Medium Rare, page 9
It was one of those luxury downtown hotels so standard as to be simultaneously unremarkable, but on that first weekend in April, its bar and lounge had become the most exclusive venue in the Twin Cities. The only feasible mechanism for crowd control was to limit entry to those who were staying there—which, as guests of the NCAA, Phil and Miles were, alongside not only the team and coaches, but quite a few people from the network, including the one Phil most wanted to see off-camera. Yes, even more than De’Andre Hunter and Kyle Guy and Tony Bennett himself, who, for all their gifts, simply could not compete with tits. I want to say Sunny’s were at least 500ccs, high-profile—not so big as to be cartoonish, but flirting with the line; the kind of breasts a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon would readily agree to on a woman of her size, but advise against “going any larger.” She mostly covered up on camera but had brought them out for the afterparty in a plunging burgundy dress with an asymmetric hem—shorter in front and almost wrap-like, like a curtain ready to part for the right actor.
Phil was hardly alone in vying to debut, the quality of his competition being part of her appeal—that first night, maybe even the better part of it. Phil’s original goal was less to indulge in his fantastical desire to sleep with her than to elicit some confirmation of his social preeminence: to bank the cachet her more feasible, public attentions conveyed to the other powerful men. It was only after a photo of them “canoodling” appeared in the tabloids Sunday morning—a PG-13 exposé at best, heavily undercut by a companion article positing bracket conspiracy theories straight out of science fiction; after Phil assured Raleigh the speculation surrounding him and Sunny was as credible as the idea he’d used a time machine—that I think adultery entered his mind as any real sort of possibility. Denial can be funny like that: Sometimes it is in the act of dismissing something that we discover its viability. Having already been falsely accused, and his legitimate self-defense deployed in clear conscience, Phil felt newly emboldened to pursue the indiscretion for which he’d been acquitted, as if protected by a kind of marital double-jeopardy.
He dragged Miles to the Mall of America in the afternoon, buying lavish gifts for Raleigh and the baby (not apologetic if preemptive!) and a number of astronomically expensive plain, light-blue button-downs for himself. When I saw these later, they seemed an almost comical mélange of JFK and Gatsby and Arun Patil, with his famously unwavering uniform of four-hundred-dollar T-shirts from Brunello Cucinelli. Phil was recognized and stopped several times on the outing, including by two guys at Pita Pit who asked for his signature. He agreed, but they didn’t have a pen. Phil realized too late that following them to find one undercut his air of celebrity, and he vowed to Miles he’d never make such an accommodation again.
* * *
—
The plan for Sunday, known to every person under forty years of age associated with the University of Virginia in Minneapolis that night, was to congregate at a bar and nightclub in the Warehouse District called Sneaky Pete’s. The name was so transparently debauch—so, shall we say, cavalier in its rakishness—as to suggest nothing seriously untoward could happen there. And yet, transparency can be its own kind of mask. Plain sight is often the best place to hide because it is the last anyone thinks to look. And if witnesses pose a problem for explicit wrongdoing, in grayer areas their presence offers a counter-conveyance: implicitly, of having not crossed the line. Of performing a public service almost, in beating the line back a bit for everyone. It is adjacent to the promise embedded in sin cities everywhere, and quite explicitly in Las Vegas: what happens here stays here—and so, while you are here, freedom is yours.
Phil made extravagant use of his, courting Sunny in the same collegiate, Spring Breaky way half the bar was of someone—in the same way several other women were courting him: body shots, grinding, mangled words to the ear. None of this attracted much attention, everyone focused on their own extracurricular pursuits. Miles was having his own fun, I assure you—which I was basically fine with, provided it stopped short of pregnancy or venereal disease. And Phil was not the only celebrity. The players were there, other high-profile alumni and fans. No, it wasn’t until later. Sneaky Pete’s actual slip was an internal passageway to a distinct yet affiliated strip club—still very open as Pete’s was shutting down—through which guests were forced to pass in order to exit the complex. A slew of photographers were ready for them. That Miles appeared in several pictures only served to emphasize Phil’s absence. He wasn’t there. And neither was Sunny.
