Two Under Par (2 page)

“Sure, sweetie,” Sally answered. “Well, Wedge, King—what do you think?”

“That's what I call a short honeymoon,” King said, laughing. “But I can teach Wedge all about miniature golf—how to run a course. We'll have a great time. Right, son?”

Wonderful, Wedge thought. He rose from the table and ran to his room. He was speechless. Speechless because he didn't know what to say. And because he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, nothing but a sob would come out.

W
edge locked his bedroom door (thank goodness he didn't have to share his room with Andrew) and lay on his bed, his head buried beneath his pillow. “I'm not going to cry,” he repeated over and over to himself. “I'm not going to cry.” But it did no good. And once the tears started they flowed free and easy. If body size has anything to do with the amount of tears a person has stored inside, I'll be here forever, Wedge thought absently. Maybe I'll even drown.

His drifting thoughts of self-pity were interrupted by a brisk knocking on the door. “Wedge? Open up, honey. Come on, Wedge. Let's talk. Please?” Sally's voice coaxed.

Part of him wanted to ignore Sally—leave her behind the locked door along with her stupid idea—but a larger part of him needed her. Needed her now. Wedge walked to the door, wiping a few tears aside on the way. “Wedge,” she said, motioning with her arms for him to be hugged when he opened the door. “Oh, Wedge.”

They worked their way over to Wedge's bed. Sally pushed his hair out of his eyes and rocked him—back and forth, back and forth—as best she could. She hadn't done this in years, and she knew she couldn't do it very long, considering Wedge's weight and her slender frame.

“I just can't be here with
him
. For a
week. Alone
.” Wedge's voice was squeaking. “I just can't. Don't make me, Sally.”

“Wedge, honey, his name is King and he's your father now,” Sally said gently. “You've finally got the one thing you've always wanted.”

“I want my
real
dad.”

“Oh, Wedge, let's not start this again. We've gone over it too many times already. You've never really
had
a father—and now you do. And King loves you and wants you to love him back. Let's be happy. It'll be okay. I promise.” Sally turned Wedge's face, their eyes meeting. “I promise,” she reassured. “And a promise is a promise.”

Wedge's tears stopped, but he didn't feel any better.

“I know everything happened so fast—me getting married, moving out here away from the apartment, and you getting a new father and brother. It's a lot.”

That's an understatement, Wedge thought, his sadness turning to anger.

“But think of Andrew—it's the same thing for him,” Sally said. “He's got you and me for a new brother and mother. And he never knew his real mother, either—she died when he was born.”

“I know,” Wedge said, thinking that that was all beside the point.

Sally explained once more how important she thought the trip was for all of them. She was trying too hard to be cheerful and Wedge sensed it. “And you two will have a lot of fun together. King's real funny.”

That's the problem, Wedge thought—he's embarrassing. Wedge suddenly felt bold. “Why did you have to go and get married, anyway?” he asked. Bolder and bolder. “You hardly even
know
him.”

“That's enough, Wedge,” Sally said, flustered. She flipped her coppery hair over her shoulder as she got up off the bed. “Let's talk happy.” She turned and looked at Wedge once more, her big, brown eyes glistening now. “I
really
want to make this work.”

The way she looked at him—her eyes about to tear—gave Wedge the chills. He'd have jumped off Gunther's Bridge or gone without eating for a month if she'd have asked him to right then.

“Okay, Sally.”

“That's my Wedge.”

Wedge watched Sally slowly walk out into the tea-colored light of the hallway. She blew him a kiss and forced a smile.

“Okay, Mom,” he whispered to her back.

Most of Wedge's belongings were still packed, the boxes stacked in crooked rows along the walls of his room and in his closet. Wedge pushed open the drape that covered the closet and pulled out a box the size of a small portable TV. He carried the box to his bed. Before he opened the box he locked the bedroom door again and pulled the window shade down. The room became dark and fuzzy.

The box and its contents were a secret—not even Sally knew about them. Hidden beneath the cardboard flaps were things Wedge had bought or collected. Things he would give his real father if he ever came home. Things Wedge could bring to him when Wedge was old enough to drive and could look for him.

Wedge fingered the objects. There was a set of miniature screwdrivers, a bottle of after-shave, and a pair of plastic pens that were covered in brown paper to make them look as if they were made of wood. Wedge had purchased these gifts at Jefferson Elementary. Every year before Christmas vacation, each class was separately taken to the gym, which was decorated like the North Pole. Some of the mothers and teachers' aides were dressed like elves. They sold small Christmas gifts at prices kids could afford—the proceeds going to build a new art room. Santa's Secret Shop, they called it. The first year they had it, some mother Wedge didn't recognize showed him the set of miniature screwdrivers. She wore a hat with a little bell that jingled as she talked.

“I bet your father would love this,” she said, smiling and jingling. “And it's only ninety-five cents.”

A lump rose in Wedge's throat. He didn't want to explain to the lady that he didn't even know what his father looked like. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I'll take it.”

That night, at home, he put the screwdrivers in a box and hid the box under his bed. Gradually he started adding to the box. These are gifts for my dad, Wedge thought. Gifts to show him how much I love him. Gifts to give him whenever he decides to come home.
If
he ever decides to come home.

