Free Songs Without Words by Ann Packer Page A

meaning of leaving were located in the extra time she had now. It had been a lot of work, of course, but Liz mourned it in a way that her parents seemed not to share. Perhaps it was a truth of life that the house you mourned was the one where you became yourself.
             
    At the end of the day, Brody stood below the baseline of a tennis court at the Peninsula Club, waiting for David Leventhal’s first serve. The courts were barely dry enough to play, but in Brody’s view barely dry enough was plenty dry enough; he didn’t let much get in the way of tennis. And yet, crouched and ready, he felt oddly delinquent, as if he were playing hooky from something. Why, when he played every Tuesday at exactly this time? Then he realized: it was the darkness. Daylight savings time had ended Sunday, and he and David were starting under lights for the first time in months.
    “Long,” he called of the first serve.
    On the opposite side of the court David grimaced and practiced his toss again: once, twice.
    The second serve was in, and Brody hit it down the line, a stretch for David’s backhand, but David was fast and he made it. No chance now, pal, Brody thought, and he charged the net and pounded the ball past David’s feet.
    “Nice,” David called.
    Brody moved to the ad court. He’d taken off his sweatshirt, but he wasn’t quite warm yet, and he danced a little from side to side.
    David slammed in a serve he couldn’t return. “Speaking of nice,” he called back.
    His shoulder hurt, but he tried to ignore it. The only thing to do was give it up for a time—give tennis up—and he wasn’t going to do that. Tennis was beautiful, it was so pure: the connection, over and over, with the ball. It was hit and hit again, your heart pumping blood—as if it were wellness itself—to the farthest reaches of your body. He had run for a while, but running was so boring. Tennis was the thing. Had been since he was thirteen. He could still remember his first few times playing, in junior high, how it just felt right, the racquet in his grip. Other guys he knew said the same of golf: the clubs just felt right. His first racquet, the sweat-curled leather wrap. Andrew Drayson, his best friend. They played and played, got better and better. In the space of three or four months they went from absolute beginners to the best in their grade, then their school. In high school they fought over and over again for the number one spot on the singles ladder. Every match was vastly different yet superbly recognizable. Every match, every set, every game.
    “Mackay,” David called after an especially long point. “My cardiologist thanks you for this.”
    “No problem,” Brody called back. “I’ll send you a bill.”
    Afterward they showered and dressed. David had a trial starting, and he’d head back to work now, drive through Taco Bell on the way. His wife liked to say that she was a double court widow. Brody and Liz had met them when both couples lived in the city. Very long ago now.
    “Kids?” David said as they packed up and left the locker room.
    “Fine,” Brody said. He thought of Lauren at the breakfast table, of Liz letting her skip school—he’d heard on the way to the club that she’d ended up staying home all day. He thought Liz could be too soft; she thought he could be too hard. But what good did it do, staying home from school? Hiding from your problems.
    “Yours?” he asked David.
    “Everyone’s doing great. I still can’t believe this is Caitlin’s last year home.”
    They’d reached the clubhouse door, and Brody held it for David and then followed after him. The night was black, enveloping. Through a stand of trees he could see, far below, part of a runway at SFO, marked by lights. He thought of misty nights in the city twenty years ago, the sound of a foghorn as he headed home from work. Liz waiting for him in the small apartment they shared.
    He waved to David and headed for his car. Stowing his bag in