Writers & Lovers(54)

The clubhouse at King Putt in Saugus is in the shape of a pyramid and the snack bar is a sarcophagus. I decided long ago that if we ever did play mini golf, I’d let Oscar win. I thought I should preserve John’s faith in his father’s invincibility a little longer. But once I get a club in my hand I know I’m not going to go the noble route. I’m in the mood for some glory today.

I fake lightness. For the first two holes I feign unfamiliarity. I’m not completely pretending. I’ve played miniature golf three times in my life. I’m sussing him out, though. I know he’s coordinated. I’ve seen him kick a soccer ball and crack my wiffleball curve into the neighbors’ trees. And I’ve deceived him. I haven’t told him about my years of golf because I knew it would make him curious. It always makes the athletes curious. They think they can beat me, and it ends badly every time. Then they either sulk or try to convince me to start playing again.

The boys hit first, John taking whole minutes to line up his shot and Jasper knocking the ball without thought, surprised when it flies out onto the parking lot.

I’m not very good at the start. The anxiety is at a steady buzz and the putter head is made of red plastic and the carpet is a mangled mess. But I get the hang of it. On the third hole I can it through Cleopatra’s Cave.

The three of them shout my name, gleeful. A stroke of lightning. I keep doing it. I can’t help it. Something takes over. I play the break of the scarab of the fourth hole and put it straight into the mouth of the asp of the fifth. So many years since I’ve held any kind of club. So many years since I’ve felt naturally good at something, good in an empirical, undeniable way that is not reliant on anyone’s opinion.

John is holding the scorecard. ‘She’s beating you, Papa.’

‘I know it,’ Oscar chuckles.

On the seventh hole, when both boys hit their balls into the Nile and run ahead to the shore where they will get them back, he says, ‘What’s going on?’

I shrug and take my next shot.

He shakes his head. ‘Look at you. The way you move. The way you curl over the ball.’

The bees are gone. Muscle memory has taken over, brought my body back to a time when it did not know panic, even under great pressure. Holding this cheap club has calmed me. I give him my first real smile of the day.

‘I played when I was a kid, and I was good. My father started calling me Casey, from that old poem “Casey at the Bat.” Do you know it?’

He shakes his head.

‘It’s just a cheesy poem he loved when he was a kid about a baseball player. Casey’s the best hitter on the Mudville team. And they’re down four-two and it’s the last inning and they have two outs but two crappy players actually get on base and then Casey gets to bat and the crowd goes wild. Strike one. Strike two. And then another swing. “And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout,” I recite in my father’s baritone. “But there is no joy in Mudville; mighty Casey has struck out.” ’

Oscar is delighted. ‘Mighty Casey.’

‘That’s me. Named for a guy who struck out when it mattered most.’

‘You secretive little prodigy.’ He nudges my shoulder. ‘I’ve got a friend up in Vermont who belongs to the Woodstock club.’

‘No thanks.’

‘It’s the best course in New England.’

‘I know it well. No thanks.’

‘Why not? Look at you.’ He keeps saying that. Look at you. ‘You love it.’

I walk ahead to catch up with the boys.

‘I’m just saying that if you have that kind of talent you should use it from time to time.’

I walk faster.

When we’re done, John tallies up our scores. I’ve beaten Oscar by nine strokes. We bring in our scorecard and the manager writes me up on the chalkboard. First place for the month. ‘I don’t think anyone’s going to top that anytime soon.’ I can tell he doesn’t believe it.

On the way home, the boys are sad I’ve beaten their father. They take it hard. Oscar tries to cheer all three of us up, but it doesn’t work. I have them drop me off in the Square. After the car is gone I sit down on a bench outside of Grendel’s. My head is ringing again. I can’t follow a thought. I feel like crying, but nothing comes. I sit and do my clenching, every muscle I can, over and over.

I have an hour till work, so I wander around WordsWorth. Darkness Visible is on the remainder table, and I pick it up. I’ve never read it before. ‘A Memoir of Madness,’ Styron calls it. Caleb is always giving it to his depressed friends. I start reading the first chapter. Styron has flown to Paris to receive a prize. He is certain he will not overcome the disorder in his mind. He has lost the ability to sleep, is riddled with fear and a sense of dislocation. The writing has that stark lucidity of someone trying to tell you the truest thing they know. The pages are small and I turn them one after the other and my insides burn in terrifying recognition. Paris is only the first chapter, only the beginning of his descent. I shut the book, wipe my face, and leave the store.





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