Every afternoon, mother and son bonded with a game of eight ball played on the table next to the Olympic-sized swimming pool. The help, taking a respite from cleaning, serving, and bartending, surreptitiously eyed Mother expertly lining-up combinations, her sarong pulled high above her knees.

Stan and his mother were vacationing in Central Florida while Mother recovered from “female” surgery. Stan tackled seventh-grade homework, tennis, and swimming. Every day, a steady wind ruffled their hats and shirts, the weather more like the equatorial tropics in the early dry season, with the afternoon sun lingering bright as if the Earth’s rotation had slowed.

Mother had been attractive as a child and an adolescent, and was even more so with the added grace of maturity. Tall, statuesque really, she had a lovely face with soft, precisely defined lips, and a kind smile shaped by a mannerly upbringing. She distanced herself from the public, afraid that a laugh or a polite word would embolden strangers to court her with flowers and sweet talk.

Tim, the tennis pro, arm around Stan’s shoulder, approached Mother after each lesson to report on her son’s progress. Most times, he and Stan would just take a soda break after twenty or thirty minutes of volleying and shoot the bull, especially about Tim’s appreciation of feminine beauty.

“You know, Stan,” Tim would say, “when you come right down to it, it’s all about what a guy feels in his hips,” followed by a knowing back slap.

Tim had been an excellent college tennis player, but had no further athletic aspirations. Tall, bronzed, with too much hair, he was muscled and graceful. Headed to law school in the fall, Tim possessed a precise inner timepiece that would serve him well when he billed for legal services: forty-five minutes of lesson was completed in three quarters of an hour. Each session ended abruptly with Tim saying, “Good strokes, Stan, same time tomorrow, let’s go find your mom.”

Lunch was at poolside—freshly made iced tea and bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches cut diagonally into quarters, the potato chips replaced with fresh orange slices at Mother’s insistence. Wayne, the waiter assigned to them because he was the owner’s nephew, deigned to impress Mother with his high school French. “Bonjour,” she corrected him, “not bone-joor” emphasizing her linguistic perfection with fingers artfully shaping the words near parted lips.

The resort was lit at night with floodlights facing skyward, bright, like anti-aircraft spotlights over wartime London eerily illuminating the palm trees and low-lying clouds, like Roman pillars guarding a villa of scantily clad people, dining, and nursing rum drinks—where talk of poverty or homelessness was outsourced. Wayne tapped the tree nearest them: “Traveller’s Palm,” he said, “see the sweep of the leaves, like a fan, they’re from Madagascar,” a country difficult to enunciate with his slight but noticeable stammer, always made worse in the presence of Mother. “Not really a pppalm,” he continued, “but from the bird-of-paradise family…” By then Mother’s thoughts had traveled to a different galaxy.

Today Wayne, neglecting their iced tea refills, planted signs around the corners of the pool, pounding them down hard in the trim grass with a hammer designed for gentler tasks. Hand-printed in dark block letters on white cardboard, the notices informed the guests that the swimming pool would be unavailable, from 5 to 10 am for the next few days. Sonia Chandler, the World’s record holder for the fastest crossing of the English Channel, man or woman, would be training in this pool for a new assault on the record.

“Guests are invited to watch Miss Chandler swim and then meet her at dinner,” Wayne chanted. Stan and Mother laughed: “Well la de da, at least there’s no mandatory attendance for this delight.”

Stan rose early, remembered the Sonia Chandler visit and walked to the pool. Newspaper images of her filled his brain: swimsuit and white cap covered with dirt and grease, posing with a forced smile after struggling with some marathon effort. Now, tied with a thick clothesline rope around her waist attached to the diving board in the deep end of the pool, she was swimming in place, head down, executing strong strokes, forward and back like rapid punches in a prize fight. A clean white cap was snug against her scalp, and a thin flesh-colored suit was molded firm on a strong and well-proportioned body. Turning her head for air, she spied Stan, stopped, treaded water, and yelled: “Finally, a human being. Only chipmunks and lizards this morning, and they didn’t even know the weather report. Reach into my bag over there for the juice bottle and hand it to me from the diving board,” she said, pointing to a leather satchel plastered with travel stickers sitting high on a lounge chair. “Be careful, don’t fall in the water.”

