Right to Die

know that Maisy near pitched a fit over it till she met you. By this afternoon, though, she seemed to think you were an idea whose time had come. I figure that if I was playing in your shoes, I’d wonder how come the younger husband of the older rich lady isn’t too concerned about all this. How am I doing so far?”
    “Forty-love.”
    The ready smile again. “You play?”
    “Hacked at it when I was in the army.”
    “Too bad. It was a great game, twenty years ago. Solid American players coming up. Bob Lutz, Roscoe Tanner, Jeff Borowiak. That Borowiak, he had a huge serve, a real stud who could blow you off the court. Smart too. Took the NCAA the year before Connors beat Tanner.”
    To keep the conversation going, I said, “Wasn’t Laver the dominant one in those days?”
    “Yeah, but most of the Aussies were good. Laver, Newcombe, Rosewall, Roche. We were all using sixteen-gauge string by then, and some of us even went to double stringing. We called it ‘spaghetti,’ winding another string around the basic one? Put tremendous spin on the ball before it got banned by WCT and then by individual tournaments too.”
    Hebert shook his head and laughed inwardly. “Yeah, a great sport, one of the few you can stay with no matter how old you get. And it surely does beat stumbling on gopher holes around eighteen greens just to have an excuse for getting drunk on the nineteenth.”
    He scoffed a little more Scotch, apparently not feeling the need for an excuse but not really showing any effect from the booze either.
    I said, “How long since you retired?”
    “Retired? ‘Retired,’ now, that’s a kind word, John, and I thank you for using it. I had to hang up the serious game at thirty-one, which if you’re counting was seven years back. But it’s not like you work for a corporation and build up a pension and stock plans and all. Nossir, it’s get some backers, get in, and get what you can, because the show’s over awful fast. Hey, now, I can’t really complain, you understand? I had the brass ring for a while there.” Hebert set down the drink to count on his fingers. “One French Open, finalist at Wimbledon, semis three years running at Forest Hills . But what I had was the serve and the crosscourts, like you saw on that tape there. When the old rotator cuff went...”
    He moved his shoulder in a very slow-motion serve. I could hear a crickling noise that had nothing to do with the starching of his shirt.
    Hebert shrugged. “That was all she wrote.”
    “Can you still play?”
    “Lordy, no. That is, not play play. You know the difference between, say, a Corvette and a Prelude?”
    I didn’t know if he was aware I drove a Honda and was toying with me, so I said, “No.”
    “Well, your Corvette, now, that’s a sports car. But your Prelude, now, that’s just a sporty car, get me?”
    “The difference between an athlete and somebody who’s just athletic.”
    “There you go. Well, I’m a Prelude that knows it used to be a Corvette. Oh, I’m happy to go out and shuck my way through a celebrity tournament for charity and all, but I can’t really play no more, no more.”
    “And this has just what to do with the threats to your wife?”
    Hebert finished his drink and got up immediately. “Another?”
    I’d barely touched the Miller’s. “Not just yet, thanks.” Fridge, rattle of fresh cubes, the neck of bottle clinking against rim of glass. I took in his trophies. Platters, cups, occasionally the racquet and player in metal outlined against a ceramic background.
    Hebert returned to his chair. “This all has to do with Maisy like this: I’m her husband. She used to have some doctor from Europe who died, but I’m it now. She’s quite a woman, Maisy, but she gets an idea in her head, and it’s Katy-Bar-the-Door, you think you’re gonna change her mind. Like the players on the tour today.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “The players today. They verbalize everything. Take ‘first serve percentage.’ John, do you know I never, ever heard anybody say that all the time I played? Nossir, all you’d say to yourself then was ‘I hope to Christ I can get this next one in.’ Now they actually plan their matches around percentage and tendency and all. I suppose it does make sense. We plan everything else, why not ‘first serve percentage’?”
    “Or death.”
    Taking a slug, Hebert said, “Right, right. That’s my point. Maisy’s got this idea she can save the world by encouraging people to