A Lady Under Siege - By B.G. Preston Page 0,43
see yooouuu…”
The disruption made him carve a huge divot out of his scraggly lawn. He spotted Betsy on the deck and said, “There you are. How’s the finger coming along?”
“Better. Is that a real ball?”
“No, it’s hollow, and plastic. But for some reason, even though I’ve set it up so it can’t hit me, and I know it won’t hurt even if it does hit me, my body doesn’t believe my mind—every frigging time it comes flying back at me, I bail. It’s turning my smooth swing all spastic. What happened to your trampoline?”
“My mom locked it in the shed. It’s part of my punishment for the broken window. Plus she said it’s too dangerous.”
“Ridiculous,” Derek spat. “You’re overprotected. You’ll never learn to deal with dangerous things unless you’re given dangerous things to deal with.”
“What happened to your netting?” she asked.
“I took it down. When I wasn’t using it, it loomed too high above me, like a prison fence. Gave me the creeps, especially at night. This is better. Simpler is usually better.”
“What other games do you have?” Betsy asked.
“None. Golf is infuriating enough.”
“I have badminton, do you like it?”
“Like it? I love it,” he exclaimed. “In my day I was fourteen-and-under regional champion, or I would have been if I’d bothered to enter. Wicked drop shot, I had. But that was mostly indoors, and I love it even more outdoors—it’s the only game besides golf where you really have to watch what the wind is up to—a capricious little gust can ruin what you expected was a perfectly placed shot.”
“Shall we play?” Betsy asked excitedly.
“Oh let’s,” he answered, gently mocking her. “But we’ll have to play blind badminton.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ll make the fence the net, which means you can’t see the birdie until it comes fluttering back at you.”
“Brilliant!” Betsy cried. She was thrilled. She ran inside to retrieve her racquets and shuttlecock, and before long a spirited game of blind badminton was underway.
UP IN HER STUDIO Meghan was lost in the world of medieval medicine, educating herself as to the properties of the four humours. The familiar musical peals of Betsy’s distinctive laugh reached her faintly from the back yard. She got up and went to the back bedroom window to have a look. Below her Derek and Betsy, in high spirits, were whacking the birdie back and forth over the fence.
“You know if you win, you get to declare yourself blind badminton champion of the universe, because we’re the only two players known to exist,” Derek was shouting, his voice ragged from exertion.
“Even if I lose, I’ll still be second in the universe,” Betsy yelled back. “I’ll get the silver medal!”
“No, you’ll be the worst, worst in the world. Shit!” His return shot hit the fence and fell back in his yard. “Pardon my French. Okay. I’m serving. Ready?”
“It’s ten eight,” Betsy called out.
“For me,” said Derek.
“No, for me!”
“It was nine eight for me.”
“No it wasn’t!”
“Don’t mess with me, girl,” Derek scolded.
“You’re the one messing.”
“Whatever. Finish this game, then I need a cigarette.”
“But ten eight for me, right?”
“Fine. Still plenty of time to whip your ass. I mean butt.”
“Ass is a donkey,” Betsy laughed.
“True. And people do whip donkeys, right on their ass.”
“Asses have asses!” Betsy giggled. “Damn it!” She muffed a shot. “Ten nine.”
“Watch your language,” Derek teased her.
“Which one, asses or damn it?”
“Both.”
“You say them all the time!”
“I’m allowed. When you stop living with your mother, you’re allowed.”
“She didn’t hear me.”
“I think she did. Check the window.”
Betsy looked up to see Meghan looking down at them.
“Mom! Come out and play.”
She shook her head.
“Come and play! It’s called blind badminton, because of the fence!”
Meghan opened the window wide enough to speak through. “Sorry honey, I’ve got so much work to do.”
“You always say that.”
“I’ll be down in a bit.”
“Your bits take hours.”
“Smoke break,” Derek announced.
“It won’t be hours,” Meghan said.
“Come now or forget it,” Betsy warned her.
“I’m closing the window,” Meghan answered. She did, and disappeared inside.
Derek sat on top of his picnic table and lit a cigarette. On her side of the fence Betsy entertained herself by batting the birdie straight up into the air, again and again, counting each successful swat out loud, to see how long she could keep it aloft. At eleven she stopped—“I think a bat flew by!” she shrieked excitedly.
“Too early for that,” Derek said. “Unless he’s messed up. How’s your mother doing, by the way?”
“She’s getting better, I’d say.”
“I don’t know about that,” Derek replied. “Had quite a lot to