Waiting for Augusta (3 page)

I set the urn on the table and walked straight out of the kitchen to consult with the grandfather clock in the hall. “Now,” I told the second hand, “there are two possibilities for me to believe here.”

Go on,
the clock told me.

“Number one, my daddy's spirit has come back from beyond to settle some unfinished business. Ghosty style.”

And number two?

I looked back toward the kitchen and eyed the seven iron. Maybe it had shocked the crazy into me. Or maybe I'd been crazy all along. I'd already told people about the golf ball in my throat. Was the ball the first step toward me turning into a man who thought underpants should be worn on his head and barbecue sauce went inside shoes? I felt my throat again and swallowed. No. It was in there. The golf ball, at least, was real.

“Number two, Daddy's come back from beyond to help me run away. And help me get rid of this ball in my throat. So, which is it?”

Are you expecting an opinion?
the clock asked.
I'm a clock. Believe whatever you want. You want to get out of Hilltop or not?

“Fine.” Straightening my shoulders, I gave the clock a nod and stepped back into the kitchen. If you're gonna try a new swing in life, you better be all in, Daddy once told me. “Okay,” I said to the urn. “We'll go to Augusta.”

Before Daddy could answer, the screen door slammed open, knocking against the wall in a way Mama hates. Standing there was the big-eyed, mean-glared girl, holding a stack of orange-red-smeared plates. “Who's going to Augusta? And where do I put these dishes? Your mama wants pie out there.”

“She does?”

The girl rolled her big eyes, and I got the idea that if her hands weren't full, they'd go straight to her hips. “Fine, I want pie. Gimme a bunch and maybe those others'll buy some. So, who's going to Augusta? And who were you talking to in here?”

My face got red as our special sauce. “I wasn't talking to anyone.”

The girl didn't seem to mind the lie. She took a quick inventory of the room, which didn't take long. There was the stained oak eating table, blue countertops along one wall with our big white sink and low cabinets set beneath, an old wooden icebox where Mama kept her needlepoint basket, the pantry with its open door showing a line of dented canned goods, a tall refrigerator Daddy'd ordered for Mama from a Sears catalog instead of the ladies' hat she'd asked for, and an electric oven that Mama insisted be pushed right under the window to the side yard, to try to trick the heat into going outside where it belonged. Every piece could speak if I let it, reminding me of good times and bad ones.

“Don't mind me,” the girl said. “I'll clean these dishes for you and collect a favor later. You can start by digging up some pie.” She walked the plates to the sink, turned on the faucet, and grabbed a dishcloth. Started washing like she owned the place.

Her sureness didn't match her jeans and Coca-Cola shirt, which were wrinkled and caked here and there with dried mud. The long-sleeved shirt tied around her waist looked like it belonged to a grown man, and it wasn't any cleaner. Freckles sprinkled her face, and one side of her long, straw-straight ponytail had a piece of moss in it. There was a dark bruise on her elbow, and her sneakers looked like they'd already been used for a lifetime. There was old dirt on her neck, the kind of dust that could come from working in a windy field or from driving down the roads of Hilltop with car windows down. She was filthier than the plates she'd just washed.

“Say, you look like a runner,” she said without turning.

“How's that? And what kind of pie do you want? Apple or lemon cream?”

“Apple.” The back of her shoulders shrugged at me. “You just look twitchy. Plus, you told that girl you were thinking about running away.”

I'd been over a hundred yards away when I talked to May. I would have been barely visible from where she'd sat.

“You couldn't have heard me.”

She sneered and raised a dusty eyebrow easy as anything, in a way I'd tried to do in the mirror a few times because it was one of Daddy's signature moves. Eyebrow raise with a chin tilt and a head raise meant he'd caught me drawing or painting. Eyebrow raise with a wink and a back slap meant he was telling a joke to a barbecue customer.

“I wandered over by one of those big trees,” the girl said. “Felt like a walk.”

“You felt like spying.”

“I'm running, too. Wanna know why?”

“No.” I reached in the refrigerator and pulled out two full apple pies with crisscrossed crust. They clanked on the counter, then settled while I took off the clear wrapping.

