Waiting for Augusta

by Jessica Lawson

  “Face your fears, crazy—that’s a direct Noni quote. They might not go away, but at least they’ll know you’re up for a fight.”

  Threading my arms through the backpack, I crouched on the edge, counted to three, and was shocked when Noni jerked me backward.

  “Geez, crazy, climb down the ladder first! You’ll be closer to the ground.” She tilted her head toward the space between two cars.

  “Oh. Right.”

  She raised an eyebrow, impressed or pitying, I couldn’t tell. “I like your enthusiasm, though. Leaping without thinking. Shows loyalty.”

  I scrambled down the ladder to the platform at the edge of the car and jumped.

  Slamming into the ground, I knew how a golf ball felt when it got smacked off the tee with a driver club, hit for maximum distance. My feet managed to hit first, but quickly crumpled beneath me, leaving my side to blast into the earth and slide across what felt like extra-hard grass. The impact was terrible, but somehow my body knew to tuck and roll, just like I was doing a fire drill in class, not jumping off a moving train. Curling up like an armadillo, I let myself roll over and over again until I came to a halt.

  Just as I was ready to attempt standing, I heard Noni moan about thirty feet away.

  I hobbled over to her and helped her up. “Come on.”

  It took about ten minutes of walking before we caught sight of the urn. Daddy was sitting under a tree, one in a long row stretching out from the tracks, sprawled on his side like he was taking a quiet evening nap.

  Fighting the rush of hurt that made my right side feel like it’d been placed on a smoker grate, I ran to the urn and swept it up in my arms. “Daddy? You okay? You still in there?”

  Snoring. Sweet, heart-relieving snoring. My dead father had slept through falling off a train. “Noni, where are we?”

  There was a tired smile in her sigh. “Benjamin Putter,” she said, “I do believe that we’ve jumped into a peach orchard.”

  I leaned against the small tree trunk and looked up at the branches and leaves. They were darkened by the coming twilight, but I could make out little balls hanging here and there. She was right. Peach trees lined up like a welcoming parade. Peach trees to my left and right and in front of me. Peach trees as far as I could see.

  Abbott Meyers, one of them said with a wink. Your daddy just fell into Abbott Meyers territory.

  “Abbott Meyers,” I agreed.

  “Who?” Noni asked, stretching her arms up, then touching her toes. “That one of your daddy’s Big Five?”

  “No, just some made-up boy who played golf and caddied. My daddy told me bedtime stories about him a few times. How he’d climb a tree and stay on the course after caddying if a full moon was due, so he could play golf for free all night long. Stuff like that. There was always a peach in there somewhere, because he said Abbott lived in Augusta, Georgia, and Georgia’s supposed to be full of peaches. They were just stories, though. Abbott Meyers is a nobody.”

  I was lying to her a little. Abbott Meyers wasn’t a nobody to me. Daddy wasn’t one for saying any kind of goodnight, either because he was out back, smoking cigarettes and smacking balls into his backyard net every night, or he was out with his buddies, telling tales to the men at Pastor Frank’s. So when he chose to come into my room and ask if I wanted a story . . . well, those evenings were maybe the best, most easy I’d ever felt with him. I soaked up every word and stockpiled Abbott Meyers stories in my head the way our neighbor Mrs. Grady stored air tanks and canned ham in her basement bomb shelter.

  “Sounds nice. My daddy was too tired from work most days to read me books, but he always let me stay up late with him while he watched too-loud television.”

  I shook away memories and rummaged through the backpack, coming up with the road atlas. I looked down at the slumbering ashes and was glad Daddy wasn’t up to see the sun set on the Wednesday before the Masters began.

  Time was running out.

  “We need to find a road and figure out where we are,” I said. “We’ll walk through the night.”

  “Not a chance.” Noni cracked her back. “Wandering’s no good if you do it in the dark. Let’s find someplace to sleep.”

  At the rate we were going, we’d miss the entire first day of the Masters tournament. And if we couldn’t make it there by the second day, there was a chance that Hobart Crane wouldn’t make the cut for weekend play and Daddy would miss being near his favorite player on the tour. “No. We need to find a road.” I put Daddy in the backpack and started to pick it up.

