by Gary Soto
Becky went into the kitchen and got herself a glass of grape Kool-Aid. She returned to the living room. She plopped herself down on the couch and zapped on the television. Tiger Woods's face appeared and nearly filled the television screen with his bright, toothy smile. He had just putted a fifteen footer, and the crowd behind him was cheering. Becky looked behind her when she heard a tap on the window. It was her cat, Samba, wanting to come in.
"You can't come in," she told her.
The cat was allowed into the house only when it rained.
Becky zapped off the television, got up, and pulled out a club—a two iron—from her bag. She dropped a golf ball onto the rug and lined up a shot that rolled under the left end of the coffee table. She mumbled, "It was an accident." She was thinking of the third hole when she had carelessly struck the ball on her backswing.
"But it's not going to be an accident if you break the TV?" Becky's mother asked. "Or the window. Or the lamp." Her mother hurried in small steps across the living room with a potted plant in her arms. She set the plant by the window.
Becky picked up the ball.
"Are you hungry?" Becky's mother asked, breathing hard from the exertion of carrying the pot.
"A little bit," Becky answered. She told her mother she had played against Dulce but didn't say she had lost.
Her mother fixed her two bean burritos and went outside. Becky devoured them within minutes and, one by one, licked her fingers. She got up, went into the kitchen, and looked in the refrigerator—she was still hungry. When a hard-boiled egg caught her eye, she couldn't help but think of a golf ball.
"I need to practice," she told herself, and closed the refrigerator. She squeezed on the hard-boiled egg, but it didn't break. She squeezed harder until she felt the shell crack. "I'm going to beat Dulce."
Becky returned to the living room and turned on the television again. Tiger Woods was crouched and studying the line between the putter and the hole. His hands were cupped around his face, which was stern-looking with determination. He stood up, positioned himself next to the ball, wiggled his body, and let his putter guide the ball.
Becky was already asleep by the time the ball traveled left to right and found the hole.
Becky challenged Dulce the next day, and Becky lost sixty-five strokes to fifty-four. She challenged her the following day, and again Becky lost with the embarrassing score of sixty-seven against Dulce's fifty-one. Becky challenged her a third time after she had called Uncle Andy for tips on putting. He kept repeating that the lightness of grip was all-important. He also apologized for not providing her with a putter and promised to get her one for Christmas, if he didn't spot one on sale sooner.
But to Becky's new challenge, Dulce argued, "What's the point, girl? You know the outcome before we even start." Also, Dulce had plans to go swimming. She had a bet against some boy that she could hold her breath underwater longer than he.
Becky went out alone to her homemade golf course at the corner.
"I'm not going to go home until I win," she told herself as she set her bag down. She was going to play against herself. She figured that she had to beat the course record of fifty-one, a record held—she gulped—by Dulce. But first she had to clean up a pile of dog poop that was between holes three and four. She scooped it up with a board and carried the mess to a far corner.
Then she approached the first hole. She dropped the ball and took out a smaller club than she had used before, a four iron. She gripped it lightly, like her uncle said, and practiced swinging effortlessly. "Be like Tiger," she commanded herself. Like Tiger. But when she swung for real, the golf ball moved only a foot.
"Darn it!" she scolded herself.
She took a second shot, and the golf ball skipped beyond the hole.
"Stupid ball!" she muttered.
She spent the morning in the vacant lot, and with each round she got worse. She had completed the first round with sixty strokes and the second round with sixty-nine, though she argued with herself that it was really a sixty-eight. Her ball would have gone in, except there was a small wood chip in front of the hole.
Tired, Becky sat in the shade of the fence that separated her golf course from a neighbor's yard. She peeked between the slats of the warped fence. She could see Dona Carmen Maria sweeping her back steps. In her hands the broom operated like a golf club—Dona Carmen Maria could manage only small swings that gathered dust and a few leaves from her mulberry tree. She was old.
Becky's mother said their family was related to Doña Carmen Maria. It was through a cousin of a cousin or something like that. The old woman occasionally visited them, shuffling down the street with two sweaters on—she was always complaining about the cold, even in the summer, when the sun yellowed lawns, cracked the ground, and darkened children to the color of mud. Becky hated when Doña Carmen Maria would pinch her cheek and say, "¡Qué linda chica!"
