Waiting for Augusta (15 page)

“Daddy?” I whispered. “Are you still there?”

Nothing.

I picked him up. “Daddy, are you in there?” I asked louder. “Please answer me.” He wasn't snoring, so he was either ignoring me, or he was taking a break from me in purgatory and would be back, begging for me to change my mind, or . . . Well, I didn't want to think about the alternative. And I also didn't want to think about Noni, who'd told me to have a talk with Daddy in the first place. Hmph. I had a few words for her, too.

Down the hallway, I stepped past framed photographs of families in front of peach baskets, families staged in front of peach trees, kids with peach juice running down their faces. Happy faces. Good memories caught in time that had the magic to erase bad ones. I stopped and looked closer. As I stepped forward, they went back in time, clothes and trees in color, then black-and-white, then faded black-and-white, then almost yellowy. The last photograph, the one right next to the kitchen, was the oldest. The people were posed in front of the peach trees, standing beside a wooden wagon.

Other than the oldish look to the clothes on the man, woman, and three boys, you could tell it was years and years ago, because nobody smiled. Now everyone makes you smile, so you can look later and see how good life was.

The man in the oldest photograph was stubborn-looking.
Defiant. I wondered if his daddy had been a peach farmer, too. Maybe that man's daddy was a banker or a clock fixer and said to his son,
Why can't you just be a banker or a clock fixer? Wanting to grow peaches is a waste of time. You should get inside more, be more of a thinker.

A hand touched my shoulder. “There you are, dear. Now, come and sit. Get your fill.”

While I ignored Noni's light under-the-table kicks and ate pancakes in silence, Mrs. Marino chattered about this and that, but my ears were too full of my chewing to really hear much. Noni's Coca-Cola shirt and jeans had been washed, and her hair was neatly braided. It almost felt like we were really brother and sister, eating breakfast and getting ready for school.

“You two keep each other company until your brother Willy gets here. I'll be back in an hour to check on ya'll, okay? Mr. Marino's fixing a fence on the back nine acres if you need him. Walkie-talkie on the table'll reach him if ya'll need an adult before I get back,” she said, leaving the room.

The minute she left, I kicked Noni a good one. “You're the worst partner in the world.”

She had the nerve to look offended. “I am not. You're just not seeing the big picture.”

“Oh, and the big picture is that now our fake brother is going to pick us up? Why'd you have to choose the name Willy, anyway?” Willy Walter was the biggest bully
in Hilltop, and just hearing his first name made the ghosts of the bruises he'd given me ache and whimper.

“It was the only
W
I could think of. You're Walter. I'm Wendy. I figured we'd all be
W
names.”

“You're a liar.” I kicked her again.

“
Ow.
Is that right,
Walter Hagen
? Or did you want to be
Bobby Jones
again? I'm not going to kick you back, but that was unnecessary.”

I kicked her a third time. “Do you mind telling me what on earth you're doing?” I asked. “Who did you call last night?”

She scooted her chair back, careful to keep her legs out of kicking distance. Leaning forward, she forked another bite of pancake and took her time chewing and swallowing. “I called the barbecue place where my daddy and I used to get take-out chicken. He hates using phones, so I always called. We ate there a lot, and I had the number memorized. Confused the heck out of them, especially when I started giving directions. Listen, as soon as the missus is off the property, I'll check around for supplies and we'll get going. It's late, but I figured extra sleep might put you in a better mood.” She stood and peeked out of the window curtains. “I wish one of us had driven before, but we can figure out that truck. Can't be that hard. It's our best option by far.”

“First you want to hop a train and now you want to steal a truck?”

Noni stuck her tongue out. “It sounds mean when you
say it like that. You heard Mrs. Marino—she said it was an eyesore. We'd be doing her a favor by taking it to Augusta. And driving on country roads can't be too dangerous.” A hint of worry crossed her expression. “I don't think. If we don't go fast. Right?” Her shoulders finally fell. “Maybe it won't even start.”