—Raleigh’s upset, I told Miles on the phone the next morning, the morning of the national championship.
—I don’t understand, he said, she’s upset he’s not exiting a strip club on the gossip sites?
He was hungover and irritable.
—Well, and because he’s not answering her calls. You don’t think it’s strange he left last night without saying anything to you?
—I don’t know, said Miles dismissively. Today’s a big day for him. He’s probably still asleep.
—Mm, I said.
—Don’t mm me, Cass. It’s no stranger than that shit you pulled with my mom Saturday.
—I want to see Daddy! said Tate.
I switched to FaceTime, letting Miles see my eyes roll before handing the phone to Tate, pushing back his curls and kissing him.
—Are these my intestines? Percy asked me.
—No, honey, those are your testicles.
—Put your pants back on, Perce, said Miles, as Tate held the phone up to his brother’s bare ass.
—What good advice! I said, leaving the room to pack their lunches.
* * *
—
I knew Phil hadn’t taken it, that particular advice. That even as Miles said it, Phil was still in bed with Sunny, his limbs flying over her heavenly body, diving into its orbs and crevices, sucking on her solar discs. She’d be turned on by his desire for her, and shockingly, torrentially wet. Preposterously wet for a woman so impossible to imagine secreting anything, who looked, in spite of being the pinnacle of femininity, somehow also devoid of hormones. Hairless, poreless in the dim light—but now unbelievably smooth and slick. Astral and oceanic at once. Slipping inside her black hole is a firestorm and a bath. He dissolves, melts, molts into her, falling down, down, down with every clench and thrust. And the explosion comes with a little splash.
* * *
—
I returned to the living room with lunches in tow, and, preoccupied with thoughts of Raleigh, steered the double-stroller to Montessori school.
* * *
That we would watch the championship together was never in doubt—we didn’t discuss it; it was just understood. But the details were another matter. After the dust-up with my mother-in-law, Raleigh had agreed to come to our place. The plan was to order takeout around five-thirty and let the twins watch the first half. And so I was surprised to see her name flash across my phone two hours earlier, on my way to pick them up. Was there any chance I could pick her up, too? She was having Braxton-Hicks, and frankly just didn’t want to be alone. I was mildly annoyed by the prospect of crossing Key Bridge so close to rush hour, but also still reeling in vicarious guilt for Phil’s betrayal. Besides, there was at least a 50 percent chance she’d close out the night a woman of the sort of leisure I’d be keen enough to partake in that, sympathy aside, I deemed it a reasonable sacrifice.
—We’re on our way, I said. But when Phil wins the billion dollars tonight, you better invite me aboard your yacht.
Raleigh began to laugh, then stopped.
—Raleigh? Are you okay?
—Excuse me, she said. Just another Braxton-Hicks.
But she looked pale, swollen, almost cetacean getting into the car, buckling her seatbelt with difficulty. By the time we crossed back into Georgetown I was beginning to think those contractions might not be Braxton-Hicks. By the time I pulled up to our townhouse, I was pretty sure they weren’t. And by the time I’d gotten Percy and Tate out of their car seats, it was clear I was going to have to put them back in again. Reluctantly, but inevitably, I got out my phone.
—Hi, Adrienne, I said.
* * *
—
My mother-in-law was waiting out front when we pulled up, all plucky encouragement for Raleigh and oh, don’t worry, Cassandra, it’s fine, but I could see her annoyance hiding behind those chic progressive readers, enveloped in her cashmere wrap. As if I was saddling her with the twins again to go write or because I’d booked a last-minute trip to the Final Four. As if Miles and I hadn’t bought a house six blocks away from her expressly for this purpose! Returning to a car with a woman in preterm labor was almost a relief.
