Slammin’

Slammin’ takes place in a different 2011. Fifty-three year-old tennis pro and family man, Wally Wilson is happily teaching Silicon Valley’s millionaires and billionaires on the double-wide estate of his temptress and benefactor, 17 year-old Ashley Margincall.

But when Wally’s serve speed spikes and unidentified government agents appear, he begins a pro tennis odyssey that might lead him to the U.S. Open or the twisted nexus of a Grand Slam conspiracy. Strangely blessed, but always behind the curve, Wally realizes he’s been given all the power, but none of the control.

5-star praise for Slammin’:

“Tennis, laughs, intrigue. Great summer read!…”

“…a fun and exciting story…very clever and witty… ”

an excerpt from

Slammin’

by Marcus Paul Cootsona

 

Copyright © 2014 by Marcus Paul Cootsona and published here with his permission

So yo then man what’s your story?

– David Foster Wallace

 

ONE

 

A hundred and sixty-three. That usually described how old Wally felt, but today that number had a new, ominous and revolutionary meaning.

Some Challenger player, tooling at some Challenger get-lost-until-you-ranking-point-up tournament in Eritrea or Lansing or somewhere had just clocked a hundred and sixty-three miles-an-hour serve. And it went in! Many of the tour pros’ nannies’ SUV’s didn’t go that fast. But there it was. A new record. A new notch. A new day. What was happening to the sport?

The fastest serve recorded to date was 156. It didn’t go in. But this 163-er did. Until today, 150 was the new 140, which had been the new 130. Many of his students would be happy with 80. But this was 80 times an even integer. Plus. Where would it end? Would it end? Tall, strong athletes were playing now and yearly tour winnings equaled three to four NBA games. There was no top speed in sight. Unless General Relativity put on the brakes at some point.

As Wally edged up to the security gate, he wondered how fast he could serve. 90? 100? 101? Could his car go that fast? Even with 106 Octane? On his left and right, at similar driveways, in similar cars, were guys also about 162 or 163, starting their days. Wally waved to his friend and teaching pro bro, Brett, pulling into the driveway on the right. Wally’s passenger Rod Laver the Dog raised his left paw and waved too.

Like the only two-time, calendar-year Grand Slam winner, Rod Laver, the Australian Cattle Dog wore a bandana around his neck and was left-handed. And friendly. Wally was pretty sure he waved. He was congenial, and smart. He probably did wave.

God, life was great. A job on court, a strong cup of filter coffee ground from fresh, whole, in-season beans in a burr grinder and his dog. Why couldn’t the rest of the word just chill to this same reality? This day was like the planetary alignment in the final set piece in that weird cave in Tomb Raider. That or the coffee was a valance or two above majestic. Wally thought about it all for a moment. The first Tomb Raider was a good film.

Gate code pushed. Nothing. Brett’s security gate opened effortlessly and his 1970 Cobalt Blue Pontiac GTO started down the twenty million dollar driveway on Wally’s right. Wally’s Shelby GT 500, bought in 1981 for $2,500.00, stayed right where it was. Rod whined softly. Wally pushed the call button. How fast could he serve, he wondered. And why did Angelina Jolie make The Tourist, anyway?

An eager, pulsating coo from the speaker, “Hello?”

It was Ashley. What was a high school junior doing home on a Friday morning?

Wally contorted his neck and stretched to speak into the gate intercom.

“Hi, Ashley, it’s Wally.”

“I know.”

“I think Betty changed the gate code again,” he said.

“Grandmas. Can’t live with them. Can’t humanely institutionalize them.”

“Words to love by,” observed Wally.

“Come on in. No one’s home but me.”

“I know.”

“Now it’ll be just me and you.”

“Ashley?”

She cooed again. “Yes?”

“Can you change the gate code back?” he asked.

Ashley, now sounding like Angelina Jolie, “It’ll cost ya.”

Wally, now sounding like Jon Voight. “That’s okay.”

“You never accept my carnally overtures,” she said, sounding hurt.

“Well, for one thing, you’re my daughter’s best friend,” he said.

“I could unfriend her.”

“And I’m as old as your father.”

“I was abused by my father,” she said.

Wally looked surprised.

“Too much space,” she explained. “You know, freedom corrupts and absolute freedom corrupts resolutely. Have you seen American Beauty?”

