Waiting for Augusta (24 page)

“What was Daddy's big fight with Uncle Luke about?” I had to know the answer before making a final decision about Augusta. To make sure I wasn't missing something
important by trusting my heart over my uncle. Especially since my escape plan involved something not so nice where Uncle Luke was concerned.

She sighed. “Your daddy and Luke had a complicated history, Ben. There's some resentment on both sides, and an old argument came up. Both of them said things I suspect they didn't mean. Things that they'd kept inside for too long.” She breathed in and held the air like she was waiting for something.

“What else?” I asked.

She let her breath out. I almost felt it, warm and mama-smelling against my ear.

“It's okay,” I told her.

“I think the real reason your daddy kicked him out is that Luke said a few things about you.”

My fingers traced shapes on Uncle Luke's kitchen table. Painter boy, my uncle had called me. “That I liked to paint and draw? Daddy got mad at him for saying that?”

“No, honey.” She paused, and I saw her sitting in the kitchen all by herself. “He said you'd be better off without your daddy as a father, and that your daddy would have been better off without you for a son. He said you didn't have enough heart to become a real golfer, just like your daddy didn't have enough heart to become a real golfer. And your daddy”—her voice changed, and I heard a small smile go into it—“your daddy disagreed with all of that. Strongly.”

I tried to let that sink in, not sure if it meant Daddy was more upset because Uncle Luke had said he wasn't cut out to be a golfer, or because Uncle Luke had said I wasn't cut out to be one either.

“Okay,” I said. For the next fifteen minutes I told her what we'd been doing, where we'd been. And then I delivered the two words that were my last chance. I wasn't going to scatter Daddy without her permission. Not when she was right on the phone talking to me. I would need her vote to get through the rest of my time in Augusta. “Stay hopeful,” I told her.

“What, honey?”

“Those were Daddy's last words to you. To stay hopeful.”

She didn't respond.

“Mama? Isn't that right? He held your hand and told you to stay hopeful.”

The phone dropped. I heard it smack the floor and roll. When she picked it up, Mama's voice shook so badly I could barely understand her. “How do you know that? That was a guess, wasn't it? You were at home, Ben.”

“I was.”

“You weren't there.”

“I wasn't.”

“Then how do you know what your daddy said to me?”

The whole truth was too big for her. I'd give her a little truth. If part of her needed to believe it was a guess, maybe other parts
of her would need to believe otherwise. “I just know.”

“You just
know
? Benjamin, I don't understand. I didn't tell anyone what Bo said, not a single—”

“I don't understand, either. Not all of it, anyway. But, Mama, I think I'm supposed to take Daddy to see the Masters. And I think I'm supposed to scatter his ashes there. I feel it more than I've felt anything in my life. It's where he belongs. Can I try? I'm not going to get hurt, I promise you that,” I said.

I heard the hesitation in her voice. It was a good hesitation—one that meant her head's
no
was being battled by her heart's
yes
. “Your uncle won't allow it. He says it's impossible.”

“Daddy and Uncle Luke didn't see eye to eye on everything.”

She laughed for the first time since Daddy's memorial service. “You can try. I love you. Mrs. Grady's lending me her car, on the condition that I bring her with me. She said her husband, Richard, wants to come, too.” Mama sighed. “I shouldn't play into her fantasies, but I needed the car. I said it'd be fine for him to come with us.”

I looked at Daddy's urn and wondered if maybe Crazy Grady wasn't as crazy as all of us thought. “I like Mrs. Grady,” I told Mama. “She'll be good company for you.”

“We'll be there tomorrow afternoon, in time to get you a birthday dinner. Can't believe my baby's gonna be twelve. You're growing up too fast.”

“Oh, Mama, growing up's a long way off.” But it didn't feel that way. The last year alone had been full of changes, and there were more coming. I could feel and smell them somewhere just ahead, like a swollen river or an invisible barbecue scent, drawing me forward. There was no stopping things from changing.