Becky's club, which was resting in her lap, accidentally knocked against the fence. Doña Carmen Maria stopped sweeping. Becky could see the old woman's eyes narrow. Her whiskery mouth pinched into a small knot. She took a few rickety steps toward Becky.
"It's me," Becky braved as she stood up. "You know, Becky." She pushed herself up onto the fence and showed her face to Doña Carmen Maria.
"Oh, you," the old woman said. In Spanish, she asked Becky what she was doing.
In English, Becky told the old woman she was playing golf.
Doña Carmen Maria's face brightened. "Como Tigre Woods, qué no? El joven es magnífico."
Becky was surprised that she would know Tiger Woods. In her eyes her hero, Tiger, had grown even larger. Why would an old woman like Doña Carmen Maria be aware of a golf legend?
"Yeah, like him," she answered. And to her surprise, Doña Carmen Maria came down her driveway and out of her yard. Queenie, her small dog with crooked teeth, followed. Becky dreaded the cheek-pinching routine but was prepared. She was already wincing when the old woman, smiling a nearly toothless smile, raised a hand and twisted her cheek and said how pretty she was.
Becky fought the urge to wipe her cheek of the old woman's touch.
"¿Cómo estás, mi'ja?" she asked, an ancient finger playing with a mole on her throat. "¿Y tus padres?"
Becky answered that she was okay and her parents were fine. She said her mother was at the beauty parlor.
Doña Carmen Maria shivered. "Hace frío." She adjusted the sweater on her shoulders. She also adjusted Queenie's sweater.
If anything, Becky was burning up. It was two-thirty in the afternoon, the hottest time of the day.
Doña Carmen Maria scanned the vacant lot. She asked if someone was buying the lot because it was clean.
"I cleaned it up," Becky said. "I made it into a golf course."
Doña Carmen Maria smiled. "Like Tiger."
Becky hoisted a small smile that lasted only a few seconds.
Doña Carmen Maria reached for one of the clubs in the bag. She said it was like a sword. She poked the air and laughed to herself.
Becky didn't smile. She was hot, thirsty, and uneasy with the old woman who again started to play with the mole on her throat. But Becky's parents had always taught her to respect elders. And she had to respect Doña Carmen Maria because, if not, Becky feared the old woman would walk down the street and report her incivility. Becky could see herself grounded until she was as old as Doña Carmen Maria herself.
"Let's play," Doña Carmen Maria suggested, the corner of her mouth lifting impishly.
Play! Becky thought. She could feel her own mouth sag and a groan rise from the back of her throat.
"You know how to play?" Becky asked.
"Like Tiger." The old woman giggled with a hand over her smile.
Becky was scared to say no. So she asked Doña Carmen Maria a second time—the old woman's answer was "Let's go, girl."
Becky thought, Man, she sounds like Dulce, except she's way old.
"Okay," Becky said. "You go first." She dropped the ball into
the dust, and moved to give Doña Carmen Maria room to swing.
"Like Tiger," the old woman muttered. "I'm going to play like Tiger." She undid the top button of her sweater and pulled up her sleeves. She eyed the golf ball and the hole and told Queenie to be quiet. She struck the golf ball, which rolled smoothly and came within inches of going in. "¡Casi!" she yelled. She danced a jig that raised dust at her feet and approached the golf ball for an easy tap in.
Becky was impressed. But she figured it was beginner's luck. She dropped her own golf ball in the dust, positioned herself, wiggled her hips like she was dancing salsa, and swung her club. The golf ball raced like a rabbit past the hole.
"¡Qué lástima, muchacha!" Doña Carmen Maria snapped her fingers.
It took two more strokes before she got the golf ball into the hole. To her amazement, Becky found herself behind—three to two.
On the second hole, Doña Carmen Maria again struck the golf ball within inches of the hole. She smiled and shuddered. "When I warm up better, I'll get it in the first time."
Warm up? Becky wondered. The sun was cooking the back of her neck. Her tongue was thick from thirst.
On the second hole, Becky's putt sent the golf ball left and four feet from the hole. It took her three more strokes before the ball rolled in. She was down seven strokes to Doña Carmen Maria's four.
"I like this game," the old woman said when she made a hole in one at the third hole. "I'm going to be on TV with Tiger. You see, mi'ja." She laughed and picked up Queenie for a quick smooch.