“Ashley?”

“I’m opening the gate.”

The burly gates parted and Wally started down the long driveway to the estate’s second parcel, wondering if Ashley had really seen American Beauty. Kevin Spacey was good, but that movie gave him the skeevies. He made another in the long line of notes to himself to be careful here.

Welcome to Atherton. Where teaching pros worked on stunning, improbable estates in a rare, hidden economy. Every house was grand and impressive. Every teenager knew a lot and used what they knew. And Ashley Margincall knew more than most. Rod was straining to de-car, but it was a two-minute driveway. To stand out in Atherton, you had to have a second lot with a tennis court, a pool, a putting green and maybe a sculpture garden. Or, sit out in your own yard once in a while. Ashley’s parents, Silas and Penny Margincall, had the court, the pool, the putting green and a few Ginnevers. They never sat in the yard.

Her dad, Silas Margincall was short. But he was long on money by being short. He shorted dotcom in 1998, housing, retail and Iceland in 2008 and these days was “old, smart money”, but still short. He was currently in Europe, buying back the Iceland condos for the next boom and shorting Andalusian banks. He and Penny were rarely home and when they were, not at the same time. But they could have been. Their second living room alone could hold fifty of their closest portfolio managers and their egos. But except for the mysterious grandmother, Betty and their 17 year-old daughter, Ashley, the only true full-time inhabitants were the gardeners, maids, cooks and handymen. Consequently, the Margincalls economic spigot was always open.

Ashley had gotten very good at her part in the economic plumbing. With her folks perennially en vacance, she kept everything flowing. So Wally needed to be vigilant and respectful. Circumspect. Stern but not scolding. After all, Ashley was not only his tennis student, she was his landlord. Like many of his buddies from college tennis or the tour, Wally Woodrow Wilson was a squatting tennis professional, making a living teaching millionaires and billionaires at somebody else’s house. But that happens in Atherton. So, it turns out, do others things.

Wally and Rod Laver the Dog got out of the Stang and while Rod went off to see a man about a cat, Wally set up the court supplies for a day of teaching. Tennis balls in the ball mower.  Racquet.  Sunglasses.  Water.  And towels. He was ready. Thankfully, Ashley was nowhere to be seen. At eight a.m., his first student would arrive and his day would begin.

TWO

 

June, July and August were dead center cut in the Peninsula weather tenderloin. Warm days. No wind. Sultry evenings. So of course everyone left town. These were Wally’s three slowest months. The gentle downside of serving millionaires and billionaires was their mobility. Released from the school year restraining order, Atherton logic demanded flight. Anyone who was someone left the town. So did everyone else. The incessant home construction slowed or stopped as the contractors left for Lake Tahoe or Lake Como. Even the support staff decamped.

There was still no decent cell phone coverage, but it was quiet for almost ninety whole days. Like it was thirty years ago, when he was only 133. Wally had grown up across the Valparaiso divide in West Menlo, but he did merit an Atherton summons now and then. He didn’t remember as much demolition or construction then. Everyone had less money and more time, and there were not as many double-booked playdates, club sports for three year-olds, maniacal soccer parents or private tennis pros.

But today was May 27, 2011 and it was busy. The storm before the calm. The school year clock was ticking down and not even Daniel Craig as the new, disheveled James Bond could cut the blue wire or the red wire. It was also the first weekend of the French Open, the only clay court tournament that anyone in America cared about. And even then, not that much.

May always brought frantic, rushed behavior and complications, but this year was particularly hectic. Wally wasn’t a hectic guy. He moved slowly. He acted slowly. He wasn’t tense. But he felt it too. He wasn’t one of the walking stressed he saw around him, but there was something. He saw those tight-jawed Athertonians on the road, on his court and at the Draeger’s market parking lot. They’d lost the chill in their reality. Those were the heart palpitation folks, not him. So what was going on with him and his heart?

In the last few days, he noticed that sometimes his pulse would climb up to 180. At rest. And stay there for a while. He resolved to have it checked next month, during the dead calm. Another good movie, incidentally. Nicole Kidman, Billy Zane, Sam Neill. That one made his heart pound. But it was supposed to. And Billy Zane really should have had more career too. Wally had friends with Atrial Fibrillation and they said if you were healthy, the racing heart episodes were nothing to worry about. You just lived with it. He was healthy. Old as Methuselah’s parrot, but healthy. Especially for a guy with a beat-up body and a teenage daughter. That’s of course if it was just A-fib.

