His daddy doesn’t care about either of them, no he doesn’t, golf, that’s all Bogart Putter loves, oh hush, well, he doesn’t care, golf balls, golf clubs, don’t be mean, golf bags, golf course, I’m being honest, he’s not good enough to love, heart of a golfer, be quiet, what’s the heart of a golfer, he was never good enough, he seems so nice, not as nice as golf, why not, why what, why is he afraid, what is he afraid of—
“You all stop.”
He’s afraid of the space.
“Go away. Please go away.”
He’s afraid of the space between.
I gave up. “Between what?”
You know, yes you do, yes he knows.
“Between what?”
All of them got quiet, stayed silent, until one thing spoke. It was the golf ball in my throat.
The space between everything, it said. The space between Hilltop and the world. Between the ground and the coal train. Between the train and the peach farm. Between you and May Talbot’s lunch table.
Between what your daddy could have been and what he was.
Between who you are and who you’ll be.
“I don’t understand,” I told the lump. “I don’t know what to do.”
You do. You already said it.
“Said what?”
The strokes will take care of themselves or they won’t, but either way, you’ve got to be there to find out. The space between you and your daddy. Fill it.
“I don’t know how,” I whispered. I opened my box and saw that Noni had taken the last piece of thick paper. I pulled out my sketchbook, wondering what she’d painted, and worked until I’d completely finished the sketch on the third-to-last page. I blew on it, and I could’ve sworn that the hair waved a little in the small wind I’d made.
I picked up the urn and put my mouth on the cool pewter, against a spot that felt right. I didn’t care if he was the stars and I was a fool. Within twenty-four hours, Noni and I would be successful, or Mama would be taking both me and Daddy back to Hilltop. Either way, I knew this was the last of our time alone together.
“I love you, Daddy,” I whispered, and gave him a kiss.
He didn’t answer, but I took comfort in the low rumbling inside the urn.
Soft steps sounded, and Noni poked her head into the room. “I heard you rustling around.” She sat on the edge of the table, putting down the Augusta book that had been tucked under her arm. Her eyes were bright. “I’m excited.” She pointed to the camping ropes. “Your uncle is bound to be sleeping by now. His bedroom is empty.”
“He’s probably still in his office.” I raised an eyebrow and slapped her on the back. “Let’s get started. We’ll leave him some water and a snack.”
“Excellent.” Noni frowned. “Just water. He doesn’t deserve a snack.”
Daddy woke and demanded an explanation. Leaving him cheering and snickering on the kitchen table, we crept down toward Uncle Luke’s office with all the stealth we could manage. A low hum of something came from the room, its door open just a crack. The light was still on, and a cigar smell lingered around the hallway.
On my signal, we both dropped to our knees and inched forward. With nervous hands, I poked at the door and stuck my head in. I saw the back of Uncle Luke’s armchair, facing a small television set. I crept forward.
“Dontchasdothat!” Uncle Luke blurted.
I backed out so quickly I knocked right into Noni. “Retreat,” I whispered, expecting Uncle Luke to come charging. “Go, now, before—”
A loooooooong snore rang out, followed by mumbling.
Hmm.
Noni pushed me aside and army crawled into the room. A moment later, she waved me in. “Talking in his sleep,” she whispered. “Snoring like a freight train. Time for some hog tying, pig boy.”
It took both ropes to do it right. We tied his legs to the chair legs and his chest to the chair frame. He wasn’t going anywhere when he woke up.
Just as we were leaving the room, Noni’s face fell. “Benjamin Putter, we forgot one big thing. How are we supposed to beat the alarm?”
I smiled at her. “Third button from the left disables it.”
“Huh?”
“We’ll leave the front door unlocked so Mama can get in the house when she gets here.” After our talk, I felt certain that Mama wouldn’t be too mad, and I’d be sure to leave a note telling her that Noni and I would be home by sunrise on Sunday. “Hope Uncle Luke doesn’t pee his pants before then.”
Noni shot me a devilish grin. “I hope he does. But how do you know the right button? If you guess wrong, the neighbors will call the police, they’ll untie Uncle Luke, and he’ll tell Augusta’s security what you’re planning to do.”