Not an easy task, as Stan, kneeling at the end of the unsteady diving board responding to both gravity and torque, reached down with the fizzy liquid that Sonia imbibed in two gargantuan gulps.

“Thanks pal. Please don’t tell the Florida people it’s not orange juice; and Pepsi is a vitamin, isn’t it?” Sonia laughed, as she handed Stan the empty container, splashed a little water his way with a cupped hand, ducked her head back into the pool, and resumed her pursuit of the French coastline.

“Sunny and warm again,” Stan yelled and headed off for breakfast.

Sonia was still at it after Stan’s morning waffles soaked in maple syrup and topped with fruit-slices.

“More to drink?” he asked, and she nodded yes.

“Come on in the pool,” she challenged Stan after quenching her thirst, this time taking a respite. “We can race or play water polo, you against me.” She flexed her strong arms and muscled shoulders, molded from countless hours of stroking the water. The morning sun broke into rainbows as it reflected off the beads of water dripping from her face and chest.

After a moment of thought, Stan shook his head and said, “No thank you.” Sonia grinned, her face both lean and sassy, and resumed her stroking.

Dinner was just Mother and Stan by candlelight seated a little distant from the other regulars. The Lustgartens, Hortense and third husband Morris, were allowed to stop by and provide close-mouthed kisses and wisdom about the weather. They were hometown people and related somehow, through someone, and looked like old money. Morris had caught Hortense’s attention during her annual garden walk. They always asked Stan his age and he offered numbers ranging from 8 to 35, receiving in return, “That’s nice,” plus the requisite pinching of his cheek.

Mother cautioned him about further attempts at humor. “No Jonathan Winters routines,” she said, index finger pointed at him, “like the one where Jonathan asks if you’ve ever undressed in front of a dog.” But she couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “And no Ed Sullivan Show replays with Ricky Layne and Velvel the dummy.”

The dinner menu was limited and roast beef was always touted. “We’re in Florida—where’s the goddamn fish? Fish is healthy for you, you know.” Mother said it with smile in place, causing no rancor. Wayne was pleased she even talked to him, profanity or not. North Atlantic salmon remained the only fish on the menu—hopefully they had a mercifully quick trip to central Florida.

Dinner alone with Mother was a joy. And their banter covered lots of ground. “No, I don’t want to be a doctor; Cousin Sam and I will never be friends; and what’s so wrong with doing impressions for a living? Rich Little, ‘the man of a thousand voices,’ draws them in pretty good.” And so it went. And always in the background, tweaking his pleasure receptors was the whiff of Mother’s cologne mixed with the dampness and the pervasive scent of the Florida tropics, the warm and balmy breezes, and the hundreds of stars interrupting the dark.

The quiet ended when Sonia Chandler charged into the restaurant, propelling the saloon doors asunder as in a John Wayne western. A light-colored, sleeveless summer dress accentuated her shoulders and firm body. Not a stevedore or muscled bodybuilder, she was a sleek professional athlete, haughty and challenging, posing in front of an adoring audience.

Stan stood up, awkwardly knocking his chair back, waved at Sonia. It was spontaneous, God made him do it. Sonia smiled, pumped a fist in the air, as if winning a 50-meter sprint, and walked over to their table.

“Do you do anything else,” she said to Mother, “besides being Mr. Charming’s consort and looking beautiful?” She winked at them both and sat down between them.

Good nature is contagious, and Mother rewarded Sonia with the unguarded laughter she offered only the favored few.

“Sorry to be so forward. May I join you?” Sonia belatedly asked—and not appearing very sorry. “And I apologize in advance about my gauche eating habits—mounds of rare roast beef and dry martinis—no vegetables, no salad, no bread, no sauces, and nothing French.”

Sonia poured a tablespoonful of her martini into a glass for Stan with Mother’s nodding approval. It wasn’t such a big thing, and chilled as it was, it was almost tasteless. Sipping it slowly, he shielded the glass away from the omnipresent Wayne and his obsessive table neatness that swept away everything not recently handled.

Guests stopped by to talk to Sonia about swimming speeds, competition, endurance, water temperatures, and Sonia, ever gracious, answered their questions, while slicing the beef and gulping it down in a rhythm reminiscent of her relentless swimming.