The morning lessons had gone well. Dan the investment advisor at eight. No instruction, just there to hit the ball and burn the calories from the Chateau Petrus the night before. Gina the lawyer trying to resurrect the lovely, classic one-handed backhand the 13 year-old pro in Hawaii had corrupted at nine. And Dave the investment advisor at ten. Point play and a subcutaneously delivered pointer or two. All longtime students and all a joy to work with.

It was now 11:55 and Wally was standing idle on the court with his last morning lesson, a venture capitalist named Dick. Wally only took new students recommended by existing students, but even that vetting didn’t always guarantee serenity, focus and progress. Or right now, even just the purposeful hitting of felt spheres. Barbara, Dick’s wife, was a delightful, dedicated student who was just beginning to think of herself as an athlete. Never would be a Title IX girl, but she was going to be a solid USTA league player. At this rate, her husband, Dick the VC, would most likely be neither.

The Dick spent the first twenty-five minutes of the lesson on his phone. Wally tried to firm up Dick’s flaccid strokes for five and then the incessant venture capitalist was ear-humping his cell again. The lesson now had five minutes left. Wally had mowed up the balls, arranged and re-arranged the towels, cups and water and tried not to pay attention to Dick’s concert-volume phone call. Gently petting Rod Laver the Dog, he waited patiently, ready to resume the job he would be instructed to bill Dick’s assistant for, since incessant V.C.’s never had cash. Rod rolled onto his back for a quick tummy rub fix, closed his eyes and soaked up the sun. What a smart being. So was Wally in a way. Right now, he was being paid to pet his dog. Still, all things being equal, he’d rather just do his job.

And then, a change in inflection. Maybe he was in luck, Dick the VC seemed to be wrapping a bow around the deal. “Well you tell that conniving moron that the valuation we set was based on our team in five board seats,” he bellowed. “And if he thinks…Uh, hunh, uh, hunh…Okay. We’ll send you a terms sheet.”

He clicked off the phone, turned abruptly to Wally and asked him, “Do you have affairs with your students?”

“No,” said Wally.

Dick picked up his racquet and took a vicious cut at an imaginary serve toss. “Are you having an affair with my wife?”

“No,” said Wally.

“Then how did you get my name?” he asked.

“Your assistant called me.”

“My assistant?” He looked down at his racquet, back at Wally and said, “You’re tall. Are you having an affair with her?”

Wally wheeled the ball cart over to the baseline. Motioning with his racquet, he said, “A few serves?”

Dick grabbed a ball, took the same vicious swing, powered a serve deep into the off-court roses and exclaimed authoritatively, “Serves suck. Let’s play points.”

“Great,” said Wally.

“What time is it?”

Wally checked his watch unnecessarily. “Three minutes to.”

“I gotta go. But this was the best first lesson I’ve had today. I want to book you for this time every morning for the year. Just call my assistant.”

And before Wally could answer, Dick’s phone was lovingly mating with his ear again and he was on his way to his Aston Martin. Over his shoulder he shouted to Wally, “And I love the dog.”

“I’ll tell him,” Wally said.

The Dick stopped. “Is he for sale?”

“No. Sorry. We’re kind of attached to him.”

“Too bad. Great dog. And Roy Emerson. Great name,” he said.

Rod growled just a little. Dick started another thought, but before he could expound and command, something more important intervened. He had just noticed 17 year-old Ashley Margincall, stretched out on a lawn chair, sunbathing by the pool. Topless. Wally saw her too. Oh, God, he thought, Atherton Beauty.

Dick stopped dead in his tracks on the Margincall’s lovely Connecticut Bluestone pavers. With no shame or disguise, he stood where he was, unmoving, transfixed on the Margincall’s walkway, staring at their teenage daughter and her breasts. Or maybe just her breasts.

“Ever driven in an Aston?” he asked her.

“Besides mine?”

Missing half a beat. “So this is your place?”

“Sort of,” she said.

“I like your guy. The tall tennis pro. Hold onto him.”

“If only.”

“You having an affair with him?”

“He’s married. I think they’re even in love.”

