Raymond had scarcely anything more to give her. His storehouse of knowledge was almost depleted. The best he could offer was constant support and encouragement—and protection from external distractions. In other words, he had subtly been relegated from coach to cheerleader.
Yet Ray never relinquished the responsibility for Isabel’s inner equilibrium. After ascertaining that she was more than ready for the next day’s World Lit. exam, he suggested that they loosen up by going to the Holiday Bowl and getting a little exercise.
The cavernous bowladrome echoed with the clatter of tumbling pins and the cacophonous shouts of the spectators. As father and daughter sat on a bench lacing up their well-worn rented shoes, Raymond looked off into the distance and a sudden flash of anger crossed his face.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
“Who, Dad?”
“Your ‘swain,’ Mister Won’t-take-no-for-an-answer Pracht.”
Isabel’s eyes widened. “Is Jerry here?” she asked excitedly.
Ironically, Isabel had spent most of the lonely summer trying to come to terms with the fact that she would never see Jerry again. And yet now, unexpectedly, he was scarcely a hundred feet away, ever joyful and ebullient, the obvious leader of his small pack. She could barely endure the tension. But before she could act, Raymond was back at her side, holding two large plastic cups.
The da Costa party was second in line and had at most five minutes to wait.
Jerry was in lane nine, and the groups in six and twelve seemed to be concluding their games. Either way, Isabel calculated, they had the chance of getting close enough to have him notice her. And if he did, Dad could not be rude to her adviser’s son in public.
Jerry was standing in the approach area, holding the ball next to his cheek, poised to let fly. His eyes were fixed intently on the head pin at the far end of the lane. Then he strode forward, firing the ball at the foul line as he pivoted gracefully to stop his motion. His follow-through was perfect, and instantly all the pins were scattered. It was a strike. His comrades cheered.
“Beautiful, Jerry!” “Way to go!”
Isabel, who had been captivated by his agility and skill, involuntarily cried out, “Great going, number one nine four.”
The hero of the moment looked up, spotted Isabel, and called enthusiastically, “Hey there, long time no see.” He started toward her. “How come you know my number?”
“I spent a dollar and bought the magazine. Sancho must be very pleased, because you’re right on schedule—over a hundred places higher.”
Isabel could feel her father smoldering as he demanded, “What’s all this nonsense?”
“Jerry’s taken a giant leap in the tennis rankings,” she explained as the subject of their conversation reached them.
“Hi, Mr. da Costa,” Jerry said breezily, offering his hand.
Raymond was too sensible to make a fuss, especially before so large an audience. He merely shook Jerry’s hand and said affably, “Hello, Jerry. That was quite a shot you made there.”
“Thanks,” the young man replied. “I didn’t know you guys were into bowling.”
That’s a minor miracle, Raymond thought sarcastically. It was about the only thing except ballooning that he hadn’t invited Isabel to do with him.
Just then a fresh-faced Japanese-American girl in a red-and-white-striped blouse called out, “Lane twelve ready for da Costa.”
Nudging his daughter slightly, Raymond tossed off a “Nice seeing you” to Jerry and began to move away.
“Me too. In fact we’ve just wrapped up ourselves. Would you mind if I watched?”
“That would be great,” Isabel interposed before her father could think of a politic refusal. “Maybe you could give me some tips.”
“Cool.” He smiled and signaled to the rest of his friends. “Take it easy guys, I’ll be there in a couple of secs.”
Raymond was so flustered that his first shot fell into the right gutter and rolled impotently to the pit.
“Tough luck, Mr. D.,” Jerry commiserated, “but I think you let go a little too soon.”
Still fighting to control his temper, Raymond acknowledged this unsolicited counsel with a barely civil, “Yeah. Right. I guess I’m just a little out of practice.”
“If you don’t mind my saying,” Jerry continued, “you’d probably do better with a lighter ball.”
Raymond deliberately ignored this advice and then fired his second shot with such effort that it curved swiftly into the left gutter.
Now it was Isabel’s turn. Without overtly acknowledging it, she took Jerry’s suggestion and chose the lightest ball she could find. Yet she did no better than walk awkwardly to the foul line and let go of it. Unlike her father’s, it at least stayed on the lane, and when it finally arrived, knocked over three pins.
She looked at Jerry.
“Not bad,” he said with encouragement. “It’s just a typical beginner’s error, stopping short just before you release the ball. As a scientist you should’ve realized that this dissipates all the momentum you’ve built up in the approach. The whole point of the run up is to give more power when you let go.”
“Gosh,” Isabel remarked, “you talk like a physicist yourself.”
“I sure as hell hope not,” Jerry remarked, “but I guess I’ve been a little brainwashed.”
Suddenly they were interrupted by the appearance of an attractive blonde about Jerry’s age.
“Come on, Pracht, we can’t wait forever,” she called seductively. “Some of us have eleven o’clock curfews, you know.” Jerry nodded and then turned to the da Costas.
“Sorry about this, but I’ve got the only car, and I can’t mess up my buddies’ evening. Maybe some other time, huh?”
“Sure,” Isabel responded, masking her disappointment.
She and her father were left to bowl in their mutually inept way, although—after a while—they were at least able to laugh about it.
On the way home, Raymond felt that enough time had elapsed for him to make a cautionary comment.
“Well, Isabel, I guess now you see why I don’t want you hanging around with young people of that ilk.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Dad,” she said, genuinely baffled.
“Simple mathematics,” he replied. “Since that nubile creature had an eleven o’clock curfew, and it’s only twenty past nine, we can imagine what sort of mischief they’ll get into.”
Isabel understood only too well that Ray’s remark was another attempt to discredit Jerry Pracht.
Yet all she could think of was how much she would like to have been that other girl.