When I looked up, it was too late, and my startled laugh became a horrified yell that woke Noni, who screamed and pointed.
“Look out!” she yelled. “Turn the wheel, crazy!”
It was too late to tell her to put her seat belt on.
It was too late to realize that mine wasn’t on either.
It was too late all around, but I slammed on the brakes anyway, wrenching the wheel to the right so we’d miss the front cab of the truck that had snuck out from a tiny side road without me noticing. The driver didn’t see me either and was pulling out with a long, rickety platform hooked up behind him filled up and stacked five cages high with—
“Chickens!” Noni yelled. She wrenched the wheel far to the right, aiming us into the side ditch and right toward a huge oak, looming over us with Spanish moss that I had a feeling wouldn’t do cow plop to cushion the blow of a crash.
I hip-shoved her off me and turned the wheel back left a few inches. “Better chickens than us!”
I swear, life slowed in that moment, and those chickens all turned together, staring us down like they were preparing for battle. Ten feet from impact, it occurred to me what was happening. The most famous chicken in Hilltop, Mrs. Clucksy, had some kind of psychic connection with chickens in Georgia, and she’d sent out a call for revenge. She might have gotten her precious cash egg stolen, but I was about to pay the price for messing with her.
Good Lord, I could almost hear her cackling into her beer nuts.
In those seconds before we slammed together and became one big mess, vengeance-based bravery abandoned Mrs. Clucksy’s soldiers. The wild panic of those chickens, the helpless flapping of their wings as they put all their effort into trying to escape from the flimsy, thin metal bars that held them back—it was like a mirror rushing closer and closer until I was forced to look deep inside. And those chickens must have felt the same way, because the group of them, all as one, called out just before I crashed into them, and our thoughts were a perfect match.
Please stop! followed by
I’m not ready! followed by
I hope you choke on your next whiskey shot, Clucksy! followed by
Goshdarnit, this is gonna hurt.
HOLE 4
Chickenland
A tidal wave of water rushed into my face, and I blinked enough to see Noni’s big eyeballs and mouth shouting things I couldn’t hear. Dizzy, head throbbing, and half-drowned, I let myself be pulled from the truck and walked to the side of the road. I moved my head in the white and brown feather blizzard snowing down on me, then collapsed on the ground.
Frenzied, flapping wings and a heavy brown feather pillow smashed into my face. I shoved it aside and curled up as a pointy thing, or maybe two pointy things, poked and pecked at my belly. Wrenching myself to one side, I managed to jerk clear enough of the whirlwind to see that the world had transformed into Chickenland, openmouthed squawks and irate fowl filling every inch of my vision.
I didn’t need Noni around to read their lips. They were mad at me, and in addition to serving as Mrs. Clucksy’s henchmen seeking revenge for the stolen egg, they also seemed to know that Mama was bargaining with the bank so we could add barbecued chicken to Pork Heaven’s menu.
Squawk, Thief!
Squawk, Butcher!
Squawk, Barbecue THIS!
Chicken cages lay scattered across the road, some open and empty, the full ones holding hens looking plenty upset that they’d missed their chance to peck at my thieving, smoker-stoking hands. The truck we’d hit was parked sideways in the middle of the main road, and a hairy faced man was chasing a chicken beside it, trying to keep two others under his arm while yelling obscenities.
Frantic tire marks were visible in the packed dirt road he’d left. A set of black, burned-rubber tracks veered off the concrete road, turning into smashed-grass tracks and ending at the Marinos’ truck, which had a smashed bumper on the left side.
Noni’s hand felt my forehead and her lips were doing something. Moving. Talking while an arm lifted our water bottle over my head like she was about to douse me again.
“What happened?” I asked, shoving the bottle aside.
Her eyebrows sprang apart, and Noni hugged me hard. “You’re okay. We clipped the edge of the chicken platform and you got knocked around.”
“Daddy,” I said, and there was the urn in my face.
“He’s fine. Now get up.”
“You okay, son? This girl here told me you were both fine.” Hairy Face stepped near me and studied my eyes, a stray feather stuck to the side of his angry mouth. “You nearly killed all of us.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Noni told him, batting a charging hen to the side. “There’s one dead chicken in all this mess, and you’re probably on your way to sell them to a grocery store anyway. And you’re the one who pulled out without looking,” she snapped.
“Louise was my best egg layer, young lady. And if you’re gonna bring up rules of driving, you both look a little young to have a license. Where are your parents? Whose truck is that?”
“What?” I asked, and sat up, pain spots clamoring for attention all over my body. Pain, but not the broken bones kind. I sat fully upright and touched my sore tongue, my fingers coming back a little red where I’d bitten it. “Did I faint or something?”
“No,” Noni said. “I don’t think so. You were mumbling and moaning to yourself, which isn’t too out of the ordinary now that I think on it, but your eyes weren’t shut more than a minute.”
“Are you okay?” My arms and legs were full of aches and pains, but she seemed fine.
“Eggs got smashed, but that’s about it.” She ran over to the ditch where our truck had ended up and pulled out the backpack and map. “This gave me a good cushion. You were standing up in that weird position and—”
“You two better come along with me,” the man said, putting a hand on Noni’s elbow.
