FREE on Amazon Kindle, March 25-29.
Number Seventeen: FDR
The most striking aspect of this one
is that Blaine has portrayed the President in his wheelchair – a pretty radical
move for 1960. The choice of Roosevelt is not a surprise – Blaine was a
lifelong Democrat – but the dedication is notable. The piece shows the same
signs of “working” as Marilyn, indicating a wholly original work. The green
features a model of the White House, a door sliding back and forth over the
main entrance. A mistimed shot hits the door and rolls back toward the tee. A
shot to left or right drops into a tunnel with a less advantageous route to the
hole.
David returns home, late at night, to
industrial sounds emanating from his garage. He finds Elena flat on her back,
pressing a lightly weighted free-bar. She slides it onto the holder and
shuffles to a sitting position.
“This must look pretty wimpy to a
veteran.”
“Not at all. You should always err on
the light side. I gotta say, I’m impressed by the way you’re sticking with
this. You look healthy.”
“Thanks. I suppose it was time to do
something that wasn’t a reaction to a man.”
“That’s when it sticks – when you do
it for yourself.”
She smooths a hand over her biceps
“Just the same. Would it matter? If I
was… sexy again?”
David takes a long breath.
“No.”
“So you’re in love with her.”
“Yes.”
“Yet another thing I’ve done to
myself.”
He pulls up a milk crate and sits
across from her.
“You’re not really losing me. We’re a
family. I even like to think we’re friends.”
Elena lets out a gasp of air and
wipes the back of her hand over an eye. She looks away, embarrassed. David
folds his hands.
“I’ve asked Thomas to draw up the
papers. Legally, I’d like to retain half-ownership of the house, but I want you
and the boys to live here as long as you want. I’m moving in with Abbey, maybe
right after school’s out. I’m telling the boys to drop by any time they want.
Well, it seems like I see a lot of them, anyway.”
“You’re a good father, David. I’m
glad you… made up for me. Just… could you leave me alone for a while?”
“Sure.” He leaves, trying hard not to
look back. He closes the door and hears the clank of the weights.
David and Abbey have been
extraordinarily good at hiding their relationship at school. They suspect that
everybody knows, anyway – 21st century teens being supernaturally
adept at transmitting gossip -–but both are determined to maintain the façade
of their hard-won integrities.
This, however, is an opportunity that
David cannot pass up. It’s lunchtime, Abbey is standing above a canal that runs
behind the school, and she is absolutely alone. He comes behind and grabs, just
to hear her squeal, but he hasn’t fooled her at all. She turns and delivers a
kiss that she saw once in a Katherine Hepburn movie, then releases his lips and
smiles.
“Hello, Mr. Falter.”
“Hello, Mrs. Sparling. I have asked
my wife for a divorce.”
Her eyes open wide.
“You… Really?”
“Yes. I have.”
She’s been trumped, chills racing her
neural tracks like tiny motorbikes. But she holds one last card in her back
pocket.
“Are you aware, Mr. Falter, that one
may sit at the windows of the third-floor chemistry lab and see absolutely
everything that occurs in this particular spot?”
David turns to see the offending lab
– and three young faces at the window.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Sparling.”
And walks away.
Abbey finds herself laughing hysterically.
“Goodbye… Mr. Falter!”
David pauses at the crest of the hill
to perform, in the direction of the chemistry lab, a formal Shakespearean bow.
Perhaps it’s an old-school attitude,
but David takes a defensive posture toward technology. He turns off his cell
phone just before class and leaves it that way until he’s done with his job.
Especially today. Battling the
distractions of a March warm spell, he has pulled out an old favorite: the
crucial role of coffee in the American Revolution, Thomas Paine and his cohorts
filling London coffeehouses with ideas of mechanics, equality and Athenian
democracy. The world’s coffee capitol has since moved to Washington state –
these kids would take it with an IV if they could – so he knows that he’s
preaching to the choir.
The lecture is so effective, in fact,
that David has to dash to the teacher’s lounge for a “faculty fix” – half a cup
of java, cooled off by three ice cubes for quicker consumption. As the ice
disappears, he hits the power button on his phone and receives a text from
Pablo: 2nites the nite! 6 pm
Someday soon, the texting craze will
finally eliminate all those ridiculous Gaelic gh’s. He bolts his half-cup and
smiles.
Six p.m. is gorgeous. He stops at the
gate and looks westward, where the sun and the horizon have conspired to throw
a tangerine veil across the sky. He follows it up and tries to find the spot
the orange gives way to the blue. He finds himself doing these kind of things
more often, a clear symptom of being in love. It could be that sacrificing
Elena has pushed him from the edge of the cliff. It’s a grand flight.
