Two Under Par (5 page)

I
t was still dark when Wedge woke up. He had been dreaming. Dreaming about Sally's wedding. In reality, it had been a small ceremony at the courthouse in downtown Mayfield just two days earlier. No one came because that was the way Sally had wanted it. It had been only the four of them—Sally, King, Wedge, and Andrew. But in Wedge's dream it was different.

In his dream, Judith, Jackie, and Eric were there. The rest of Wedge's classmates were there, too. And so was a big, tall man wearing a black three-piece suit, a black cowboy hat, and mirror sunglasses. Wedge knew that the man was his real father. He had to be.

When the judge got to the part about vesting his power and pronouncing King and Sally man and wife, the cowboy jumped up, grabbed Sally, kissed her, took Wedge by the hand, and whisked them out of the courthouse. Outside, a silver limousine with Texas longhorns as a hood ornament was waiting. The three of them happily sped away, while Wedge's classmates cheered and King and Andrew stood with their mouths dropped open like big
O'
s.

Wedge had added the part about the limo after he woke up, but it was a good dream just the same. One of his best.

Wedge glanced at the Big Ben alarm clock on his dresser. Its small, round face glowed, so you could read it easily no matter what time it was. Three forty-five
A.M.
the clock indicated. Wedge knew he couldn't fall asleep again. He stared upward, remembering the dream and adding more details to it. The ceiling could have been the night sky, it was still so dark. Wedge was thinking up new dreams. Dreams in which scandalous things happened to King and Andrew. A grin split his face every few minutes.

Wedge got up and pulled on his Green Bay Packer slippers and his
Star Wars
robe. He quietly slid across the bedroom floor, went downstairs, stopped in the kitchen for some cookies, and ended up in the living room. He turned on the small lamp that sat on one of the end tables. It cast a yellowish glow around the room. Wedge had to admit that this room looked classy, although he'd never let on. Three of the walls were wallpapered; the other was painted the color of butterscotch. The wallpaper had outdoor scenes with pheasants and pinecones and ferns printed on. Besides the pheasants, there was some other kind of bird on the wallpaper, peeking out from between the ferns. Wedge didn't know what kind it was. The scenes were done up in shades of brown, orange, green, and a reddish color that looked like dried blood.

Scattered around the room were five brown leather bean-bag chairs. They reminded Wedge of squashed taffy apples. Or big brown balls that let out a deep breath and collapsed here and there on the floor, exhausted.

Wedge wondered who had picked out the wallpaper and the furnishings. It couldn't have been King, he thought. He doesn't have good taste. Wedge
did,
however, credit King for choosing the large framed print of a castle that hung smack in the middle of the butterscotch wall. The castle appeared to be suspended in pink and blue cotton candy. Sickening. In Wedge's opinion, it was the one thing that ruined the atmosphere of the room. He didn't know one painting could do so much damage.

Wedge wandered from room to room and discovered that he really liked the house. That is, when it was without the presence of the father-and-son mop handles. It would be perfect if this place belonged to just Sally and me, Wedge thought. Better yet—Sally and me and my real dad.

King's house was much bigger than Wedge and Sally's old apartment. And it didn't smell the way the old apartment did. Mrs. Erdmann, who had lived on the floor below them, always fried liver or fish and the odor wafted up through the vents. It even seemed to seep through the carpet. Also, Wedge was now spared the sight of Sally's decoupage plaques of the Morton Salt Girl. Sally had a whole set of them, plus matching Morton Salt Girl mugs she filled with dried flowers and placed around the apartment, even on the back of the toilet. “I don't like her watching me in there,” Wedge told Sally. He'd turn the mug around so the girl faced the wall. On some of the plaques and mugs the girl was old-fashioned looking; on the others, she was progressively more modern. “There's something about that little girl with her big umbrella that tugs at my heart,” Sally would say. Now they sat in a box in the hall closet. Thank goodness, Wedge thought.

