Waiting for Augusta (23 page)

I
t was close to midnight as Noni sat on the edge of a lounge chair that she'd moved near the fire pit, the backpack resting on the ground beside her along with a fallen nine-iron club and a putter. She was curved over a stick, poking a marshmallow onto the tip she'd sharpened with her pocketknife. “Hope you don't mind,” she said to Uncle Luke. “The bag was just sitting out here.”

“Not at all. I'll take one myself. Bought those for my girlfriend's kid when she came to visit. I don't eat marshmallows much, so have at it.” He picked up a stick and reached for the half-full bag.

“She will,” I warned him. “She does magic, and her specialty is disappearing acts. This whole bag'll vanish right before your eyes.”

Noni grinned and handed me a stick from beside her. I stuck a marshmallow on it. We sat around the low fire with stars overhead and, except for the neighbor's yard being just
over his back fence, it felt like we were in the woods again, only with better provisions.

“Ben . . .” Uncle Luke opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he was trying to figure out what exactly he wanted to say to me.

Daddy
, the fire poker said.
He looks just like your daddy when he
 . . .
You remember
.

One time in third grade, Daddy came home three hours late from an afternoon on the course. It was nearly eight o'clock at night and Mama and I had finally started eating the chicken and mashed potatoes she'd reheated for the fourth time. The lump of potatoes on my plate had developed a film on the top, and I was busy tapping the crust with my spoon, making little maps from the cracks, when he came in. Mama said nothing at first, and I thought maybe we'd just have a nice meal together, but then he came over and kissed her on the head.

“Sorry, honey,” he said.

“Sorry?” she'd said back, in a whisper louder than any shout I'd ever heard from her. “You should be apologizing to your son there.”

They started shouting at each other, one of the few times I'd heard them do that. When I tried to interrupt, they ignored me and kept yelling and yelling and
yelling
, about things that happened last week, last month, last year. It was getting to be my worst birthday ever, so I did what any boy
looking for the attention to get back on
him
would do: I gently tipped the half-eaten chicken carcass off the table, followed by the dish of green bean casserole, and, last of all, my birthday cake.

Both of their heads snapped over to me, but I remember Daddy in particular. The look painted on his face was a blend of surprise, panic, and guilt.

That same look was on Uncle Luke's face. Like he'd messed with something important but couldn't do anything about it except feel bad and wait to see how much he'd be hated for it.

“Hey.” Noni stood and waved her gooey stick in Uncle Luke's face. “Why don't you say something?”

Uncle Luke eyed her stick and leaned back. “Do you know that Ben here was named for a golfer?”

Bringing the stick back into less dangerous territory, Noni sat back down. “He already told me th—”

He tossed her the marshmallow bag again. “Hush, now. Eat your marshmallows. William Ben Hogan was one of the world's greatest golfers when he was in a terrible car accident. Threw his body over his wife and saved her life. Saved his own life by doing it, since the driver's side was destroyed. Nobody thought he'd walk again, let alone play golf. But two years after that accident, in 1951, he won the Masters.”

Uncle Luke smiled at the fire. “That day in 1951 was imprinted on all golf lovers' minds, whether they were old
enough to see it happen or just to hear about it later. Miracles and second chances were never laid out so clear.”

“Hear that, Benjamin Putter,” Noni said, a satisfied look on her face as she reloaded her stick. “Miracles happen there. So are we heading back there now, or what? What's the plan?”

“Years later, this Ben was born on April 8th, the same day as that 1951 win.” He glanced at Noni. “Bogey probably wished his boy would fall in love with golf and be as good as Ben Hogan.” His eyes swept over me. “But you can't force a passion on people any more than you can force them to give one up.”

“Here,” Noni said, passing him my paint box. “Here's what Benjamin Putter's passion is.”

Uncle Luke opened it and flipped through my sketchbook, arriving at the unfinished one. I'd made progress, but it needed “polish,” as Miss Stone said. He held it up in the firelight, looking surprised and pleased. “This is real good, Ben. I mean
real
good.”