  She stuck a finger right on my nose and shoved the backpack to the ground with her free hand. “Listen, my daddy went to Georgia six times for work, and every time I asked him to bring me back a Georgia peach. He always came back empty-handed, saying the peaches weren’t ripe yet.” She held both arms out wide. “And now I’m in Georgia, surrounded by peaches. We have to stay. Just one night.”

  Her voice was talking to me, but her eyes were on the orchard, scanning over the trees like she knew she was meant to be among them. “It means we’re on the right path. I’m going to find him, Benjamin Putter.”

  “Not in a peach orchard.”

  Noni sighed. “I didn’t say I’d find him here. I said this was a sign. Us landing in a peach farm is a sign for you, Benjamin Putter, with those peach stories your daddy told. And it’s a sign for me, too. Not the sign I’m looking for, but one that we’re on the right track.” Reaching a hand out, she slapped the backpack. “Some of us aren’t lucky enough to have talking urns to guide us, so we got to go with instinct. I swear, you are the most faithless runaway I’ve ever met.”

  She looked so sure of herself. I wanted some of her confidence. Her faith. I wanted to know that Daddy would end up all right, that Mama and I would end up getting by, and that May and I would end up being friends again, but those things were all floating around like fireflies that didn’t want to get jarred up and stared at and used to keep away the dark.

  There was no road in sight. There was little chance that we’d make it to the first day of the Masters by walking through the night. I knew that. And my stubborn partner wanted to stay. The wanting was pouring off her in waves so strong it was like she was making the peach branches sway, not the wind.

  “Okay, you win. But we rise first thing. First thing, got it? We’ll flag down a car for a ride if we have to.”

  She slapped me on the arm. “You bet! I’ll make dinner as a thank-you.” With a grin, she dug through the center of the backpack, coming up with four intact eggs. “I nestled ’em good. Eggs like to be nestled.” She pointed west, beyond the line of peach trees, toward a thin line of tall trees that probably meant a creek. “Let’s head thataway to find a place to settle in. Hey, Benjamin Putter, do you know how to build a fire?” Noni asked, pulling out the lighter.

  “Do you know how to run your mouth?” I asked her back.

  She narrowed her big eyes. “You’re still not funny. But that was better. I assume that’s a yes.” She scratched at her sock, where she’d been keeping her wandering rules. Her fingers lingered there, like she wanted to get them out and read over them again to settle herself. “I only asked because I wanted you to feel useful. I know how to build a fire, too. I don’t need your help. I guess I’ll take it, though, things going faster with two people.” She smoothed her dress, then scratched all over. “This coal dust has me all itchy.” Moving her lips up and down so quick that I couldn’t be sure if it was a grimace or a grin, she nodded at me and started walking. “I never really had a friend before,” she said, not turning around. “You’re all right.”

  I was all right. I didn’t know what to say to that, but as I watched her stride forward, I could feel a smile on my face that stayed for a moment before it melted back into questions.

  Do you really think you can trust a person like that? called the creek. If she doesn’t need your help, what’s she doing with you? Is she helping you, or using you?

  “Don’t know,” I murmured, followin
g her without any answers.

  HOLE 16

  A Reminder of Secrets

  The wind had picked up a little since we’d jumped off the train, and by the time we found a sheltered spot to build a fire, the highest branches were waving back and forth. We were filthy with coal dust, so after rinsing in the creek, I dug pants number two and shirt number three out of the backpack, Noni changed back into her jeans and T-shirt, and then we spread out to search for wood.

  Daddy’d given me a campfire lesson once, in preparation for a camping trip we were supposed to take the next week. He’d hung up the GONE FISHING sign at the café the night before we were gonna leave, and I’d been so excited. But it turned out that our trip had slipped his mind. He’d gone fishing with his buddies. So I’d never actually built a fire other than the barbecue kind, but I remembered every word he’d told me.

