by Ruby Laska
“Miranda, you’ve never even seen me with a club!”
Miranda waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve seen you with a tennis racket dozens of times. You swing with such style.”
Dorothy had to smile at the compliment. “But golf and tennis have nothing in common with each other.”
“Oh, come now. Indeed they do. Take the clothes, for instance—so flattering. Now, I’ll grant you that you look fetching in those little pleated tennis skirts, but just wait to see what I’ve picked out for you from the golf line. The richest shade of sable, to match your eyes, and the collar is shot with gold threads. Nothing flashy, just subtle, and with your coloring—”
“Ugh,” Dorothy mumbled. As if what she wore could possibly matter. Brown, that’s what Miranda was describing, and brown it might as well be. Plain brown. Mouse-brown. Undistinguished, boring, ordinary. She’d do the tournament, but it was the other girls who’d get noticed, the long-legged beauties with the movie star sunglasses and million-watt smiles.
Mud would have a field day in that crowd.
“Just wait,” Miranda said, smiling contentedly. “You’ll see. Matt Wellington won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”
But Dorothy knew that it wasn’t really Matt that Miranda was thinking of. And for a moment, Dorothy wished with all her heart that her fairy godmother had the power to make wishes come true.
Mud was flipping through a stack of take-out menus without much enthusiasm when Tony walked in the door. The kid was dressed in another of his outlandish get-ups, his enormous trousers barely hanging onto his slender hips, bagging down to trail their hems along the ground. His tight T-shirt looked exactly like one that Mud had owned in the eighties, with its V-neck and shoulder stripes. Mud shook his head in bewilderment as he waved the kid in. He must be older than he realized if styles from his youth were coming around again—and his reaction was to wish he could get the kid into a decent-looking polo shirt and a pair of khaki pants.
“Hey,” he said, casually as he could. Sure, the kid could have called; yeah, Mud might have had plans. But he wasn’t about to embark on an etiquette course with Tony.
Besides, he could use the company.
“Hey.” Tony jammed his hands in his pants pockets, making them hang even lower. Mud was sure they were about the slide right off and puddle on the floor. Who knew, maybe that was the thing these days.
He shook his head and grinned.
“To what do I owe the honor?”
“Huh?”
“To what...oh, forget it. What are you doing here? It’s six o’clock on a Thursday night. Don’t you have homework or something?”
The lanky teen regarded him with amusement. “Homework? Come on, I’m a senior, man. Graduation’s in a few weeks. Nobody’s hitting the books any more. It’s coast city.”
Mud frowned, aiming for a sternness he didn’t really feel. “Nice attitude. It’s bound to take you far.”
He was rewarded by a rude gesture. Tony plopped on the couch and put his feet up. Mud took the old La-Z-Boy, elevated his own feet, and sighed deeply.
“Got dinner plans?” he asked.
“Nah. You?”
“Uh-uh. Here. We got Chinese, Thai, pizza, Greek. Think I got a thing for that new Ethiopian joint.”
He tossed the stack of menus to Tony, who flipped through them idly. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not all that hungry. I stopped off at White Castle after school. Got me a pile of those little cheeseburgers. With the onions and all.”
Mud grimaced. “I don’t know how you can handle those gut-bombs. They mess me up. Course, when I was your age I could put away a dozen, fifteen of ‘em easy.”
“Oh, yeah.” The kid grinned contentedly and settled further down the couch.
It was nice, having the kid here. Even if it was a constant reminder of the years that had passed, years that had given him a lot of tough lessons. Hell, maybe the kid would figure things out without making all the stupid mistakes Mud had made. Maybe he’d realize early on that success wasn’t in the headlines. It was about doing the little stuff well, and doing a little good along the way.
Tony interrupted his introspection. “Sheila coming by?”
“No, Sheila is not coming by. Why do you ask?”
Tony shrugged. “I don’t know. She seems to like you. She’s hot, too, for being your age. I just figured—”
“Don’t bother figuring anything, Romeo,” Mud snarled, more venomously than he’d intended. “Sheila’s a professional acquaintance. That’s all.”