“All right. Respectful of privacy. I appreciate that in a partner.” Finished washing, the girl wiped her hands and threw the cloth on the counter.

“I'm not running away. Not with you, anyway.” I remembered her stink face at the picnic table. It hadn't improved much. She was prowling back and forth like a cat in the early stages of rabies. “Besides, you looked mad outside. You look mad now.”

“Was sizing you up, that's all. Still am.” She pawed at the edge of my watercolor. “Whatcha got there? Looks like a big smush of green and purple. Bushes?” She turned her head sideways. “Flowers maybe? You paint, huh?”

I covered the paper, and she grabbed my drawing pad,
flipping through to a page near the end. “Nice eyes on that one. So we should get this pie out to your mama. Then we should do some planning. Not now, though. Tonight. I found a sheet along the tracks and stashed it for making a tent. It's too nasty to last more than a night, but it'll do. You got a tent?”

I shook my head. Daddy'd had a tent that he used to take fishing with his buddies, but Mama'd thrown it out because it stunk like cigarette smoke.

“I'll set up down by the creek. Saw it running past that big saloon-looking place at the far end of town. I'll be somewhere along there. You come find me.”

“No, thank you.” With a snatch, I got my pad back and smoothed the pages.

“Why you going anyhow?” She jerked her head toward the door. “Your mama seems nice. Got plenty of food here. Heck, I'd run away to a place like this any day.”

I didn't answer. I wasn't telling a strange girl that I had a golf ball in my throat and a dead daddy talking to me. And I definitely wasn't taking her with me to the Sistine Chapel of golf courses.

“Why you keep rubbing your throat like that?”

I couldn't help rubbing on it. Since its arrival a couple of months back, the ball mostly stayed still, but over the last week, it'd started twisting around now and then. Tickling at me like it was getting ready to talk.

“Leave your mama a note if you run. She seems nice.”

“I'm not leaving forever. I just got something to do.”

“That's fine. Now, you take care of money and provisions, and I'll be in charge of the rest.”

I couldn't believe my big Putter ears. “What else is there, other than money and provisions? And why would I go anywhere with you?”

She stuck out her lower lip. “I'm a good talker and I'm tough. You don't seem to be either of those things. I'm good at tying knots, and I can sing real well and do magic tricks if we need to make street money. More like why should I run off with you?” She snorted. “Neck-rubbing twitchy boy. But I'm willing to take on a project like yourself because it ain't safe traveling alone. Things happen.” She burped. “Name's Noni. I'll be along that creek. Bring some of that barbecue tonight. Password will be,
It's a fine night for a pork sandwich.
”

“That's not a word.”

“Well, use your imagination. Must have a decent one since I caught you talking to yourself.” Plucking the two pies from the counter, the girl did a handy leg swipe to open the side door and disappeared around the corner.

A
n hour later, the yard was empty and I was eating a pulled pork sandwich at the kitchen table, thinking about May Talbot and how I wished she'd slammed open the back door and demanded to go with me to Augusta instead of that Noni girl. But May'd never been the demanding type, unless it came to peaches, which she wouldn't touch unless I peeled all the skin off for her, or the color green, which she always called dibs on when we used my paints together, only letting me use it when she was done. She was always making me run out of green.

Mama came in full of sighs, putting a hand on my head. “I'm worn out. Think I'll lie down for a spell, but I may fall asleep for the night. I've got those meetings in Bridger tomorrow, and then I have to talk to the bank. I have to leave early, so I won't wake you. You get yourself some cereal. I won't be back until around six o'clock, so we'll be closed. If anyone stops by after school, you can sell them leftovers, but that's all.”

“Mm-hm.” Mama'd set up meetings with a few farmers to see if we couldn't afford to add chickens to our menu. They were cheaper than pigs and the occasional beefsteaks we bought, and less hassle. If the prices were right and the bank loan was approved, we'd get the café back.

“That your dinner?”

I nodded, wiping sauce from my cheeks. “Had broccoli and slaw earlier. I'll take care of the cleanup.”