  Even if it’d fallen to the ground somehow, any green wood was useless. Fires like solidly dead things and won’t stay burning if you try to give them something freshly dead or branches that are still fighting for life. Fires don’t like rocks, either, so I gathered creek stones to make a circle barrier to keep our fire from spreading where it wasn’t wanted. I wondered if that made the rocks feel better, knowing that even if they couldn’t hold water back, they could stand up to fire. Water beats rock, rock beats fire, fire beats wood, wood beats . . . I looked up at the trees, old and quiet, leaves shuffling like a lullaby. “I don’t know that you’re looking to beat anybody,” I told the trees, finding my way back to Noni.

  It took some coaxing and a few Daddy words before the fire burst to life, but soon enough, water boiled in the bucket, which hung from a neat little rig made from two broken-off forked limbs with a straight, thick stick between them. With the two of us holding each side so it wouldn’t collapse, it worked pretty good.

  The sun was nearly gone and it was maybe seven o’clock at night. The reds and oranges and purples were faded and faint at the edge of the horizon, like they were trying their best to show color in the midst of a murkiness that’d taken over most of the sky.

  Noni’d put her long-sleeved shirt over her T-shirt, but the sleeves were pushed up and that bruise on her elbow was showing, black and blue and deep purple. It was a dark and ugly mark, but I couldn’t help seeing how, in a way, it was beautiful, too. It was a bunch of colors all at once, blended together like a sunset. A watercolored bruise. “Hey, Noni. Where were you when you got that?”

  She blinked. Too many times. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “What’s it from?”

  She placed her hand over the bruise, blocking it from view. “It’s a reminder, okay? Nobody did it to me, if that’s what you’re asking. I was the only one there when it happened. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

  “A reminder of what?”

  “What do you care? To not take stuff that doesn’t belong to you. That good enough for you? Now quit asking questions.” She looked up at the treetops, which were starting to shift faster in the growing wind.

  “Fine. Sorry.”

  If there was any part of me left that thought Noni might fill in for May, being told for the second time to stop asking questions settled things. Unless she’d spotted a butterfly or was busy hogging the green paint, May let me ask any question I wanted and I let her do the same. I’d listen, and then she’d listen. I’d help with her drawings, and she’d write words on my sketches, telling me what story she thought they told. Our friendship felt like an even trade. We fit together that way. But Noni was like a tricky springtime: nice and bright and calm one minute, smacking you with rain the next.

  She picked up a stone and threw it high in the air, weaving her hand underneath before catching it, rolling her fist around and then opening her fingers to reveal nothing. She’d made that rock disappear. “I’d sure like to see my daddy’s face one more time. Or hear his voice. You’re really lucky, you know,” she said, pointing to the urn.

  Psst! said one of the boiling eggs. Maybe Noni could come live with us. Maybe she’s only being tough because she’s all alone in the world.

  Yes! said another one. She’ll soften up. She could fill the empty space. Some of it, anyway.

  Don’t listen to them, said the bucket. She’s keeping secrets.

  “Tell me about your daddy,” Noni ordered. “We’ve got another few minutes on the eggs.”

  Daddy was still snoring, making it safe to talk about him a little. “He loved golf and barbecue,” I told her. “He was busy with those things a lot. Most all of the time.”

  “Tell me what he was like.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. Noni had been a decent, if a little secretive, partner, but I didn’t know her well enough to tell her the less-nice things about my daddy. I looked up at the darkening sky. “He was kind of like the stars,” I finally said. “If he was paying you attention, it was like someone had lit up the sky only for you. Made people feel good about life just by talking to them. All of the café’s customers thought he was their best friend, and they all called him Bo, just like Mama did. Mama said she’d never seen a man able to charm people so much just by being around.”

  It always made me feel a strange combination of jealousy and guilt, the way those customers took to Daddy. I would work the café, wiping tables and taking out plates, half fascinated by their ease with my father and half wishing they’d go away, so he’d try to charm me instead. My eyes blinked open when a drop of water hopped out of the bucket and burned my hand. “Tell me about yours.”