“His girlfriend. Trisha’s phone number was on the fridge, so I called and told her Uncle Luke wanted something from the car, but couldn’t remember the right button. She didn’t seem surprised.”
She laughed. “Congratulations, Benjamin Putter. You may not need me as much as I thought you did. I thought you were one of those sensitive artist types, not a trickster.”
I bowed. “I may like a good flower to paint, ma’am, but I’m still a Putter. And Putters are men of action.”
HOLE 14
A Magical Ride
Georgia’s spring heat still slumbered at five o’clock in the morning, but Noni and I were wide awake, slipping along the streets of Augusta, dodging streetlights like they were minefields. An hour later, we’d parked ourselves close to the entrance where players would drive through the gates of Augusta National. There was a separate entrance for people with tickets for the tournament, and we’d avoided that area. Nobody but players and official people drove down Magnolia Lane, and that’s exactly who we were hoping to flag down.
Noni passed me a chunk of cloth that matched her dress, thread wrapped around it like a bow. “Happy birthday, Benjamin Putter.”
“You got me something?” I was surprised and touched, and hoped she hadn’t stolen anything more from the Marinos. But when the cloth fell open, it was her pocketknife. “I can’t take this. It was from your daddy. Noni, no.” I handed it to her.
She threw it back into my lap. “Take it. I know you probably prefer brushes to knives, but I want you to have it. You’ll think of something to do with it.”
I grinned. “Pick splinters out, maybe. Or gut a fish with the toothpick.”
Noni smiled and gave me a salute. “Very funny.”
“Thank you.” I put it in my pocket.
“The players should arrive anytime now,” Daddy said. “First tee time is in a couple hours, and they’ll want to be here early. I can’t believe we’re gonna see the Masters!” He laughed. “Happy birthday, son. I didn’t get you anything, but it’s gonna be a good day. A great day.”
Noni adjusted the fancy sun hat she wore, testing it at a low angle over her face, then taking if off again to rub her head all over and yank on her hair.
I felt bad for her. I’d forced her to wear the hat. “Sorry you have to wear that, but my ball cap wouldn’t look right.”
“It’s not that. Well, it is, but it’s also my hair. I hate pigtails. I’ve never worn pigtails in my life.” She chewed on her bottom lip, staring down the road and tapping her toes.
“Take ’em out, then. You look twitchy instead of pathetic. We were going for pathetic, remember?”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” She tugged at her sleeves. “And this dress is ridiculous. And who puts a big plastic flower right on a shoe?” She eyed the barrier that surrounded the entire property. “You really think somebody’s gonna pick us up?”
“You don’t? I swear, you’re the most faithless runaway I’ve ever met.” I nudged her. “That’s a Noni quote.”
“I know my own quotes when I hear them. Maybe we should just hop this fence.”
“Maybe not,” I said, yanking her up with me. A slow car, lights shining bright through an early morning mist, came driving along. Black with white words shouting from the side. “
Security,” I whispered, pulling her behind a bush until it passed by. “Not a car we want to be stuck inside.”
We got back in position after it was out of sight. “I’m sure we’ll get in,” I said, not sure of much. “You nervous?” I asked her, rubbing at the golf ball in my throat.
She nodded and wrapped her right hand around her left elbow, wincing.
“Are you finally gonna admit that nasty bruise of yours hurts?”
“It didn’t before, not that it’s any of your business.” She glared, which made her seem more like herself. Poking lightly at the blue-black skin, she grimaced again. “I just hope everything works out.”
A car approached, and we stood as rehearsed, stepping a few feet into the road. I pretended to take Noni’s hand, and she pulled away dramatically, then curled into a ball. Fake-concerned, I bent down and was about to fake-comfort her when the car pulled around us and kept going.
The same thing happened three more times. My brilliant idea was looking less brilliant.
“Don’t worry, Noni. We’ll get the next one to stop.”
