“Oh, come here, Walter.” Mrs. Marino nodded, stepping closer to place a hand on my head. “And then you jumped off the train?”
“He did, and I had to follow,” Noni said. “It hurt so much, but it was worth it because he’s my brother and I’ll take care of him no matter how crazy he is.” She smiled sweetly at my slightly bared teeth.
“Is that where you got that bruise, honey? From falling?”
Noni looked at her elbow. “What?”
“That ugly bruise, dear. You got it from the train?”
“Oh.” She looked at me. “Yeah.”
Mrs. Marino moved her hand from my head to my cheek. “You poor boy. You must be very sad and hurt and lonely.”
I had opened my mouth, but her assessment left me speechless.
Noni’s big eyes were still aimed right at me. “I also told Mrs. Marino how heartbroken Mama would be if she knew you’d taken off with Daddy, and it’s a good thing that she’s over in Oklahoma visiting poor sick, dying Grandma at the Home this week, instead of at our house in Grink. And I told her how our older brother Willy will come pick us up tomorrow.”
“Willy?” I asked.
“He’s probably Peter’s age,” Noni said to Mrs. Marino, then dared to step closer so she could squeeze my hand. “Mrs. Marino was telling me about her son, who surprised her by applying to an engineering college far away. He got a full scholarship.”
The woman nodded, her eyes turning misty. “We miss him terribly, and it was quite the shock. Mr. Marino and I never went to college. We always thought Peter would become the sixth generation on this farm, not want to put up skyscrapers. It’s harder to be proud of something you don’t understand, but we can’t help being happy for him. He’s a good boy.”
“They bought Peter a used truck for graduation, thinking he’d use it around the farm,” Noni said to me, squeezing again. “He didn’t need it, so it’s just been sitting out by their barn.”
Mrs. Marino smiled. “It was just a junker and probably couldn’t hit forty miles an hour, but my husband sure was excited to give it to him. He told Peter we’d keep it for a year in case he changed his mind and wanted to come back to us and be a peach farmer like his daddy. I think a piece of him thinks if he leaves it in the same place, Peter will come back to us. I tell you what, though, that thing’s an eyesore if you ask me.”
“Mrs. Marino told me the truck still has a full tank and the keys are still right on the seat. Isn’t that so sweet?” Noni said, then mouthed the word Augusta.
“No,” I told her.
Noni frowned. “It’s very sweet, if you just keep your mouth shut and think about it. Think about it for me if you can’t for yourself.”
I’d already told Daddy that we weren’t going to Augusta, and now Noni wanted us to go there anyway, all so she could look for a sign that she would probably never find? I wasn’t biting on that bait. If she wanted to steal a truck, that was her own business.
But I also didn’t feel like charging out the door and finding a road so I could start walking back to Hilltop. And the thought of calling Mama and explaining everything and begging for a ride home suddenly wasn’t too appealing. Truth was, I didn’t feel like thinking about anything that night. I’d let Noni’s story stick for now.
Mrs. Marino turned to Noni and glanced between the two of us. “Hmm. Well, you two must be worn out. Walter, your sister’s about to call your brother.” Mrs. Marino was speaking slowly, like she thought maybe I’d hit my head. “Why don’t you come in the kitchen and have some peach cobbler made with last year’s preserves. Mine’s the best in three counties. Then we’ll get you tucked into the guest room. Phone’s in the family room, honey,” she said to Noni, pointing. “Mr. Marino’s in there, watching television. He’ll tell you our address and some easy directions from Grink. Now, I have half a mind to call your mama, but I imagine that she’s full up on troubles, what with your father and your grandmother.” A bittersweet smile came to her face, and the thin lines beside her eyes bloomed and multiplied. “You know, I ran away from home once when I was sixteen. Mother wouldn’t let me get a summer job as a lifeguard over at Chisolm Lake, and I was so mad.”
“Did you run away to get the job?” Noni asked.
“No, dear. I made it about half a mile down the road and spent the night with my girlfriend Susie. And oh, did I get an earful the next day. Hope your brother’s not too hard on you.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll call him right now.”
