Seaview (27 page)

In Hit and Throw Ball, one made every other shot by chucking the ball in the general direction of the green. If one was on the green when a throw shot came up, one simply bowled the ball at the cup. Sammy and Chip also played Cross Golf, Over and Under, Change, Back Ball, and other invented variations. Chip was waiting on the second tee, practicing his windup, when Sammy drove up in a power cart. Ordinarily, on a day as slow as this, Sammy would put his sign out on the door, but on this day the Chair had come in to work at the handicap cards and said he would watch things while Sammy went out to play. He was very nice about
offering to do it; it was that kind of day, and ever since the Chair's encounters in the fog he had seemed a little more relaxed, a little easier about himself. Bob Days, an electrician at the Air Force Station, was doing a little volunteer wiring at the clubhouse and said he would watch out for things too.

Sammy and Chip teed off, both electing to hit their first shots, and when it came to the second, Chip winged his off into the rough to the right of the fairway so that he could get to where the blueberries were. After Sammy had thrown his and they had had a friendly, joshing argument about whether Chip had thrown his ball out of bounds, they both got their balls to the green. Chip was one shot behind Sammy when they got there, so while Sammy had a bowl, Chip had a putt. Sammy missed his bowl, complaining that the green had not been well cut and that that had thrown his ball off. Then they argued about the quality of Chip's work on and around the green, joking and trading insults. Chip said that nobody who dressed as bad as Sammy did had any right to complain about anything that had to do with quality or taste. Sammy retorted as how Chip might do a better job once he got out of Cape Tech and became an adult. Things went on this way until they, like the others before them, reached the sixth tee and saw the ocean. They could not help themselves either, and they went to the edge of the cliff, said hello to the husbands and wives, and sat and looked.

The beach was crowded, but those on it were as still and awestruck as the ones sitting on the cliff above them. The only movement came from the curling of the edges of beach umbrellas in the breeze and the few children who played in quiet ways in the edge of surf. People sat in beach chairs looking out. Some stood, together or alone, facing the sea. It was so clear, the horizon at such a distance and yet a sharp clear line, that the sea seemed a contained massiveness, and as such dwarfed even the crowded beach, making it seem half empty. In the places between the colorful spread-out blankets and towels with the brown-and-white bodies lying on them, the sand was a clean tan, and
where it joined the surf, it darkened and opened, untouched and running as far as they could see to the left, until it hit against the escarpment that moved up to the promontory where the hard white lighthouse stood. Gentle and foamy whitecaps kept the children back, and beyond them the water turned blue, and as it went out and deepened it became emerald green. About two hundred yards out there was a finger of seaweed rising and shifting and lowering in the swell, and beyond the weed, where the water was blue again, long lines of variously colored lobster-pot buoys were bobbing.

The whales' river appeared so gradually that the watchers on the beach took no notice of it. Those on the cliff saw it coming, a broad white line of gentle turbulence snaking from beyond the promontory on which the lighthouse stood and stretching a good two miles before them, well to the other side of the pots. Then they saw the backs, the dark islands rising, lingering in slow movement along the coast, and sinking again. There was a glittering line in the air above the whales'river: gulls and terns riding the currents, diving occasionally in the whales' wake, lifting the bait fish that were stirred to the surface. The two lines, of whales and birds, continued far out, moving parallel to shore, and after they had passed a mile off to the right, they turned and headed seaward in the direction of Europe. When the drama was over, the watchers leaned back on the cliff's edge, realizing they had been tensed by the sight. The sea continued as if nothing at all had happened. Below where the whales had been were the shipwrecked hulls the comers to the New World had left. On a day like this, they might have risen to the surface and moved leisurely in to the shore. Today, there was a Japanese factory boat in the far distance, it was working the water with its indiscriminate nets. Two boats steamed around the lighthouse point and began pulling the lobster pots. There were no pleasure crafts on the sea, and this seemed right. Everything was serious, unconcerned, and real.

Back at the clubhouse, the Chair finished up with the handicap cards, got a cup of coffee, and went into the pro shop to see if
there was anything he could use his holdover winnings from last season to buy. Bob Days was there, working on a bad connection, and while the Chair checked out the shirts with the alligators on them and the various versions of the golf cap, they chatted about nothing in particular, and both of them greeted Barney Packett, another enlisted man, when he came in with four cases of beer he had gotten at the P.X. and fed the refrigerator in the small snack-bar area.

