Page 27 of Summer of '69
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.
Finally, Garrison speaks. “You have pretty eyes, Jessie.”
Jessie is so taken aback by this non sequitur that she laughs.
“I like a woman with dark eyes,” Garrison says. “I find them mysterious. And I love long dark hair like yours. I guess you could say I’m a brunette man.” He holds the gate open and ushers Jessie onto the court. “Now, let’s play some tennis.”
Like many sports, tennis is deceptively simple. The objective is to hit the ball over a net with a racket, wait for one’s opponent to hit it back, then hit it again. But also like many sports, there are nuances—speed, power, and an elusive element calledspin,which depends on the angle you hold the racket and the way you hit the ball.
Garrison starts with the basics, forehand grip and forehand stroke. He places Jessie’s hand in position, then stands just behind her and shows her how to move her arm.
“You might try loosening up,” Garrison says. “You’re very stiff, which will result in wooden play.”
Jessie can’t loosen up. The wordswooden playgive her a vision of a figure like one of her grandmother’s whirligigs, a girl holding a racket that swings again and again. Jessie is disconcerted by Garrison’s body positioned so close behind hers, his hands on her arm and back, and, most alarmingly, his declarations right before they began. She has prettyeyes?He likes herdark hair?No one but her parents have ever told Jessie she’s pretty, and even those statements had been whittled down to a single aspect or instant.You look lovely in red. You’ve been blessed with beautiful skin.That dress is becoming.Jessie has never had a boy tell her she’s pretty, and she might have been tempted to think Garrison was making fun of her, but she could tell he was speaking in earnest.
Garrison has a cart filled with bright yellow tennis balls and he drops each one with a precise bounce so that when Jessie swings the way he showed her, the ball clears the net with inches to spare, again and again.
She’s doing it!
Garrison calls out words of encouragement—Way to go! Good job! Keep it up!—as Jessie hits the entire cart of balls with only two that smack the tape at the top of the net and fail to clear.
“And no bloopers,” Garrison says. “That’s impressive. I believe you just might be the next Billie Jean King.”
Jessie knows he’s exaggerating but hope unfurls in her chest nonetheless. She wonders if maybe shewillprove to be good at tennis. It stands to reason, after all—Exalta is good at tennis, or she was, and both Kate and David play. Jessie’s siblings all took the obligatory year of lessons, but none of them showed any real promise. Perhaps all of the tennis genes fell to Jessie. She grows warm thinking of how proud Exalta will be of her if that’s the case. Jessie may even replace Kirby as the favorite.
“I think we should move on to backhand,” Garrison says. Together, he and Jessie gather up all the balls. At one point, Jessie catches him looking at her and she feels…what does she feel? Something brand-new. She feelsdesired.
They move on to backhand. Jessie steels herself for the challenge.
Garrison says, “Your granny was clear that I am not to teach you a two-handed backhand but I don’t think you’re going to have the arm strength to clear the net with one hand.”
Jessie is disappointed to hear this. “Can’t I try it?” she asks. She’s terrified of not following Exalta’s exact instructions.
“We can,” Garrison says. “Maybe you’ll surprise me.” He shows Jessie how to hold the racket, his hand lingering on her arm and back even longer than before. His touch makes Jessie self-conscious. Garrison drops the ball and Jessie swings and misses completely. Garrison drops a second ball and she misses again, and then yet again on her third try. Her eyes brim with tears of humiliation. She’s hot, she’s sweating, she’s certain she smells. She should never have let herself believe she would be any good at this game.
“Let’s try a two-handed grip,” Garrison says. “It’s easier. Here, I’ll show you.” He stands behind Jessie and wraps his arms around her so that his chest is pressing up against her back. She tenses. He speaks into her ear, his voice nearly a whisper. “Just relax,relax. Send your arms back like this and then…follow through.” With the movement, Jessie feels a part of Garrison poking her. She prays she’s imagining it but then she feels it again, hard and straight as the handle of a racket—hiserection—the word plucked right out of the puberty talk they all received at the end of the school year. Garrison has gotten an erection from showing Jessie how to hit a backhand and now that erection is rubbing against her. Jessie tries to pull away but Garrison holds her arms in place.
“I don’t feel well,” she says, but Garrison doesn’t respond. He stands behind her rocking back and forth with the ostensible mission of showing her how to swing her racket. At that instant, the horror becomes more than just Garrison and his erection. It’s also Exalta disrespecting Jessie’s last name and Tiger at war in the jungle. Jessie twists out of Garrison’s arms with a strength she didn’t know she possessed and she runs off the court and over to the patio, where Exalta is signing the chit. There are empty champagne glasses in front of Exalta and Mrs. Winter.
Exalta beams at Jessie. Her eyes have that glint that only alcohol produces in her. “How did it go?”
Jessie clears her throat. “I’d like a different instructor tomorrow.”
“What?” Exalta says. “Whatever for?”
Jessie widens her eyes, hoping to convey her distress. Her grandmother was quite beautiful in her day. Surely she received her share of unwanted attention. But Jessie doesn’t have the words to explain what happened, much less in front of Mrs. Winter.Tumescence,she thinks. The word from Blair’s novel. She hears Blair say,There’s no reason to be grossed out by sex.But she is.
“He taught me a two-handed backhand,” Jessie says.
Exalta pushes herself up from the table. “Does the boy not have ears? That won’t do at all,” she says. “We’ll find you someone else.”
“A girl,” Jessie says. “Please.”
Mrs. Winter is stuck to Exalta like lint to a sweater, and when Mrs. Winter says, “Tell me, Exalta, how is Blair? She married an astronaut, didn’t she? I’ve always been so fond of her, even though she broke my Larry’s heart,” Jessie excuses herself and goes to the locker room. She splashes water on her face; it’s burning, whether from the sun or the humiliation she just endured, she isn’t sure. The sensation of Garrison rubbing up against her won’t go away. It’s like he’s branded her. She wants to cry, wants to scream, but she’s at the club so she can do neither. When she gets home, she’ll tell her mother what happened, and Garrison will be fired and sent back to Tennessee. But Jessie fears she will never, ever have the courage to tell her mother. Nor can she imagine telling her father. She could tell Blair or Kirby, but her older sisters aren’t here. They’ve abandoned her.
When Jessie emerges from the locker room, Exalta is still out on the patio chatting with Mrs. Winter. Jessie wants to leave and just walk home by herself, but she knows there will be a price to pay for such rudeness, and so she lingers at the reception desk. Lizz has vanished; the desk is unmanned. On a shelf just behind the desk are polo shirts, visors, cocktail napkins, and stationery emblazoned with the kelly-green-and-white club burgee. Jessie’s blood quickens. She glances around, sees no one. She leans over the counter and snatches the first thing within reach—a pair of terry-cloth wristbands, packaged in cellophane. The cellophane crackles; Jessie thinks that surely someone will appear and ask her for Exalta’s member number so her account can be charged. But no one notices and Jessie stashes the wristbands in the roomy pocket of her tennis skirt. She goes to wait for Exalta on the front porch.
Everyday People