Becky struggled. Sweat poured from her face as Doña Carmen Maria pushed away to a commanding lead by the sixth hole. How is this happening? Becky wondered. The old woman is at least a hundred years old! It isn't fair! And it seemed ironic when at the seventh hole Doña Carmen Maria used her club like a croquet mallet. She laughed when the golf ball rolled into the hole.
"There are rules!" Becky snapped.
"¿Cómo?" Doña Carmen Maria asked.
Becky recalled her parents' warnings about respecting elders.
"Nothing," muttered Becky. She lined up her shot and in anger sent it skipping across the dusty ground and ... into the hole!
"Way to go, girl!" Doña Carmen Maria said happily, her age-peppered hands coming together in patty-cakes. Then her mood darkened as she slowly sniffed the air. Her eyes became beady with worry. Queenie sniffed the air, too.
"¡Ay, los frijoles!" Doña Carmen Maria screamed. She let go of the golf club and scampered away with Queenie in the lead. But the old woman's foot got lodged in hole three, and she fell.
"Ay!" she chirped.
"Are you okay?" Becky asked.
Doña Carmen Maria didn't answer. She rose with a powdering of dust on her eyelashes and limped toward her house, yelling, "¡Fuego! ¡Fuego!" The old woman stopped and began to pat her sweater, as if she were on fire. "¡Ay, mis llaves!" She bent down and checked the pockets of Queenie's sweater. She cried that her parakeet, Banana, was going to be burned.
Becky boosted herself up onto the fence. There was smoke rising from the roof. "Ah, man," she whimpered. Doña Carmen Maria's house was on fire! "Fire!" Becky yelled, and she jumped over the fence, her golf club still in hand.
Doña Carmen Maria ran up the driveway, her arms flailing. She cried, "Banana! Banana!" She went to the backyard and rattled the back door.
"She's locked out," Becky said, and suddenly rued the day when her uncle had given her a set of golf clubs. Her parents would certainly blame her for keeping the old woman away from her house. They would scold that it was her fault Doña Carmen Maria's house was burned to the ground.
"¡Está locked!" Doña Carmen Maria cried. "No tengo mis llaves. ¡Ay, Dios mío! ¡Están en la casa! En la cookie jar. ¡No, no, en la mesa!"
Becky pulled on the doorknob and yanked with all her might. The situation became worse when Queenie scooted through the doggie door.
"¡Ven!" cried Doña Carmen Maria. "Queenie! Véngase." Her eyes were full of tears for her dog, her parakeet, and her house.
Becky yelled, "Step back!"
Doña Carmen Maria stepped back off the small landing.
"More!" Becky commanded.
Doña Carmen Maria stepped away and bumped into lawn furniture.
Becky brought the golf club high over her head and, eyes closed and shoulders hunched, let it fall hard. The window of the back door exploded and showered glass. The opening released a billowy dark cloud of smoke.
Becky coughed and, carefully, as she didn't want to cut herself on glass, pushed her hand through to fiddle the lock open. She covered her face as she stepped into the pantry area. She called, "Queenie! Queenie, come here." She could see the dog seated in the corner with a plastic hot dog between her paws. The dog's tongue was out and she was panting.
"Come here!" Becky yelled. She advanced three steps, her eyes tearing and her nose beginning to run. She didn't see any flames, just ash-colored smoke. But she could see the flames of the stove's burner—the pot of beans was burning away.
Queenie then rose, scratched herself, and disappeared from the kitchen into the living room.
Becky turned and went outside.
"¿Y Queenie?" Doña Carmen Maria asked.
"She won't come to me!" Becky cried. She lifted her face to the sky as she made out the sounds of a fire engine and then—was that Dulce's father's pickup truck?—the rattle of a vehicle's fender. The rattle seemed to grow louder and meaner. Becky pictured Dulce in the back of the pickup eating a red whip. She pictured Dulce with a fireman's helmet.
"Queenie!" Doña Carmen Maria called in a muffled voice. "¡Véngase!" She had stripped off a sweater and was holding it against her nose and mouth, like a bandit. She climbed the steps and disappeared into the smoke-filled kitchen before Becky could warn her not to go in.
"Ah, man," Becky wept. "¡Señora! Come out! You're going to suffocate!" Becky could hear Doña Carmen Maria bumping against a chair and then the twist of the knob on the stove—the burner was off. She then made out the hissing sound as Doña Carmen Maria put the ruined pot under the kitchen faucet. Her steps then ran across the linoleum floor and softened when she went into the carpeted living room.
