that fairly regularly with Shannon back in high school.
“What’d they want with a pumpkin?”
She lowered her paper and gave me the you-idiot look. “Halloween. The one night white folks believe in magic.”
“Do you believe in magic, Gus?”
She went back to reading the paper. “Says here porpoises can open those little plastic bags in produce sections at the grocery market. If so, they’re smarter than me.”
“I saw a boy in a space-man suit today. I wondered why he was dressed like that.”
Gus turned the page. “The tramp called on the telephone.”
“Is Wanda coming home?”
“You fool.”
“What’d she want, then?”
“Money.”
“She can’t have any. What did you tell her?”
“I couldn’t lie. I told her you was comatose.”
When a male says
First, I got together a six-pack of canned Dr Peppers, four clamps, and three clothes hangers. I poured the Dr Pepper on the lawn, straightened the hangers, and pulled the busted muffler out of my trunk. Hank Elkrunner taught me this trick. You cut the cans into pipe joints, rig up the muffler with the wire hangers, clamp it all down, and hit the road. Sometimes, I’m almost grateful to Caspar for banishing us to Wyoming. Rural competency comes in handy on Sunday afternoons when you can’t solve a problem by throwing cash at it.
After more or less fixing the muffler situation, I drove to a flower shop and ordered flowers for all the women I liked but didn’t want to sleep with—six arrangements for the three women who run Callahan Magic Carts, and Gus, Shannon, and Lydia. I sent them rubrum lilies and hydrangea, tulips and gladiolus. Basically cleaned out the place of everything with big blossoms.
I couldn’t decide on Maurey. A big part of why our next-of-kin-type relationship works so well is because we got the disgusting things over with early and now we can be open and above sexual tension. That’s what she thinks anyway.
Me, I don’t know. Most of the time, I buy the buddies deal, and I would never hint at thoughts of lustful affection on my part, but every now and then, late at night, I remembered how sweet she had been and how emotional I felt when I touched her. Maurey was the first. And best. She was the one woman I’d slept with I still loved years later.
When it came to the bottom line, in a nerve-racking moment of self-honesty, I didn’t send Maurey flowers. I hoped she wouldn’t catch the significance.
Don’t you just hate kids who work in country club pro shops?
“Skip and Cameron around?”
“Mr. Prescott and Mr. Saunders are on the driving range.” He arched an eyebrow and stared down his nose at me. “I doubt if the gentlemen wish to be disturbed.”
“Doesn’t matter to me what the gentlemen wish.”
“Are you a member?”
“Are you kidding?”
I watched for a few minutes from the relative safety of the putting green. The two represented more combative possibilities than Billy or Babe had. For one thing, I’d lost the advantage of surprise. Even the most urbane of men can be knocked off balance by “Hi, I’m the son you never heard of.” By breaking the news to their wives, I’d given Skip and Cameron time to work up a stance.
The very tall man swinging an iron would be number 56, Cameron Saunders. He wore rubber cleats, madras slacks, a dark blue windbreaker, and a cap that read Duke. He also had a grayish-black beard. Hardly any of these country-club-cracker, good-ol’-boy types grow beards. Superiority begets a clean image.
Skip Prescott had a sparrow hawk face. He wore steel cleats and tight tennis shorts over remarkably hairy legs. Rather than addressing the ball, he attacked it, blasting low bullets that shot off a hundred yards or so before slicing into a nearby duck pond. With every chop of his club, Skip grunted
I walked down to the Bull Run cart that held their golf bags. May as well start the relationships on an upbeat note.
“Hi, Pops.”
They stopped in mid-back swing to turn and stare at me. Cameron stooped and picked up his ball, then he walked over and stood next to Skip, whose face was blotchy red.
Skip set the conversational tone. “I ought to wrap this club around your neck.”
I spoke to Cameron. “Is he always like this?”
Cameron calmly unbuttoned the golf glove on his right hand. A right-handed golf glove meant a left-handed golfer. His voice was soft, purrlike. “If he feels threatened.”
“I’m not threatening anyone.”
Skip was bouncing up and down on his toes. “We castrate blackmailers in these parts,” he said.
“I’m not blackmailing anyone.”
We observed a moment of silence. That’s what males do in a power struggle. They’ve been taught the strong, silent type wins, so they practice competitive silence. I put on Hank Elkrunner’s blank face that he says only Indians and people who have been in prison can do. Skip’s eyes popped and sizzled in a mad-as-hell mode, but Cameron’s were blue ice cubes. Was like facing down a pit bull and a rattlesnake.
“Tell us what you want from us, then I shall bring my resources to bear and crush you,” Cameron said quietly.
Skip couldn’t wait that long. “Let’s crush the punk now. Who cares what he wants.”
This wasn’t what I expected at all. How could they be so angry? They created me; I never did squat to them.
“What do you want?” Cameron repeated. He was the slick member of the team. The hit man. He looked like a politician. Skip was nothing but aggression and leg hair.
“I only wanted to say hey to my daddies. Get a close-up look at you, give you a close-up look at me.”
Cameron crossed his arms over his chest, cradling the iron under his left elbow. “My position is to deny all charges. I told Mimi you are a damned liar, and if you spread this libelous tale to the media or any of our peer group, I shall sue you for every dime you shall ever have.”
I said, “I appreciate your position, but it’s horse manure.”
Skip more or less snarled. “He’ll never have a dime. Look at how he’s dressed, like a rag picker. Katrina says he drives a piece of junk. This punk ain’t nothing.”
I leaned one hand against the Bull Run and considered telling them what the Callahan Magic Cart decal on the right front panel stood for—I could have bought their silly sporting goods store and turned it into a 7-Eleven— but I decided that was none of their affair. These guys were totally blowing fatherhood.
“All day long I’ve been driving around town meeting your peer group,” I said, “and Skip, you must be the most unpopular man in the South. None of your friends can stand you. Babe Carnisek is ready to break your neck on sight.”
“Babe Carnisek is a loser.”
“Your own wife called you a pinhead.”
“Don’t you dare slander my wife.”
I gave up on Skip and returned to Cameron. “This pinhead is your business partner?”
Cameron seemed vaguely amused. “I cannot allow you to frighten my family.”