—It’ll be okay, Raleigh, I said, making a U-turn. You’re going to be okay.
—Wait—where are you going?
—Uh, to the hospital, I said.
—But George Washington is the other way.
—We’re three minutes from Georgetown.
—But I don’t know anyone there.
—But also, they still know how to deliver a baby. I gave birth there. Believe me, it’s fine.
—Please, Cassandra!
—You’re out of your mind—it’s after five.
She started to cry.
—I’m not going tell you I’m sorry, Raleigh, I said, very firmly, very calmly. I think we’re passed such politesse, don’t you? It’s the right decision. Are you going to call Phil?
I heard it ring and ring as I entered the Emergency roundabout.
—I’ll be back as soon as I’ve parked the car, I said, passing her off to an EMT.
* * *
—
Phil and Miles were en route to the Vikings Ship in the Minneapolis Skywalk, which does have cell service, but it took a while to get a hold of either of them because they were walking and talking with the University of Virginia’s president. By the time Miles answered, they were approaching stadium security.
—Jolly? I’d say it’s more than “a little.”
—No, I said, louder. Not jolly, Raleigh. Ra-leigh’s at the hos-pi-tal.
—What? Is she okay?
—I think she’s going into labor.
—Yeah, I can’t hear you either.
—I think she is in la-bor, Miles! Don’t go through security. You guys need to get to the airport stat.
—What? Are you sure?
—Oh my god, just put Phil on.
Miles handed the phone to him.
—Hey, Cassandra.
—I want you to listen closely, I said, very firmly, very calmly. Your wife is at Georgetown Hospital. I’m headed back there now to see if I can get more information, but you need to get here as soon as you can. I think she’s in labor.
Phil paused for long enough that I wasn’t certain my words had reached him. When he spoke, however, it was with remarkable clarity.
—Do you really know that, though?
—No, but she—
—has been having a lot of Braxton-Hicks recently, he said. She’s not due for a month.
(She was due in three weeks, actually. Thirty-seven down that day.)
—I’ll give her a call, but this is the national fucking championship, Cassandra. I’m on the precipice of history. We’re not leaving until we know there’s something wrong.
It would have been tempting to tell him I did know something was wrong. But it is an assertion that would have so inevitably elicited that cruel, haughty follow-up: well, what? And that, I didn’t know. I couldn’t attach a long, Latinate name to it, or tell him whether or not it meant she’d need to deliver. (I’m an oracle, not an obstetrician.) Still, I did know something was wrong. I was certain of it. I would have bet Phil a billion dollars. A waste of breath to insist, though, without a medical degree and authoritative prognosis, preferably delivered in a drawling baritone. Phil didn’t trust my maternal intuition. There was nothing I could have said to make him believe me, because the problem was me. I was an unreliable narrator. I told you that on some level women always are.
And so I didn’t try. I saved my breath for Miles, for what I could imagine the two of them considering more “rational” instructions: don’t get too drunk, keep your fucking phone on.
—Oh, and make sure Phil calls Raleigh, I said. Now, please.
* * *
—
He did, Miles confirmed via text, but Raleigh hadn’t answered—it’s hard to, when you’re under general anesthesia. I didn’t know that yet, though; the nurse wouldn’t tell me anything after I admitted I wasn’t her partner.
—Is the dad on his way, then?
—No, I said, he’s on national television.
I flipped my phone toward her, streaming the game—they had just tipped off, though it was still scoreless. Defense. I thought. How exhausting, always being on defense. Diakite scored, and they briefly flashed Phil’s reaction.
—That’s him, I said.
But she only grunted and pointed me to the waiting room.