Inside, the lot resembles one of
those Matthew Brady photos of Civil War camps, a jumble of white tents. Someone
has planted a snake-line of sand-filled candlesacks, but it’s hardly necessary.
Hole 18 is right up front, opposite Macchu Picchu. Its’ tent is larger than all
the others, filled with laughter and glowing from the inside like the tooth
fairy’s campsite.
He steps inside to find all the usual
culprits, gathered at round white tables, feasting on razor clams (the casino),
Hawaiian pizza (Laney’s), Gillian’s famed snickerdoodles and a wide arrangement
of microbrewed beers. Gerry Kolder hands him a Deschutes porter and slaps him
on the back.
“David! Good to see you.”
“Is that a cold beer or…”
“A Kolder beer? Yep, never heard that one before.”
“So how’s the lake?”
“Until recently, rainy as hell.”
“Hope we’re not cutting into your
fishing.”
“Wouldn’t miss this.”
David gives the room an all-purpose
wave and heads for his seat, which is, at all times, to the left of Abbey
Sparling. He sits and gives her a smooch as Charley Nations, clothed in a white
fringe cowboy jacket, wraps up a tale.
“This aroused much curiosity, of
course, so we called the sheriff. It turns out that Mr. Corralitos had
bankrolled his magical session of craps by making a large withdrawal from a
bank in Vancouver – at the point of a gun.”
The table roars its approval. Charley
raises a finger.
“It is not always so lucky… to be so
lucky.”
“Peo-ple! Peo-ple!”
This is Pablo, standing at the base
of the mound, making like an aerobics instructor. The room grows quiet in a
denouement of shushes and giggles.
“All right. You are all members of
the inner circle, you all know why we’re here tonight, so I will keep this short.”
Sarcastic applause.
“Ha-ha. Very funny. Ruffians. Let me
just say that this has been like the greatest treasure hunt ever, and I’m almost disappointed that
we’ve come to an end. There are a lot
of people who have made this possible, notably the Pizza King of Ocean Shores,
but I’m fairly certain that no one will object if I give the honors to the son
of our designer.”
Thomas stands to applause and
smartass remarks. He makes a show of taking off his sportcoat, rolling up his
sleeves and spitting on his hands. He grips the sledgehammer, says, “I’d like
to dedicate this at-bat to my Little League coach, Mr. Skyler,“ then raises it
high and punches a hole in the adobe shell, a foot up from the base. Derek
snaps a photo.
“Have to it, men!”
The rest of the process is
well-rehearsed. Using hand-shovels, pry-bars and hammers, the men break the
adobe-turf composite into chunks and deposit them in the open areas at the back
of the tent. As the sand slides into new territories, the top of the pile
descends, revealing a feminine face and torso. Thinking quickly, Pablo picks up
a grocery bag and hides the subject’s identity. As the men clear the sand away
from the figure, the guessing game begins.
“Ava Gardner?”
“I’m betting Katherine Hepburn.”
“How ‘bout Eleanor Roosevelt?”
“Not enough of her.”
“I know! Amelia Earhart.”
“In a dress?”
“What? You mean she never wore a dress?”
Soon they have her all cleared away,
a woman of medium height and figure in a forties-style suit and skirt. In one
hand she holds a carnation, in the other a small handbag bearing a Celtic
cross. David’s guessing Myrna Loy, or Judy Garland.
Pablo hands Thomas a whisk broom.
“Are we ready?”
“Well ain’t this a fun little
whodunit?” He takes his position on the sand.
Pablo takes a corner of the bag and lifts.
From his vantage David sees a shoulder-length pile of curls, a small, slightly
upturned nose; a shy, charming smile and round, alert eyes.
Thomas adjusts his glasses and
performs a careful study, then, caught by some puzzlement, raises the whisk and
brushes away the remaining sand. He locks on the eyes and goes perfectly still.
Gillian comes to his side.
“Thomas?” Then she freezes, too, and
presses his hand. “Oh, Thomas.”
Gillian pulls a chair into the sand
and eases him into it. He gazes up at the woman as if he, too, has become a
statue. Gillian kisses him on the forehead, gestures to the rest of the party
and leads them from the tent.
They gather in loose circles at the
front gate, sipping beers, smoking cigarettes and talking in library voices.
David looks for Abbey but finds Derek, who seems, for once in his life,
perplexed.
“Dad? What’s going on? Who is that?”
David places a hand on the back of
Derek’s neck and gives it a squeeze.
“I believe that’s his mother.”
Photo by MJV
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