“Okay, how’s this sound? ‘Grant Siebert, a Notre Dame graduate and promising young reporter at the Gazette in the early 1970s, lives in New York, where he is a free-lance writer and an editor for a true-crime magazine.’ You buy that?”
“Sure.” Say something friendly and get out of this conversation, Grant told himself. “The Gazette treat you all right?”
“Mostly. Will’s a pain in the ass sometimes. Publisher keeps him busy. And young Lyle, you remember him. He’s coming into his own more. Discovering his place in the world and all that. Old man lets him change the light bulbs.”
“Good.” Grant didn’t like the way Sperl talked in terms of everyone’s weaknesses. What would Sperl say about him?
“Hey, I almost forgot. There was a big party at. Marlee West’s place not long ago. Remember her? I always figured she had the hots for you. Anyhow, she had a bunch of old tapes from farewell parties. We played the one from yours. Remember?”
“Sure.”
“Ever listen to it?”
Ed Sperl’s voice had a tone Grant didn’t like at all. What is it with him? Grant thought. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”
“Funny as hell to listen to some of that old shit. Your voice is there, all right. Funny the stuff people say when their guards are down.”
“Yeah, well, we were drunk probably. Not to mention a lot younger.”
“Ain’t it the truth. We were all younger. The tape of your party, in particular, stirred up a lot of old memories. Know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You ever listen to it?”
“No.” Hadn’t he told him that already?
“You should. Brings back old memories.”
“Anything else you need from me, Ed?”
“No, not right now. But think about the reunion. We can talk about old times.”
“I’ll think about it. Okay?”
“Good hearing your voice again, Grant. I’ll be talking to you.”
“So long,” Grant said, hanging up.
Talking to Ed Sperl had been like having a scab pulled off slowly. Maybe, Grant thought, it’s because he has a better nose for the jugular than I ever did, even in the days when I was a journalist with a future.
Screw it. He ripped the tab off another can of beer. What had Sperl said to get under his skin?
“Goddamn him.”
I would have been smart to skip my own farewell party. I should have, Grant thought. I should have left town quietly and never—
Grant was startled to feel something cold and wet on his pantleg. Oh, he had squeezed the can too hard, and some of the beer had splashed out.
Grant drained the beer, crushed the empty can in his hand, tossed it at the bookcase. The can knocked down one of his books on psychology and personality improvement.
Grant got another beer. Maybe he could force himself to write tonight, at least for a little while. That usually got rid of some of the anger.
He thought of the farewell-party tape. What had Ed Sperl found so interesting about it? What would I hear if I played it? The sounds of friends? No.
Should I have stayed in Bessemer, got married, had a couple of kids, cut the grass every week? The people are nicer. Some of them might have liked me, if I’d given them the chance. If I hadn’t been running away.
Thirteen
Walt Striker had called a staff meeting at Sleuth for ten o’clock. Grant had got up early enough to have breakfast and still walk to the magazine.
The phone rang. Grant hoped it was Walt, calling to tell him the meeting had been postponed. That way, Grant would have an extra half-hour or so to write.
“Hello.”
“Is this Grant?”
Woman’s voice, vaguely familiar, but long distance.
“Speaking.”
“Grant, this is Marlee West. From the Gazette. Do you remember me?”
God. “Sure. How are you?”
“I’m just fine. I’m calling from Bessemer to twist your arm, hoping you’ll come to the reunion.”
“Hmmm. Well, that’s honest enough.”
“I know Ed and Will spoke to you already. To be really frank, Will asked me if I would call, too.”
“How come I’m so important?”
Laughter; she has a nice laugh, Grant thought.
“I think Will is worried it’ll be a tiny turnout. There’s a few other people on my list to contact. I thought I’d start with you.”
“Hmmm. Well, how are you, first of all?”
“Oh, good. Mostly. I have my own column now. Women’s issues, although those issues aren’t just limited to women.… Oops, never mind the soapbox. And you, you’re …?”
“Like I told Ed, I work for a true-crime magazine and I write.”
“You like New York?”
“Oh, boy. Yes and no. All things considered, I’m glad I’m here. Where else can you get a good pastrami sandwich for ten bucks?”
“Uh, right.” Laughter. “I have to admit, Bessemer doesn’t have that much to offer. You’ve never been back?”
“No.”
“Maybe now’s the time. It could be a lot of fun. Find out what happened to everybody, whether they struck it rich or not.”
“I know I didn’t.”
“Me neither. Anyhow, I’m trying to lure you with visions of nostalgia and friends and all that good stuff. Is that subtle enough?”
“Sure. Whoopie.”
“Same old Grant,” Marlee said, laughing. “Really, it could be a good chance to, you know, relive old times. If you want to.”
If I want to, Grant thought.
“A bunch of us were doing that at a little get-together I had not long ago. Looking at some old pictures. Some of them old, old. Remember your farewell party? We played the tape of it.”
“How can I forget. I think I got drunk.”
“Didn’t we all? Not to mention whacked-out on pot. At least I was. I don’t do that anymore. So long ago, all that stuff. The voices sounded kind of scratchy.”