  Tapping the spoon to get ground dirt off it, she stirred the eggs a little before locking eyes with the fire. “He was always good to me. He got me a school tutor so I could travel with him. Sometimes we’d go on camping trips together, just him and me.” She got herself one egg and handed me the spoon.

  I managed to scoop out an egg, letting it nearly burn my skin before trading hands to cool it down. “Sounds nice.”

  “Put that bucket water in the water bottle when it’s not so hot,” she told me. “Hey, wait,” she said, just as I was peeling my first egg. “Don’t eat that until I get back.” She jogged toward the orchard, dancing as she went. Her silhouette jumped and did rough, wild Noni twirls against the trees. “Just wait,” Noni called behind her. “I’m bringing you a surprise.”

  I scooped out the other three eggs and set them aside to cool. Noni hustled over a few minutes later, her shirt half pulled up and full of something. She dropped the shirt, and a big load of thumping balls hit the ground and scattered, making a sound like when Daddy would dump a bucket of range balls behind the house.

  The sky was almost too dark, but those small peaches were still too young; anyone could see that. “You can’t eat those. They aren’t ready yet.” We served fresh peach cobbler at Putter’s Pork Heaven, but it wasn’t usually on the menu until late May or June and didn’t last much past July. Then it was apple cobbler, so that we were using fresh stuff. We kept jarred fruit, too, but it wasn’t ever as good. That fruit kept the taste of being trapped, like its heart died the second it got sealed up in glass. But I’d take jarred over unripe any day. “Just throw those away,” I told her.

  Her face fell, and she took a hesitant bite of one, spitting it out and throwing the remaining peach toward the stream. “Georgia peaches are terrible. No wonder my daddy never brought me any.” She picked one up off the ground, started to throw it, then held it out. “Sure you don’t want to try?”

  “Nope. They’ll be fine in another month or so, but not now. I’m not gonna get sick before we get to the Masters.”

  Her second throw thudded off a tree trunk. “So that tournament is this week, for sure?” She smiled at the fire. “I knew it. That’s why you have that golf course book. You really want to scatter your daddy on Augusta National Golf Club during the Masters, don’t you?” A flush crept up her cheeks.

  “What do you care? You said you don’t know anything about golf.”

  The flush deepened. “This has nothing to do with golf. Or you
.” Her toes wiggled around like they’d caught fire, and she tapped her front teeth over her bottom lip a few times. “I looked at that Augusta book at the bus station and on the train while you were busy staring at whatever you were staring at. One of the pages said that miracles have happened there during that tournament. I could use a miracle. A miracle, Benjamin Putter, is the reason I’m here. And I’m not leaving you until I get one.” She sat back and nodded to herself. “It’s settled, then. I’ll find the right sign there. I know it. I’m gonna find him at the Masters.”

  For some reason, her sureness annoyed me. “That’s my daddy’s spot. You can’t just decide it’s yours, too.”

  “Sure I can. And out of the two of us, you’re the nice one. I’m sure you know how to share.”

  I felt my nose scrunch up. “The book meant golf-related miracles, not the other kind.”

  “I’m not picky.” She lifted the Augusta book, grabbed two eggs cooling on a rock, and stood. “I’m going to eat my dinner and figure out the best spot for the right sign. You can eat dinner with your daddy. Maybe he’s got something important to tell you. Or maybe you have something important to tell him. Either way, you should talk to him while you can,” Noni suggested. “Because tomorrow morning we’re getting ourselves to Augusta and then poof!” She flung her head in a circle. “He’ll be free.”

  “He’s ashes, not a genie.” I picked up a fallen peach and tossed it into the fire, wondering where she’d go after she found the right sign. “And I don’t have anything important to say. Besides,” I said, hearing a low hum, “he’s snoring.”

  She waved away my words with her egg-holding hand like they were bothersome gnats. “You never know when people will be gone forever. Or gone forever for the second time, in your case. Most people would give anything for a chance like yours.” She stood, then brought the urn to me. “I’ll give you two some privacy. I’m going to take a walk around the peaches, try to figure out our next steps.” With that, she strode off with choppy strides, whistling her hobo song.