Wedge got a few more cookies and went back to the living room. He arranged himself comfortably in the center of the largest bean-bag chair. He did some more figuring on his big idea. It was going to be great. Better than great.

Wedge's idea was simple and beautiful. Clean and smooth. He was going to pretend that he was sick all day long, so that when Sally called again at night and was told of his condition, she'd drive home immediately, putting a quick end to her vacation.

Wedge was quite accomplished in the area of faked illnesses. He knew all the tricks. More than once he had fooled Sally into letting him stay home from school. Most recently, he had convinced Sally that he had had the flu so he could avoid a geography test that he had forgotten to study for. The test was on the capitals of all fifty states. Wedge was only certain of Wisconsin and Illinois. He would have gotten an
F
for sure. So he heated the thermometer, groaned a lot, and mixed a concoction of cottage cheese, Parmesan cheese, Thousand Island dressing, and water. He dumped the concoction on the kitchen floor and knelt by it, holding his stomach when Sally came in for her morning tea. As usual, Sally was in a rush to make it to work without being too late and didn't have time to see through Wedge's trick. She let him stay home from school. “I'll call you from work, honey,” Sally said, dropping two children's aspirins into his hand. “It's probably just a little bug.”

So Wedge moved the portable TV into his room and spent the day in bed with Oreos, ice cream, Doritos, and his geography book. He ended up with a
B
+ on the makeup test the next day.

Sally was easy to fool on the mornings that she worked early. Wedge hoped King was just as gullible.

Wedge finally drifted to sleep in the bean-bag chair. And that's exactly where King found him when he came downstairs for breakfast.

The voice was gentle. “Wedge? Wake up.” The voice was oddly familiar, too, but Wedge couldn't quite place it. It always took him a few minutes in the morning to reestablish who and where he was. His eyes seemed like they had a film covering them; his head felt as if it were wrapped in gauze.

A hand landed on his shoulder and shook him softly. The voice again: “Wedge? Come on, son.”

Hearing the word “son” affected Wedge the way a cold glass of water in the face would have. He instantly remembered who and where he was. He rolled over and turned toward King, clutching his stomach. “I think I'm sick,” Wedge moaned.

S
pending the day in bed with provisions while your mother is at work is one thing, but having someone like King around to take care of you all day is entirely another, Wedge soon learned. It was worse than really being sick.

King kept checking on Wedge, leaving him little time to sneak food up to his room. He also insisted on giving Wedge the suggested children's dosage of Pepto-Bismol, which Wedge thought should be used to
induce
stomachaches rather than to comfort them, it tasted so thick and pink and awful. And King even considered taking Wedge to Doctor Harris after one of Wedge's groaning sessions.

Wedge dreaded going to Doctor Harris. “I don't think I'm
that
sick,” he said, deciding to quiet his groans a bit, realizing that there was a fine line between faking too much and faking the perfect amount. “I'm just sick enough to get Sally back,” he whispered to himself.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just want to be alone,” Wedge hissed, adjusting his pillow to cover some potato chip crumbs, in the hope that King hadn't spotted them. “Don't you have to get back to the golf course, anyway?”

“I'm not worried about the course, I'm worried about you. I hate to see you feeling bad.”

The back of Wedge's neck prickled. Something inside him was uneased when King acted kindly toward him.

King brushed Wedge's hair off his forehead and felt for a fever. Wedge instantly became stiff. King's thin hand was smooth and slightly cool. “Your temperature must be down. You seem better to me in that department.”

That's because I held my head against the electric blanket right before you checked me earlier, stupid, Wedge thought.

“If you need anything, just let me know,” King said lightly, tucking the blankets under Wedge's chin. “Remember, it's for better or worse, in sickness and in health.”

“You didn't marry
me
,” Wedge snapped. “I wish you didn't marry anybody.”

