Ping Pong

The house was a gift—picture perfect weekend luxury on the lake. From their three daughters. They were all doing well, money wasn’t a hurdle, and they wanted to show their parents a good time.

Just relax.

Sit on the dock.

Hold hands, the oldest adds.

They’d become concerned.

In the cathedral-ceiling living room, the fireplace rose in a striking arrangement of natural stone. An island as big as a pickup truck filled the kitchen. Everything was fully stocked. He looks for the coffee maker. She checks for milk. Next a master suite with glass doors to a private deck, the bathroom crowd-sized with walk-in shower, tub with jets, warming towel bars, a heated floor. Upstairs a second-floor balcony overlooks the living room and out to the glittering lake through the two-story window wall. They pause to look without speaking. They stand several inches apart.

More bedrooms, bathrooms, balconies overlooking the lake. Every piece of furniture was hand-crafted, surfaces polished to a finish like clear water. A dream house from some dream life.

* * *

The ping pong table in the walkout basement brings them to a standstill.

She rests her fingers on the scuffed green top. Do you remember?

He crosses to the table. Two paddles with blue rubber-nibbed faces rest on opposite ends of the table, the ball tucked under the nearest.

You used to win, he says, picking up the paddle.

Only at first.

He smiles, shakes his head, remembering. He picks up the paddle wagging it back and forth.

She circles the table. The panorama of the lake is framed in glass doors behind her. She picks up the other paddle.

Lovely hands. Even now, he thinks she has lovely hands.

He picks up the ball, hollow, feeling fragile as a blown egg.

Shall we give it a try?

Now she smiles.

I don’t know if I can—it’s been too long.

He laughs. Very carefully he taps the ball to her. She catches it in her hand and holds it a moment, staring down at it. Then taps it back with equal care. He moves to return it. It goes over his paddle and bounces across the floor.

A little rusty, he says, returning to his side. She moves slightly, shifting foot to foot.

Ready?

As though tapping glass, he serves. Stepping sideways she taps it back. His smile broadens. This time his paddle finds the ball, returns it.

It’s a moment of triumph. Look what they have done! She returns it.

The sound takes on a natural tick tock rhythm.

They focus on keeping the rhythm, the mutual cadence of pass and return. They concentrate, hitting the ball so it is an easy pass for the other to return. Some go wide, and they step quickly reaching out. It is coming back to them.

Serious now, both smiling, almost holding their breath.

It has been so long. So much has come between.

They concentrate.

They keep it going.

Michael Horton

Michael has worked as a bookmobile librarian, McDonald’s shift manager, factory worker in a rubber parts plant, prep cook, men’s dormitory janitor, purchasing agent, and IT guy—but writing is what he does. His work has appeared in the Alaska Quarterly Review, Glimmer Train, and Raleigh Review, among others. Stories were nominated for “Best of the Net” and Pushcart Prize. He is an alumnus of the Sewanee Writers Conference, where he learned from the remarkable Tony Earley and Alice McDermott.