Waiting for Augusta (20 page)

“Sam Snead,” I said.

Noni half grinned. “Sally.”

Tom studied us both. “I know code names when I hear 'em. No harm, though. Where'd you find this grub?”

I explained and he nodded. “Same folks who give me dirty looks after fighting their war. So what do you want with a golf course?”

Tom reached for his first doughnut while I showed him Daddy's urn and explained what we were hoping to do. His
lips twisted in thought after I'd finished. “A tough operation. Bad timing with the big tournament going on.”

“He wants to see it,” I said, then felt myself redden. “I mean, he wanted to be there, at least for a day, and then be scattered by the time they start playing on Sunday. We were thinking we'd sneak onto the property tonight.”

“Maybe we could just ask someone for their tickets,” Noni said.

Tom laughed. “There are charitable people out there, but not the kind who would give up their Masters tickets. And the people selling them aren't likely to even give you a discount, let alone a clean giveaway. No, sneaking in's the way to go.”

Noni looked down at a strange bulge in her pocket. “Oh. Okay.”

“Well,” Tom said, coughing again, “I may not be much to look at, but I know a thing or two about sneaking around bunkers. You got any reconnaissance on this place? Something to tell us about the terrain we're dealing with?”

I pulled out the Augusta book. “There are photos of the holes in here. And a basic layout of the course.”

Tom grabbed it, his face filling with something close to excitement and purpose. “Well, let's huddle up and talk strategy.” He looked up at the sky and sniffed the air. “We'll have to factor in the rain. It's coming tonight.”

•  •  •

A few hours later, Tom had eaten his fill and we had our plan. As he'd told us, ACC's golf course and property was
smashed right up against Augusta National's, and it wouldn't have the same issues with guards and security. Our goal was to get onto ACC grounds and then hop the barrier fence between the two golf courses.

The second shot at hole eleven, all of hole twelve, and the first two shots of hole thirteen on Augusta National are known as Amen Corner, and that's the place Tom had suggested getting in. Daddy'd once told me that some reporter wanted a fancy name for that section of the course, so he'd named it after a jazz record.

I didn't care much about Amen Corner's history, but I liked the name; if you're gonna hop a fence and hunker down in a place you don't belong, it doesn't hurt if there's some kind of religious-sounding bent to it. There was the most tree cover there and multiple escape routes, or so Tom said, looking at Daddy's Augusta book. We could pop out the next morning real casual.

“Thanks for your help,” I told him. “You can keep that bucket. I wish we could repay you.” I turned to Noni. “We should have taken some of that donation money from the table, too.”

Noni blushed and pulled out a fistful of bills. “I did.” She held it toward him. “Wasn't sure the right time to give it to you. Here you go, sir. Take it all.” She turned to me. “I thought maybe we could use it to buy tickets. But I don't want money from those people. Do you?”

I stared at her hand. Getting into the Masters was our
goal. But the protest we'd seen was fresh in my mind. May Talbot was there, too. That money was probably meant to buy more poster paper and markers, to make more of those signs.

“No,” I said. “I don't want that money.”

“I'll take it.” Tom grinned and snatched the dollars from Noni's hand. “Thank you, miss. Probably not the cause they intended to fund, but don't mind if I do.” He began straightening the bills, then suddenly jerked his head toward the water at the sound of faint, high-pitched metal tinkling. “Ho! Look at that!”

One of his fishing lines was tugged taut and his bobber sank, causing a tiny bell tied to the line to ring. “What do you know,” he said, putting down the empty bucket and picking up his line to see a wiggling fish. “It's my lucky day. Hope some rubs off on you. Now, go on, like I said, and scout the premises before you make a move to get into ACC. And after you hop that fence between the two properties and get onto Augusta National, make sure you stay low and slow.”

I nodded. “Like barbecue.”

“Huh?”

“You gotta be patient. Cook it low and slow. That's what my daddy used to say.”

