The Nine Lessons (11 page)

“Nope.”

We stood there for several moments, too stunned to react. We’d just been robbed by a weeping teen and her unseen boyfriend, who were probably long gone, or else hiding in some undetectable shadows of Burlington, happily counting the money in my wife’s handbag.

Erin paced back and forth in front of the store, one hand on her hip, the other covering her mouth. We both replayed the scene again in our minds. I could clearly picture her sitting down next to the girl, and as she did so she lifted the leather strap from her shoulder and laid her purse down on the concrete behind her. Since my back was turned as I left, a stealthy young man would have had no trouble sneaking out undetected from behind the corner of the church to nab the bag, especially under the cover of the girl’s incessant wailing.

“Finish the letter,” said Erin. “I want to hear the whole thing before we take it to the police.”

“That was pretty much it. Blah, blah, blah… as you walked away it gave my boyfriend the perfect opportunity to take your wife’s purse. I feel really bad about this, but we need money in a hurry. Have a great night. Affectionately, the Teenage Drama Queen.”

The next morning, after spending hours on the phone trying to cancel all of our credit cards, I received an unexpected call from London. He didn’t bother to say hello.

“A father bloody well deserves to be told when his son and daughter-in-law get mugged, Augusta!”

“Well, you’re in a fine mood today, aren’t you? How did you find out?”

“By reading the bloody newspaper. The headline on page two caught my attention. ‘Drama Queen Pulls Wool Over Veterinarian’s Eyes.’ ”

“And you’re upset that I didn’t call you? I’m actually flattered. When was the last time I called to tell you about anything?”

“Exactly! When?”

“Hey, don’t get all bent out of shape. It was a long night at the police station, and I’m not up for it right now. Anyway, I’m just following your lead. When was the last time you called me?”

The phone went silent for several seconds. I allowed the silence to continue until he was ready to say something. “Well… next time someone robs you, I expect to hear about it from you.”

My laugh came out as a groan. “Fine. I hope that never happens, but if it does, I’ll be sure to let you know. So other than berating me, was there something else you wanted?”

“Well… I guess… yes. I’ve decided on the subject of our next golf lesson.”

“You mean life lesson?”

“One and the same,” he snapped.

“Okay, what is it?”

“I’d rather not tell you about it over the phone.”

I was losing my patience. “Then why did you call?”

“Because I was hoping we could move our fourth lesson up a week. The timing is better this way.”

“But we’re scheduled for next week.”

“I know.”

“So… you want me to come
today
?”

“In about thirty minutes… I was hoping.”

I exhaled loudly. Although the thought of going to play golf with my father—especially when he seemed to be in a bad mood—didn’t excite me, I reasoned it was better than sitting around all day fuming about that dreadful teenager. Plus, it meant that I could get more scorecards a week early. “Fine,” I conceded. “I’ll see you there.”

Erin was none too happy that I was leaving so unexpectedly. She’d already put a list together of things she wanted me to accomplish—change all the locks in the house, install a burglar alarm, little things like that. She was clearly miffed that I was going to “have fun” playing golf without consulting her first. I promised I wouldn’t have any fun, and assured her that everything she wanted me to do could wait until the following weekend. She didn’t give me her customary kiss good-bye.

London was waiting on his usual bench when I arrived. “You’re fifteen minutes late,” he said brusquely.

I responded in kind. “I was given short notice.”

“Well we have to hurry. I have another appointment in twenty minutes, so we’re only playing one hole.”

I shook my head and sighed. The man never ceased to amaze me. “You brought me out here today for one stinkin’ hole? I paid for eighteen and we’re playing one?”

He nodded as he stood up and motioned for me to follow. We walked away at a brisk clip; so fast, in fact, that we went right past the first tee box. “Where are we going?”

“Hole number two,” replied London.

I hated the second hole, and he knew it. Among all the holes I’d ever played before giving up the sport as a kid, that one had always been my nemesis. It wasn’t necessarily the most difficult hole by standard definitions—it didn’t have any bunkers, there were no water hazards or hills to navigate, and the fairway was as straight as an arrow. Unfortunately, that straight fairway was also narrow to a fault, making it ridiculously hard for my misguided shots to find. “Sounds like fun.” I shrugged.

As we walked along the far left side of the first fairway, en route to the second, London tried to strike up a conversation. “Kids can get into all sorts of trouble, can’t they?”

“What?”

“I mean, like that girl and her boyfriend last night who took Erin’s purse. You never can tell what sort of dumb things kids are going to do.”

I stopped walking. “Is this part of today’s lesson?”

A hint of a smile betrayed London’s otherwise serious face. “You’re catching on.” The smile faded in an instant. “Now keep walking. I’m running behind schedule.” He went a few more paces as quickly as he could, and then spoke again. “When I read the article about the robbery, I kept asking myself what I would have done with you if you’d been a rotten teenager. What if I’d learned that you were robbing innocent people in the middle of the night? Or what if you’d gotten caught up in drugs, or alcohol, or anything like that? You were a pretty good kid—all things considered—but what if?”

“I wondered those same things last night. What the heck can a parent do with a child like that?”

He allowed another brief smirk. “Given how short we are on time,” he said, looking down at his watch for the third time in as many minutes, “I’m not going to beat around the bush with you. Our golf lesson today is intended to give you my personal opinion about ‘what the heck a parent can do with a child like that.’ ”

“Wow,” I said skeptically as we neared the tee box for the second hole. “You honestly believe golf can help deal with delinquent children?” As soon as I’d said it I realized what a dumb question that was.
Of course
he thought golf could help with such matters. To London Witte, golf was the answer to everything. “Maybe you’re in the wrong profession. You should hang a shingle above your door and market yourself as a Golf Psychologist.”

