the Third Twin (1996)

Jeannie’s serve was dynamite and her two-handed cross-court backhand smash was a killer. There was not much Jack could do about the serve, but after the first few games he made sure she did not get many chances to use the backhand smash. He played a sly game, conserving his energy, letting Jeannie make mistakes. She played too aggressively, serving double faults and running to the net too early. On a normal day, she reckoned, she could beat him; but today her concentration was shot, and she could not second-guess his game. They won a set each, then the third went to 5–4 in his favor and she found herself serving to stay in the match.

The game went to two deuces, then Jack won a point and the advantage was to him. Jeannie served into the net, and there was an audible gasp from the little crowd. Instead of a normal, slower second service, she threw caution to the winds and served again as if it were a first service. Jack just got his racket to the ball and returned it to her backhand. She smashed it and ran to the net. But Jack was not as off balance as he had pretended to be, and he returned a perfect lob that sailed over her head and landed on the back line to win the match.

Jeannie stood looking at the ball, hands on her hips, furious with herself. Although she had not played seriously for years, she retained the unyielding competitiveness that made it hard to lose. Then she calmed her feelings and put a smile on her face. She turned around. “Beautiful shot!” she called. She walked to the net and shook his hand, and there was a ragged round of applause from the spectators.

A young man approached her. “Hey, that was a great game!” he said with a broad smile.

Jeannie took him in at a glance. He was a hunk: tall and athletic, with curly fair hair cut short and nice blue eyes, and he was coming on to her for all he was worth.

She was not in the mood. “Thanks,” she said curtly.

He smiled again, a confident, relaxed smile that said most girls were happy when he talked to them, regardless of whether he was making any sense. “You know, I play a little tennis myself, and I was thinking—”

“If you only play a little tennis, you’re probably not in my league,” she said, and she brushed past him.

Behind her, she heard him say in a good-humored tone: “Should I assume that a romantic dinner followed by a night of passion is out of the question, then?”

She could not help smiling, if only at his persistence, and she had been ruder than necessary. She turned her head and spoke over her shoulder without stopping. “Yes, but thanks for the offer,” she said.

She left the court and headed for the locker room. She wondered what Mom was doing now. She must have had dinner by this time: it was seven-thirty, and they always fed people early in institutions. She was probably watching TV in the lounge. Maybe she would find a friend, a woman of her own age who would tolerate her forgetfulness and take an interest in her photographs of her grandchildren. Mom had once had a lot of friends—the other women at the salon, some of her customers, neighbors, people she had known for twenty-five years—but it was hard for them to keep up the friendship when Mom kept forgetting who the hell they were.

As she was passing the hockey field she ran into Lisa Hoxton. Lisa was the first real friend she had made since arriving at Jones Falls a month ago. She was a technician in the psychology laboratory. She had a science degree but did not want to be an academic. Like Jeannie, she came from a poor background, and she was a little intimidated by the Ivy League hauteur of Jones Falls. They had taken to one another instantly.

“A kid just tried to pick me up,” Jeannie said with a smile.

“What was he like?”

“He looked like Brad Pitt, but taller.”

“Did you tell him you had a friend more his age?” Lisa said. She was twenty-four.

“No.” Jeannie glanced over her shoulder, but the man was nowhere in sight. “Keep walking, in case he follows me.”

“How could that be bad?”

“Come on.”

“Jeannie, it’s the creepy ones you run away from.”

“Knock it off!”

“You might have given him my phone number.”

“I should have handed him a slip of paper with your bra size on it, that would have done the trick.” Lisa had a big bust.

Lisa stopped walking. For a moment Jeannie thought she had gone too far and offended Lisa. She began to frame an apology. Then Lisa said: “What a great idea! ‘I’m a 36D, for more information call this number.’ It’s so subtle, too.”

“I’m just envious, I always wanted hooters,” Jeannie said, and they both giggled. “It’s true, though, I prayed for tits. I was practically the last girl in my class to get my period, it was so embarrassing.”

“You actually said, ‘Dear God, please make my tits grow,’ kneeling beside your bed?”

“Actually I prayed to the Virgin Mary. I figured it was a girl thing. And I didn’t say tits, of course.”

“What did you say, breasts?”

“No, I figured you couldn’t say breasts to the Holy Mother.”

“So what did you call them?”

“Bristols.”

Lisa burst out laughing.