Rafa Nadal freezes for a moment before he serves, and Richard moves closer to the television set, almost wishing he were that tennis ball about to be smashed across the net. His love of tennis is more than physical but almost spiritual – the tennis players are Gods, the referees the priests who are not infallible, and the crowds the faithful congregation. When he was teaching tennis, Richard tried to impart this religious devotion to his students. Very few understood it, and those who did and succeeded in the sport would eventually forget him. He knows why, but at 85, the past has become murky to him, a once clear river that has grown brown with discarded and discolored leaves.
The new nurse, the substitute one who arrived today instead of Sue, walks over to the television, and turns down the sound.
“The neighbors,” she tells him. “They’ve been complaining. Where are your hearing aids, Mr. Larkin?”
He doesn’t respond. He hasn’t worn his hearing aids in months, and too bad if the TV is too loud. His neighbors have a baby who wails all the time, and it’s not like he can tell them to turn their infant off.
The nurse sits down next to him. She is blonde, like Claire and Alice, almost all the nurses, and has that same hard middle-aged face that shows her life has not been easy. He glances at her pursed lips painted a faint coral; her eyes suddenly intent on the screen.
“Rafa will win,” she says suddenly.
Richard raises his eyebrows in surprise. “So, you like tennis?” he asks. He wishes he could remember her name. Something to do with roses, daisies. Floral. Flora, that is her name.
“You could say that” she tells him, standing up with a slight groan. She is not a thin woman and places her hands on her thick hips. “This apartment has so many photographs.”
She’s right. Richard is proud of his collection of his tennis students dating back to 1973. They gleam from their silver frames in the Florida sun. Flora seems fixated on one photograph of Richard with his arm around a smiling teenage girl, her mouth shiny with braces. Richard can’t recall the girl’s name, but he knows that her parents, who were teachers, struggled with the payment and had to make a monthly arrangement with him.
“You should stand up, Mr. Larkin, exercise that leg.”
The leg she is referring to was almost smashed to pieces in a car accident six months ago. A 94-year-old driver, of course with an expired license who should have had a cataract operation years ago. Florida drivers. But Richard was driving too fast too. Something about these sluggish old people in their expensive cars really got to him. After two operations, Richard still can feel the pins in his knee.
The nurse turns off the television set while Richard helps himself up by holding onto a nearby chair. Damn, his leg still hurts. He must have groaned because the new nurse hurries back to him and takes his arm.
“Are you okay?” she asks. She places her smooth palm across his forehead. “You feel hot. I’ll bring you a glass of iced tea.”
Something happens to Richard as he watches the nurse walk into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. A memory of a girl sobbing in a locker room. Why is he remembering this now? Sometimes his mind will go back in decades with images that he can’t believe ever happened.
The glass the nurse brings him is beaded from the humidity and cool to his touch. “Thank you,” he murmurs as he takes three long sips. The iced tea is too sweet – he should have told her that he didn’t like it with sugar. The nurse turns on the air-conditioner, and the roar of the sound seems to Richard louder than the television.
Now the nurse has returned to his display of photographs and picks up the one that he saw her examining. She traces a finger over the face of the girl behind the frame, and her eyes suddenly seem misty.
“I had the most wicked backhand,” she tells him, her hands now shaking as she stares at the photograph and then at Richard.
“Backhand,” Richard can only repeat.
“Palm Beach Tennis Club. I was the star junior player. You were such a wonderful tennis instructor.”
The room feels hotter, even though he can feel the cold breeze of the air conditioner. Who is this woman? He has a sudden urge to run to the door, but his leg hurts too much. But something warms him against sitting down.
The nurse gives him the photograph. Richard doesn’t want to touch it and moves away.
“Who are you?” he asks in a loud voice. He is trying not to be strong but know he is not the intimidating man he once was so long ago on the tennis court.
“Jennifer Welles,” she answers, looking back at her photograph. “I had just turned 15 and won the championship when they took this photo.”
Jennifer Welles. He can’t believe this is the young girl who he hoped would be the next Chris Evert. Her face, distorted with hate, is now moving back and forth like a tennis ball. The entire room now seems distorted too, the chairs too big, the lamps too small, the walls moving as if there was a sudden earthquake.
“You really were great, Coach Richard,” the woman who now knows is Jennifer tells him. “That’s what makes this so very terrible. I stopped playing tennis. Hated the sport. You made me hate something I loved so much. Isn’t that terrible?”
He sees again the girl crying in the locker room. Why was she crying? Richard sinks down into the chair and covers his face with his hands. The room spins and spins.
“I feel sick,” he groans.
“I know,” Jennifer tells him.
He stares at her, eyes wide in terror.
“You’re a nurse. You can’t do this to me.”
“You ruined my life. You just couldn’t leave us alone, could you? Making us stay late after practice. I tried to contact the other girls, now women, but they didn’t want to be reminded of the past. But not me. Took me a while to find you, but I did. It’s all about the timing. That’s what you taught me. Pace yourself, Jen.”
Richard vomits, the sickness exploding over his pressed trousers and white sneakers. He can feel himself slipping from the chair and onto the floor.
“That iced tea…” His voice is fading into a mere whisper.
“I was a pharmacist before I was a nurse. Oh, what a mess you made, Richard. But they won’t find what I gave you. Untraceable. I’m as good at this as when I played tennis all those years ago.”
Jennifer no longer seems interested in him since he is now dying. Richard, his limbs suddenly paralyzed, watches her turn on the television set. He can tell that the game is in its final set.
“Match Point,” Jennifer says to Richard, who can now barely see or hear. He wants to beg for forgiveness, but he knows it’s too late. Deep down, he always suspected one of them would find and punish him. He tries to tell her he’s sorry, but suddenly he is incapable of speech.
Jennifer she turns off the television set, takes out a pair of gloves and cleaning supplies, and makes sure that no one will ever know she was there. Before she turns off the light, she glances at Richard’s body on the floor. She takes a deep breath and is surprised at how calm she feels. All the torment all these years is over. She debates about taking the photograph of her and Richard but decides that she will take his tennis racket instead. Her friend Suzy has begged her to return to tennis and play again. Maybe tomorrow she’ll return, after decades, to a court. Her coach always told her she had a killer serve.