House of Gold (9 page)

Now I'm really behind.
For the first time, he realized
that he stood a good chance of losing one hundred dollars.

Brooks blew his next shot, ending up just in front of Howie. George managed to come close to returning to the field-of-play during his turn, but not close enough, in the croquet equivalent of a bogie.

Instead of sending Brooks off-field, Howie elected to glance his ball off Brooks's–called making a "roquet"–and took a two wicket lead,
making it to stake where the game began. He would now attempt to reverse back around the field in order to win the game.

Buzz, leaning into the hedge, made a spectacular shot to return to his previous position. Now there was still plenty of course left to make a comeback with a few good shots–part of the romance of the sport was this built-in comeback dynamic. If one could catch the leader, there
was always the possibility of sending him off the field. Then the new leader would be in the same danger from the player behind him, and so on.

Brooks caught up to Howie, but curiously decided against driving him off the field. This was not too uncommon. Instead he chose to try to extend his lead, though Buzz wondered if this was the right tactic in this situation. He walked up to Brooks. In a
trick he had learned playing other sports, he hoped the proximity of his physical presence could slightly rattle the other player.

It was George's turn. He easily manoeuvred his ball to just behind Buzz with a nice shot through the second wicket, then tapped Buzz's ball. This would enable him to take two additional and much-needed free strokes for moving forward to catch up to Howie and Brooks.
Then George did a curious thing. He elected to send Buzz off the field for the third straight time.

"George? What the hell–" Buzz said.

George's decision to send him truly sucked.

George came over and whispered to Buzz, "What's the matter, can't take the heat?"

"You know as well as I do that sending me was the wrong shot," Buzz replied with an edge.

"Temper temper. I'm not going to win this game,"
George countered calmly, raising an eyebrow. "I'm allowed to have my fun."

Buzz bit off a reply.
But you're supposed to try to win, not pick on me!

"Don't let the old man bother you," Brooks called over happily. "I've seen you come from behind before, Buzz."

"Yeah, yeah," Buzz replied, then under his breath, "Screw you, George."

Howie was moving forward during his turn now, going past Brooks again,
building a lead.

"What did you just say?" George asked sharply, raising his mallet slightly.

"Nothing," Buzz replied sullenly, looking at his ball twenty-five yards away, not far from the tables where the wives were chatting on the stone court.

"I heard you. And you call yourself a Christian," the old man said sadly, tsk-tsking, as he walked away from Buzz.

Huh? Supposed to be a Christian?

It
was Buzz's turn again. He was hopelessly behind now. There was only one strategy left. Skip ahead without going through the designated wickets and then try to send Howie and Brooks off-field, then double back on the wickets to try to catch up. He would need help from whoever was second–in this case, Brooks. He walked quickly to his ball, and overshot only slightly. He was letting his anger–and the
thought of losing that hundred–into his swing. By sheer luck–against the odds–his ball tapped into Howie's at the end of its journey.

Brooks whooped.

"Take that!" Buzz yelled from his distant position. "Payback time!"

He practically raced back to Howie's ball and sent it careening to the hedges. Then he missed in an effort to roquet off Brooks's ball.

"Two can play at that game," Brooks chortled.
"Thanks for giving me the lead." He quickly tapped Buzz's ball.

"There are still a few wickets left, Tiger Woods," Buzz replied, a bit more aggression in his voice than would normally be called for.
Who could blame me? It's like they've all decided to gang up on me.

Brooks promptly lined up and drove Buzz back to the hedges, not ten feet from Howie's ball.

Buzz was still standing next to Brooks
when he caught site of Howie, against all rational strategy, tapping into Buzz. Howie quickly lined up to send Buzz's ball again.

"Howie," Buzz Woodward yelled, "what the...
freak
...are you-doing?!"

Howie didn't reply. He swung mightily and sent Buzz's ball flying past the stone court, almost all the way to the cars parked another twenty-five yards away.

Buzz, unable to control himself, let loose
an excremental word.

"Not looking too good for the Christian," George offered sadly, clicking his tongue. "And Buzz, would you mind watching your gutter mouth. This is a gentleman's game."