London ignored me. He pulled a long club from his bag, teed up a ball, and, as usual, smacked one straight down the middle of the fairway

“Every stinkin’ time,” I mumbled as I watched his ball roll to a stop several hundred yards away. Then I stepped up and hit my own ball. When it first came off the tee I thought momentarily that it was going straight. But like so many times before, after a hundred yards or so it started curling to the right, and before I could say “triple-bogey” it was lost in the forest along the western edge of the fairway. I heard it bounce several times on tree limbs and trunks as it descended.

“Every stinkin’ time,” my father ribbed.

We walked together down the right edge of the grass until we reached the spot where we believed my ball had crossed the tree line. Then we dropped our bags and headed off through the brush to find it. After five minutes of wandering around I finally spotted the thing thirty yards in, lying on the ground between several small saplings. Even if I’d had a clear view of the fairway and some room to swing I couldn’t have hit the ball from there, because course rules forbid playing from out of bounds. So I picked it up, added a stroke to my score, and went back to the edge of the fairway to hit it again.

My second shot was much straighter than my first, but a little too powerful for such a tight space and not quite in the right direction. It bounced a couple of times on the far side of the fairway, and then plunked into the line of trees opposite where I stood. “Dang it!” I snapped in frustration. After several minutes looking for it (again) I wanted to give up, telling London I’d just grab another ball from my bag so we could get going. He assured me that we would find the ball soon enough. Two groups of golfers played through before we finally discovered it tucked beneath the bushy arms of a sword fern.

My third stroke was decent—not great, but at least it stayed in bounds—and my fourth landed on the green. A couple of putts later I was done. I tended the flagstick for my father, whose three strokes earned him a birdie. He checked his watch again as soon as the ball dropped into the cup. “Okay,” he said as he peeled the golf glove off his left hand and tucked it in his back pocket. “I told you in advance what the topic of the lesson was. Now you tell me what you learned as we head back to the clubhouse.”

As we began walking, I mentally retraced our steps along the second hole, from my first lost ball until my final stroke dropped in the cup. With a little imagination, an idea started to form in my head. “How about this? Although I know that golf is
not
life, if I were to acknowledge that they shared some generic similarities, then, based on the way I just played that hole, one could probably make the argument that, in life, not everyone is going to knock the ball straight down the fairway every time. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“Of course.” He grinned. “Anything else?”

“I guess I could infer that I should expect my child to slice or hook from time to time, but if I’ve taught him where the flagstick is, hopefully he’ll get there eventually.”

London raised his eyebrows. “Not bad, Augusta. Not bad at all.”

“Did I get it right?”

He chuckled. “There’s no wrong or right. But I’m not entirely sure you answered the original question. What the heck is a parent supposed to do with a child once he’s left the safety of the straight and narrow fairway?”

I thought once more about my previous night’s adventure. “Call the police,” I joked.

London let out a hearty laugh—it suited him well. He stopped walking to give me his full attention. “Tell me this. How many times have we played this hole together?”

“Probably a hundred.”

“And how many times has your ball gone out of bounds?”

Now it was my turn to laugh. “Probably a hundred.”

“And how many times have I left you alone to find your way back to the fairway all by yourself?”

I didn’t laugh. “Never.”

“Do you think it’s going to be any different with your kids?” he asked soberly. “If your child happens to wander out of bounds, stick by his side, let him know you’re there to help, and encourage him to get back on the fairway as quickly as possible. Don’t give up on him if he happens to make some poor choices. Kids may wander off course for a spell, but I think if they know you still love them and you’re there to help, eventually they’ll get back on track and finish the hole.”

For the fourth time in as many golf lessons I marveled that my father was teaching me, in his own weird way, important things that had nothing to do with golf. “You almost sound like you know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“Golf is life,” he reminded me for the millionth time. “And I’ve played a lot of golf.”

We let the discussion die on that point and finished walking back in silence, each of us lost in his own thoughts. I used the time to reflect on each of the object lessons he’d given during the past four months. I couldn’t deny that his points were all good, and his teaching style effective. In fact, if I was honest with myself, I was becoming intrigued with the whole process, and was growing increasingly curious about the content of our remaining lessons. The one thing I still couldn’t grasp was
why
? Why was it so important to him to share these things with me? What prompted him to spend time each month with the son who, since leaving home after high school, had been an annual visitor at best? I flirted briefly with the notion that perhaps my father actually cared about me—that maybe I wasn’t a complete failure in his eyes. But that theory vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by a much more likely explanation.
He’s probably hoping that his grandchild will inherit the natural golf skills I’ve always lacked, and that if he starts working on me now he might one day be permitted to pass his knowledge on to one who is physically capable of applying it.

The cart path forked just beyond the first hole. One direction went east to the parking lot and the other bent south to the clubhouse. London slowed as we approached the split. “Okay then, thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“Aren’t you heading to the parking lot?”

His hands fidgeted nervously. “Uuhhmm… right. Yes, well… I have a matter to attend to at the clubhouse first, so… no sense in you waiting.”

Something smelled fishy, and I wanted to find out where the smell was coming from. “Well, won’t you be late for your other appointment? What was that appointment, by the way?”