“He was right. Now, go on and make him happy.” Tom grunted. “And watch out that nobody's laid a trap for you.”

W
e walked to Augusta National first, getting there at ten in the morning. I had to get a glimpse of it, and I thought maybe Daddy would perk up and start talking at the sight of his beloved golf heaven. But he didn't.

Tom Barry had been right about the Masters ticket scalpers that were lingering in the area. They were there to sell last minute tickets to people who didn't have them, but there wasn't an ounce of sympathy among them for two kids who didn't even have money to bargain with. Since none of the latecomers making their way to the entrance area seemed willing to give up their day at the Masters, the idea of getting in with legitimate passes was definitely out.

After walking along the perimeter of the neighboring golf club, ACC, we walked over to the river bottoms far north of Tom Barry to change into our decent clothes, having decided that just walking in might do the trick. The
only problem was that, although security wasn't combing the grounds at Augusta National's less fancy neighbor, the ACC was still private property, and any person walking around would need a reason to be there.

When I suggested we both go in together to check it out, Noni shook her head.

“No good,” she said. “What if something bad happens and we get caught?” She pointed to the urn. “This is the best chance we've got to scatter your daddy. You can't let him down. I'll go alone, to test the waters first.”

She was right. If we got hauled into some office at ACC, there was no way we'd make it into Augusta National that night. “But what if you get caught? You wanted to get into Augusta National, too. If something happens, then you won't—”

“I know.” She stared at the ground for a moment, then raised her head. “I want to do it for you.”

I didn't know what to say. If Noni's daddy had thought she needed lessons in how to be a good friend, I hoped he was watching over her now. She'd proven him wrong. “Thank you.”

Noni smiled, but I saw just a hint of worry in her eyes before she blinked it away. “I'm a good talker. I'll be fine.”

“What if someone asks who you are?”

She shrugged. “I'll tell them that I'm John's niece, then hurry along like I belong there.”

“Who's John?”

Rolling her eyes, Noni picked up a rock and tossed it toward the river. “It's a country club packed full of men. Chances are, they've got a dozen men named John. I'll walk to the clubhouse and around part of the course, pretending to look for Uncle John, to see if it's the kind of place that would let a girl do that sort of thing. If it is, we'll be fine.” She eyed the backpack. “I'll leave that behind for now, but it might draw attention when we both go.”

“We'll say our mama dropped us off so Uncle John can take us camping,” I suggested. “Worked with that protest lady.”

“Good. I'll be back.”

She walked off, whistling her hobo song the way she'd done back at the orchard. The sound reminded me how much she wanted to find a sign from her daddy. There was a part of me that wondered if she'd just run off once we hopped the border fence and got inside Augusta National that night. I had the strangest feeling that she was waiting for the right moment to leave me.

I picked a yellow flower and plucked off the petals one by one.

She'll be back, she won't be back, she'll be back, she won't be . . .
I let the flower fall before I could finish taking it to pieces.

I walked along the river with the backpack on, Daddy sticking out the top for air. A good-size stick presented itself, and I used it like a golf club, whacking small stones
and twigs ahead of me and moving where they landed—making my own private riverside round of eighteen holes and wondering if I'd ever play a round of real golf again in my life. Improper grip or not, I wasn't a bad player.

“Ben? Did we make it?”

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. “We're in Augusta, Daddy.” I filled him in on our meeting with Tom Barry and what Noni was doing. He wholeheartedly agreed and told me a few stories about miraculous shots that had been made on the twelfth green, where we'd be sneaking in.

After an hour or so of waiting for Noni, he ran out of golf facts, and the two of us just sat, listening to the birds and being together. I untied the camping ropes from the outside of the backpack and practiced the bowline knot, then tied a clove hitch around my leg the way Noni'd done around my finger with her shoelace back on the coal train.

I felt strangely comfortable with Daddy. And with our final goodbye approaching fast, I felt like talking while I could.

“Daddy?” I said, breaking the quiet.

“Yeah?”