“Me too,” said Dick, still staring at Ashley’s chest. Pausing for just a moment, he was hit by a delightful idea. “Bottomless. You ever go bottomless?”

“Tuesdays,” she said.

“You here tomorrow?”

“Saturday?” A sly smile. “Playing tennis.”

“Another day then.”

Ashley sat up. “Another day. Nice to meet you.”

He walked to her, extending his hand, barely able to focus on the shake. “Dick,” he said.

“Dick,” she repeated.

Dick somehow took the necessary steps up the path and climbed into his Aston. On the phone and still staring at Ashley, he almost hit a gazebo and a Ginnever as he drove out.

Wally, under his breath, “Careful, Dick.”

Wally whistled to Rod Laver the Dog who jumped up and trotted to the car. Then he called over to Ashley. “Sorry about that,” he said.

“He’s harmless. Just like the boys at school.”

“Speaking of which–”

“Why am I not there,” she asked.

“Well?”

“I’m studying for finals,” she said. Noticing that Wally was still standing across the yard from her, she smiled and said, “Wally?”

“Ashley?”

“You’re not looking at me. Do my boobs make you nervous?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Did you put on sunscreen?”

“No. I forgot. But you’re the pro. Will you do them for me?”

Wally turned and while still not looking at Ashley, said to her in all earnestness, “You could be a good player.”

“Why bother?” Looking down and chestward. “I’ve got these.”

“We have a lesson at three.”

“I know. I’m ready.”

“Well, if you get tired of studying, hit a few serves,” he said.

Smiling, she said, “Serves suck. Let’s play points.”

“When do your folks come home again?” he asked.

“Who knows? I’m just a gate code kid.” Taking a towel and standing up, “But don’t worry, I’ll be decent for the lesson.” Smiling again. “In fact, I’ll cover up now.”

And with that, she wrapped the towel around her waist and reclined again on the lawn chair.

Wally had successfully avoided locking eyes with anything but Ashley’s eyes. It occurred to him that the intercom wasn’t actually a bad way to communicate with her. Much less distracting.

He wasn’t really tempted to look at her. It was just difficult not to look. Even at 163. He’d had women students change their tops on the court, or wear next to nothing next to something, but Ashley was the only one in thirty years of ample opportunities who had tried to provoke him. Was this funny for her? Or funnier because he was a hundred and sixty-three? Or more of a challenge for her because he resisted? Bored, with money and no supervision, she just had too much time and inclination. Not the best upbringing. He made a useless note to himself not to make too much money.

The morning book filed, he tucked his six-foot-six body into the best looking car ever built, the car that sold a million units in its first eighteen months and put in the key. But when his foot pressed down on the gas pedal, he felt like he was going to push the pedal through the metal. He had to lift his foot back up with his hand to stop it. His heart was jumping the steeplechase again and it was about to do the long jump too. Was it the 14 ounces of burr-ground gloop he drank every morning? Was it Ashley? What was going on? Still wondering, he closed his door absentmindedly, but with such a rush of unexpected macho arm power that he broke the driver’s side window. Rod Laver the Dog winced.

What was going on?

THREE

 

That afternoon, after a bleak, teeny quiche-and-twig luncher with their mortgage broker, Ken, at Café Barrone, Wally and his wife, Danielle, drove north to the airport on highway 101 in her eight year-old Honda Odyssey mini-van. Danielle was in a business suit and Rod Laver the Dog was napping in the back. Wally had felt a little tense in the meeting, but his pulse rate had slowed since then.

“We could have taken my car,” he said.

“The one with no window?” she said with a giggle. “And no shocks?”

She had a point. Driving on a freeway in one of the richest areas of the country over potholes, bumps, pocks and ruts, Wally longed for a well-maintained goat path in the Serengeti.

He turned to her, “You know, sweetie, Ken didn’t sound very optimistic.”

“Well, we are a risk,” she said.

“No doubt. After all, it was the self-employed tennis pros and tech start-up marketing directors that brought the world financial system to its knees. That’s why we didn’t get any stimulus money.”

“Do you need to take a run?” she asked.

“No, I’ll tell you what I need.”

He squeezed her hand. She corner-eyed him.

“But you always need that,” she said. “Now, watch the road.”

“Don’t worry, everyone stays out of the way of mini-vans, you know that.”