But my false confidence didn’t even fool me. My lump was heavy, and I didn’t know if it was telling me I was making a good decision or the worst one possible. It was still hard to know whether to feel sad or excited about being so close to watching the Masters with Daddy. It meant spending an unimaginable day with him, but it also meant we’d reached the place where he would leave me. Right when I was leaning toward sad, a piece of gravel hit my ankle. A car had stopped.
It was a navy blue limousine, sleek and shined up like fresh quarters from the bank.
“Time for the show,” Noni murmured low.
A window rolled down in the backseat, and a man popped his head out. “Are you okay, son?”
“Oh my God in heaven, I know that voice!” Daddy crowed. “Is that who I think it is?”
I looked at the ground to see if my jaw was there on the road. Felt like it’d fallen a good ways. Then I looked back to the man’s face in wonder. “Hobart Crane,” I said in a strange, garbled voice, my knees turning to jelly and dropping me to the dirt.
“Son? Are you all right?” he repeated. He looked over at Noni, who seemed to have frozen solid with her head down. “Are you okay?” he asked her, then fiddled with a plastic device on his ear. “This thing is acting up on me again. Honey, you’re gonna have to look at me if you’re whispering or I won’t know what you’re saying.”
“She’s my sister, sir,” I said. “She doesn’t talk. At all.” Noni’d thought that having one of us be silent would get more sympathy, and she’d volunteered since she’d made me be a non-talker back at the bus station.
“Oh?” he said. “Is that right? And what are ya’ll doing here?”
“Well, Mr. Crane. Our Daddy, well, our Daddy . . . You’re his favorite player, sir, and he, well, he . . .” I trailed off, then started in with the fake sobbing Noni and I had practiced, hoping Hobart Crane couldn’t tell that I was licking my fingers to get them wet before rubbing my eyes. Stick to the plan, the back of my eyelids reminded me, but in the presence of Mr. Hobart Crane, the details of my plan had turned into something like mush.
“Just hold on, now,” Mr. Crane said, motioning for the driver to turn the engine off. “What happened?”
“Our Daddy”—I sniffed—“he died last month. We’ve been here all week, trying to find a way into the tournament.” Noni elbowed me and handed me the urn, not raising her gaze from the ground. “This is him. We’re off school this week, and Mama’s got to work.” I took a deep breath. “It was his biggest wish to see the Masters tournament. We thought we could show him, but we can’t get in, and the security people won’t let us inside without one of those badges,” I moaned, dry-sobbing into my arm. “It was his dying wish.”
“Son, just slow down. Is that really your daddy? Well, Lord, I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t need to be sorry. Daddy was more than okay. In fact, he was shouting praises to the Ol’ Creator and laughing like a crazy man. “Holy rivers and streams, Hobart Crane, ha-ha! We’re getting escorted into Augusta by Hobart Crane! Kill me now and I’d die a happy man, I tell you what!”
The front door of the car opened and the uniformed driver stepped out. “Mr. Crane, if you want some personal time before you hit the driving range, we need to get going.”
“Right, thank you.” Hobart Crane looked us over. Noni still hadn’t looked up. She was playing her role to perfection, shaking slightly. Mr. Crane walked over to her. “You want to take your daddy to see some golf, sweetie?”
Very slightly, very slowly, Noni moved the rim of the hat up and down, not showing her face. The rest of her was arranged neatly, her hands held behind her back and her legs straight together.
“She went silent when Daddy died,” I said, letting my voice waver. “Started with fewer and fewer words, and now she doesn’t say anything at all. She and Daddy . . . Well, golf was their special thing. I’ve been praying that this would help her heal up.” The lie felt wrong, but true somehow.
“Is that right?” His lips twisted to the side, and I believe I saw moisture in his eyes. Mr. Hobart Crane, bless his heart, not only bought the story but let me keep the change. Noni and I were inside the car within two minutes. The backseat was the hugest I’d ever seen, with two full seats that faced each other.
“My sponsor sent it,” Hobart said, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t travel like this all the time.” He told his driver to take it nice and slow. “After all,” he said to me, “a man doesn’t get a chance to drive down Magnolia Lane every day.”
