The Bird House A Novel - By Kelly Simmons Page 0,19

groups where the men nod and sway and make faces when they play. No one was dancing yet; it was too early, people had too much to say and not enough to drink.

I saw Peter before he saw me. He was making his way across the crowded gym, weaving gracefully between hanging streamers and swaying people, pausing for nods and handshakes along his route. Halfway through, his eyes found mine and held.

“Annie,” he said and smiled, covering the last few yards in double time. His hands were on my hands, and his lips were against my cheek, lingering there a moment too long, as if they were just scouting out the territory for later. “It’s been ages.”

“I was hoping you might make the trip.”

“Oh, we live here now.”

My face flushed, and I wasn’t sure if it was fear of his proximity, or the heavy width of the word “we.”

“Really? Since when?”

“Last month.”

We exchanged basic information: where we lived, how many children. He mentioned that his wife was from Baltimore and didn’t feel at home here yet.

“Is she here? I’d love to meet her.”

“She stayed back; one of the kids is sick.”

“Oh, mine was sick earlier this week. Terrible fever.”

“But you weren’t?”

“Me?”

“Sick, you weren’t sick?”

“No, no. Why, do I look… unwell?”

His eyes skimmed my body lightly before landing back on my face. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you look better than you did in high school.”

“I look old.”

“No, you look… wise.”

“Wise to your tricks, maybe,” I said and we both laughed.

He looked toward the punch bowl. “And what about you? Is your illustrious architect husband getting you a drink?”

“He’s at a ribbon cutting.”

“Oh, of one of his skyscrapers?”

“One of his shopping malls, actually. But I’ll tell him you find him illustrious.”

He laughed, and I watched him, marveling at his wide, easy smile as if it had been a dozen years since I’d seen teeth.

“Do you, too?”

“Do I what, Peter?”

“Find him illustrious?”

I narrowed one eye, considering this. I wasn’t used to hanging adjectives on Theo, but if I had to choose one, that would not be it. Industrious, perhaps. He’d had the nerve to be upset that I wouldn’t go with him instead of to the reunion. He’d said I lived a mile from Langley, and anyone I wanted to see I could probably see at the grocery store. He said I didn’t care about his work. I said he didn’t care about my friends. Both of us were right, and we knew it. I stopped short of adding that he didn’t care about his own daughter when she was sick.

“So… couldn’t someone else have cut the ribbon, Annie? Or does he have special scissors?” Peter teased.

“I didn’t come here to talk about my husband,” I said with a smile.

February 20, 2010

Today was the indoor doubles round-robin, and as usual, I’m sore. If I’d played singles, I probably would have needed an ambulance. Betsy and I laughed about this tonight on the phone: why does anyone consider tennis a “life sport”? It’s desperately hard on the knees, elbows, shoulders. It’s a sweaty game played on hot, humid days. It’s a young person’s game if ever one was invented. But no, we’re encouraged to play it for life, which I have, mostly, except when the babies were little. Theo played every Saturday morning throughout our marriage, though never with me. He played until he collapsed on the court, clutching his chest, crying out to his partner, Bix, as if protesting a foot fault. Life sport, indeed. I remember whispering that very thing to Tom at Theo’s funeral. Theo’s friends all gave eulogies that wove in tennis stories, tennis metaphors. Bix insisted on tucking a tennis ball into the casket. I leaned over and groaned, “Life sport, indeed,” to Tom, and he pointed out that he was sure all that tennis at least helped the pallbearers with their heavy lifting. We giggled, and I saw a slice of Tinsley’s furrowed brow coming over Tom’s shoulder. Then it was gone, and it was as if she wasn’t even there.

On the court next to us were four women Tinsley’s age who ran and lunged and grunted as they swung their tan, fit arms. Even when they were finished and put on their sweaters, you could see the outlines of their muscles pushing through the cable pattern, distorting it. One of them saw me watching her and smiled back sweetly, as if catching me in reverie for how I used to look. But no, I