Lessons

Like the song of the castrato

the blades of a helicopter —

their high-pitched whine

and whoosh

reaching not so much my ears

as my amygdalae. Almond

joy turns instantly

into terror.

My tennis lesson’s husband,

who in summer shuttles

back and forth from

an eight-bedroom

“cottage” in Prout’s Neck, Maine

to company headquarters

in Boston, is home,

and I am

in the shower with his silicon

trophy, Mrs. Backhand,

Mrs. Forehand, Mrs.

Lunging Volley.

Her will to improve, which

astonishes, depends on

two things: a legal,

teenage boy

like me and a new scoring

system. For now, what

must be added is

50-love.

Through the window, I watch

the Egyptian grass bow

down as the copter

lands on it,

and the husband, who favors

golf and who owns a major

league baseball team,

disembarks,

pausing for a moment to lap

up what is his — the great

water bowl of

the Atlantic.

The waves play fetch with

the rocky shore. Money

is the stick that keeps

them moving —

the view almost as fine as

the Winslow Homer

above the bed.

“Don’t pull

out!” my lesson yells. “Don’t you

dare pull out!” Odysseus,

I think, has returned

to slay

the teenage suitor. The spring

before, in Honors English,

I read about this

royal sailor.

Two decades older than his

bride, he now struggles

to stick the landing

of that other

craft, the one between his legs.

It used to steer him

to the bliss of

friendly

(and not so friendly) corporeal

takeovers. My fear balloons.

It’s as if the copter’s

come inside, its

rotors spinning furiously. Cuff-

linked Freddie Kruger’s

on the stairs.

“I’m

almost there!” she cries. “He’s

almost here!” I plead.

There, here; there,

here — like

some sort of frantic GPS or call-

and-response at church.

I’m Cafarelli nibbling

on my noble

lady’s ear — or will be soon.

With my elongated limbs

and ribs, I look like

a tool

to pull up weeds. I’m a youthful

gardener planting seeds,

the water hitting my

back, beating

it silly. This Penelope is bad:

she’s done no weaving

at all, and I love

her for it.

My mother’s age exactly, though

distinctly not my mother,

she’s like a mite once

trapped in

amber, free to trap herself.

And now I’m somehow

dressed and dripping

on the carpet.

“Darling, Ralph just helped me

with my backhand; he

mentioned that he

also plays

the clarinet.” I mentioned nothing

of the sort. Handing me her

husband’s instrument,

she says, winking,

“Play.” The reed is dry, so very

dry. Reluctantly, I moisten

it, and then I dazzle

them, my

mother, for whom life is merely

something to survive, having

long ago decreed that I

take lessons.

This, friends, is privilege.