Wifey by Judy Blume Page A

pro named Roger. Norman felt it was good for the children to meet all kinds of people. Not that they’d actually met any of the Japanese members because they kept pretty much to themselves but they had, at least, seen them eating dinner in the Grill Room along with everybody else.
    Sandy took golf lessons from Roger. Three mornings a week, at nine-thirty, she reported to the driving range dressed for battle. Three mornings a week Roger steadied her head with one hand as she swung at the ball. Roger smelled of Sen-Sen and old English Leather after-shave. He was determined to get her off the practice range and onto the front nine by mid-July.
    “Eye on the ball, Mrs. Pressman,” Roger said. “Watch your club strike the ball . . . left arm straight . . . no, no, look at that elbow . . . is that a straight arm? Get comfortable . . . move those feet around . . . look at that club waggling . . . we can’t have that . . . now, take it back again, nice and slow . . . no need to hurry . . . nice and easy . . . don’t try to kill the ball, Mrs. Pressman . . . are you comfortable . . . you don’t look comfortable . . .”
    I’m not, dammit!
Sandy wanted to scream.
How can I be comfortable with you holding my head?
But she said, “I’m comfortable . . .” and she swung at the ball. And missed.
    “You’ve got to
watch
the ball, Mrs. Pressman . . . I can’t put it any plainer than that . . . if you don’t
watch
the ball, you’re never going to hit it.”
    “I’m trying,” Sandy said, “but I’m not especially coordinated.”
    Roger sighed.
    Sometimes Roger would stand behind her and put his arms around her and actually hold the club with her and some of those times Sandy felt what it would be like to really hit the ball well. And some of those times Sandy could imagine what it would feel like to have Roger put his hands on her breasts, as he stood behind her with his cock hard, pressing against her ass.
    After each lesson Sandy was expected to stay at the practice range, hitting two buckets of balls. Then she was permitted a break.
    Two afternoons a week she was scheduled for tennis lessons with Evan. Evan was not as determined as Roger. Evan favored his more promising students. He stood across the net from Sandy, tossing balls to her and delivering instructions in a bored monotone.
    “Racquet back . . . step to the side . . . bend your knees . . . watch the ball . . . control, Mrs. Pressman . . . we’re after control . . . where’s that follow-through . . . don’t try to kill it . . . easy, swing easy!”
    And after Evan had used up his bucket of balls, it was Sandy’s job to retrieve them. Then they’d begin again, with Sandy panting and Evan cool and smug.
    “Can I ask you a serious question, Mrs. Pressman?” Evan said after Sandy’s fourth lesson.
    “Yes.”
    “Do you like this game?”
    “Not really.”
    “Then why?”
    “Because my husband wants me to learn for our retirement.”
    Evan shook his head and smashed a few balls across the net.
    “Very nice,” Sandy said, walking off the court.
    She began to pray for rain.
    T HE PHONE RANG as Sandy was dressing for her Wednesday golf lesson. She was trying to match a pair of peds but all she could find was one with pink trim and one with yellow.
    “Hello . . .”
    “This is Hubanski.”
    “Oh, yes, sergeant.”
    “Can you be down to headquarters in half an hour?”
    “Well, I’ve got a nine-thirty appointment.”
    “This is very important. Can you cancel, because we’ve traced the laundry markings on the sheet and we’ve picked up the guy it belongs to.”
    “Who is he?”
    “Can’t go into that now, but we’re holding him. What we want to do is put him in a lineup and see if you can identify him.”
    “A lineup?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Like on TV?”
    “Yeah, like that.”
    “Okay, I’ll be there.”
    Sandy called The Club and canceled her lesson, assuring them that