Wish You Were Here (55 page)

“I was talking with Meg last night,” he said, reading the break. “She still wants to see if there's a way we can take over the place.”

She couldn't stop herself from letting out a chuckle, a belch of a laugh. “It's a little late now, isn't it?”

“No, she's serious.”

“You're not just saying this to get me upset?”

He had his putt lined up but backed away. “I think we'd both like to try. We don't have any money, but—”

“That would be a problem, wouldn't it?” It came out too much like a joke—she didn't mean to make fun of him. “I'm sorry, it's just that everything's set. Mrs. Klinginsmith's coming tomorrow to check the septic.”

“Nothing's signed.”

“The agreement's signed. I'm sure you've heard of breach of contract.” She was annoyed that he would bring this up here, ruining her one sanctuary. She looked behind them for the foursome who had let them play through and saw them advancing, a cart on each side of the fairway. “You should hit.”

He took it as a reproof, and rushed his putt, knocking it well wide of the hole, but said nothing. She got hers close, then missed a gimme trying to get out of his way. He babied his, and they walked off sullenly, counting up their strokes.

He filled in their card by the next tee. She admitted to a six.

He had a five. “On in two and then the three-putt. It's mine then,” he said, stepping up as if nothing had happened.

He didn't mention it again, but the day had been altered, the whole purpose of the week thrown in doubt. She had asked them time and again— and not out of courtesy, but painfully, in the teeth of their disapproval— whether they wanted the responsibility of the cottage, and their answers had been identical and consistent. They didn't have the time or the money, and from what she'd gleaned this week, both of them were in even worse shape than she'd suspected. The only way they could take it over was if she paid the taxes and insurance for them, and in that case she might as well keep it in her name. That's what they were asking, wasn't it, what they'd wanted all along, for her to hold on to it.

Why this struck her now as reasonable rather than self-serving she couldn't say. Maybe it was the heat. She was tired and dehydrated and she wanted to quit and sit in the clubhouse with a gin and tonic. It was a complicated subject, and she did not want to discuss it with Kenneth and
say something she'd regret later, so she noted it and filed it away, held off, all the time knowing she would have to come back to it.

Arlene was on their side too, the three of them united against her.

It was too late. It was that simple. She'd already gone through this.

In the midst of her confusion, she parred the twelfth, getting up and down niftily. Kenneth totted up their scores and feigned astonishment.

“That's what happens when you practice,” she said. “You get good.”

“Here we are,” he said. “Unlucky thirteen. I hope you brought a floater.” He slipped a second ball from his zippered pocket.

It was an old family joke, a scene they replayed each year. Both Emily and Kenneth had been witnesses, and Herb Wiseman. It had to have been fifteen years now. Henry had been having a tough day, three-putting and then getting down on himself, driving away from the greens tight-lipped. On thirteen he was the last to hit. He put his tee shot in the water and his mulligan in the hole. Instead of throwing both arms in the air and dancing a jig, he turned to them, deadpan, not a change in his face, and said, “It figures.” In sixty years of golf, it was the closest he'd come to a hole in one, and now they celebrated it by playing two balls.

On the far side of the pond a pair of geese cropped the grass, walking targets. She kept to the shade while Kenneth launched a six-iron wide right. The geese kept eating, oblivious.

“Have at it,” she said, and he teed up his second.

Sixty years, she thought. So many holes, so many par-threes within reach. It was almost sad, and now, reconsidering Henry's reaction—which they all thought comic, repeated summer after summer on how many tikitorched decks and ninteenth-hole patios—she wondered if he really saw his life that way, if he'd expected more. He would never complain, but as he matured he'd turned serious and reserved, went from dashing to steadfast, absorbed in his work, the young man he'd been submerged, allowed to wink out only rarely. He withdrew into himself so quickly, one minute discussing some household necessity with her, the next lost behind the wall of his newspaper. Getting him to do anything with them was an effort, though anyone who saw him with the grandchildren would think he was pleasant, even doting.