Sonia suggested a game of eight ball after dinner. She had seen the fun that the two of them had earlier. No homework for Stan tonight between the pool table challenge and the gin sluicing through his brain.

“Drinks for the winner,” Sonia said.

They drew a crowd.

Stan was overmatched. Top spin and table position had not yet entered his repertoire.

“Crack” went the pool balls as the ladies hit them with authority, quickly sizing up the table spread and planning their next several shots.

“I learned the game from the bad boys at the pool hall. What’s your excuse?” Sonia asked Mother, while lining up the 7 and 3 ball combination for the left corner pocket.

Mother matched the shot with the 10 ball banked hard against the opposite side, sinking it flush in the side pocket. The spectators applauded, but softly. This was high resort Florida.

“Just an older brother and my father, a table in the game room, and the loser washing the dishes and taking out the garbage,” Mother said. “I hated doing that, even more so because I was told it was ‘girls’ work.”

“Here’s to more menial girl chores for you,” Sonia responded, but Mother had all the favorable positions following Stan’s misses.

“Wayne,” Mother said, after stroking the 8 ball into the right corner pocket, “port for the three of us, the 60-year-old kind, and charge it to the effervescent Miss Chandler.”

Thick and sweet, the cerise-colored nectar joined Stan’s gin and vermouth. Eyelids drooping to half-mast, and rebuffing help, he walked unsteadily back to his room and fell deep asleep.

Father flew into Orlando the next day. Conspicuously handsome, graying hair in streaks, tall, fit, at ease, he was pleased to see them. Flowers for Mother, a swim, tennis, a phone call back to the office, rough housing with Stan, hand holding with Mother, martinis and dinner on the terrace, and he remained energetic. Father recognized the real-estate opportunities of Central Florida. That’s what he did, invest smart. He had struck gold with Mother. An introduction to Sonia, and they hit it off with their easy give and take. She was having dinner with her agent and publicity person who had flown in for the day before she joined them for dessert and coffee and the continuous after-dinner drink saga, challenging Wayne, as he scoured the bar and supply pantry to satisfy their taste for sauterne, ice wine, and grappa.

The next day, swimming his own laps after Sonia vacated the pool and memorizing the Mickey Spillane paperback, Father became restless. He wanted to drive around and assess the growth potential of the area, with its mild winter climate and large tracts of underdeveloped land. He could visualize retirement communities, opportunities for year-around industry, and the need for a permanent work force. And he would act on these visions. Mother suggested Stan skip tennis so he could learn about Father’s business ideas. Spending the day with his progeny sounded like a winning plan to Father, and off they went.

Returning tired and hungry after driving around for hours, Stan had been fed multiple variations on the theme of buying low, selling high, and leveraging investments. Father had not left his sense of pacing back home. Freed from the automobile lurches and stops and didactics, Stan jumped from the car and ran ahead through the winding paths and flower gardens of the resort for a jump in the swimming pool.

Mother and Sonia were sitting by the pool amidst boxes from Tiffany and Bergdorf. Balled-up wrapping paper and ribbons were scattered around their feet as they displayed new cocktail dresses, blouses, and trinkets, sharing their pleasure with laughter. Father was pleased when Mother went shopping. Bills never caused comment.

Sonia joined them for dessert that evening and the after-dinner liqueur routine, and just before terminal mellowness settled in, Sonia suggested another eight ball game. “To get even,” she said. Father and Stan declined. Father knew Mother’s skill.

The match was closer than the first time. Mother didn’t have the cripples Stan had left and it came down to the last shot—the final moment between two evenly matched gladiators. How Sonia missed the eight ball across the table, perfectly aligned to the right corner pocket, was unclear. Perhaps it was too much Amaretto splashed over ice. Mother sank it kerplunk and with her hand raised in victory and lips kissing the heavens, laughed out loud. The voyeuristic watchers applauded.

Sonia said, “Fuck! What are you, a GD Willie Mosconi?” She dropped the cue stick on the table and departed.

Beautiful Mother was champion of the pool table and Father hugged her, his gorgeous queen of the hill. “More to drink,” he whispered, but she declined, and with hands intertwined they headed toward their room. Stan asked if he could stay up a little while longer and listen to the jazz quartet playing in the ornate lobby. They didn’t hear him, so the answer was yes.