Unmoved by Mud’s glare, Tony snorted in derision.
“Whatever, man. That’s good, anyway, ‘cause I kind of have something to talk about.”
“Yeah?” Mud surprised himself with the sudden warmth he felt at being sought out by the kid. “Okay, great. Tell you what. Let me grab a couple cold ones and some of those cheese things and we can do further disrespect to our bodies while we talk, all right?”
Tony shrugged, grinned. Amazing how the kid could telegraph volumes without saying a word. It was like they spoke the same language, him and the kid. They were on the same wavelength. Unlike with Dot. He could talk himself blue in the face and it never seemed to come out exactly the way he meant it. And then she always read something in there that he’d never meant, or missed the point he was trying to make...
Damn, not that it mattered. She was gone, history, working away over in her designer sportswear factory, churning out all kinds of stuff that cost twice anything he carried in the shop.
It’s over, idiot, he reminded himself as he rummaged in the fridge for a couple of bottles. Root beer for the kid and a much-needed icy brew for him. He reached in the pantry for the industrial-sized box of the junk food the kid liked; he’d taken to keeping it around for just such occasions.
“So, what’s up?” he demanded, handing Tony his drink and tossing the bowl of chips on the coffee table between them.
Something flickered in Tony’s eyes, and he glanced out the window. “I know you’re busy Saturday, man,” he said. “With that golf thing.”
“Yeah. Is there... something going on that day?” Mud tread lightly. He’d learned quickly that the boy didn’t like to talk about his personal life. It didn’t come easy to him. The details, the missing father and the mother who spent her evenings with a bottle of cheap vodka, came out slowly, in painful, angry little bursts of emotion.
“Nah.” Tony shook his head, a little too emphatically. “Just some stupid rehearsal thing. I’m not even going to do it, I don’t think.”
“Rehearsal for what?”
“Ah, nothin’. Just honor society. They’re doing some half-assed ceremony at graduation. You’re supposed to go on stage with your folks and they give you some bogus certificate or something. It’s nothing.”
Mud lowered his beer slowly. “Tony,” he said carefully, “you never told me you were in the honor society.”
“I wasn’t!” Tony’s voice was harsh. “I mean, I never was before. Just the way you’ve been jacking me around on this homework thing, I ended up on dean’s list the last two semesters and, you know, it’s not like they ask you or anything, they just tell you you’re in.”
“An honors student,” Mud said, surprised at the swell of pride that filled him. “You won’t find that anywhere on my resume. Congratulations.”
Tony rolled his eyes. “I said it’s nothing. Anyway I don’t figure I want to go up there by myself, y’know, so I’m not going to do it.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be there Saturday,” Mud said carefully. “But let me make a call or two. Maybe I can still be there for the graduation, and take part in the ceremony, even if I miss the rehearsal.”
“Yeah. Whatever. Suit yourself,” Tony muttered. He grabbed a huge handful of chips and looked away again. “So what’s the point of this golf deal anyway? Must be something big to get you off your ass on a Saturday.”
“Oh, you know, the memorial,” Mud said. He found it impossible to be offended by the litt
le jerk. “You typed all the flyers, remember?”
“Yeah, I know, the Vietnam memorial fund. I got that. It’s cool, I guess. But, I mean, what’s it mean to you? Why are you putting yourself out to do it?”
Mud breathed deeply, waiting for the old familiar pang of melancholy to stab at him. So often he almost forgot that the old man was gone, and then it would come rushing back to him, taking his breath away.
“My Dad was in the war,” he said simply.
Tony glanced sharply at him. “Oh, he died, huh? I’m sorry.”
“Yes, he died, but it was a few years ago, after he lived a pretty full life.” Mud grinned at the thought. “Too full, some might say. But the war was on his mind a lot. He made some good friends there. Carried some stuff around with him that he never told anyone, but I’d find him out on the porch some nights staring off and I knew he was thinking about the guys he knew who didn’t come back.”