They'd been happy, despite the silences and disagreements, the little tiffs. The children had been hard on him, especially these last years,
but whose weren't? Every family harbored some private heartache, some unfulfilled dream of lives that might have been.

She stood still as a white butterfly struggled past Kenneth's ball— a sign. Now would be the perfect time for him to sink one, proof that Henry was watching over them, looking down with his sly smile, finally content, at rest. She would circle it on the scorecard, frame it for Kenneth—maybe take a picture of them on the green, the numbered flag between them. She wondered if his little camera had a timer.

He settled his feet, addressed the ball, reached back and whacked it. The ball rose on line with the flag, and she stepped forward, hopeful, willing it in. Henry's had caught the apron, hopped on and rolled straight for the hole, disappearing as they cheered. Kenneth's seemed to be on the same trajectory, but faltered, dropped into the pond just short of the far shore, then bobbed up again as if it might skip over—“Get!” she said—and finally stopped, hung suspended, incredible, a white dot on the water.

“What in the world are you doing?” she said, because she'd tricked herself into believing.

“I told you, it's a floater.”

“Those things don't carry.”

“I didn't hit it,” he said, scuffing the heel of his club.

He teed up a mulligan like Henry, but stuck it in the right-hand trap.

So it was up to her (as with everything else in this family, she thought). She took a five, more than long enough for her. Kenneth's ball lapped in the shallows, distracting. The whole concept was idiotic: who wanted to face their mistakes? Better to let them fall to the dark bottom and nest in the silt, their bright faces turning the color of mud. She'd heard of places that hired scuba divers, scooping basketfuls from the murk, but couldn't imagine it would be profitable here, with the short season. The ones she'd contributed over the years were probably still down there, Henry's too, his notorious first shot crowding its sepia brothers like a pickled egg. She didn't have to hit an impossible shot to join him, just a bad one. It would have to be honest though, no limp-wristing. She thought she could accomplish it in two tries.

A fly buzzed her ball, standing on it, then zipping off. She waved at it belatedly, reset herself. There was no wind to speak of, the tendrils of the honey locusts behind the green hanging plumb. She relaxed and shifted
back as if it was any other swing, made contact and followed through like a pro, elbows high.

“Beauty,” Kenneth said before she could find it, his floater hooking her attention for a second.

She was nearly dead-on, just a hair left. The ball arced and dropped, long enough. There was time for Kenneth to say, “That's going to be about pin-high,” before it lighted and kicked cleanly off the front apron and ran up the green, slowing, breaking as it neared the hole, taking it farther left so there was no chance, but darn close. She'd have a five-footer for the bird.

“Best shot of the day,” Kenneth said. “Very pretty.”

“I'm still going to have to putt for it.”

She searched for her tee halfheartedly and walked to the cart.

“You're not going to hit your mulligan?” he tried to ask casually, but she could see he was worried about tradition, and slippage.

In some ways—and didn't it drive Henry crazy—he was as sentimental as she was.

“No,” she said. “I think I'll keep that.”

“I don't blame you,” he said, but on the way there, she thought that he did.

His floater had drifted away from the bank and into a stand of cattails, out of reach of even Henry's telescoping retriever, and they had no choice but to disown it. The geese stood their ground, watching as they passed.

Her putt wasn't a toughie, but she had time to mull it over. His wedge was too hard and skimmed all the way across the green and off the far lip. He had to come back and then get close, and she laid down the flag and told him to finish rather than mark his ball.

“Double bogey,” he grumbled, standing aside, inspecting his ball as if it were defective.

The foursome behind them wasn't in sight. They might have time to get a picture after all. That might salvage the hole for both of them.

He'd shown her the break, so her only worry was the speed. As soon as she hit it, she knew it was going in. She followed the ball, took a step toward the hole as it fell and knocked around in the cup, the sound immensely pleasing, her sense of relief blossoming into pride and satisfaction.