“The bank loan came through, honey. We're gonna get the café back and start serving chicken. We'll keep some pork—your father would never forgive me if we didn't—but the overall menu will be more affordable for us. That means a lot of things for us. Maybe we'll get you better art supplies. Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Mama. That's good news.”

When I got off the phone and told Noni the next part of my plan, she clapped her hands. “I like it. I'll figure out which knots will work best. What if he wakes up?”

“He took three of those pills—the bottle said two was the right dose. Add on the fact that when he stayed at our house, he and Daddy snored loud enough to block out a bear fight, and he'll sleep heavy, believe me. How are you at sewing?”

“Terrible.” She looked at the needle and thread on the counter with suspicion. “Why?”

I turned the backpack over and showed her the rip. “Forgot to tell you. This got torn in the storm. Your dress did, too. I'll sew up the backpack, but it'll be ugly and noticeable.
We won't want to be noticed. I think you better wear that.” I pointed to the frock that Uncle Luke's girlfriend had made.

Looking like she'd found a stinkbug in her dessert, she picked up the dress and held it against her, letting out a big sigh when it looked the right length. The thin sweater looked like a fit, too. Then she snatched up a yellow shoe and held it against her feet. “Fine,” she said. “But I'm not putting that hat on my head. So if your plan works and we get out of here, then what? What about those badges your uncle talked about?”

I took a deep breath. The next part would be a leap of faith, something I'd been short on. “This may sound crazy, but I got the idea from the worker who caught us in the storm. He said we'd be better off getting a ride with one of the players.”

Noni frowned. “How are we gonna do that?”

“We make sure we're right alongside the road where the players will go into Augusta. We make sure we look real sad, like we're in trouble and need someone to stop. Daddy always talked about how golf is a game of character and integrity—of doing the right thing. Masters players are the best golfers in the world. It's a long shot and we can try to think of something else, but if we get ourselves in the right place—”

Before I could finish, Noni's mouth opened and she snapped her fingers. “That's
it
.” She began pacing around the table. “Why didn't I think of it? Superstitions.”

“Superstitions?”

“Not wanting bad luck.” She flashed me a grin so wide, I saw every tooth in her mouth. “Nobody's gonna want bad luck anyway, but especially not going into a day of the biggest golf tournament there is. He'll stop.”

“Who'll stop?”

She pressed her lips together and snapped again. “Whoever. Somebody'll stop. Golfers are superstitious. I read it in that book.” She tapped the backpack holding the Augusta book and gave me a serious nod. “It'll work.”

It was the first time I'd seen her completely confident in one of my ideas. I liked it. And she was right. Golfers were superstitious. The best of them had been known to wear certain clothes on certain days of certain tournaments, and Daddy himself had ways he tried to avoid bad luck on the course.

“I think maybe it could,” I said. “Sometimes the hardest thing about finishing is having the guts to show up. The strokes will take care of themselves or they won't, but either way, you've got to be there to find out what happens.”

“Which golfer said that?”

“Me. I said it.”

“Finally.” Noni grinned. “I've been waiting for a Benjamin Putter quote. Hey, Benjamin Putter,” she said in a soft, almost shy voice I hadn't heard from her before. “Can I try to paint something?”

“Sure. I'm gonna lie down on that couch in the other room. We'll leave in a few hours. Don't worry, I'm too wound up to fall asleep. What are you going to paint?”

“Not sure yet. I'm gonna rest for a little bit in that guest bedroom when I'm done. I'll leave the box on the kitchen table.” She touched my shoulder. “Thanks for not giving up. We're so close.”

“I know.”

That's what I was afraid of.

A
n hour later, at three o'clock in the morning on my twelfth birthday, the first time I'd ever spend a whole birthday with my father, I stared at the ceiling and thought about fear. Back when we jumped off the train, Noni had told me that I had to face my fears, so at least they'd know I was up for a fight. But how can you be ready to fight something when you can't even pin down what it is?