“Uh, yeah. Ed said he heard my voice.”
“Oh, yes. He’s an odd duck, Ed is, but he can be entertaining, especially for the young reporters. He’s got a great memory for old happenings, and he’s a good storyteller. When he’s sober.”
“Hmmm.”
“Grant, will you come?”
“Damn, I really hadn’t …”
“Don’t say no. Think about it.”
Now Grant was anxious to hang up. “Okay. That much I promise. Listen, I have to go now.”
After he hung up, every nerve end in his body seemed to jangle. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “Son of a bitch!”
He sat down, tried to replay the conversation in his mind, told himself that none of it mattered, it was so long ago.
“Son of a bitch.” Reliving old times. Jesus.
Now he would have to take the subway or risk being late for Walt Striker’s meeting. But as long as he wasn’t walking, he had a little time to spare.
God, can I really be feeling this? Nostalgia?
On the shelf in his bedroom closet was an old shoebox crammed with junk he never used but hadn’t been able to throw out. He took it down, pulled out the pictures from his farewell party. There he was, a lot younger.
He picked up the tape from his party, got his recorder out of the bottom drawer of his dresser. What would he remember if he heard it? How would he feel?
The next morning, he was on a Long Island Rail Road train heading to Douglaston, Queens, where there was a golf range. He felt self-conscious, slumped in his seat and cradling a three wood and a couple of medium irons, and he was glad the train wasn’t crowded.
The train went over the Cross Island Parkway, and the conductor called out the Douglaston stop. Off to the left lay a stretch of marsh grass leading to the end of Little Neck Bay. Grant saw ducks and gulls close in and farther out, white sails on blue water. Maybe it would be worth it, to his spirit, to take a train out to the Island once
in a while.
Off to the right, he saw the driving range. The end of it, a dirt field where the longest hitters reached, was only a few yards from the tracks. But there was heavy fencing all around, and he realized he would have to walk quite a distance through the streets of Douglaston to get to the range entrance. Well, he picked a good day. Sunny but not too hot. At least he wouldn’t be soaked with sweat when he was done.
He paid six dollars, then held a wire-mesh basket under a machine that disgorged several dozen scruffy, red-striped balls.
Only a fraction of the stalls were occupied; there were young men in T-shirts and cutoff jeans, a few older men. Grant Siebert went down the line until he was thirty feet or so away from anyone else. The sun felt good on his arms.
What should he try first? He teed a ball on the rubber nipple and picked up the three wood. His feet felt strange, his legs and back felt strange, his hands felt mittened and clumsy. But if he just kept his eye on the ball, could he go wrong?
Yes. He swung with the three wood and missed the ball completely. He was disgusted and amused at the same time. He swung again and hit the ball at a wild angle, sending it cracking into the side of the stall.
He was glad no one looked.
Grant saw a train heading toward the city, knew that another would be along in a half hour. He could make it easily ….
He put the three wood down and picked up a five iron. Years before, a good golfer had told him a five iron was the perfect club for a rusty player. He teed up another ball, waggled the club. Then he swung, topping the ball and sending it straight and low for a hundred yards.
The next shot with the five iron went a respectable distance. Encouraged, he decided to try hitting iron shots off the artificial-grass pad instead of from the rubber nipple. With his first swing, he rammed the clubhead into the mat, several inches behind the ball and so hard that he felt a ping in his shoulder.
Disgusted again, he dropped the club, looked to the sky, and rubbed his arms. Maybe the sun would loosen his muscles.
“Beautiful day.”
Grant was startled; he hadn’t been aware of anyone approaching. He turned to see a young blond man of medium height. Dark glasses, big forearms, carrying several empty baskets.
“Yeah, it is.” Grant said.
“Been a while, huh?”
“Right again.”
“Sell you a lesson?”
“A lesson?”
“Name’s Doug Barnes. I’m the pro here.”
“Grant Siebert.”
From the handshake, Grant could tell that Doug Barnes was as strong as he looked.
“May I?” Doug Barnes said, picking up the five iron.
“Be my guest.”
“Tell you what. I’ll hit a few and give you a few minutes of free advice. If you think I can help you, we can set up a time for a regular lesson.”
“Okay.”
“Now, when you get set up over the ball …”
Grant stood back several feet and watched. From years before he remembered: it was a beautiful thing, the way a truly fine golfer poises himself, looking steady and flexible all at once, a coiled spring of great strength.
The pro brought the club down and through in a slow, smooth arc, sweeping the ball off the mat and sending it high, straight, and far. Again and again, the pro hit, making minor adjustments to his swing and telling Grant about them (even though Grant had been unable to spot any flaws). There was, at most, ten yards’ difference between the pro’s best and worst shots, and none was off center by more than a few degrees.
It had been a long time since Grant Siebert had seen anyone swing a golf club as well.
“Now, here’s what I saw you doing,” Doug Barnes said. And he shifted his feet, his hands, his head, this way and that, telling Grant what kind of bad shot would follow, then making just that kind of shot happen.
“What do you think?” the pro said.
“I think it’s a pleasure to watch you.”
“Hey, it’s what I do. But can I help you?”