She stroked his arm and looked at him just a little hungrily.

“I’ll only be in Geneva for a few days,” she said.

He smiled. “I’ll be right here, waiting.”

“Maybe on Monday you could call a few more brokers and see if we can get any better answers.”

“Sure. Grout the bathroom too?”

A look. “Wally.”

“I’ll call them,” he said.

“This re-fi could really help our bill situation. I don’t want to have to sell the house,” she explained.

Wally turned to her and said, “I’ll take care of it. And the kids. And miss you.”

Rolling both eyes heavily, Danielle said, “Oh, god. I gotta go.”

They had reached Departing Flights at SFO. Lufthansa. Danielle was flying to Switzerland to meet with some investment bankers about Swiss financing for Uthere.com, the start-up she worked for. The company made nano scale GPS tracking for transportation. It seemed like a good idea to Wally, and Danielle believed in it. Maybe too much. She had a load of stock options, but the lack of salary was beginning to affect their finances. This new investment was important. It could fund the company for a while, and everyone could get paid for a change. That would be great, he thought. His teaching income alone didn’t slake the ledger.

Donald Grosser, Uthere’s natty, concupiscent CEO stood at the curb, grinning eagerly, waiting for her. Donald was 42 1/2, with a PhD in physics, and an MBA in shareholder schmooze. He’d had two public companies and three public divorces. An impressive and not uncommon resume for the area. Wally had seen him wolfing after Danielle at company events and could vividly imagine what he was like at the office. He wondered what Donald would do if he saw Ashley by the pool. Probably the same thing that Dick the VC had done. Stand and pant. Maybe that’s what Ashley liked about Wally. He kept his tongue in his mouth. So did Rod, come to think of it. What a great dog.

Danielle broke his reverie, “I wish you could come and wait with me.”

“Me too. But don’t forget, we have this extra security for a reason. When our kind weren’t wrecking the banking system, we were bombing jumbo jets.”

“I’d keep you in line.”

Raising his eyebrows, “I’d like that. But don’t worry. Donald will wait with you.”

“Exactly. That’s why I want you there.” Danielle opened the Odyssey’s long door. “I love you.”

Wally leaned over and kissed her. “I love you too. See you Tuesday.” She kissed him once more with enough chemistry to restore sight to a line judge.

Whatever Donald had fantasized about Danielle, one thing was for sure. He had no idea what he was missing.

Danielle opened the tailgate and snuggled her nose up to Rod Laver the Dog. “And I love you too. Bye, Mr. Laver.”

Rod licked her nose.

Wally came around and pulled out her bag.

Danielle looked at him with wife seriosity. “Keep an eye on Addie. She and your girlfriend, Ashley, are cooking up something. She was way too nice this morning.”

“It’s Ashley,” said Wally. “No boundaries at all. She was sunbathing topless by the pool this morning.”

“Did you say something to her?”

“Of course I did. I told her to put on sunscreen.”

“Oh, you’re tough.”

“And practical.”

She laughed. “Just make sure you know where Addie is this weekend.”

“Will do. Say hi to Roger Federer for me.”

“Isn’t he in Paris?”

“Martina Hingis, then,”

“If I see her,” said Danielle.

“If you see her,” said Wally.

Smiling, Danielle looked him in the eyes one more time, turned and went to join Donald. He crossed scrimmage for a hello hug and kiss, which turned awkward when Danielle head faked and immediately moved upfield. Nice move, thought Wally. Nothing to worry about there. As they walked toward the terminal, Donald stayed a pace to the rear, watching Danielle’s beautiful behind swaying back and forth ahead of him. Wally was watching too and his heart was racing again. In a good way, he hoped.

Of the many proper, substantial and morally-praiseworthy reasons Wally wasn’t interested in Ashley, there was one besides her being seventeen with a short, wealthy, unstable father that trumped all the others – he loved his wife. After nearly thirty years, Danielle still had it all. There were the adult qualities. Her humor, intellect and subtle lasciviousness. And the reasons that attracted him and just about any other man to her on first glance in the first place. The sculpted, high cheekbones. Long, dark hair. Wise, playful eyes and a figure that would still unnerve a mathematician. Danielle was clearly the best looking woman in her fifties in this town and most others. And if she were by the pool, needing some upper torso sunscreen rubbing, then–

A voice and a whistle from his left broke into this delightful, lustful daydream.