I shook my head and sipped on a glass of orange juice. “I can drive.” The defeated look flew off her face, replaced with a slap of shock and glee and . . . Was that a little jealousy? My goodness, it was. I had Mama to thank for that. The few driving lessons I'd gotten were from her, not Daddy. She said that a country boy should learn that kind of thing early, and it was always good to have an extra driver in case of an emergency, so I'd taken the truck down the road and back a few times. I only hit Mrs. Grady's postbox twice. Barely dinged it.

“I
can
drive,” I repeated carefully, “but country roads are bound to turn into bigger roads near Augusta. And, anyway, my trip's over. I need to find my way back to Hilltop.”

She shook her head. “You need to change your plans, that's what you need to do. Because what
I
need is for you to drive me to find my sign. Don't be selfish just because you've already gotten your second chance.” She raised her chin and leaned to the right, looking out the kitchen window again. “Maybe I'll check that chicken house outside for eggs.”

“What? Why do you like eggs so much?”

She shrugged. “Eggs remind me of my daddy, I guess. He once ate seventeen boiled eggs in a contest. Couldn't get enough of them. And I'm glad you're on board with the truck idea. We'll be in Augusta in no time at all.” She pushed aside her plate and looked across the table at me. She looked a long time, until she was sure that I saw her. “Benjamin Putter, I'm asking for your help.”

“Tell me again, why's it got to be Augusta for you?” I asked, annoyed that her admiration for my driving talent had gotten watered down so quickly. “That was
my
daddy's dream. Why would your father leave you a sign there? Don't you have a place of your own to look?”

Her arms went limp. The bruise on her elbow seemed even darker than the day before. There wasn't any purple in it now, and it looked more like a band of darkest storm clouds, the same that were billowing outside the window. “I told you. I have faith that I'll find my miracle there.”

“You think you'll find a miracle at Augusta just because you saw a couple of pictures of the place and read a few words about it? Noni, you shouldn't be looking for faith in a book full of golf course photographs. It's not like it's a Bible.” Though that's exactly how Daddy talked about it. “You can find a better place to look.”

She shook her head. “I'll find him at Augusta. There are some things that go beyond understanding. I
feel
it, Benjamin Putter. I just feel it, and . . . I'm afraid I'm running out of
time.” She stared at her lap. “If I don't find the right sign there soon, I never will.”

The glow of hope and confidence I'd seen shining off her in the peach orchard had faded. It was up to me whether or not she'd lose it altogether. Daddy'd said that things were impossible right up until they weren't. I wanted to believe him. And something in me wanted to help her. Even if my own journey was done.

“Please, Benjamin Putter. I thought you were my friend.”

Goshdarn it. For the first time she truly did remind me of May Talbot, sitting far across the school cafeteria, staring at me and saying those same words with her eyes. Telling me something I already knew—that not standing up, walking over, and asking to sit beside her made me the same as every white person who thought that colored students should have their own table. Not standing up made me the same as everybody who thought May was different. Who thought she was less and that she deserved to be kept apart.

“I'll get Daddy and the backpack,” I said. “I'll drive you there, and then you're on your own. Don't take too much provision stuff, Noni. We're about to borrow their son's truck and—”

She was over the table before I knew it, her arms around me. “You won't regret this. You might even change your mind about your daddy between now and then. And I won't take too much stuff, but I can think of one small way we can pay them back.” She raised her eyebrows and made a
wiggly painting motion in the air with her fingers. “Better make it fast, though.” She glanced at the small clock in her room. “That Hobart Crane fellow your daddy likes so much is already playing golf. Think you can finish in fifteen minutes?”

“No.”

“Well, try. You ever finish up that drawing with the good eyes?”

“I got a little more done, but no.”

“Finish it sometime. That one is gonna be good, I can tell,” she said.

•  •  •

I got out my paint box and opened it up at the kitchen table. Noni and I were leaving soon, and I felt her taking charge again, but I'd be the one driving, and that was something. And maybe I'd caught a little of her magic, because I knew what the Marinos needed me to paint for them.

