in, ah’m afraid.”
I turned back then, and looked again. He was looking at his loafers as if he was wondering why he was wearing them. Again, I got the impression he just woke up.
“Awright, Mr. Wegener. I’ll fetch Barnard and be back.” He nodded and stood there, his hands loose at his sides, the years of hard labor and toil etched in the veins and deep scars running across the backs of his knuckles. One pinky was severed at the tip, its point shiny with scar tissue.
As I headed back toward the kitchen, I was still trying to process anyone turning down sweet tea in Alabama. It seemed almost rude. That was when I saw Barnard lying under the kitchen table. It was a vintage 1970’s table, metal and more metal, its stainless steel legs sturdy and relentlessly digging holes in Mom’s circa 1981 linoleum floor Dad never remodeled.
His muzzle was a mask of guilt and shame. Barnard lay there, his pink tongue an exclamation point, his eyes rolling up, his breath heaving in sighs, his tail slapping the floor without mercy or remorse. In his mouth was a cord, tattered at one end with “TORO” stamped onto a “T”-shaped black rubber handle. And then I knew why Mister Wegner had refused the sweet tea.
The Grass is Greener
Danny stretched his long frame, twisting his trunk and swinging his 3-wood with his right hand. He put it over his shoulders and locked his arms over the shaft, leaned over and twisted vigorously like he had seen a professional do. Was it Trevino? Maybe it was Fuzzy.
He watched as Vivian put the tokens in the ball machine. She forgot to put the metal basket under the ball feed. Balls bounced into the driving range. Danny just smiled. The sound of the balls bouncing on the concrete was hilarious. Besides, the wicked look from Vivian was priceless.
“Thanks. Are you just gonna stand there?”
“Nah. Just finishing my stretches.”
“You know, for someone who wants me to learn to play so badly, you sure are turning this into a real torture already.” He enjoyed watching her stoop to pick up the balls and deposit them in basket. It looked like a lottery in reverse.
“Well, I can’t afford a caddy to carry your bags and you gotta learn to use that machine someday.”
“No. No. I don’t. I would be just as happy driving the cart and counting the beers you drink.”
“Alright, look. Get over here and I’ll show you how it is done.”
Vivian picked up the last stray ball and set the basket besides Danny’s set of clubs.
Vivian looked down the row of 20 tee boxes and was astonished to see almost half were occupied by women. Many of them wore the bright colors of women accustomed to the game. She noticed that the elderly lady in the next tee box had pretty knitted covers for her longer clubs.
“How cute,” Vivian said, smiling at Danny.
“Yeah. Cute,” Danny didn’t even glance that way. “Come on. Concentrate. Don’t watch everybody else. It’ll just confuse you. It’s like watching people pee at a urinal.”
“Did you have to say that?”
“Get used to it. It’s not the gentleman’s game everybody says it is. I mean, look. Most guys come out here just to see how far they can clobber it.”
“So why am I here?”
“To see how far you can clobber it.”
“Sure, Romeo. Are you gonna show me or not?”
“Of course.” He pulled the driver out of the bag. He had purchased it from a pawn shop last week just for Vivian. It was older than dirt, scuffed, had a metal shaft and a worn grip. It was “well-loved.” Danny had unsuccessfully tried to shine the grass stain off the heavy copper bounce.
“What’s that one called?” Vivian asked.
“A driver.”
“Hmm. So the longer it is, the farther it goes?”
“That’s the idea. But it only counts if it stays in your fairway. So you have to learn to hit the ball straight. That is truly all that matters.”
“Sounds easy.”
“Yeah. That’s a common mistake.”
“So where do I start?”
“Well, first you put the ball down there on the mat. Right. On that fake tee. Ok. Now stand back here.”
He stood behind her and demonstrated the proper grip. He showed her how to execute a take-away and a down swing and follow through without the ball. The head of the club made a satisfying “tink” and “whoosh” as he felt the bounce hit slightly on the artificial turf on its revolution around. Vivian looked around at him, her eyebrows arched.
“How was that?”
“I did great.”
“Jerk.”
“Hey. You’ll be fine. We just have to keep up with Mitch and Liz. The company is buying the winning couple a weekend getaway. We can’t lose.”