Buzz saw red.
A gentleman's game? I have a hundred dollars riding on this–farce.

"And what does being a Christian have to do with any of this?" he asked George O'Meara, sounding unstable, and definitely angry.

"It seems obvious, doesn't it?" George replied in a patronizing tone. "You fancy yourself this perfect Catholic, yet you can't seem to control yourself while playing a simple game. Now, pardon me."

George walked back to his ball and calmly blew his next shot, then looked up with a serene expression of resignation, as if to illustrate for poor, lowly Buzz the
proper
way to handle disappointment.

"Your turn," Brooks told Buzz.

Brooks was already in a crouch, eyeing his next shot. Howie had managed to get halfway back to the field. Brooks's lead was growing.

Bastards.

Buzz stormed off toward his ball. It took what seemed like ages to reach it. He was breathing hard–from the tension, not the walk. He looked down at his yellow ball.

I'll get back into this!
he told himself, knowing it was
hopeless.
It's as if they ganged up on me on purpose,
he repeated to himself, again.

Then, just as he was about to strike the ball, reality dawned on him.

They
had
done this on purpose.

A game of dirty croquet. Pre-planned, no doubt–right down to the hundred dollar ante–the whole nine yards.

He looked up and eyed them from afar. They were by the sideline table now, watching and waiting for him,
Heinies in hand, smug as crud on a rug. Silently sharing their little secret.

Those bastards. Christian my ass.

Still, his realization did not mute the anger.

Buzz, New Jersey boy to the core, devised a plan.

First, he reared and fired a gargantuan shot, bringing him within striking distance of the playing green. He knew now he couldn't win–even if he played perfectly they would continue sending
him. But he had to get closer to them.

He walked past his ball, and stood next to Howie, who was lining up his next shot, out of earshot from George and Brooks.

"Is Brooks in on it too?" Buzz asked knowingly.

"In on what?" Howie asked innocently, without looking up from the ball as he stroked it.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Buzz accused calmly.

Howie, holding his mallet parallel
to the ground now, leaned his tall frame back on his heels a bit, then chuckled a cynical chuckle, as if to telegraph in unspoken O'Meara-speak:
All in good fun, asswipe.

Buzz had all the confirmation he needed. Howie walked away, toward his ball and the others.

Bastards.

Buzz looked over to the women. The coffee in their cups was probably growing cold. They were oblivious to the friendly little
game of Buzz the Piñata taking place on the croquet field. He saw Mel looking bored, nursing Packy at a table, but was unable to catch her eye. Helen was on her feet, heading toward the inside of the house.

Please forgive me, Mel, for what I am about to do.

Then, strangely, he surprised himself with this prayer:
Yahweh, make strong the hands of your chosen one. Lay mine enemies down before me.

He placed his mallet on the ground, and walked toward the three men. On his last turn, Brooks had won the game easily.

Buzz approached them slowly, thinking of...
positioning.
The sound of their patter seemed far away. George's laugh died down.

The big, sleepy-eyed man with a crewcut stood squarely before Brooks, who was slightly shorter than Buzz. Howie, two inches taller, was to Buzz's right.
George was standing on the other side of the iron table. The sun was just below the hedges now–darkness was falling.

"Pay up," Brooks said, with a tilt of his head and a squint, still holding his mallet.

Buzz nodded sagely, and moved his left hand as if to reach for his wallet, then...

...wheeled around and coldcocked Howie with a devastating punch squarely to the taller man's mouth and nose.
It was a half-sidewinding, half-judo blow, and Buzz had put his whole thick frame into it, pulling it
just so
at the final instant. He had no desire to kill him.

Howie's eyes went crosswise, and he crumpled to the ground, out cold. There was a trickle of blood coming from his lip, and it quickly formed a rivulet onto his cheek.

The air had escaped audibly from George's lungs; he caught his breath,
"My God, what have you done?"

Buzz, holding his fist in his right hand, turned to Brooks, who had now raised his mallet over his shoulder, hesitating...