“No stopping or standing. Let’s move on,” the airport cop informed him sternly. She motioned him forward.

Wally’s heart sped up again. Yes, let’s move on, he thought.

He closed the mini-van door very carefully and wished he was with Danielle more. He wished he were with her right now. Why did these physical urges get so strong every time she left? Caveman eminent domain? Or just the thought of how enjoyable it was to be with her that way? Whatever the reason, he needed a vacation. They needed a vacation. Maybe they could take one after her company went public. Right. And hire out the bathroom re-grout. Dare to dream.

He and Rod pulled out into the airport traffic, right behind a new BMW. Maybe if her company went public she could also get a new car. Maybe an M5. Now there was a dream. He was just separation-trippin’ now.

Since he was on the court until six, Wally decided to pick up some dinner components at Whole Foods on the way home. Today’s cuddly little lunch was barely an Atkins appetizer. Wally wanted some man-chow. They probably wouldn’t like it, but the kids would just have to eat what he was making.

FOUR

 

It had been a long day. Wally had added a five o’clock. A new student. It was only right. And prudent. The successful pros knew that turning a new lesson down, even if it meant extending your day was bad karma. You never knew when the lessons might stop. This extra effort kept the karma curs in their cages and the mortgage holders and other wildlife in theirs.

So Wally got home at six. Late for a Friday. And he made the first menu he could think of. Brined pork tenderloin, grilled over mesquite and almond wood. Oven polenta with mascarpone. Roasted Portobellos and Cipollinis and asparagus with a Meyer lemon beurre blanc. Wally liked to cook. And eat. His son, Deuce politely ate it all while Addie, his 17 year-old daughter, picked at the polenta, drank a Sprite and went off to a party with her friends, promising to be good and home by eleven.

At ten-thirty, in the living room of their almost-back-to-its-2008-value West Menlo Park three-and-two, Wally was watching a pre-French-Open Roger Federer special on Tennis Channel and Deuce was scanning YouTube for classic magic acts. The dishes were done and, as always, the house was as ship shape as an aircraft carrier. The exterior architecture was Maybeck modest. The Arts and Crafts furniture inside was Wally’s design, built in his shop. And the flaking grout in one bathroom would have been overlooked by Holmes on Homes. It was a West Menlo gem.

Deuce stopped eating his ice cream and sour worm dessert for a moment and turned to Wally. “Dad, check out this Asrah.”

Wally bent over Deuce’s iMac. “What’s an Asrah?”

“An Aga with a cloth.”

“Of course,” said Wally.

Deuce clicked to the Siegfried and Roy Las Vegas show from the 1990’s. On the imposing Mirage Hotel main showroom stage, Siegfried was gesturing grandly upward to a levitating woman, covered by a thin, filmy magic show drape and hovering three feet above his head. He walked under and around the floating figure, showing everyone that it looked real and looking satisfied that it did. An assistant brought out a large hoop, handed it to him and he passed it around the figure from every angle. He looked even more satisfied. Applause. Then as the music built, Roy stepped onto the stage, into the action, whipped the shroud away and the woman vanished.

Deuce paused the clip. “That’s an Asrah. Awesome, right?”

“A disappearing girl? Nothing you don’t see around this house every night at dinner,” said Wally.

Deuce, ignoring him, “Can we go to Vegas this summer?”

Wally smiled. “You know they’re not there any more.”

“Yes, dad. But Lance Burton is. Maybe Copperfield. I need to research my craft.”

“We’ll see.”

“Watch this next part and tell me you don’t want to go.”

Though Deuce was six-foot-two and looked older, he was only fourteen in human years and had the delightful energy and enthusiasm of that age. He un-paused the YouTube clip and they watched on as Roy held the sheet for a second, smiled knowingly and then with a single flick, vanished the sheet too. Siegfried and Roy both looked satisfied now. The audience went wild.

“That’s some sheet, huh dad?” said Deuce. “So, can we go?”

“I’ll talk to your mom.”

“It’s for my education. Please.”

“When she calls, we’ll discuss it.”

“No, dad, let me. I can do it. She’ll be all guilty cause she’s gone.”

Wally welled up with pride. They’d raised a fine kid. He even connived sweetly.