Tony nodded solemnly. “That was some bad shit. I read about it in history.”
“Yeah. So anyway, I thought there’s probably other guys like him, or their kids, guys like me. Carrying around pieces of this war and having nowhere to go to, y’know, unload. So this memorial will be someplace to do that. The artist’s sketches, well, you should see all the marble, and these benches...”
Mud drew in the air, shaping the monument that had existed only as a dream for so long. “There’s not going to be any fences or anything, you can go right up and lay your hands on it, anyone who wants to.”
“That’s good, man.” Tony nodded, looking him in the eye again finally.
“Yeah.”
It was silent for a while, the two of them in their own thoughts, the faint street noises drifting in through the barely opened windows, along with the chilly spring air.
“So,” Tony finally said, sitting up a little straighter. “The other thing I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Uh huh.”
“I got the scholarship.”
The words sunk in slowly, giving Mud time to grip the sides of the chair in.
“The scholarship? You mean to State?”
The kid, if he wasn’t mistaken, was blushing. “Uh huh.”
“You got to be kidding. You mean all last fall when I was on your case about it, you actually filled the damn thing out and turned it in?”
Tony shrugged, rolling one broad shoulder and gazing down at his tennis shoes on the coffee table. “Whatever. You know, it was such a big thing to you, and all.”
“But—you’re going. Away. To State I mean.”
An idiot—that’s what he sounded like. Because he was an idiot. Of course the kid was leaving—he’d be crazy not to. Tony was smart. He knew the only things standing between the miserable circumstances of his life to date, and the dreams that no doubt existed somewhere in that tough shell, were hard work and education.
After all, hadn’t Mud been drilling that message home for months now? So...he had made a difference. Mud’s throat tightened, the emotions stifling for the moment anything intelligible he might have come up with to say.
He had made a difference.
And now Tony was leaving.
“That’s...that’s great,” he mumbled, without a lot of conviction.
“I guess.” Tony slapped his palms on his knees, then shifted a few times. The subject clearly made him just as uncomfortable as it made Mud. Abruptly Tony vaulted out of the chair. “Hey, I’ll get us a couple more drinks.”
Mud nodded dumbly.
Loss. That was the proper name was for the numbness in his chest, the emptiness in his gut. Which didn’t make sense. Mud never sought out anything long-term—it was deeply ingrained. Low expectations, low investment, low risk, that’s how the game was played. Sure, he’d helped out the kids before, and he’d felt good about it. But he’d always overseen their comings and goings calmly, without distress.
He didn’t mean to get so attached to the kid, but somehow Tony had got under his skin. Somehow his presence had come to mean something to Mud, something he’d never known he craved.
And now it was like the rug was being pulled out from under him.
Tony came back in the room and tossed him a chilled can.
Mud barely made the catch, his reflexes numbed along with everything else.
“Y’know, come to think of it, I’m going to get going,” Tony said.
“Oh, hey,” Mud managed weakly. He hauled his frame out of the chair. God damn it, why was he screwing up everything that came his way these days? He started to reach out to the boy, and then thought better of it, his arms falling awkwardly to his sides. “About what I said...I mean, in case I didn’t get the point across, I’m really, really incredibly proud of you.”
“Hey, don’t fall apart on me, Pops,” Tony said, but he didn’t back away. His grin widened as he clapped Mud solidly on the shoulder, then let his hand rest there for a fraction of a second. “No need to get all, you know, sentimental or whatever. I just figured, if I’m going to do this thing and all...there’s this girl I met in the honor society. I thought I might call her up, see what all she’s up to.”
“Oh. Oh! Say no more.” Mud sank gratefully back into the old chair. “A girl. That idea’s got a heck of a lot more interesting possibilities than sitting around here with me.”
“Yeah, sure does, no offense. But thanks, for, you know.”
“No problem.” Mud had to resist the urge to tell him again about the pride that beat out even the shock of losing Tony. “Have fun. I’ll let you know about the graduation, but don’t worry, I’ll be there one way or another.”