In the middle of the eighth fairway, across from the short ninth and the clubhouse, seven Canadian geese were moving around and pecking in the grass. They had drifted in at three in the afternoon. The adults were fat and sleek, and the young kept close to them. A few terns and a crane in from the edge of the sea moved inland lightly at times, the crane dropping down for a few moments to find food, then lifting away and sailing. From where the Chair stood at the window, he could see the whole of the short ninth fairway, from the tee to the two-tiered green only a few yards from the clubhouse to his right. The fairway was shaded a little by the building and the three pines standing back near Chief Wingfoot's park bench. John Reuss and Tony Worthington were lazily practicing on the ninth in the crisp air, and the Chair watched them. They would each hit a few balls from the tee, then stroll up and chip the ones that had landed around the green. When all the balls were on the green, they would putt the longest ones, joking and laughing lightly when a difficult one fell in the hole or came close. The two were in their early eighties. They had fine, casual, almost second-nature chip shots. Their game was very relaxed and very sure. They drove the short green not with conventional wedges but with low straight pitch-and-run shots, trickling their balls up through the fringe, rolling them into good positions on the green. Their clubs were old and well used. They fit their hands like good and familiar tools.

While the Chair was watching, Eddie Costa came into vision from the parking area and greeted the two players and joined them. Eddie was wearing baggy work pants and a bright red shirt.
John and Tony joked about his shirt, smiling and nodding to one another. The three laughed, and Eddie dropped a couple of balls on the green and putted them.

By the time Chip and Sammy were back to the path across the road from the clubhouse, five others had joined the three in their practice on the ninth hole, and the Chair was getting ready to go out there himself. The sun was moving away, but it was still very pleasant and dry, and the light breeze had shifted to the bay side, toned down a bit, and became warmer. Bob Days had finished his electrical work and had gone out to sit on the park bench and watch the casual players. Some of them were not playing at all but were standing around, joshing the others occasionally and talking, their putters and irons hanging along their sides, an occasional can of beer in hand.

As Sammy and Chip got to the road, a large silver Cadillac with Texas plates drove slowly in front of them, heading up to the parking area at the lighthouse. A man and a woman were in the front seat, both wearing cowboy hats.

“Hey! That was Roy Rogers in that car!” Chip sang out, grabbing Sammy by the arm and pointing after it.

“Texas plates, a Cadillac, and those hats,” Sammy said, “but that was not Roy Rogers.”

“Yes it was!” Chip said, “Yes it was! Old Roy and Dale on the move! Rhythm away from the range! Good old Roy and Dale for sure!” And he dropped Sammy's arm and trotted off up the road after the car.

“Roy Rogers, my ass,” Sammy said to himself, shaking his head and smiling, watching Chip trot up the road, slapping his thighs in little-boy horse-riding-play fashion. Then he crossed the road and went into the clubhouse, where he saw the Chair taking a seven-iron and a putter out of the club rack in the pro shop.

“What's up, Chair?” he said, still smiling.

“Going out back to hit a few,” the Chair answered, “no business while you were gone. Have a good round?”

“Okay, Chair. Hey, see you out there in a minute.”

Sammy went into the pro shop as the Chair left it, and by the time he got to the window and saw the crew gathered out on the ninth, the Chair had come around the side of the building and was already greeting this one and that one, asking about wives, children, putts and iron shots, complimenting and judging.

Sammy went back to the cash register, checked the day's receipts, and locked it. Then he got a beer from the refrigerator and headed out the door himself. Before he could go around the building, the Texas Cadillac pulled up in one of the parking places next to the clubhouse and Chip hopped out of the back door. He was grinning and winking; he opened the door on the driver's side, and a rather short and broad Texan got out.

“Sammy, this here is Bobby Lee Bando,” Chip said, “and this here is Melda Bando.” He indicated the rather squat woman in the squaw dress who got out of the other door. Sammy noticed the woman did look a little like Dale Evans, but he could see nothing of Roy Rogers in the man.

“Hi,” he said, and the man extended his hand.

“How you be?” the man said. “Nice spread you got here. Course looks good. Is it on the pro tour?” His wife smiled and looked around, nodding in agreement with her husband's comment. Sammy glanced at Chip. They both figured they would have to get that pro tour question on The List. Chip was a little off to the side and behind the Texans. Sammy could see him bobbing and winking, making furtive gestures.