King looked at Wedge, his eyes piercing right through him for a few long seconds. Wedge couldn't tell what the look meant. It wasn't a sad look or an angry look or a hurt look. It was a look that seemed completely void of emotion.

“Listen, Wedge—” King began firmly. But then he stopped. He shook his head and walked out of the room, slamming the door.

By lunchtime Wedge was losing interest in playing sick. He had run out of potato chips, the only piece of candy left in his emergency supply in his sock drawer was a single Lifesaver sticking to one of his dirty blue argyle socks, and from downstairs he could hear the wonderful sounds of food preparation—the refrigerator opening and closing, the electric can opener humming, silverware clinking, and pots and pans clanking. Wedge could also hear King's voice, singing along with a song on the radio. It was the first time Wedge had heard King sing. The voice was clear and steady. Full and strong. The voice almost drew Wedge down into the kitchen, but the thought of getting Sally home kept him in his bedroom. Sally. When she wasn't his main concern, she was always at least on the edges of his mind. Especially now that she was farther away from him than the library. Farther away from him than she'd ever been before.
And
with someone else's kid. A droopy little snotnose, at that.

Wedge went to his sock drawer and picked the Lifesaver off his sock. It was covered with blue fuzz. He popped the Lifesaver into his mouth anyway. The taste was a combination of stale butter rum and smelly socks. But Wedge pretended it tasted like two Big Macs, a large order of fries, and a medium Coke.

King's puttering noises in the kitchen grew louder, it seemed to Wedge. And then a warm, golden smell floated up to Wedge's room, causing his stomach to flutter and turn cartwheels. Wedge had never been so hungry. Campbell's Chicken Noodle. That's what King was fixing for lunch. Wedge could tell. He could practically taste it. He wanted some. Badly.

Wedge chewed what was left of his fuzzy Lifesaver (so much for pretending to have McDonald's) and bolted downstairs.

“Wedge!” King flicked his head around with a jerking motion. He was stirring a pot of soup on the stove. Wedge had guessed correctly—it was Campbell's Chicken Noodle. King was wearing a cream-colored apron. At first glance Wedge thought that it probably belonged to Sally, but then he had never seen Sally in an apron. Cooking was not one of her strong points. “I'm a gourmet when it comes to Tuna Helper, macaroni and cheese, and peanut butter and jelly,” she would say.

“How are you feeling?” King asked, looking down at the soup.

“I think I'm good enough to eat something,” Wedge answered, still in the doorway, hanging back a bit.

“That's a good sign.” King sampled the soup. “Done,” he said. “How about a small bowl of soup, a cracker or two, and a glass of orange juice?”

Wedge nodded.

King walked into the pantry and came out with two bowls. “I'm making
real
chicken soup for you for dinner. But until then this'll have to do.”

King poured a small amount of soup into Wedge's bowl. Wedge was watching, hoping that King would fill the bowl. But he didn't. He didn't come close. The bowl wasn't even half full.

“I'll give you a choice,” King said, filling his own bowl to the brim. “I can fix a tray for you to take up to your room, or you can eat here in the kitchen.”

The kitchen smelled so good and was so sunny that Wedge said, “I'll stay here.” Wedge also thought that by staying in the kitchen he might possibly find an opportunity to sneak some more soup.

They dined in silence. Wedge ate as slowly as he could, trying to make his soup last as long as possible. He counted to one hundred between each spoonful, swishing the soup around in his mouth. It occurred to Wedge that it was a rare thing for him to be eating a meal at a real kitchen table. Back at the apartment, they only had had a Formica counter with stools that Sally referred to as “the food bar.” It also occurred to Wedge that he had eaten most of his meals alone (except school lunches). Before she married King, Sally had seldom eaten with Wedge, complaining that it was too hard for her to stick to her cottage cheese and yogurt diet while Wedge “gobbled up everything in sight.” So Sally usually ended up in front of the TV while Wedge sat at the food bar by himself.