Within minutes, Noni was sitting next to me at the kitchen table, shoving cobbler in her face while I rubbed my neck lump. “This is great, ma’am. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. Can I use your bathroom?”
“Down the hall on the left.” When Noni was gone, Mrs. Marino patted my hand. “It’s good that your sister brought you both here.”
I didn’t say anything. It didn’t matter what Mrs. Marino thought. I listened to her chat, holding a noiseless Daddy in my lap, suddenly feeling awfully sad and hurt and lonely, just like she’d said. And more tired than I’d ever been in my life.
I’m not all certain what happened after that, but there was the kitchen, warm with creamed-corn-amber-yellow walls, and a hanging painting of the farmhouse, and a hanging painting of peaches, and counters lined with jarred peaches, and Noni skipping into the room, her swinging arms knocking peaches right off the wall. There was gasping from her and Mrs. Marino, and an apology, and a turned-over frame on the floor with a crack down the middle of its back, and the painted farmhouse saying, Look what she did, and the broken frame crying, What happened? and a cutting board with a roller on the counter saying, Shh, it’ll be okay, and there was a wet towel and a whistle from a kettle that sounded like a lonely train and a mug full of something steaming and thick, like the walls were a cow that had been milked and what came out was hot melted butter and honey.
There were long minutes spent at a table filled with Daddy’s silence, and there was me not asking if he was still there because the world had gone distant and I’d gone silent too and I was hurting and because you can’t be seen talking to yourself in a stranger’s house. There was some dusky talk that faded away. There were towels and a washcloth placed on a closed toilet lid, the door closing, and me washing up. There was a bed and me being pushed into it and told to stay.
There was a woman standing over me and me reaching for her rollers, saying Mama.
There was the woman hushing and murmuring words that didn’t come out like words, but I knew they meant everything would be okay, maybe because this woman had magic just like Noni and could do spells, like the sleeping spell she was doing on me.
HOLE 2
Could Be, Hope Not
When the curtains parted the next morning, I woke slowly in a soft bed filled with soft sheets, and for a moment I wondered if maybe Mama’d gotten mad, sold all of Daddy’s golf equipment, and had gone overboard with the Sears catalog, ordering me a whole new bedroom and maybe a houseful of hats for herself.
There was a sweetroll scent to the air that made blinking awake comfortable until I realized a lady who was not my mama was staring at me expectantly, like I was an abandoned chicken she’d found and nursed back to health, and now she wanted me to get up and lay an egg or two.
“Good morning, Walter,” said Mrs. Marino, the butter and cinnamon wafting off her like it had the night before. “You get up and we’ll get you some breakfast. You look like you could use a good meal.” She tapped the top of the backpack on the floor beside me. “I washed a few of your clothes. Hope you don’t mind. Wanted to play mother, I suppose, what with Peter gone.”
First I’d adopted a bus station granny with urn-grabby hands, and now I’d gotten myself a peach farm mama who smelled like she was made out of French toast. I sat up, trying to recall exactly how I’d gotten those new family members and why none of them could replace the one who’d left me. “Hmm?” I said, sitting up.
“I was worried your sister’s dress would stain, but I know a
few tricks.”
Speaking of tricky, said the curtains. Where is that little liar?
You better set her straight today, the bedside lamp advised.
Or kick her to the road, suggested the blanket.
“Thank you. Where’s . . . Wendy?”
“She’s eating. We thought we’d let you sleep in for a bit.”
My head jerked around, searching for a clock and finding none. “What time is it?”
“It’s a little past ten. You were up real late, so I thought I’d let you rest.”
A cold splash of guilt swept over me, and I jumped out of bed, bumping a startled Mrs. Marino back toward the door. A little past ten o’clock on the first day of the Masters! My golf ball lump pressed hard against its prison, hissing that we’d missed it, we’d missed the opening, the first shot, Daddy’s heroes traveling the holes. How in the world would we get to Augusta? And where exactly were we?
“Where’s my daddy?” I asked Mrs. Marino, who stood there looking tongue-tied. “Where is he?” I demanded, looking around the room.