“I liked those Abbott Meyers stories you told me. Back in the orchard, I said they were stupid. But I liked them. A lot.” With the other length of rope, I moved on to the fisherman's knot, used to tie two ropes together so they'd become something longer.

“You liked Abbott Meyers?” He chuckled. “Yep, he was
just a poor boy who never quite made it to the PGA tour. Lots of talent, though. People think golf is only a rich man's sport, Ben, but Walter Hagen, Sam Snead, Ben Hogan? All poor boys who found a way in. I think Abbott took comfort in that while he snuck bites from the rich men's abandoned sandwiches after they were done eating.”

I grinned. “I liked the one where he disguised himself, entered a tournament, and beat the pants off that man who never tipped him.”

Daddy laughed. “I liked that one, too.” He cleared his throat. “You know, Ben, I think golf made Abbott Meyers feel less lonely. I think golf was Abbott's only friend.”

I didn't have any friends at all. I couldn't get a handle on Noni or where she'd be going after she found her sign. And May felt out of reach. I missed her. I didn't want to lose her. “Mr. Talbot came to the memorial service Mama had for you at the church,” I said. “There were a few empty seats, but he stood at the back.”

“Well, that's nice that he came.”

“May came over the day after, all by herself. Mrs. Talbot called before and spoke to Mama for a while, and then May brought flowers. I saw from the kitchen. She hugged Mama longer than anybody else who stopped by, and Mama didn't pull away.”

“Well. That's nice, too.”

I wanted to ask if Daddy would have gone to Mr. Talbot's
memorial if things were reversed and what he'd think about Mama sending me to take flowers to Mrs. Talbot and me giving her a long hug, but I didn't. I thought about Mama's face when May hugged her. How her body had relaxed. Then I thought about Mama telling Mr. Walter we were out of lemon cake and wondered if maybe Mama and Daddy didn't see eye to eye on people keeping their heads down when it came to colored people.

Daddy didn't say anything else, so I kept talking.

“People are mean to May at school,” I said, dropping the rope beside me. “Even some of the teachers.”

I could have told him more. I could say how the teachers at school sometimes looked the other way while students said ugly words or dumped saved-up pencil shavings on the colored students. For years, I'd been telling May about the names I'd been called, but that was nothing compared to what the new students had gone through. At group recess one day, I'd seen a new second grader—a well-dressed, straight-walking girl who could have been May's little sister—get her shoes yanked off while she was on the swings. She screamed and screamed as the laces were taken out and scissored in half.

May had walked over and bent down and shushed the girl, her face angry. Fierce. I'd never seen that side of May.

The little girl's eyes got wide, and she'd backed away. May stepped toward her and said something else. Instead of
crying more, the girl nodded, wiped her nose, and got quiet. And then May had pulled her into a hug and held her close, rubbing a hand over her hair and whispering something in her ear.

I'd been across the school yard under a tree. Just watching.

“That's too bad,” Daddy said slowly. “That's a real shame. Makes you wonder if she'd be happier at her old school.”

Picking up a fallen leaf, I tore it in half. “I thought it'd be nice to have her at my school. Why are people like that?”

Daddy let out a smoker's sigh, the kind that rattled. “You have to understand that this change—coloreds and whites mixing in schools—it's new here. I believe that all you children deserve to have equal learning. I do. But people need time to get used to change. If you force it on them, there's bound to be some resistance.”

“Like the Talbots getting their barbecue place burned down. That's what you mean.” I picked up another rock. Tossed it in the river. “Sometimes I think I should say something. To those kids or teachers. But I don't. I freeze up.”

I saw him scratch his chin, trying to think of what to say. “Son, I know you've been friends with May for a while now. But you're both getting older. Life gets more complicated when you get older, and being friends with a colored girl isn't going to make your life any better. Or easier. And trust me, it's not going to make her life easier either. Best thing you can do for that girl is ignore her. Except for if she drops
by with her daddy. Sure, you can still talk to her then. Don't want to be rude.”