“No, not on the tour yet,” Sammy said. “Come a long way?”

“All the way from Texas,” Bobby Lee Bando answered. “All right to look around a spell? Maybe hit a few?”

“Just closing,” Sammy said, “but you're welcome to come out back and chip a bit.”

Chip jumped a little when he heard Sammy's offer, and he stepped up and took the man and the woman by the arm, putting himself between them, and led them behind the clubhouse to where the others were gathered. Sammy was watching Chip introduce the two around when he heard a loud sputtering motor.
He turned to the road and saw Manny Corea pull his old pickup into a parking place beside the Caddy.

“Hey, Manny!” he said as he went to the truck. Manny indicated the truck bed with his head, and when Sammy looked he saw four good-sized buckets, two of mussels and two of quahogs, in the back.

“Can you use these?” Manny asked him.

“Hell yes!” Sammy said, “let's take ‘em around back,” and the two lifted the cans out of the truck bed and carried them over to the park bench where Bob Days was sitting.

The day was beginning to fade away, and the shadows of the three pines were extending over the fairway and touching the edges of the green. The Canadian geese were still pecking over on the eighth, but they were hard put to find patches of sunlight in which to shine. Though some of the men still pitched and putted, most were by this time standing in small groups and talking. A few came over to see what was in the buckets. Chip was herding the two Texans from group to group, and when the shellfish appeared, he brought them over to the park bench. They had not seen quahogs before, and Melda Bando wondered if they were good to eat. The men standing around the buckets assured her that they were better than that even, and Manny Corea suggested that they steam them up in the clubhouse.

“Anybody for mussels and chokers?” Sammy yelled out to the crew on the fairway and green, and he was answered with assenting calls. Bob Days said he would fix some lights, and he went to his truck. Bobby Lee Bando said he had some music, one hell of a stereo tapedeck in his Caddy, and while Bob Days hooked up some spots and floods and fixed them to the trees, Bobby Lee went to his car to select tapes. Chip and Sammy went in and put two of the buckets up to steam on the small stove in the snack-bar area. When they got inside and were alone, Chip let his agitation go.

“That's him! Old Roy!” he said, “That's him! That's him!”

“Hell, look at how short and fat he is,” Sammy said, “that's not him.”

“He's in disguise!” Chip said. “Traveling incognito! But pretty old Dale can't hide her cowgirl charms and beauty! That's her, did'ya see her?!”

“Looks like her,” Sammy said, “but, hell, that's not her.”

“Old Roy and Dale. Who – ha!” said Chip.

“You're nuts,” Sammy said, getting the buckets of shellfish going over the flame.

“Come here!” said Chip. “Watch this!” and he pulled the mildly protesting Sammy over to the door of the clubhouse, stuck his head out, and yelled.

“Trigger!”

Bobby Lee Bando was on the front seat of the Caddy with the door standing open, going through the tapes. When he heard the sharp yell, his head jerked up. Chip ducked back into the clubhouse, dancing around.

“See that! See that! Sound of the old hoss name! Dear old Trigger! Those little pistolas along his snout, stuffed and waiting for re-incarnation! My, oh my! Old Roy and Dale at Seaview!”

“Okay,” Sammy said, “I give up.”

They fixed the mussels and quahogs, adding some white wine to the broth and a few herbs that somebody managed to come up with. Bob Days got the lights up and on and carefully adjusted so that they lit the bench, the green, and a part of the fairway. Earl came in from his mowing, got his gallon jug of iced tea out, and joined the group. Bobby Lee Bando put a quiet Neil Hefti tape in the deck, with a Frank Sinatra backup. Chip was surprised at Roy's choice of music, but figured him for a low profile. The cases of beer were brought out to the park bench. A few of the men's wives, wondering why they had not come home, showed up and joined in. Chip and Melda Bando were the first to dance. They did a slow foxtrot, very gracefully and with considerable skill, around the flagstick on the lighted green. Eddie Costa grabbed his wife and joined the couple, but he kept just below
the apron on the fringe, not wanting to spoil the green's integrity. They ate the shellfish and drank the beer. A small cluster of men, with the Chair at their center, practiced and talked about various short-chip techniques in the middle of the fairway, at the edge of the lighted place. Bobby Lee Bando showed them a Texas grip he knew.