“Yeah. You and your connections.” The smile Tony gave him was high-wattage, toothy and almost innocent in the youthful face Mud had come to know so well.
Mud tried to return the grin. “Mr. Mover and Shaker, that’s me.”
Mr. Mover and Shaker. Hah. That was a good one. He’d managed to propel two of the best things that ever happened to him right out of his life. Tony had to move on, he knew that; it wasn’t up to Mud to try to keep him back.
But Dorothy...she had been his, almost. And he had pushed her away. He had crushed her spirit, had let the treasure of her love slip through his fingers like dust.
Long after the boy left, Mud slumped in the chair, occasionally flipping through the channels, never even noticing the images that flickered by. Eventually, he slept.
A blaring horn down the block caught his attention. Mud jolted upright, his eyelids feeling sticky and uncooperative.
One of his arms had gone to sleep, and the tingles of returning sensation snaked through his system.
The first light of dawn was just starting to filter into the room. Mud staggered out of his chair, tripping over the nearly empty chip-and-dip bowl. He’d been there all night.
All night, he’d stayed in that damn chair. Mooning.
Coward. Mud cursed himself, cursed every idiotic mistake he’d made in his life to bring him to this point, then tortured himself just a little more by letting the image of Dorothy fill his mind.
This was ridiculous. How had he let things come to this? He’d accepted defeat without a fight, given up the game before the final bell. Mud gave the wooden bowl a sound kick, sending it skidding across the floor.
It was time to act like a man.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dorothy gave the hem of her shorts a self-conscious tug. Miranda had been right about one thing—golf clothes weren’t what they used to be. Like a second skin, the silky shirt and shorts lightly snugged her body, skimming her thighs and drawing a number of second glances. She couldn’t help blushing as she struggled through the milling crowd of people towards the registration table.
The golf bag didn’t help, either. Dorothy had planned to choose something simple and small; after all, her skills didn’t really justify a full complement of clubs. Instead, Miranda had made her a gift of a gorgeous, and very large, bag with shimmering gold trim.
And a full set of custom clubs, which
at the moment seemed to weigh about five hundred pounds.
“Albright,” she managed as she arrived at the registration desk and dropped her bag with a thump. She smoothed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and wished she’d brought one of those little towels to press against her forehead. The day was going to be a hot one.
“Albright, Albright...” A young blonde woman with a groomed hair ran a manicured finger down a list. Naturally, even the volunteers working the registration desk were lovely. And Mud probably hadn’t even worked at that, Dorothy conceded reluctantly. Women adored him.
She adored him.
“Here!” the volunteer said brightly, handing her a packet. “Will Mr. Wellington be registering separately?”
“Right here, actually,” a deep voice boomed nearly into her ear. Dorothy spun around, losing her grip on the bag, and dove unsuccessfully to right it. The bag caromed to the ground, but not before it tipped Dorothy off balance, so that she landed on top of it, legs askew, breaking her last unchewed nail in the process.
“Oh, dear,” the volunteer chirped, staring down at Dorothy sympathetically.
“Here,” the deep voice came again, and Dorothy automatically accepted the hand that was extended. It was a nice, big hand, neatly groomed and wearing a heavy gold watch.
As Dorothy allowed herself to be pulled unceremoniously off her golf bag, her gaze travelled up the arm and found that it was attached to a sandy-haired man with a wry grin on his face.
“I’ve already registered, Miss. Matt Wellington,” he said, turning his gaze back to Dorothy. “Glad to meet you. Miranda tells me you’re quite an athlete.”
“I—um—” Dorothy stammered and attempted to dust off the back of her shorts with at least a little dignity, which was made more difficult since the volunteer was staring at them with undisguised interest. Or more accurately, at Matt, who was every bit as appealing as Miranda had promised. “You know Miranda?” she concluded weakly.
“Oh, sure. Her mom, my folks, they go back a ways. She offered to put in a good word for me so I’d get a decent partner this year. I can see she kept up her end of the bargain.”