Just like in the Augusta book, the road leading into the golf club’s grounds was lined on both sides by tall magnolia trees, all of them bursting flowers like it was a day to dress up and celebrate.
I sat next to Noni, who sat stiffly across from Mr. Crane, not looking out the window at all, sticking to her role as a child who couldn’t talk after losing her father. A box turtle with her head pulled in, the rim of her hat pulled down so low she looked like her neck was sprouting a daisy.
Daddy was hooting and hollering and making such a stink about it that it was tough to keep up my sad/concerned/grateful appearance. Well, the grateful part was easy enough, but the rest of me was annoyed and worried that with Daddy’s carrying on, I was gonna blow our cover.
“Thank you, Mr. Crane,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” Hobart answered. “What’s your name? And your sister’s?”
I was all out of Big Fivers, other than the one I’d been named for. The truth would have to do. “My name is Ben Putter,” I said. “Ben Hogan Putter. My sister’s named Noni.”
Mr. Crane stiffened a little, like his back was bothering him, then shifted in his seat. He bent down to retie one of his shoes, taking a long time. “That’s a nice name for a little girl,” he said real quiet, sitting up with a sigh and fingers that scrunched in and out of loose fists. He shook off some thought and raised an eyebrow. “And Ben Hogan Putter, what a name that is. Your daddy did love golf, didn’t he?” His eyes crinkled, catching the sunlight shining between the line of trees we passed. He looked at the hat covering Noni’s head and face. “Did you play much golf with your daddy, Noni Putter?”
Noni said nothing, keeping her legs nicely crossed at the ankle. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was a very quiet, well-behaved, graceful little girl, which was the opposite of the loping, shouting, skipping, pushing, smacking runaway I’d gotten to know.
Mr. Crane cleared his throat and looked at me. “So your sister can’t talk? How about something other than golf? What else does she like?”
I shook my head. I didn’t really know what Noni liked. “She used to sing. And she can do magic tricks.”
“Hey, Noni Putter, do you like magic?”
Noni wouldn’t look at him, but Hobart Crane chatted to her in a gentle voice and waved a coin and told her to pick.
Without raising her head, Noni picked a hand time after time
. Hobart opened his empty hands and then found the coin somewhere new—behind her ear, underneath her shoe, in the car cushion just behind her shoulder. She played along and must’ve been following the movements of his forearms because she sure as heck wasn’t looking up. Then she reached down toward the backpack. I watched her slip something from the outside pocket, and the next time Hobart Crane had her guess which hand, she stopped him from opening his left fist.
Slowly, with playful stealth, she grabbed his fist between her hands and started rotating it back and forth. When she finally peeled his fingers back, covering his palm with her own, Hobart Crane let out a bark of surprise. Daddy’s ball-marking quarter sat there in the middle of his hand.
“Hoo! What’s this? Tricking the trickster? I think I like you, Noni Putter.” Hobart tapped the top of her head with his free hand and laughed, but it sounded choked.
“That’s my daddy’s special quarter,” I said, another truth. “He used it as a ball marker. You can have it. He’d like that.”
I held the urn tight between my hands while Hobart Crane met my eyes and nodded. “I’ll use it. Thank you.” He put the ball marker in his pocket and took one of Noni’s hands in his own. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll take good care of it. I promise.”
Noni said nothing, but I noticed that her fingers curled around Mr. Crane’s for a moment instead of pulling right away.
“So you all need day passes?” Hobart asked.
“I guess we do.” I struggled to come up with something that didn’t sound like begging. “We didn’t bring any money to buy them.”
“I’ll make sure you get two. All the players get a few, but I left mine at home. I didn’t think I’d have anyone to give them to. And why don’t you take these.” He let go of Noni’s hand and reached into his pocket, pulling out two twenty-dollar bills as the car came to a halt. “So you can buy a couple souvenirs on me. Food’s cheap during the tournament, so that should keep you fed on the course too. And if you show the badges I’ll get you to the folks in the clubhouse restaurant, they should let you eat there. Just tell them to put it on my tab.”
Waiting for Augusta Page 19