I took out one of the two small canvas frames I had in my box. It was only five inches by five inches, but it'd work good. It was meant for oil paint, I think, but Mama must not have known the difference. I'd come home from a day of school that'd been empty other than getting my pencil stuck in Erin Courtney's hair, and it'd been the best surprise ever to see four small canvases stretched over wooden frames, sitting on my bed like it was Christmas. When I made the first painting and handed it to Mama as a thanks for being the best mama ever, she'd blushed and said,
Aren't those a trick? Where'd those fancy things come from?

I took one of the jars from the Marinos' counter and studied the picture on the label for a moment, mixing colors until I thought I had the right ones. Then I got a mug of water for rinsing and started out by staring at the back of my eyelids.

Even if it was just for a second, Miss Stone had told me to always start a painting or drawing by visualizing what I wanted to do and how I'd get there. I'd learned that unless I was just experimenting, I needed to be confident in my strokes. If something went wrong and I got off course, I'd make adjustments, adding a little red or yellow or white, fixing mistakes as I went along, focusing on the finished picture. Always keeping that image in my mind until I got there, or got as close as possible without starting over. With my time limit, I didn't have the option of starting over.

Take a good look, then close your eyes, Ben
.

Pinks, yellows, reds.

Now find your grip. Feel it.

Browns, a hint of green leaf.

Keep your eyes closed and see the hole. See the distance between where the ball is and where it needs to be.

Lighter shades in the place where the light hit the fruit.

Now feel yourself swing. Feel how easy it should be. It should be easy, feel right, not forced. See the ball going there, right there, right where it belongs.

A dark gray for the small shadow around the base.

Send the ball home
.

I opened my eyes, touched the paintbrush's handle against the lump in my throat, and started painting. Stroke by stroke, seeing it all play out like it had in my head.

The colors layered on one another, thicker than I normally would do, making the painting textured, making it look like all I had to do was reach out, just reach out and the fruit would be mine. All I had to do was take what I wanted. But I couldn't, of course. It was stuck to paper. Forever out of reach.

The painted peach was still drying on the kitchen table when I packed up and walked out the door to take Peter Marino's graduation gift for a drive to Augusta, Georgia. I'd drop Noni off and turn around. Only one thing held me back from feeling right about that. I still had to get rid of the golf ball stuck in my throat. I knew it wouldn't leave me if I went back to Hilltop. Was it possible that the ball in my throat wanted to get to Augusta as much as Daddy did?

Maybe Noni was right. Maybe I should think about giving Daddy and me one more chance.

It might be too late
, the porch floor creaked beneath me.

That's right, he's been awfully quiet
, said the steps.

He might already be gone forever
, said the ground between me and the rusted truck.

“Could be,” I said back. “Hope not.”

B
ig Fiver Byron Nelson said that one way to break up any kind of tension is good deep breathing. He was wrong. I breathed in the lingering scent of Mrs. Marino's pancake breakfast clinging to my clothes and tried to be patient, but the truck wasn't cooperating. I'd managed to get a promising whirring sound out of it twice, but the engine cut out every time I tried to move my right foot from the brakes to the gas. The truck's pedals were too far away to stay seated, so I was half standing in the driver's seat, my eyes shifting from the clutch to the orchard, praying that Mr. Marino didn't finish mending his fence too soon.

“Just start the darn thing!” Noni said, her feet dangling off the passenger seat, swaying next to a half loaf of bread, a container of peanut butter, a jar of pickles, and two lengths of camping rope she'd found in a closet. She had a lapful of eggs, too. “I thought you knew how to drive!” She turned and looked back at the driveway. “The missus might get back early, so hurry it up!”

“I'm trying,” I said, teeth clenched while I pushed in the clutch, started the engine, then gave it a little gas. I wished Daddy was talking so I could get advice on the right way to let off the clutch. “And you might be a little nicer.”