* * *
I watched the first half on mute. The last two teams, titans of sport, collegiate gods. Men six and a half, seven feet tall, already towering, now at the apex of spectacle. Anointing fans celebrities. Rendering celebrities fans. And yet also so small onscreen I could have fit them all in my pocket. I was almost tempted to, to turn the game off entirely. But something had happened over the past two and a half weeks. Not to Phil, or Miles, or even to Raleigh, but to me. I had already known that if you want the world to pay attention to an extraordinary woman, you have to tell the story of an ordinary man. But for all my confidence, I had underestimated my narrative gifts. I’d constructed so fine a labyrinth I’d become caught in it—in the horse’s belly I sat atop. Yes. There was no way to deny it. I, Cassandra, had fallen in love. Separately, individually, alone and of my own free will, utterly and completely. Cruelly. Madly.
I loved basketball.
Specifically, I loved Virginia basketball.
I loved their signature style of play. Their vicious pack-line defense—how they pushed through the exhaustion, playing continuous; that they never took off a play. I loved their long, drawn-out offensive possessions. Thoughtful, smart, situational; waiting for the sort of high-probability shots they so effectively took away. I loved their passing—it wasn’t just good, it was great. Unselfish. A team’s team was an understatement. I loved De’Andre Hunter and Kyle Guy, Ty Jerome, Jack Salt, Kihei Clark, and Mamadi Diakite. I loved the players who mainly sat the bench, and the ones who always did. And Tony Bennett—I’ll admit, I had a little crush on him. I loved the way they all loved each other. It was the key, I thought, to their efficiency: that they moved as one, their choreography tight, balletic. Above all, alone in the hospital waiting room, I loved their patience. Not just within the game, but outside it. They’d overcome the most embarrassing loss ever in college basketball—perhaps in all of sport. And the prevailing image of their fall to Cinderella? Not sound and fury and stepsister scorn, but a still image: of Hunter’s arm around Guy. Hunter, who had been injured, had not even played, comforting his distraught teammate. It is an image of devastation, but also of resilience, of care. Of love. As Kyle Guy hit a jumper to retake the lead, I saw it clearly. My Trojan horse bore a new, glass-slippered Cavalier. You know why? Think about it. Defense. Unselfishness. Efficiency. Patience. Resilience. Care. Love. Not the most exciting team to watch, people complained. People always would, even in fairytales. Because the real reason Virginia was so damn good was they played like women. That’s what Tony Bennett was teaching them. That’s how he was making them great men.
In that moment, I couldn’t give a shit about Phil. I wanted them to win because I loved them. I wanted them to win for themselves. I wanted them to win for one another.
Virginia didn’t let the Red Raiders score from the floor for seven minutes and twenty-two seconds, going up 17–7 in the first ten. Tech responded with three quick triples, though, intercut only by a midrange jumper by Jerome. The pace was quickening—and the faster we let them play, the faster our lead slipped: Within two minutes, it’s one-possession. In three? Tied. We’re trading twos, then the Red Raiders get an extra, putting us down four with less than five minutes in the half. We rally to tie it back up, preserving the last shot. Jerome to Hunter, back to Jerome, who lets it fly with three seconds from the top of the circle. The shot is true, off a brilliant pass. He was wide open. 32–29.
The camera cuts to Phil, other hands all over him, slapping his back, the brim of his hat. Sunny struggles to get close enough to interview him until Miles helps her, ceding his space—gallantly, I guess. My phone’s still on silent, and as the microphone passes between them, I dub perforce the words I cannot hear.
—Hey Phil, I gotta say, this has been an impressive performance. How are you feeling?
—Pretty good, Sunny. Nice to sink a deep one at the end there. I was worried for a second we’d been boxed out, but that was some impressive ball handling.
—Straight through the rim, amirite?
—Yeah. It was an excellent rim job.
—Oh, baby, you’re gonna make me double-dribble—
—Excuse me, Cassandra?
—Hi—yes.
The doctor was in her middle fifties and exuded skill, experience, and (I viscerally sensed this) adeptness in calmly managing situations where her skill and experience were baselessly called into question.