She herself had never shot a hole in one either, but it was nothing to mourn. A two was fine. Just being alive was a gift.

“Good one,” he said.

She looked for the foursome, but the tee was clear.

“Does your camera have a timer on it?”

“What, that thing?”

“Well I don't know.”

“I can take a picture of you if you want.”

His offer fell so short of her original vision that she scuttled the plan. “I'm not really interested in that. I wanted the two of us.”

“I'll do one of you, and you do one of me. Come on. I can fit the negatives together so it looks like we're both there.”

He was already fetching the camera, his enthusiasm taking over, irresistible. The foursome held off. She let him pose her to the left of the pin, holding her ball up and two fingers for the bird, waited while he framed it exactly, then followed his instructions as he stood to the right, one hand pulling the flag taut so she could see the numbers.

“Do two,” he instructed as the foursome's carts puttered up to the tee.

She pushed the button but nothing happened.

“You have to forward the film,” he said, pantomiming the action with a thumb.

By the time she found the little ridged wheel, she felt rushed and just wanted to leave. She took the shot and they hustled off, leaving the floater behind, a cheap memorial.

The woods were cooler but full of bugs. The path was dirt here, and the cart bumped over exposed roots so she had to anchor her iced tea with a hand. They only had five holes to go, and then maybe lunch in the clubhouse, a cold drink. She'd woken up this morning with the feeling she'd had all week, that this was the last time they'd be here, the last time they played the course. The feeling was still there, but Kenneth bringing up Margaret's desire to keep the cottage had masked or diluted it. Part of her wanted to think they would be back here next year, while the rest of her insisted she treasure every minute, store them up against the inevitable. It was unfair of Margaret, she thought, unfair of them all.

The rest of the way was a struggle, a forced march, longer than she thought possible. On the par-five fifteenth she took advantage of the ladies' tee (cheating, Henry would say), and still finished with an eight,
the dreaded snowman. They were both in and out of the woods, in the creek, in the sand. The sun stopped rising and hung above them, baking the fairways. She could feel the heat on her cheeks, the sweatband of her visor wet. After her birdie on thirteen, she didn't par another hole, and Kenneth was worse—erratic off the tee and then hacking at his irons. It was disheartening. After she'd been so looking forward to it, it turned out to be a chore.

“Well,” she said after eighteen, “I don't know about you, but I've had enough.”

“It was fun,” he said. “I missed it last year.”

“I know,” she said, the whole of last summer coming back to her— the view from Henry's room, the bad cafeteria food, the hot, darkened house. She fended it off, pulling at the fingers of her glove. “So did I.”

They returned the cart and stashed their bags in the car. She changed her spikes right there in the lot, sitting on the back bumper. She'd had this tasseled pair at least ten years, yet they looked brand-new. She'd convinced Henry their old ones were getting ratty and drove him out to the Waterworks. His were still in the garage, cobwebbed. She'd have to remember to bring them home.

For what? The house was turning into a museum.

“Don't,” she said, throwing a hand in front of her face, but too late, he'd already taken her picture.

“Do you do this to Lisa? I can't imagine she puts up with it.”

“She's used to it,” he said.

Rather than open that subject up, Emily let it drop.

“I'm starving,” she said, “and you look like you could use a beer.”

Inside, the air-conditioning raised goose bumps on her arms, her sweat drying, sealing over like a coat of paint. They had a window table with a view of the seventh green and a spacious yellow-and-white-striped tent being set up for some weekend function, a wedding reception maybe. They ordered, and when the drinks came, toasted themselves. Kenneth had brought the scorecard in. Since he was a boy caddying for them, it was his job to add up their scores, a duty he took seriously. He held the card flat beside his beer glass, as if to prove he was being honest.

“A hundred and three for you.”

“And that's with a two on thirteen,” she joked. Her gin and tonic was delicious, lifting her above her own grubby, sunstruck exhaustion, making the day seem full and golden, if only for a moment.