Dream Me(43)

“There could be,” he said. “It depends on you.”

And in a flash, he grabbed my ass and gave it a squeeze.

How much did I have to put up with to protect myself, my family? What if I hauled off and hit him? Would anyone believe me? I knew my parents would, but would anyone else? All those questions raced through my mind in a fraction of a second, the length of time it took me to weigh my options and arrive at my decision.

I chose safety. I chose security. I chose my mom and dad. I pushed his hand away firmly but not violently. I hated myself but, at the same time, I forgave myself. Clyde Buell was the one I really hated.

“That’s not fair . . . what you’re doing to me. And I don’t know why you’re doing it. It’s not fair.” Maybe reason or empathy could reach this man.

He smirked, and for a second I thought about LeGrand’s little smile. But Clyde’s smirk was cruel, whereas LeGrand’s showed amusement, or maybe even puzzlement, about the world. There was no malice in LeGrand’s smile, I knew that.

“I can be fair, if you give me a chance,” he said just as the bells of the door jingled and Bing walked in.

“Mr. Buell, sir, I didn’t know you’d be in. Waiting to hit some balls?”

“I tell you what Bing. Seems like the fella who was supposed to meet me isn’t going to show up today. How about Babe, here, comes out and hits a few balls to loosen me up?”

Bing looked skeptical. He still had never seen me hit.

“You up to it, Babe?” he asked, somewhat nervously I thought.

Without a word, I turned and picked up my racket, which until now had sat uselessly behind the counter. I walked toward the door without so much as a backward glance.

“I’ll see you out on Court 5.”

__________

It had been months since I last hit, but I was strong and athletic. I’d spent years developing the skills I learned in my childhood, so once we got started the hitting was effortless.

My satisfaction was quickly interrupted when Clyde pounced on a short ball and rushed the net. When I lobbed a return back, he crushed an overhead which hit me right at my feet. His fake grinning apology made my already steaming blood start to boil over.

I gathered my composure and, using precision ground strokes, I ran that old man around the court until he became so winded I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. When he couldn’t take it anymore he lurched toward the bench, huffing and puffing. He collapsed on his butt, leaning forward with elbows resting on knees and chest heaving. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He wiped his sweaty face with a towel from his bag and, still unable to speak, gulped down a bottle of water.

“Thanks for the warm up,” he finally said once he caught his breath enough to speak.

I’d been thinking we were alone, but that was far from the truth. A lone, slow clapping sound came from the mini-bleachers, which were also shaded by the trees. I hadn’t seen anyone there when we started, but at some point, LeGrand had arrived.

“Way to go, Dad!” he called out, continuing the steady beat of his clap.

Clyde didn’t look up or acknowledge his son’s presence. After a minute, I left the court and walked back to the clubhouse. LeGrand followed me in.

The “warm up” did not escape Bing’s notice either. He was standing just outside the door with his mouth hanging open.

“Did you see Babe play?” LeGrand asked him. “She smoked my dad.” He seemed positively gleeful.

“Can I talk to you for a minute, Babe?” Bing said quietly. We stepped outside for some privacy. “You never told me you could play like that.” He didn’t seem real happy for me.

“You never asked.”

“I asked you when you first started working and you said you were alright.”

“I am alright.”

“That’s not the word I would have chosen.” He got real quiet for a minute and then without making direct eye contact he said, “I’m afraid you may have stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

“Or maybe a fire ant nest?” I suggested unhelpfully. He didn’t laugh.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the week off, Babe?”

“Are you firing me?”

“No, I’m not firing you. I just want to give Mr. Buell a few days to cool down and see how he reacts.”

“How will you manage by yourself?”

“I’ll borrow someone from your dad’s staff.”

“And what am I supposed to say to my dad when he asks why?”

“Tell him . . . tell him you’re taking a much deserved break.”

“He won’t believe that.”

“Then tell him you’re sick. I won’t call for backup until tomorrow. I’ll get here early to open.”

“Do I go now?” A sob was rising in my throat. I pushed it back.

“Finish up the day,” Bing said. “I doubt we’ll see Buell back here today.”

__________

The rest of the day was pretty dreary for me—like I had a guillotine hanging over my neck and it was ready to drop any minute. Here I was, playing by the rules. I could have said something about what Clyde was up to, but I kept my mouth shut. I thought he might be man enough to settle this game of his on the court. And maybe he was. But Bing had intervened without giving me the chance to end it in a way where my parents held onto their jobs and I held onto my dignity. But of course, Bing didn’t know about any of this, so what else could he do? All this stuff was just petty, stupid shit. Why me?