“Probably. Yes.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“I have to work. But I can go in late if I want.”
“See you at ten. Thirty bucks for a half hour.”
“Okay.”
“Good. Now just hit the rest of those balls and concentrate on the basics.”
Riding the train back to the city a little later, Grant found himself thinking about the tips the pro had given him. They had worked: even though Grant had a long way to go to get his game back, he had improved as the practice session went on. Toward the end, he had started to make good contact. With a few lessons and some practice…
He laughed, loud enough so a few of the other passengers looked. He had to laugh: here he was, getting hooked on the game again. Getting hooked on this damn game.
Back at his apartment, he was glad when there were no phone messages. He wanted no distractions as he opened a can of beer and poked among the old books on the back shelf of the closet.
There it was: Ben Hogan’s book. Some golfers thought it was the best book ever written on the game. Could this be? Grant felt his blood catch fire with the thought of … golf. It was true: golf made a person’s problems seem lighter.
He laughed, splashing half a mouthful of beer onto his chest.
The recorder holding the tape from his farewell party was still on the table. Did he want to listen to it again? No, not now at least. He wanted to look through the Ben Hogan book.
Fourteen
Marlee awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of barking in the backyard pen.
“Oh, Nigel, you jerk. What am I going to do with you?” she said to her pillow.
The neighbors had been pretty patient. Nigel did not wake them up that often, and some of the kids from the block liked to come by to say hello to the Airedale once in a while.
Nigel barked again. Marlee had to admit he really had a super bark, deep throated and majestic, as though it were coming from far down a canyon.
“What is it, Nigel? Raccoon? Squirrel? Or you just barking at the moon?”
The dog liked to sleep outside on summer nights, and that was just fine with Marlee. She never worried about anyone’s breaking in at the front of the house, but she was careful about the rear. She had had thick metal screens put on the inside of the windowpanes. Still, a burglar could sneak onto the back porch, especially if he thought no one was home, and force a window or the door to the kitchen with a crowbar and not worry too much about being seen. She had a dead bolt on the kitchen door, but you never knew.
Again Nigel barked, this time more fiercely. Then he gave his little bark-chirp, as though he was puzzled. Then another good bark. Had a squirrel wandered into his pen? Marlee hoped not; Nigel was a gentle dog, but he was an Airedale, after all, and it would be first nature for him to grab an animal.
“Hush, Nigel,” Marlee whispered to her pillow. She was almost asleep.
Again the bark, yanking her back from half-sleep.
“Oh, Nig—”
Marlee had started to get up. Now she put her head back on to the pillow, slowly. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she had heard the porch creaking.
She let her head sink into the pillow and lay still. Marlee tried to breathe with quiet little gulps so she could hear. But for the longest time (no, it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds) she could hear nothing but the echo of her heart.
Slowly, she pushed back the terror. She continued to lie absolutely still, and after a while the soft sounds of the night reasserted themselves. Sweet sounds, Marlee had always found them: gentle teasing sounds of trees and crickets.
The porch creaked.
Marlee was seized again by the terror, worse this time because there was no denying what she had heard. She lay petrified; the fear was a beast in her chest, ready to scream.
She must not panic, must not panic, must not panic.
Nigel! Marlee could not hear the Airedale now. Had he (they? T
hey!) done something to Nigel, the sweetest, most wonderful dog that God ever made?
Marlee remembered a column she had written, about how women could defend themselves from muggers and rapists. She had talked to policewomen and psychologists and women who had fought off attackers, and she had distilled their collective message into two words: Don’t panic.
In her heart of hearts, Marlee had been disdainful of the women who had been victims. She had thought of them as weaker, less good. Now she was one with them in terror.
At last, the echo of her heartbeat died away. Marlee strained again to hear noises from outside.
Nothing.
Long moments passed. She kept her head on the pillow, leaving only one ear exposed. She knew she would hear better if she raised her head, but she was afraid to. Marlee imagined that if she raised her head and looked toward the bedroom door, she would see someone standing there. She knew she had locked the door—she always did when she went to bed, and she relocked it whenever she got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom—but she could not convince herself that she was alone in her bedroom. Just the thought that someone might be standing near, watching her, filled her with terror. She knew that if she did raise her head, and someone really was there, she would go mad and scream forever.
Any moment she would feel a cold hand on her shoulder …
Stop it, stop it, stop it, Marlee!
At last, she convinced herself that if she looked, there would be no one there. Slowly she raised her head and turned to look toward the door.
Nothing.
She listened as hard as she could; her very skin seemed to be alert.
Nigel! Barking again! Oh, he was all right. He was.
All right. Can’t just lie here, Marlee thought. She swung her legs out of bed, feet landing softly on the carpet, and knelt next to the open window. She kept her head beneath the sill as she listened with all her might.
Nigel barked again, the funny kind of bark he sometimes made when he didn’t know whether to be playful or not. Raccoon, maybe. Yes, the coons sometimes made Nigel react that way. Marlee listened for clangs from the garbage cans. Any other night she would be annoyed to hear those sounds, because they would mean the raccoons were into the garbage. Now, she would welcome a clang; it would dissolve her fear in an instant.
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