Vivian turned to look at him, the driver held over her shoulder like a rifle or a shovel.
“Mitch has really gotten under skin, huh?”
Danny didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m just tired of him winning all the time.”
“You mean the office pools, the March Madness thing or the Citywide Little League championship when you were little?”
“Go ahead. Tease all you want. Mitch is going down this year. Hon, you are my secret weapon.”
“I wish you would tell your Mom that.”
Danny laughed appreciatively. He helped her with a few more pointers while standing behind her. They practiced a few more swings. He made sure she kept her hands ahead of the shaft until they came back to the starting point.
Danny was enjoying this. The sun. The freshly mowed grass. The country club atmosphere was intoxicating and relaxing. The wind smelled of nectar and dew. The view looking out over the bay was absolutely stunning. And Vivian was a vision in her pink sleeveless athletic fit polo and tight white skirt. He had to admit, the first year of marriage had been rough. When he looked at her at moments like this, though, he felt the struggles had been worth it. He was confident that they would win the getaway and it would be a romantic success. All they would need is a sunset and some horses.
“Ok. Ok. I think I got it. Can I just hit the ball now? ”
Danny pulled himself out of his reverie. “Alright, slugger. Go ahead.”
And she did. She brought the big wood-headed driver back in a bright arc just as Danny stepped away.
The last thing Danny remembered was how sweet the grass smelled on a sunny day. It was the smell of victory, he was sure. It was Nature’s essence of success, its culmination of fertility, beauty and accomplishment.
Danny did not even flinch as the driver careened into the base of this nose at over eighty miles an hour. He was unconscious for twenty minutes.
As Vivian stood over the prone, unmoving form of her husband, she said in a pained whisper, “Fore!”
Jake Monday
What Jake really hated about Mondays was that it meant he had to go back to killing again. He felt the weekend was a great getaway from the hustle and bustle of the weekday drudgery of being a high-end assassin for the Galbraith Alliance. On weekends, he especially enjoyed playing volleyball on the beach and slamming the ball like a heated missile toward some bikini-clad co-ed. He loved watching the skin turn pink where the ball ricocheted off their forehead or thigh.
As he headed for the office at the top of the Galbraith Tower, he daydreamed about the past weekend. He and his pal Gary Talbot from the office spent twelve hours soaking up the sun on Gary’s new girlfriend’s two million dollar yacht. They were surrounded by beautiful women, powerful and rich business men and cobalt colored ocean that stretched on to the end of the earth.
Jake wanted the weekend to go on forever. He enjoyed the spray of the salt water as he watched the moon rise in the darkness. He loved the way the inky darkness of the night sky sparkled against the gently rolling waves. He became transfixed by the way the moon reflected off the peaks of the waves as they slapped against the brilliant whiteness of the sixty-five-foot Sea Spray.
 
; Standing at the bow, holding a cold drink in his hands, feeling the humidity moisten his linen shirt, Jake could almost forget the past week. He so desperately wanted to forget it that the escape that Gary offered late Friday night came as a welcome invitation. Normally, Jake avoided Gary on the weekends. Gary tended to party a little too much and often pushed the limits of their secrets.
Jake stopped in at the café in the first floor lobby. He scanned the menu. He stared at the pretty head in front of him of some new co-worker he noticed last week. Gary constantly griped at him about his date choices. Gary seemed to always land dates with supermodels, movie starlets (usually just as they flamed out), CEO’s of magazines and other more powerful—and rich—ladies of various ages. Gary claimed once that he would date someone as old as sixty-five if she were interesting, driven and passionate. Or rich, of course.
“I’ll take a poppy-seed lemon muffin and an espresso,” the girl said. She pulled her auburn hair behind her ear and half-turned. Jake could tell she was a field agent. She scanned the lobby efficiently. He knew she was counting. The drill was too familiar. Suddenly, he felt ill.
He looked at the menu again, swallowing hard and gripping his key ring in his front trouser pocket. He glanced back at the girl—Hallie, he remembered. Her black wool jacket was open in the front and he noticed the large bulk under her left arm. Packing in public was not discouraged, he knew, but only someone newly out of boot camp actually kept a firearm in such an obvious position. Jake felt the sudden urge to reach around her back and take the Browning he