Psst, said the tall boy in a photograph. Doesn’t matter. You gave up, remember?
“Oh.” Then I did remember. I remembered the fight and the fact that I no longer had a mission.
Mrs. Marino pointed to the edge of my bed, where the urn was lying on its side. “You slept with it. Are you okay, dear?” Her hand went to her chest as she eyed the hallway. “Should I get your sister?”
I pulled myself together and rubbed at my face. Act how Noni was acting last night, I told myself. Nice and sweet. “Oh gosh, ma’am, I’m so sorry. I had the worst nightmare. I don’t believe I was quite awake just then.” I shivered my shoulders a little, still fake fearful from the fake nightmare. “Thank you for taking us in, Mrs. Marino. I don’t know what I was thinking, running off like that.”
You were trying to bring your daddy everlasting peace, the photograph reminded me.
But then you gave up, the ring on Mrs. Marino’s hand said. Not very nice.
The hand left Mrs. Marino’s chest and moved to my head. “That’s all right, dear. You’ve had a shock. Your brother will be here soon. You get dressed and come eat, okay?”
“I will, ma’am.”
She closed the door behind her, leaving the room quiet.
“Daddy?” I whispered. “Are you still there?”
Nothing.
I picked him up. “Daddy, are you in there?” I asked louder. “Please answer me.” He wasn’t snoring, so he was either ignoring me, or he was taking a break from me in purgatory and would be back, begging for me to change my mind, or . . . Well, I didn’t want to think about the alternative. And I also didn’t want to think about Noni, who’d told me to have a talk with Daddy in the first place. Hmph. I had a few words for her, too.
Down the hallway, I stepped past framed photographs of families in front of peach baskets, families staged in front of peach trees, kids with peach juice running down their faces. Happy faces. Good memories caught in time that had the magic to erase bad ones. I stopped and looked closer. As I stepped forward, they went back in time, clothes and trees in color, then black-and-white, then faded black-and-white, then almost yellowy. The last photograph, the one right next to the kitchen, was the oldest. The people were posed in front of the peach trees, standing beside a wooden wagon.
Other than the oldish look to the clothes on the man, woman, and three boys, you could tell it was years and years ago, because nobody smiled. Now everyone makes you smile, so you can look later and see how good life was.
The man in the oldest photograph was stubborn-looking. Defiant. I wondered if his daddy had been a peach farmer, too. Maybe that man’s daddy was a banker or a clock fixer and said to his son, Why can’t you just be a banker or a clock fixer? Wanting to grow peaches is a waste of time. You should get inside more, be more of a thinker.
A hand touched my shoulder. “There you are, dear. Now, come and sit. Get your fill.”
While I ignored Noni’s light under-the-table kicks and ate pancakes in silence, Mrs. Marino chattered about this and that, but my ears were too full of my chewing to really hear much. Noni’s Coca-Cola shirt and jeans had been washed, and her hair was neatly braided. It almost felt like we were really brother and sister, eating breakfast and getting ready for school.
“You two keep each other company until your brother Willy gets here. I’ll be back in an hour to check on ya’ll, okay? Mr. Marino’s fixing a fence on the back nine acres if you need him. Walkie-talkie on the table’ll reach him if ya’ll need an adult before I get back,” she said, leaving the room.
The minute she left, I kicked Noni a good one. “You’re the worst partner in the world.”
She had the nerve to look offended. “I am not. You’re just not seeing the big picture.”
“Oh, and the big picture is that now our fake brother is going to pick us up? Why’d you have to choose the name Willy, anyway?” Willy Walter was the biggest bully in Hilltop, and just hearing his first name made the ghosts of the bruises he’d given me ache and whimper.
“It was the only W I could think of. You’re Walter. I’m Wendy. I figured we’d all be W names.”
“You’re a liar.” I kicked her again.
“Ow. Is that right, Walter Hagen? Or did you want to be Bobby Jones again? I’m not going to kick you back, but that was unnecessary.”
I kicked her a third time. “Do you mind telling me what on earth you’re doing?” I asked. “Who did you call last night?”
