"You knew him?"
"Your uncle Chidi went for a summer. When he was twelve. He came home every Saturday talking about the officer who painted. I'd forgotten that." The dryers thumped. "Chidi got a racket out of that box. He still has it. It's in his garage in Dayton."
Ruel did not know what to say to that, either. It was a morning for not knowing what to say.
"Go play tennis," his grandmother said. "I'm coming down."
"You don't have to."
"I'm not coming for you," she said. "I'm coming to look at that man."
They played. It was 8:31 by the time Ruel stood on the baseline of Court 4, and his hands were shaking a little, not from the cold, and the first six balls he hit went into the net or long or into the side fence with a clang that made Laszlo Ruhland on Court 2 look over.
"Stop," Perpetua said from across the net. She did not have a basket now; she was playing him straight, with his three new balls, the way she did after they warmed up. "You're hitting like somebody's watching."
"Somebody is watching."
"Who?"
He looked. Cheever's Lexus had finally left; he had heard it crunch out of the gravel lot a few minutes ago without looking at it. The patrol car was still there, its engine running, Ferrol a shape behind the windshield bent over the laptop. Laszlo and the other two men were on Court 2, playing a slow, grumpy game of Canadian doubles. Nobody was really watching him.