Buzz stepped back–almost danced back–and raised his hands, palm upward, flicking his fingers in the universal
come on
gesture.

"You want a piece of me too, Brooks, you lying sack of scum?" Buzz taunted, a grisly smile on his face.

He heard Melissa
scream and from the corner of his eye saw her and Mandy come running.

"Buzz!" George shouted. "Brooks! No!"

"Make up your mind, Brooks. You have the mallet. Take your best shot."

There was fear in Brooks's eyes; he still held the mallet menacingly in the air.

Melissa arrived first and fell to her knees next to her husband. She took his head onto her lap, and began gently slapping his cheeks in
an effort to revive him.

Howie issued a low groan, then slurred, "What the..."

Brooks lowered his mallet, and dropped it to the ground.

"What are you going to do? Are you going to beat me up?" he taunted, his eyes now unreadable.

The emotions of the moment seeped out of Buzz with amazing speed. He lowered his hands.

George found his legs and came around the table and stood next to Brooks.

"Get
off my property, Buzz. I'm going to call the police. And I expect that Howard will be pressing charges."

Mel arrived, still holding the baby. Her expression asked,
What in God's creation just happened here?

Buzz took a step forward, and Brooks jumped a bit to the side.

He's as scared as a rabbit,
Buzz thought, knowing the violence was over.

He reached between George and Brooks for his glass of
cola. The matter of charges being pressed was the furthest thing from his mind. He took a huge gulp, then turned to his wife.

"I'll explain later," Buzz told his wife. "But first I need to tell your father something."

"Now you listen to me–" George began.

"No. You listen to me," Buzz interrupted.

A serene authority was in Buzz's voice. George's mouth slammed shut from the force of it.

"What did
you do to my Howie?" Melissa, in tears, pleaded from her post on the ground, not quite worked up to anger.

"Melissa honey...?" Howie asked, coming back from the ether.

"Oh my God! What's happening?" Helen shrilled as she arrived at the group, completely clueless.

"Melanie and I have decided to move away from Cleveland," Buzz continued calmly. "She was afraid to tell you but I'm telling you now.
Our original reason–a computer problem–doesn't really matter anymore, because the last thing on earth I'm ever going to do is let Mel or Mark or Packy anywhere near you people ever again. You're all–"

He hesitated, searching for the right word. But he couldn't find a word to describe their mode of evil. Perhaps the word didn't exist. He looked down at his sneakers: dirty, old, worn-out Cons. He
noticed that George's tennis shoes looked as if they had come right out of the box this morning.

"You're crazy," George finally uttered, shaking his head, taking Helen's hand. His face, his eyes, his skin–looked worn and old and tired.

"Maybe so," Buzz replied. "Maybe that's why I see through all of you so easily."

He turned. "Let's get out of here, Mel. I'm feeling sick to my stomach."

He put
his arm around her shoulder.

"Melanie?!" Helen mewed, a bit unhinged.

"Good-bye, Mother," Mel replied, no longer facing her, a unique brand of finality in her voice.

Buzz and Mel hurried away. He repressed his urge to run. When they got to the car, he quickly strapped Markie into his carseat. No saying bye-bye to Gramma tonight.

"You'll be hearing from our lawyer," Melissa called behind them.

Buzz began telling his version of the story before they got to the end of the driveway. He finished just as they pulled into their stump of a driveway in Lakewood.

"My parents didn't protest when you said we were-moving away," was all she said.

+  +  +

The police came to their door later that evening, and took down Buzz's side of the story, but did not arrest him. George had filed a complaint.
For reasons they never discovered, Howard decided not to press charges and the drama ended without further incident. Mel heard later that Howie had not been injured beyond a fat lip and sore ego.

At Mel's gentle urging, a week later, Buzz wrote this short note of apology to her brother-in-law:

Dear Howie,

I'm sorry hit you, and I'm glad you're okay. There is no excuse for me to resort to violence,
regardless of the provocation. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

Sincerely,

Buzz

He wasn't very excited about sending the note, but agreed with Mel in principle that sending it was the right thing to do, so he swallowed his pride.