The Dishwasher

It was a splendid fall day and we had a little time to kill before the new dishwasher was scheduled to arrive. A local tennis club was hosting a tournament so we went over to watch the matches for a while. It’s a gorgeous club, right on the water. It was our first visit since the place was completely remodeled. The building smacks of East Coast classic with lovely stonework and trellises, yet fits its California locale.

The first matches were Father-Son. The youngest-looking guy out there must have been all of eleven years old. He made up for his small stature and lack of experience by a show of bravado between points. He could really strut his stuff even though he wasn’t the best player around. Apparently, it’s all in the attitude because junior, and his not terribly athletic looking father, took the final prize. They looked so happy to win, as we all do.

The next match was the finals of Father-Daughter. For some reason I started to think about my father and how we never got a chance to play tennis together. I didn’t play until I was forty three and by that time we’d been long estranged and he’s since died. It made me sad when I saw the young girls play with their Dads, one of whom was the club manager and tournament director. His daughter was high school age and really good. She seemed to be carrying him, with great volleys and hard ground strokes. It was sweet. Then everything changed.

There was an urgent call for the club manager over the loudspeaker. Then another. Finally, he dropped his racquet in mid point and rushed off in the direction of the pool. Oh, God, no. Please, please don’t let it be a child in the pool. Please don’t let this great day and this fine location be tainted forever. I started crying quietly, thinking about how when we lost my brother, at seven, we lost our family. Of course it was never the same, yet we couldn’t know what it would have been like the other way. With him. It’s been fifty years and we still miss him and wonder.

I have to say right now that people are not careful enough with their kids. Parents worry about the wrong things like competitive soccer, which private schools will lead to the right college and when to get their child a cell phone. They’re not worrying enough about the distracted driver in the SUV barreling around the next corner, talking on their own cell phone. Parents in our neighborhood let little, tiny children ride behind them on bikes, expecting them to be safe. They’re not. Seven year olds, even very bright ones like my brother, don’t have the judgment to be on roads with cars. With increasing frequency we’ve seen parents, two or three young children trailing like ducklings, ride ahead on dangerous streets. All of this was going through my mind as the sirens approached.

For a while we just sat, but eventually made moves to leave. There was obviously something so wrong. The day wouldn’t be the same. Word came back about a heart attack and I felt tremendous relief. It wasn’t a toddler who slipped under when nobody was watching. It was an older person who had a heart attack. It seemed sad, but somehow more right. Then came a different horror, not one I’d imagined.

It was the Dad who’d just won the match with his son - a man of about fifty. He ordered food at the snack bar and had a massive heart attack on the lawn. Could not be revived. It was probably twenty minutes after they’d won their trophy. Feeling stunned and awkward, we left the pool area and went out through the clubhouse. Sitting in a chair in the office, not yet knowing the resuscitation effort had failed, sat the son, looking so scared. I still wish I hadn’t seen his face. He lost his father after sharing one of the best possible moments. His mother had no idea when they left home that morning that she’d never see her husband alive again. We drove slowly home and the dishwasher was delivered right after we arrived. The dishwasher. So hard to be happy about the new dishwasher.