“It's amazing,” Noni said, her voice soft.

Uncle Luke ignored her. “Ben, your daddy would've loved to see this. Is this who I think it is?”

“Yeah. Thanks. I was going to give it to him for his birthday, but then . . .” I didn't need to finish the sentence. Daddy'd died two weeks before his birthday, so there was no need to complete the drawing.

“Well, it's nice. He would've loved it.”

“I don't know. Maybe. When I asked if I could draw him something, he just looked at me funny. Then he said, ‘Okay. Out of all the people alive in this world, who do you think I'd most like to spend a day with? You think on it, then draw me that person.' So I did.”

Uncle Luke's face pinched together like he was going to sneeze. He turned away, but no sneeze came. “Well, it's nice.”

“Thanks.”

Luke stood. “Listen, Ben.” The hand he put on my shoulder was the same size as Daddy's, but softer, even with his golf calluses. Daddy's hands were rough, dotted with old burns and colored in places like his spice rub had become part of him. I liked Daddy's hands better.

“What?”

Uncle Luke breathed in slowly, then breathed out fast before letting his eyes meet mine. “Listen, son.” He pressed my shoulder, then scratched at his chin again. “I know you loved your daddy.”

Those words butchered me to pieces. I sat there while they sliced away at my insides, nobody but me knowing that I was being cut up. Nobody but me knowing how hard it had been to love Daddy and how impossible it was not to.

“I'm sorry, Ben,” he told me.

“For what?”

“Your mama's coming to pick you up. You're not going back to Augusta. I told her it's a bad idea.”

My stick dropped in the fire, the marshmallow along with it.

Told you
, said the sky.

“You did not,” I said.

“I did,” Uncle Luke answered. He leaned close to me. “Men can sneak the stink out of a slaughterhouse easier than a man can sneak onto that course during the Masters tournament. There's a whole herd of people whose only job is to walk around and investigate every single person and every Masters entrance badge for authenticity. I don't know what you were thinking. Listen, your mama's not mad you ran off. She's not even mad you took Bogey with you. She just wants to know you're all right.”

I scowled. Noni growled.

Uncle Luke shifted around like a nervous pigeon. “She wanted to drive over tonight with your neighbor's car, but I told her that you might need a little time and that you were fine. She'll be here tomorrow afternoon.”

He tilted his head toward Noni but didn't look at her. “I'll call tomorrow to make an appointment to drop Miss Noni at a place that can help her. You can't go sneaking into the greatest golf tournament in the world, and you can't be scattering ashes on private property.” He patted my back and grinned like I'd agreed with him. “Besides, we can watch the
Masters together on the television. Mr. Hobart Crane might just pull off a win! Talk about things that would make your daddy happy.”

“Augusta belongs to the world,” I choked out. “Daddy said that.”

“Now, don't make a scene. This is a classy neighborhood.” He gestured to the open air and the neighbors' houses. “If you wake up my neighbors, they won't hesitate to call about a noise complaint, and the authorities will find their way over here.”

Noni threw the bag of marshmallows at his head. “That's why you brought us outside to break the news that you're a big fat traitor?” she said, using her very best cat-with-rabies hiss on him. “I don't care if you get a noise complaint!” she yelled.

“Quiet, runaway, or I'll gladly drop you at a homeless shelter right now. How about that?” He turned back to me. “Son, your mama said that you think you've got something stuck in your throat. Is that true? And now you're hearing your daddy's voice?”

Noni stood up. “Why won't you help your nephew?”

I stood, feeling dizzy. “This is what he wanted. How can you not know that?” I stepped forward and felt Noni stand by my side. “He's your brother. Don't you understand your own brother?”

He didn't answer, and for a second I thought of the boy
whose pig I'd butchered and the way he'd looked at me, his heart broken. I thought the words
I hate you
might fly out of me and smack Uncle Luke in the face. I swallowed, then let my hand rise to feel and cover the lump. “I thought you believed me.”

