor. Topher has thick brown hair and a strong jaw and is popular with ladies of all ages at the Field and Oar Club. Last year, Jessie overheard her mother say, “My goodness, that young man is handsome.” Topher might have made the tennis lessons bearable.

Jessie waits until Exalta is out of earshot, then she offers a hand. “I’m Jessie Levin,” she says. “Levin, not Nichols.”

“Garrison Howe,” he says. He glances back at Exalta. “That your granny?”

Jessie sighs. “Yes.”

“She’s all business,” Garrison says. “I like it.”



Exalta called Garrison a gentleman, but the first five minutes of their acquaintance reveals that Garrison is only nineteen years old. He’s entering his sophomore year at Sewanee, a men’s college in Tennessee. He applied for this job at the suggestion of his tennis coach at Sewanee who went to summer camp with the pro here.

“And by jeezy if I didn’t get the job,” Garrison says. “Pro’ly because everyone else is off fighting the gooks.”

Jessie bristles at the term. Her father has informed her it’s a racial slur. “My brother is in Vietnam,” Jessie says. She hopes this news will make Garrison more kindly disposed to the ungraceful and unskilled display he will no doubt witness while teaching Jessie tennis. “He’s your age. Nineteen. If he’d stayed in college, he would be a rising sophomore, just like you.”

Garrison stares at Jessie. She wonders if it was rude to point out that her brother is serving their country in the swampy jungles of Vietnam while Garrison is here doing this cushy job at the Field and Oar Club. Maybe he’s going to say something rude in return. Maybe he’s going to express a strong antiwar sentiment. And what will Jessie do then? Will she stomp off the court and demand a new instructor? She, too, is antiwar; her entire family is antiwar. These feelings coexist simultaneously with concern for and pride in Tiger.