Other things in the box included a baseball Wedge had found in the empty lot behind his old apartment building, on which he forged Robin Yount's autograph, and a complete set of his Sears pixie-pinups and school pictures he had recently taken out of Sally's photo album.

Wedge was putting the photos in chronological order, trying to pinpoint exactly when he started gaining weight, when he heard what sounded like a cat scratching at the door.

“Who's there?” he called, quickly tossing the photos back in the box, closing the flaps, and shoving it under his bed.

More scratching. And then a thin, mosquito voice that said: “Wedge? It's Andrew. You gonna come out?”

“Why?” Wedge asked. What do you care, anyway, you droopy little snotnose? he said to himself.

“Sally and Dad want all of us to play a game of golf together. Before Sally takes me camping.” He kept scratching at the door and trying to turn the knob. “Come on, Wedge. Afraid I'll beat ya?”

Wedge, still in his pajamas, sprang from his bed. “We'll see who beats who, Androop,” he said, pulling Andrew down the hallway behind him.

Wedge didn't beat Andrew. Wedge didn't beat anyone. He lost his temper on the third hole and quit. “This is a stupid game,” he complained, tossing his putter in the grass and walking away.

Wedge sat on the porch while King, Sally, and Andrew finished playing. He stayed there for more than an hour. Sulking. Pretending to ignore Sally as she packed the Volkswagen.

When Sally and Andrew were ready to go, Sally hugged Wedge and placed a note in his hand. It said:
I love you, Wedge. Thanks for helping me make this work. I'll call you every night—I promise. And a promise is a promise. Love, Sally
. It was written in Sally's familiar, loopy penmanship. Wedge crumbled the note, but placed it in his pajama pocket.

“Bye, Wedge! Bye, King!” Sally called a dozen times. “Bye, guys!”

King was waving goodbye so fast and hard his arm reminded Wedge of a windshield wiper.

“Bye, Dad! Bye, Wedge!” Andrew chirped. He wiped his nose on his sleeve before climbing into the car.

“Hey, Androop, don't you know what tissues are for?!” Wedge yelled from the porch. Without waving, Wedge watched the Beetle disappear down the long driveway.

Sally and Andrew were on their way.

And Wedge was alone with King.

K
ing Simpson's Camelot was open to the public each morning at eleven o'clock. Sally and Andrew had pulled away at approximately ten-thirty. So after Wedge washed and dressed, he had about twenty minutes to walk around the course before any customers might arrive.

King had asked Wedge to help him prepare for the day's golfers. “I'll teach you the ropes of the business, Wedge. You can wear my crown, and I'll even let you work the cash register.”

“No, thanks,” Wedge had replied, a hint of a snarl in his voice. “I think I was born with a low energy quotient, anyway.”

“Maybe later, then?”

“I doubt it.”

“Have it your way,” King had said, the pink splotches on his face darkening.

Wedge pretended he hated Camelot, but drifting around from hole to hole—surrounded by the castle on the eighteenth hole, knights with mechanical arms on the fifteenth, a dragon on the seventh whose spiked tail slowly rose and dropped blocking the cup, and the large silver swords that marked each tee-off mat—Wedge found himself fascinated. Drawn to it because metal knights were more noble than a particular stepfather. And a seven-foot castle more appealing than a new place to live. Especially when the new place was on the outskirts of town, miles away from your friends and from where you've lived your whole life.

Wedge circled the course twice, then sat by the side of the house, resting against the brick foundation. The sun was high and hot. Wedge closed his eyes and raised his head to the heat. It felt good as it soaked in.

The house had gray shingled walls and stood two stories tall. Between it and the course King had built a shed that served as storage for the putters and multicolored golf balls used on the course. It also housed the old cash register and the electrical switches that turned on and off the knights and the dragon, and controlled the large overhead lights used at night.

King was sweeping the sidewalk that led from the shed to the first tee. His thin fingers were like spider legs clinging to the broom handle. And his crown gleamed when the sun caught it a certain way. Wedge watched him and daydreamed. He wished he was someplace else. Anywhere.

The house, the shed, and the miniature golf course were nestled between two tiny groves, about a mile off Interstate 94 on Highway S. There was a McDonald's just another mile down the road; because of that, most of King's customers were families who got talked into a game of miniature golf by their children on their way back to I-94 after eating. It was the middle of summer, and business was good.

The sun grew hotter, so Wedge—wet with sweat—moved around to the shady backside of the house. He lay down on the soft grass, remembering the winter night, years earlier, when Sally had read him a story (he couldn't recall the title) about a knight who slayed a fire-breathing dragon. The pictures in the book were brightly colored—the dragon was blackish green and the fire that roared from his mouth was red and blue and orange. The paintings of the dragon scared Wedge back then, but he liked the feeling. Long after Sally had turned out the light and left his room, Wedge kept opening the book, stealing a peek at the dragon, and slamming the book closed in horror. The dragon seemed to move off the pages in the shadowy night.

Sally worked at the Mayfield Library, checking out books and shelving them. She often brought home picture books to read aloud to Wedge at bedtime. As he got older, the books got longer. Real chapter books that took weeks to finish and had to be renewed.
Winnie the Pooh. Charlotte's Web. The Wind in the Willows
.