Apples Never Fall

“Does anyone need another tea or coffee?” asked Joy.

“But then she got to fourteen or fifteen, and she started choking,” said Stan. “Simple as that.”

It had been awful to witness. Amy would shout at herself. It wasn’t her opponent she was fighting but herself, the voice in her head. Amy! You stupid idiot! Sometimes Joy felt like that summed up Amy’s whole life: a constant power struggle with a cruel, invisible foe.

“Choking?” asked Savannah.

Amy wrapped both hands around her throat, stuck her tongue out, and put her head on one side.

“It’s a sports term,” Stan explained to Savannah. “It basically means that your state of mind prevents you from reaching your potential.”

“Stan,” said Joy. It felt like he was undressing in public. Or undressing his family. It felt deeply personal. These were conversations they’d had about their children, in the privacy of their bedroom. Amy did choke. If she was serving for the match you could almost guarantee she’d double-fault.

“Joy,” said Stan.

He couldn’t be stopped. It was like standing in front of a semitrailer speeding toward you.

He said, “Amy lost the match in her own mind before she’d even walked out on that court, and her mother and I, we just couldn’t work out how to…”

“Fix me,” finished Amy.

“No,” said Stan. “Not fix you. Help you.”

“Move it along, Dad,” said Amy. She bundled her hair up into a messy topknot, put her elbows on the table, and locked her hands together. Joy knew it was only a defense mechanism, but Amy’s mocking, glamorous smile reminded Joy of Stan’s mother. Joy hated it when Stan’s bloody mother made a guest appearance on her beloved children’s faces. “Let’s hear why the others failed.”

“No one failed.” Joy’s stomach cramped. “And I’m sure Savannah isn’t interested in this.”

“Oh, no, it’s very interesting,” said Savannah brightly, as if she couldn’t sense the tension in the room. It was the first time Joy had ever felt even slightly annoyed with her.

Stan jerked his head at Logan. “This one was an athlete. Jesus, he was an athlete. Doesn’t look like it now, of course.”

“Gee, thanks, Dad.” Logan lifted his wineglass in a mocking toast.

“He had one of the most powerful forehands I’ve ever seen. Extraordinary.”

“Powerful, yes, but would we call it accurate?” asked Troy with a sidelong look at his older brother, and Logan gave him the rude finger, as if they were both little boys.

“Logan was so fit.” Stan ignored Troy. He was into his stride now. It had been years since he’d had the chance to talk to someone with no previous knowledge and such apparent interest in the topic of his children’s tennis.

“He could play for hours and look like he’d just walked onto the court. I remember one match when Logan was up against this kid who was meant to be the next big thing.” Stan’s eyes shone with the memory of that long-ago January day. “Logan wore that kid out. Every game was deuce, ad, deuce, ad, deuce, ad. Every rally was a marathon. We’re talking ten-, fifteen-shot rallies. One hour in, that was it, this other kid, this supposed star, he was done.” Stan sliced his palms sideways. “Meanwhile this one—” He pointed his thumb at Logan. “Fresh as a daisy. Barely broke a sweat.”

Joy hadn’t been at that match, but she must have heard the story a hundred times, and each time Stan told it with such delight, his head unconsciously going back and forth like a tennis spectator as he chanted: “Deuce, ad, deuce, ad.”

“But,” Logan took another two brownies, one from each plate, “my turn for the ‘but.’”

“Logan never truly committed to the sport. He just didn’t want it enough. He never had that burning desire, it was like he could take it or leave it, he was too—”

“Passive?” said Logan, with a strange expression on his face. “Is that the word you’re looking for, Dad?”

“I was going to say you were just too nice,” said Stan. “I sometimes wondered if you even liked winning. You hated seeing the other kid lose.”

“I liked winning,” muttered Logan. He aggressively massaged the back of his neck. “Bloody hell, Dad, how much of my childhood did I spend on the court if I didn’t commit to the sport? How much more committed did I need to be?”

“Yeah, but, mate, like I said, you just didn’t have that desire.” Stan discarded poor Logan and turned his gaze to Troy. “Now Troy had the desire, because all he cared about was beating you and Amy. Younger siblings always end up the better players. Look at Venus and Serena. But see, the thing with Troy—” Stan shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Troy was a show pony.”

“Still is,” said Logan.

Troy whinnied. Brooke giggled. Savannah smiled uncertainly.