She jumped away like he’d been trying to slice through her arm. “No way.”
“There’s a local police station not ten minutes from here. You can call your parents from there.” He looked at Peter’s truck. “And I can give them the license plate of your little joyride if it doesn’t belong to your folks.”
“Wait!” I said. I got up, stumbled around, then fell and put a hand to my head. “I think we should listen to him, little sister. I don’t think . . . I think . . . I think I should get to a doctor. I don’t feel right.” I screwed up my face. “I think I’m gonna puke.” I turned away from him, managing to catch Noni’s eye with a wink.
Immediately, the man’s annoyance turned to concern. “I’ve got two boys that play football. Vomiting’s a sign of concussion. You need to see a doctor. Here, I’ll help you into my truck.”
He held out a hand and Noni slapped it away. “Are you crazy! We’re not getting in a truck with a stranger, especially one who uses foul language while chasing his chickens. Go drive to the police station and send an officer our way. We’ll trust one of them, but you could be a complete loony case. You could want to kidnap us for ransom money.”
“Or sell us for drug money,” I said.
“Or sell us to a circus,” Noni added.
“Or kill us,” I chimed in.
“And then eat us,” Noni nodded, reaching a protective arm around me. “Mama says there are all kinds of weirdos in the world.”
“Well, for God’s sake, I’m not one of them.”
“Well,” Noni said, pointedly looking at the feathers in his hair and the scared-chicken poop all over his shirt. “You’re not doing a great job of proving it.”
Looking conflicted while a trio of hens made their way into the ditch to peck for bugs, the man hurried to his truck. “Fine. I’ll be back with an officer for you, and to pick up my chickens.”
The moment he’d driven out of sight, we ran to Peter’s truck. “That was quick thinking,” I said.
“You, too.” Noni climbed into the seat, then sighed and hopped out. She ran to the front of
the truck cab, bent down, and I saw a wad of white go flying past. She hurried back and strapped in. “Didn’t want another Louise on our conscience. Let’s get out of here. Backtrack a little and then take a different side road.”
After five minutes of trying, I couldn’t get the engine to turn over. The one time it did, the truck died before I could get us out of the ditch.
“Maybe your daddy knows what to do,” Noni said. “Ask him.”
I tried, but Daddy still wouldn’t speak. “Oh no.” I tapped the gas gauge. “Empty. That man’ll be back any minute now. And we’re only fifteen miles or so away from Augusta.” I let my forehead drop against the wheel.
Noni pointed across a nearby field to where a forest started. “Let’s go.” She heaved the straps over her shoulders and looked at me. “Sure you’re good to walk?”
I was sore all over, but there were still miles to go and the sky overhead was dark and hard to read. What day was it? Thursday. Close to Thursday night. The first day of the Masters was over already. “I think we better run.”
• • •
Only after hiding ourselves among the trees did we realize that we’d left the food in the front seat. When Noni stepped to the edge of the woods to look, the man had arrived back at the Marinos’ truck, along with a police car. They would check the glove box and find the registration and return it to the Marinos. There was nothing to do but sip on water. I didn’t realize how exhausted I was from driving, but I felt my eyes wanting to close in spite of myself.
“We can rest for a while, Benjamin Putter, and then let’s get walking.” Without asking, she gathered stones for a ring, twigs and sticks, and lit a fire. Both of us sat watching it, hearing crickets, locusts, light wind rustling through branches. Critters scuffling and distant bird calls. Crackling wood. I got out the photograph of Mama and set it on a rock.
“You miss her?” Noni asked.
I didn’t answer the question. “Maybe you could live with us.”
“What?”
I picked up the photograph. “Mama always wanted a girl. They wanted more kids, but I guess they just couldn’t have any. You could live with us.”
She shook her head. “No.” She opened her mouth to say more, then closed it again.
“Why not? What are you gonna do after you find your sign? Just disappear?”
She looked into the fire. “That’s one of my specialties. I just remembered another wandering rule: Don’t get too comfortable or think you belong. When it’s time to leave, leave. I’ll be fine. But that’s real nice of you to say that, Benjamin Putter.”
I felt the disappointment hit me low in the gut, clutching and clenching. Then again, maybe it was just hunger gnawing at me. It was hard to say. “Will you sing something?” I asked. “Maybe that song from before.”
“Okay.” Facing the flames, Noni let her voice out loose and lower than seemed possible for her little body, like she was channeling the person who’d taught her the song.
Hard times behind me, hard times ahead,
This train here don’t stop ’til your dead.
Train is rolling, can’t slow it down,
So ride those rails ’til you under the ground.
Saw a good man climb, saw a bad man fall,
Think they was the same man after all.
Gone wandering, Lord, got my wandering card,
Wandering, wonder why life’s so hard,
Found my time on the rail, found a dry way to sail,
Gone wandering, Lord, to my home.
Been trying to find my home.
And I’ll die on this rail, it’s my home.
Her voice was even more haunting than the last time I’d heard it. “Your daddy taught you that song?” I glanced over and caught her grimacing at some memory.
