The
Black Knight Squash Fiction League Match #2
The Handouts versus The Tin Ringers
EAST
SIDE A
Collaborative Novel
Chapter 2-A Tired Eyes by Steve Hufford
When
the cab went past, Hank succumbed, staring hard into the cab’s interior
although he had faint hope of clearly seeing anyone. All three
women seemed young, with long brunette hair and overcoats up to the
neck. And so, once again, it either could be Kate or it couldn’t
be. Just like last week, when he thought he saw her getting into
a train from the opposite subway platform. But then it wasn’t
her; the face among the standing commuters too angular, the forehead
too high, and a slouch from some burden he prayed his daughter didn’t
carry.
These sightings, or mis-sightings, or near
sightings, always happened to him when he was most tired. He
would catch a glimpse, or hear a song, or smell a smell, or see a book,
or remember some fine time from her childhood. Sometimes just the
color or drape of a young woman’s clothing could evoke her
presence. And so, the beer with Jerry hadn’t been a great
idea. It had made the first of the day’s last two lessons a bit
more jocular, but then left him tired. Jerry’s kind offer of
employment aside, he now had an incipient dehydration-induced headache,
fifty more blocks to walk in the cold, and an inability to avoid his
ongoing obsession. His daughter Kate, estranged for over a year
now.
Hank had been so surprised at her hostile
departure and continued non-communication. Against his better
judgment, almost every day and every night, his mind played and
replayed scenes from her childhood and his parenting, always seeking
the cause of her decision to cut him off from her life.
Constantly wondering how to broach the gap, solve the puzzle, cross the
divide, and re-establish communication and relationship, Hank was
shaken. His lessons at the club suffered from his distraction and
lack of focus. It was as if he were bereaved, the pain rising and
falling like a tide, but completely unpredictable. And yet his
grief was for a living child. Or so he hoped. A lot could
happen in a year, especially to a young woman out on her own.
He blamed himself for separating from her
mother during Kate’s teenage years. That could probably screw
anyone up. But he had always tried to be there for her, from
school to sports to summer vacations, and had done his best as a
father. He loved her deeply; he’d been so proud to be her
father. And now she might even be in the Big Apple, hidden in the
city’s anonymity. She had friends from school, she was extremely
capable, and her mom was fairly close by. He wondered whether
Kate was still in touch with Margaret, or whether she had
excommunicated them both. At least there was a way to find that
out, since he and Margaret remained in touch, having accepted their
mutual unsuitability for each other.
Forty-five more blocks in the February
night brought him no closer to understanding his daughter, and no
nearer to hope. The warmth of his apartment was his only, lonely,
solace.
Bright sunlight awakened him well past
daybreak. Overnight, his despair had weakened to some type of
resignation at his beloved daughter’s volitive absence from his
life. With coffee and breakfast, he felt renewed interest in the
idea of creating the club’s farewell reunion. Pike was clearly a
good starting point. That could connect him to most of the club’s
female membership, at least for the five years prior. But how to
reach the notables like Jagger, and all the crowd from the early
years? And would the current members enjoy meeting and mixing
with the old-timers? Maybe Yvette could answer that, or help
out. Hank was sure the old-timers would enjoy meeting her, and
fairly certain she could hold her own.
The miracle of caffeine helped him recall
that the Master’s squash tournament was coming up, right in town though
not at his club. Since some of those former members had been
serious competitors, he might be able to track down a few by checking
the draws for the older age brackets. He looked forward to the
prospect, and even considered entering the 40+ division. Playing
the tournament would give him plenty of opportunity to talk with
everyone, maybe sound out some new job opportunities for when the club
closed. It was a small world, and worth keeping up his contacts.
Anyway, it would be fun to catch up with
those guys. Some were absolutely nuts. Some were mostly
sane. And the better ones were always unique. They would
find ways to compete even when their legs, knees, hips, backs, and
shoulders were shot. He grinned as he remembered the first time
he heard the saying, “Old squash players never die; they just drop in
the forecourt.” It would be great to see their guile.
Meanwhile, Jerry, demonstrating a guile he
would never be able to show on court, but one that characterized his
ascendance from Brighton Beach to the Hamptons via City College, had
already found out several things about the club’s pending sale and
demolition. First, there were contingencies on the sale,
dependent on the outcome of some zoning board hearings. Second,
the demolition itself would require union contracts and approval, along
with extensive environmental controls and monitoring due to concerns
with asbestos tile and insulation. Third, although the picture in
the Times announcing the corporate transaction didn’t list any names,
it did show a shot of the corporate officers looking quite
pleased. The one in the center filled most of the frame. He
looked huge, even in a well-tailored suit. A definite
body-builder type.
By noon, Jerry had the zoning board’s
hearing schedule, the list of all approved asbestos remediation
contractors operating in NYC, last year’s selling prices for all
comparable properties within a ten block radius, and the big guy’s name.
Steve Hufford is a proud father, fortunate husband, former
squash coach and blogger, long-time squash/tennis/court tennis player,
who enjoys wielding a pen almost as much as swinging a racquet.
__________ This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