She hung up her apron, cracking her neck and moaning while she stretched her back. Then she smiled the best she could and cupped my chin. “Good boy, Bo.”

Bo
. Bo was Bogart and Bogart was Daddy. She'd accidentally called me Daddy's name even before he died. It was a joke back then and, boy, how we poked fun and laughed. But it wasn't funny anymore and I wasn't about to mention the slip.

“Mama, what day is it?”

She glanced at the golf course calendar I'd bought Daddy for Christmas. “Tuesday, April 4th.”

I cleared my throat. “The Masters starts this week. Remember how Daddy used to say he wanted to end up at Augusta?”

The tiniest raise of her lips was canceled out by the way her chin was shaking. “Yes, I do.” She poured herself a glass of water.

“You think we should take him there?”

She pushed against the counter with both hands, stretching. “Oh, Ben. Even if the truck wasn't begging for the junkyard and even if I didn't need to keep up with the business, we don't have the money to go anywhere right now. Sometimes life doesn't give you everything you want, but if you're lucky you have most of what you really need. Your daddy knew that.” She took a sip of water and looked at the wall like maybe it had something to say. Turning her face back to me, she lifted a hand to my cheek. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

•  •  •

I went back to the shed and dealt with the hog. It wasn't a particularly big one, which I was glad to see. Daddy'd taught me careful, telling me to watch when I wasn't more than five and having me take a knife on my seventh birthday. Not a pretty sight, he'd said, but everything worth having in life starts messy.
Like your golf game
, he'd joke.
Heck, like my golf game.

Mrs. Grady was just visible over her backyard fence. It was close to eight o'clock, and she was wearing a nightgown and special socks that kept her leg veins held in, holding a rake and hacking away at the Spanish moss hanging from her trees. She hated that stuff. Crazy Grady was somewhere in her eighties and thought her husband was still alive.

Mama sent me over there once a week or so to bring her a plate of barbecue and visit for a while, which I didn't mind at all. I usually just sketched or painted while she served
walnut bars to me and talked about Mr. Grady's arthritis. I thought about calling a hello to her, but decided the pig needed to be butchered more than Mrs. Grady needed to have another long conversation about joint pain.

The cuts came easy and the hog had been delivered good and blood-drained, so there wasn't much mess. Mr. Talbot used to run a barbecue pit over in the colored part of Hilltop and knew hogs better than Daddy, but his place caught fire in the middle of the night last December, just a few months after May started going to our elementary school along with six other colored boys and girls.

The closest high school, over in Woodard, had been integrated for a few years now, but none of the colored parents had sent their younger kids to Hilltop Primary until this school year. May was in my class, and before her first day, she'd seemed nervous but pleased. She told me that she'd heard everything was better at our school, from the desks and books to the toilet paper. Neither of us thought the things we'd heard about the high school would happen.

But soon she was near silent at school, even after most of the boys and girls who'd yelled things and spit in her food were gone, transferred over to the newly built white-only private school, Hilltop Christian Academy.

I divided the hog into spare ribs, loin, shoulder, butt, bacon, chops, and ham cuts. Mama would pickle the ears and feet, so those came off, too. The organs had already been
taken out by Mr. Talbot, who made sausage, and I saved the head for a church lady who boiled it for head cheese.

Butchering was always hard for me, even after I got handy with the cuts. I hated taking something whole and cutting it to pieces and throwing some of those pieces away.
Good, good, good, bad
. It wasn't the pig's fault that some of it wasn't worth keeping for barbecue.

After the meat was packed into the shed cooler and freezer, I picked up the lemon sacks and peeled until my hands smelled like a citrus orchard and white pith was pushed up under every one of my fingernails. I put them all in our large plastic bin and stuck the whole thing in the big fridge, knowing I'd saved Mama from the hardest part of lemonade labor. It was ten o'clock by the time I finished and sat at the kitchen table to write a note.

Dear Mama,

I know you worry about me, but don't this time. I got something that needs doing. I'll try to be back by the time you run out of pig. Please don't be mad. I love you.