Dulce's father's old pickup truck ground quickly up the driveway. Before he completely stopped, kids were leaping from the back of the pickup. Dulce was among them. She had a red whip licorice hanging from her mouth.
The kids ran toward Becky. One called, "Is anyone dead?"
Becky jumped at the thought. She pictured Doña Carmen Maria and Queenie all toasted in their sweaters. Their hair and fur were fried. Smoke was rolling off their bodies.
But Becky knew that wasn't their fate. The smoke had begun to clear, and she could hear Doña Carmen Maria cooing words of love to Queenie. Queenie produced two barks, and her dog tags chimed like bells.
Dulce's father hurried up the drive to the backyard. He told the kids to stay back and be careful with the broken glass. He entered the house, a hand covering his mouth, and opened the window over the kitchen sink. There were sounds of other windows opening and then the sounds of a fire engine rounding the corner.
"I'm in trouble," Becky bawled to herself. Tears filled her eyes, and she knew they couldn't put out her parents' anger when Doña Carmen Maria would later tell her story of golf and the burned pot of beans. Becky picked up her golf club, which prompted Dulce to say, "Let's play golf. I'll putt left-handed this time."
Becky propped her arms against her chest.
"Come on, girl!" Dulce reminded her that she had to practice if she wanted to be good.
"I hate golf!" Becky heard herself say.
"Don't say that," Dulce said. "It's funner than swimming." She told Becky how she had swallowed a lot of nasty water when she beat the boy staying underwater so long. She described how the water came out of her nose, plus mocos.
"That's stupid," Becky barked.
"Stupid?" Dulce said. She plunged a hand into her pants pocket and pulled out a soggy dollar bi
ll. "He had to pay up when I won!"
Becky turned her back on Dulce and began to cry. She found herself running down the driveway. Her mother would be mad, and her father, and everyone in the world. She pictured her mother sniffing the air, thinking to herself, Who burned the beans?
Me! she answered in her mind. "Me! Me!" She pitched her golf club over the fence, and as she ran past the golf course, she felt her pockets for a golf ball. She flung it with all her might. The ball bounced and skipped and rolled into the sixth hole—a miracle shot at a time when it was just too late.
The Cadet
One early morning Richard Ortega stepped over a puddle formed by the one working sprinkler on the only green patch of his school's lawn. He shook a few dots of water from his shoe and examined the shoe's glossy tip: The last thing he wanted was a flaw in his dress uniform. It was the second Friday of the month, when a real army sergeant (retired) would evaluate their Junior ROTC battalion of middle school cadets.
"Dang," Richard muttered. Although the tip of the shoe might appear mirror-bright to some, Richard thought it was slightly dulled by those dots, which he raked off with his thumb. He considered rubbing his shoe on his pants leg and giving it a good polish. But he feared he would wrinkle the ironed crease of his pants, and he would then have two demotions to his self-respect. Instead, he cut across the campus to the boys' room, so he could give the shoe a good polish with a paper towel. But when he ventured into the restroom, which was dark from some missing overhead lights, he found the towel dispenser empty.
"Aw, man," he moaned. Richard then looked to the stalls, where he snagged a fistful of toilet paper. In a clipped step worthy of his rank as corporal, he advanced toward a sink, only to find two boys hovering around the glow of a cigarette.
"What?" one of the boys snarled. Smoke rolled from his nose like a dragon.
"You look like a janitor," the other boy said. Laughing, he revealed a wreck of badly stained teeth.
True, Richard's uniform was khaki colored, but he would argue that he looked nothing like a janitor. After all, the corporal stripes were attached to his epaulets and his left sleeve displayed the insignia of Battalion 238, a roaring lion. And what about the row of ribbons for conduct, parade, and academic excellence? Those two boys, denizens of dark corners, would never know the last. They would never even know the inside of a high school if they didn't shape up. That was Richard's assessment of those two losers, although he knew better than to mess with them. One was named Tyrone and the other Jared, both troublemakers with the grime of their dirty deeds embedded underneath their fingernails. When they spit, they left green splotches the size and consistency of pigeon droppings. Only last week the principal had collared them for scribbling graffiti on walls.