Sonia sneaked up on Stan and placed her arms around his neck, “Did it work?” she asked. “Did your parents head off to their suite? Your mother complained about how long they had been apart and she wanted to do something that, well, how old are you, Stan? Old enough, I guess,” she answered her own query. “Well, something that would create a spark. She’s smart your mother, and beautiful. We should have played the game for a big-time caress.

“Will I see you at the pool tomorrow?” she asked, giving Stan a pinch on his cheek before leaving without waiting for an answer.

The next day was the same. Sun, Sonia swimming east toward landfall, breakfast, and Mother and Father reading by the pool. Only Tim was out of sorts. He yelled at Stan about his tennis lassitude, as he termed it. “Stroke the ball hard, lean into it, hit it at my feet, smash it down the line, get mad, you’re playing like a girl,” he yelled.

“Is that a problem?” a voice screamed from the sideline. It was Sonia. Neither of them had seen her arrive.

“It’s a problem every time you’re out of the water. Mackerels and catfish don’t do well on dry land,” previously well-mannered Tim shouted back.

“Oh, sweet Tim, tennis pro to children, are you still upset about the $50 you lost? If so, don’t take it out on Stan, he’s Robin to my Batwoman.”

Tim blushed. Stan discovered later that the kitchen staff had goaded him into an arm wrestling match with Sonia sometime past midnight. Tim made the mistake of insisting on using his left arm, so he wouldn’t strain his money arm—his right one, the arm that tennis serves were made of. He was pinned in a few seconds, much to the delight of everyone except Tim.

Sonia and Stan walked back to the pool, Tim a few steps behind. Stan felt bad about ditching Tim. He was a good teacher, but it was either Sonia or Tim, and she stirred emotions in him more powerful than a strong ground game. Wasn’t it Tim himself who said something about feeling “it” in the hips?—and whatever “it” was, Stan seemed to be feeling it.

“What are you going to do when I leave? Tomorrow is my last day here,” Sonia said. “Who’s going to teach you reverse spin on the cue ball, defend you from the tennis pro, and ply you with martinis? It’ll be delirium tremens from alcohol withdrawal for sure. Talk your mom into coming to Miami next week. You too! I’ll be there doing the same stuff I’m doing here, but more money and more publicity. The local newspaper is writing a series about women athletes, me in particular. They would like to run it in the cartoon page or in the freak section, but my lawyer has already spoken to them about placement. And who will I get, besides you, to prevent my dehydration?”

“Sonia, we’re going home in a few days. Father has work, Mother is healed, and if we stay any longer, I’ll need to enroll in the local school. Even now, I’ll need a tutor at home. But my suntan and stories—Sonia, you’ll be in my best stories. It’ll make up for being out of sync with my friends and school assignments. And I’ll write you.”

Sonia’s arm brushing against Stan’s felt smooth and cool like silk as they walked toward the pool. “Sonia, I’ll miss you,” Stan said, his legs becoming wobbly like an old person with shakes. “Can we kiss sometime, you know, before you leave?”

Without looking around and coupled with a deep-throated laugh, Sonia hugged Stan, hugged him tight, kissing him on the forehead and then on the cheek, leaving the flavor of a fresh shower and Ivory Soap.

“Sonia,” Stan said, “I want a kiss like I saw you give Mother when Father and I were returning from Orlando. It was when you and Mother were at the swimming pool after shopping.”

Mouth covering mouth, the kiss, delicious and soft, floated through Stan’s senses quick as light, magnitudes sweeter than the spin-the-bottle party smooches that had been his previous encounter with the opposite sex.

Sonia was leaving for Miami, he told Mother and Father at dinner. “And I’ll miss her. Sonia likes me too,” he added, repeating her name like a word he was trying out for a composition. “And we kissed,” he said, and described the confection. Father lifted his eyebrows in surprise at his son’s fancy, and Mother, entertaining deep thoughts about the wonders of adolescence, whispered “wonderful,” and then in a soft voice said, “Life is a little peculiar with its promises, isn’t it?” before she became lost in her own reverie.

By Michael Ellman

From: United States