Uncle Luke nodded. “I know, son. I believe that you're hearing something—your aching heart or your conscience, maybe.” He stood. “We'll get you someone to talk to. You kids can stay up a little later, but you've got to come inside. Rules are rules.” He uncovered a pot beside the fire and scooped out gravel, killing the flames. “I'm gonna go catch up on the tournament coverage in the newspaper. I'll be in my office. Can't believe tomorrow's already Saturday.”

Uncle Luke swiped a few moths away from the backyard floodlight and stepped inside. “Come on. Oh, and I'll be setting my alarm after ya'll get in here. So please don't go trying to run off tonight. Like I said, it'll wake up the neighborhood.”

“Ben,” Noni whispered while we both stood. “What are we gonna do?”

The stars above echoed her question, but I didn't have an answer. Uncle Luke closed the door behind us and blocked our view with his body while he pressed a button on his alarm system, securing the fact that we were locked in like prisoners, no better off than Daddy in his urn.

T
he framed paintings of Augusta in Uncle Luke's house were all wrong. They were false comforts. They felt like lies meant to lure me in, and they'd worked, like when Ann Walter had offered that cupcake and then ruined May Talbot's dress on purpose. I'd sat there and let that happen. Now I was sitting back, fiddling with the camping rope and looking at Uncle Luke's refrigerator, my eyes flitting over magnets, a golf course ad requesting instructors, and a telephone number. Staring at nothing, watching Daddy's chances to get to Augusta be snatched away with the same kind of helpless feeling I'd watched May with.

May, who'd never been anything but a friend to me. May, who'd seen me for my insides. May, who'd come over with flowers after her mama called my mama on the telephone. May, who'd . . . just given me an idea?

I looked again at the refrigerator, then stood and checked
the cabinet. I set the rope on the table and gave it my Considering look. Like a golfer inspecting his putt from every angle, I thought about the possibilities and consequences. I picked up an orange and gave it a good sniff. The citrus smell burned brightness into my nostrils. I knew what to do.

“Hey, Uncle Luke,” I said, keeping my voice casual and catching his arm before he could disappear into his office. “I know it's late, but can I use your telephone to call Mama?”

He looked puzzled. “Sure you can. I'll be reading the paper if you all need me. Feel free to wake me if I doze off and you need something. Help yourself to anything but the beer.”

I waited to respond to Noni's thick pinch until after my uncle had left the room. “
Ow
. Listen, Ben Hogan said to reverse every natural instinct and do the opposite of what you are inclined to do and you will probably come very close to having a perfect golf swing.” I knocked against the urn. “Daddy, wake up.”

“Stop talking in other people's quotes,” Noni said. “What are we going to do? Ben, I
have
to get on that golf course tomorrow. The perfect sign is waiting for me there, I know it. I can't miss my chance.”

“
Shh
,” I told her. “I'm thinking.” Uncle Luke may have hijacked Daddy's dream life, but I wasn't about to let him steal his afterlife, too. It could work. The unlikely, impossible thing could work if I had enough faith in it. “We're gonna
get to Augusta National,” I said real soft. “I've got a couple of phone calls to make. If you want to help, grab the camping rope and practice your knots.”

I shushed Noni's open mouth and dialed my home phone number. Mama picked up two rings later.

“Luke,” she said, her voice hurried and higher pitched than normal. “I was just about to call. Can I talk to—”

“It's me, Mama.”

Her silence was followed by several quivering inhaled breaths and exhaled choked cries of relief. “Are you okay?” she managed to say.

“I'm better than okay. I've got—”

“My God, Benjamin!” she shouted, the fast breaths changing from shaky to solid. “Do you know what you've done to me? Do you
know
how worried I was!” Her anger shot through the telephone line like it wanted to catch me around the throat and shake me. “How could you just—after all I've—how could, how could you—” The sound of crying cut off Mama's next words, and I let her sob, then sniff her way back to being able to speak. “You're okay,” she said.

“I'm sorry, Mama. I'm sorry I worried you, but I've got a question and I need you to tell me the truth.”

She sighed, sniffed, sighed. “All right. All right.”