Trying to think it out just made my head ache, so making sure I didn't creak too much, I stepped down the hallway to the kitchen and turned the oven light on. I needed to settle my mind with some paper and a pencil or a brush. Maybe make one more painting for May.

Why don't you paint her a pair of running shoes, runaway
, said the faucet.
Bet she wishes she could run away from school, too, but she's not a coward, so she can't.

How about a cupcake
, suggested the half-wet drying towel.
For the one you watched get smeared all over her.

No, no, no, it wasn't his fault
, the refrigerator scolded them.
He's just a coward
.

Then they all started up, all of them. The cabinets, the dirty dishes in the sink, the sliding doors, the glue gun and dress and hat, all talking and accusing and crowding me and the ball stuck in my throat.

His daddy doesn't care about either of them, no he doesn't, golf, that's all Bogart Putter loves, oh hush, well, he doesn't care, golf balls, golf clubs, don't be mean, golf bags, golf course, I'm being honest, he's not good enough to love, heart of a golfer, be quiet, what's the heart of a golfer, he was never good enough, he seems so nice, not as nice as golf, why not, why what, why is he afraid, what is he afraid of—

“You all stop.”

He's afraid of the space.

“Go away. Please go away.”

He's afraid of the space between
.

I gave up. “Between what?”

You know, yes you do, yes he knows
.

“Between
what
?”

All of them got quiet, stayed silent, until one thing spoke. It was the golf ball in my throat.

The space between everything
, it said.
The space between Hilltop and the world. Between the ground and the coal train. Between the train and the peach farm. Between you and May Talbot's lunch table.

Between what your daddy could have been and what he was.

Between who you are and who you'll be.

“I don't understand,” I told the lump. “I don't know what to do.”

You do. You already said it.

“Said what?”

The strokes will take care of themselves or they won't, but either way, you've got to be there to find out. The space between you and your daddy. Fill it.

“I don't know how,” I whispered. I opened my box and saw that Noni had taken the last piece of thick paper. I pulled out my sketchbook, wondering what she'd painted, and worked until I'd completely finished the sketch on the third-to-last page. I blew on it, and I could've sworn that the hair waved a little in the small wind I'd made.

I picked up the urn and put my mouth on the cool pewter, against a spot that felt right. I didn't care if he was the stars and I was a fool. Within twenty-four hours, Noni and I would be successful, or Mama would be taking both me and Daddy back to Hilltop. Either way, I knew this was the last of our time alone together.

“I love you, Daddy,” I whispered, and gave him a kiss.

He didn't answer, but I took comfort in the low rumbling inside the urn.

Soft steps sounded, and Noni poked her head into the room. “I heard you rustling around.” She sat on the edge
of the table, putting down the Augusta book that had been tucked under her arm. Her eyes were bright. “I'm excited.” She pointed to the camping ropes. “Your uncle is bound to be sleeping by now. His bedroom is empty.”

“He's probably still in his office.” I raised an eyebrow and slapped her on the back. “Let's get started. We'll leave him some water and a snack.”

“Excellent.” Noni frowned. “Just water. He doesn't deserve a snack.”

Daddy woke and demanded an explanation. Leaving him cheering and snickering on the kitchen table, we crept down toward Uncle Luke's office with all the stealth we could manage. A low hum of something came from the room, its door open just a crack. The light was still on, and a cigar smell lingered around the hallway.

On my signal, we both dropped to our knees and inched forward. With nervous hands, I poked at the door and stuck my head in. I saw the back of Uncle Luke's armchair, facing a small television set. I crept forward.

“Dontchasdothat!” Uncle Luke blurted.

I backed out so quickly I knocked right into Noni. “
Retreat
,” I whispered, expecting Uncle Luke to come charging. “Go, now, before—”

A loooooooong snore rang out, followed by mumbling.

Hmm.

Noni pushed me aside and army crawled into the room.
A moment later, she waved me in. “Talking in his sleep,” she whispered. “Snoring like a freight train. Time for some hog tying, pig boy.”