“Yep. I think he liked those songs because they’re mostly lonely. When my mother died, he must have felt that way, too.”
“Where are you going to go after Augusta?”
She shot me a Noni glare. “Chicago, Atlanta, the ocean, the desert, the sky, the mountains. Pick one and quit asking. That’s for me to worry about.”
Between Daddy’s silence and Noni’s secrecy, I was starting to feel colors bubbling inside me again. It wasn’t fair that screaming a few truths made Daddy go away. It wasn’t fair that I’d done what Noni wanted by taking the truck and still she was holding back from telling me things. It wasn’t fair that I didn’t know how to fix things between me and May.
I felt myself march through a line, thin as a single paintbrush thread, and something inside me broke. “What kind of person tags along on someone else’s trip so she can find a sign from her dead father? For all I know, you’ve got foster parents chasing after you, and I’ll end up in trouble.” I pointed to her bruise. “Or maybe somebody hurt you, and you’re running from them.”
She picked up a rock and threw it against a tree, hard.
Then another one.
And another.
“Just tell me the truth,” I said. “I’ll believe you.”
“I’ll find the right sign,” she snapped. “I have to. I don’t want to talk to you anymore right now. I’m exhausted, okay? And I don’t need anyone to believe me, got it? The only thing I need is for someone to believe in me. I thought that person was you.” With that, she rolled over and didn’t say another word.
Nice going, Putter, said the pile of camping rope. Now the alive person isn’t talking to you either.
I didn’t answer or throw it in the fire, like I was tempted to. The rope was right.
I was alone.
HOLE 5
Night Sounds
I added sticks to the fire, seeing Noni’s eyes flutter and shut. I knew we had to get going soon, but something in me wanted a reason not to move on. I’d give us one painting’s worth of rest time. Maybe two, then we’d get going.
I got out my box and, after thinking for a little bit, I drew water. More water in watercolor for May Talbot, who, like Noni, didn’t want to talk to me anymore. Who, like Noni, probably just wanted a person to believe in her. Who, like Noni, maybe thought that person was supposed to be me.
Capping the Savannah River in white here and there to show movement and adding streaks for that reason as well, I made green tree shapes on a brown shore and had my river turning a corner to I-don’t-know-where. With a shaky hand, I touched my brush to gray and drew a small object, barely visible, right near the river bend. I imagined that the urn had been swept down the length of water and was about to disappear, having no way to stop.
In the barely there light of the fire, I watched that gray spot, waiting for it to do something to save itself. Maybe I’d draw a log sticking out to catch it. I touched the brush to gray again and pressed it on the object, letting it grow until it became something else. It became a boy.
Wait, the boy was saying. Wait Daddy, please wait, see how I drove a truck for you, I drove it far, I’ve come so far, I’m a man of action now, don’t you see me, just wait and you’ll be able to see—
A fire spark hit my cheek, and I struggled to make sense of everything. It was like the world was moving too slow and too fast, the journey to Augusta going too slow and too fast, so slow and so fast that I couldn’t stop it, only watch, I couldn’t ever stop it, I couldn’t ever stop Daddy from dying, from leaving, I could only take a breath of air and get water instead.
It was Augusta that had started this. Augusta National Golf Club. Augusta had been pulling on me since Hilltop, teasing with obstacles while drawing me closer, letting me know exactly who was in charge of this journey.
Augusta had brought Noni and her strange bruise to Pork Heaven.
Augusta made that bus crash into a pig.
Augusta blew enough wind behind me as I ran that I caught up to a moving train.
Augusta yanked me into a peach orchard, then urged me down the road in the used truck that belonged to a boy whose father was proud of him.
Augusta pushed me past the town of Feather on
ly to be blocked by a truck pulling a load of chickens.
Augusta was pulling and shoving me toward it the whole time, poking gentle, then hard, tugging and pushing and dragging me toward the greatest golf course in the world, where Daddy wanted me to crack open his urn, see his ashes, and say the hardest goodbye I’d ever have to say.
I didn’t know how to stop any of it.
Some things were impossible to fight. Some things you didn’t have any control over. Some things just happened to you and it took everything you had to whisper to the world that you’d keep trying.
I added a black rock to the very, very end of the river scene and hoped the boy would catch it before he was rushed off the side of the painting into the real world, where he didn’t belong.
I’d just set that painting aside to dry and started on another when Daddy’s waking-up sounds broke me from the picture. I stifled the urge to hide my art supplies when he stretched out his throat with grumbles and low coughs. And then he spoke.
“Hey, Ben. Whatcha doing?”
His voice was hesitant and weak, but the relief I felt was so intense, it was almost painful.
Thank God! was my first thought.
You don’t want to know what I’m doing, was the second.
“Ben? Are you there?” He didn’t sound mad at all. Maybe he wanted to forget that I’d yelled at him.
“I’m here.” I felt both wary and bold with him. I didn’t want to drive him away again, but if screaming at him like I’d done in the orchard didn’t do the trick, I figured not much would. “I’m . . . I’m painting, Daddy.”
“Huh. What are you painting?”
Waiting for Augusta Page 13