She scooted her chair back, careful to keep her legs out of kicking distance. Leaning forward, she forked another bite of pancake and took her time chewing and swallowing. “I called the barbecue place where my daddy and I used to get take-out chicken. He hates using phones, so I always called. We ate there a lot, and I had the number memorized. Confused the heck out of them, especially when I started giving directions. Listen, as soon as the missus is off the property, I’ll check around for supplies and we’ll get going. It’s late, but I figured extra sleep might put you in a better mood.” She stood and peeked out of the window curtains. “I wish one of us had driven before, but we can figure out that truck. Can’t be that hard. It’s our best option by far.”
“First you want to hop a train and now you want to steal a truck?”
Noni stuck her tongue out. “It sounds mean when you say it like that. You heard Mrs. Marino—she said it was an eyesore. We’d be doing her a favor by taking it to Augusta. And driving on country roads can’t be too dangerous.” A hint of worry crossed her expression. “I don’t think. If we don’t go fast. Right?” Her shoulders finally fell. “Maybe it won’t even start.”
I shook my head and sipped on a glass of orange juice. “I can drive.” The defeated look flew off her face, replaced with a slap of shock and glee and . . . Was that a little jealousy? My goodness, it was. I had Mama to thank for that. The few driving lessons I’d gotten were from her, not Daddy. She said that a country boy should learn that kind of thing early, and it was always good to have an extra driver in case of an emergency, so I’d taken the truck down the road and back a few times. I only hit Mrs. Grady’s postbox twice. Barely dinged it.
“I can drive,” I repeated carefully, “but country roads are bound to turn into bigger roads near Augusta. And, anyway, my trip’s over. I need to find my way back to Hilltop.”
She shook her head. “You need to change your plans, that’s what you need to do. Because what I need is for you to drive me to find my sign. Don’t be selfish just because you’ve already gotten your second chance.” She raised her chin and leaned to the right, looking out the kitchen window again. “Maybe I’ll check that chicken house outside for eggs.”
“What? Why do you like eggs so much?”
She shrugged. “Eggs remind me of my daddy, I guess. He once ate seventeen boiled eggs in a contest. Couldn’t get enough of them. And I’m glad you’re on board with the truck idea. We’ll be in Augusta in no time at all.” She pushed
aside her plate and looked across the table at me. She looked a long time, until she was sure that I saw her. “Benjamin Putter, I’m asking for your help.”
“Tell me again, why’s it got to be Augusta for you?” I asked, annoyed that her admiration for my driving talent had gotten watered down so quickly. “That was my daddy’s dream. Why would your father leave you a sign there? Don’t you have a place of your own to look?”
Her arms went limp. The bruise on her elbow seemed even darker than the day before. There wasn’t any purple in it now, and it looked more like a band of darkest storm clouds, the same that were billowing outside the window. “I told you. I have faith that I’ll find my miracle there.”
“You think you’ll find a miracle at Augusta just because you saw a couple of pictures of the place and read a few words about it? Noni, you shouldn’t be looking for faith in a book full of golf course photographs. It’s not like it’s a Bible.” Though that’s exactly how Daddy talked about it. “You can find a better place to look.”
She shook her head. “I’ll find him at Augusta. There are some things that go beyond understanding. I feel it, Benjamin Putter. I just feel it, and . . . I’m afraid I’m running out of time.” She stared at her lap. “If I don’t find the right sign there soon, I never will.”
The glow of hope and confidence I’d seen shining off her in the peach orchard had faded. It was up to me whether or not she’d lose it altogether. Daddy’d said that things were impossible right up until they weren’t. I wanted to believe him. And something in me wanted to help her. Even if my own journey was done.
“Please, Benjamin Putter. I thought you were my friend.”
Goshdarn it. For the first time she truly did remind me of May Talbot, sitting far across the school cafeteria, staring at me and saying those same words with her eyes. Telling me something I already knew—that not standing up, walking over, and asking to sit beside her made me the same as every white person who thought that colored students should have their own table. Not standing up made me the same as everybody who thought May was different. Who thought she was less and that she deserved to be kept apart.
Waiting for Augusta Page 11