“Okay, my turn now,” said Wally. “Check this out.”

“Tennis?”

“Magic.”

“Federer?”

“Federer.”

Wally un-paused the TV and there was Roger Federer, midway through a classic Federerian shot sequence, showing off his unmatched grace, balletic improvisation, statistical cunning and raw power. “Now that action. Dope as a rope.”

Deuce chuckled, “Pretty good, dad. I say he makes it to the finals.”

“Past Djokovic? They’re in the same half.”

“He’s still the second best clay court player in the world.”

Wally agreed. Deuce knew his tennis.

Wallace Woodrow Wilson II, “Deuce” to everyone, was gifted athletically but he didn’t like sports much. He had been drafted onto the best little league, soccer and lacrosse teams after every male coach voted Danielle “hottest mom.” But sports never took. He could still analyze a tennis match like Brad Gilbert, but he wanted to be a professional magician. Something else he was very good at. At the moment, he was considering a delicate topic.

Tentatively, “Dad?”

Wally, looking up from the Federer Fest. “Yes?”

“Your cooking’s really good. For what it is. But could we ever just have pasta with red sauce when mom’s gone?”

Wally laughed. What a perfect evening, he thought. Maybe the Tomb Raider spheres were realigning. He loved his family.

And then his iPhone rang. He paused the TV.

Deuce, excitedly, “Is that mom?”

“Too early,” said Wally. He checked the caller ID on the screen. “It’s Addie.”

Deuce, “This can’t be good.”

Wally, into his phone, “Addie?…Ashley? Is Addie okay? What’s going on?…Uh, hunh…Yeah…Okay, I’ll be right there. Thanks.”

Wally clicked off the phone. “We have to go get Addie.”

“I knew it. She’s wasted, right?”

Wally grabbed the car keys and shot his son the famous loving, understanding parent stinkeye.

 

They drove in the Odyssey over potholes and neglected street repairs through darkest nighttime Atherton. Street lights were few. Street signs were so discreet they were invisible. And addresses in Atherton were like the Isle de Muerta, only to be found by those who already know where they are. Fortunately, Wally knew exactly where they were going. The Margincalls’.

On the way, they drove past mansions, bigger mansions and the compounds. Most of them weren’t visible from the ground, many not from the air either. Even in daylight. They could only be sensed or felt by their additional local gravity and the electronic fields they emanated, their size estimated by the running feet of sound walls and the girth of the gates. Rod Laver the Dog bounced around in the back of the middle-aged mini-van. It may have had shocks and all its windows, but these were the wilds of Atherton.

“Is mom ever going to get a new car?” asked Deuce.

“I hope so. Soon,” said Wally.

Deuce, excitedly, “An M-5?”

“For your mother?”

“An M-3?”

“I don’t know. It depends on some things happening for us this summer,” he said.

Deuce looked up from his iPhone. “Are we poor?”

“No. But not every family has an M-5.”

“Around here?” said Deuce. “Yeah, they do.”

Deuce looked back down at his phone, his breath caught and he stifled a laugh. “Well, here’s something I thought I’d never see.”

“Doug Henning?”

“Not exactly. I think you should pull over.”

“We’re almost there,” said Wally.

“Dad, pull over.”

“Why?”

“Well, because Ashley has really big boobs.”

“What?”

Wally pulled the Odyssey off the road, almost sinking the mini-van in an untended drainage culvert.

“Now, where did you see Ashley’s breasts?”

Showing his phone to his dad, “Here.”

“Which plan do you have again?”

“And, dad, not just hers –”

Wally’s eyes went wide.

“Addie’s?” said Wally.

“Yup. On her profile page.” Now, serious. “That’s something I hoped I’d never see.”

“Me too,” said Wally.

Wally pulled out onto the Atherton streets again and drove on a little faster.

Deuce looked up from his phone.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“What can you ethically do now?”

Wally glanced at him, puzzled. “Ethically?”

“Yeah. That was her no-questions-asked phone call.”

“You’re right,” said Wally. “I can’t do anything tonight. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Sure,” said Deuce. That was stupid.

Wally had the same thought.

This was not going to slow his heart.

How did single parents handle these things? He guessed he was about to find out. He sped up a little more. Those set-piece planets were starting to wobble again.