by Ann Hood
“Ah, you were, weren’t you?” said Marla, but she seemed a little more amused than Brent. She often said that she thought Sri was “delicious.” Sussannah would tepidly agree, carefully concealing her truest heart.
“You can’t fuck someone who’s in EH,” said April, stepping from behind some curtain like Polonius, as usual. “It’s against the rules.
“Shut up, April,” Sussannah shot back. “Why don’t you tell us where you fucking buried Sri’s body?”
“Why would I want to kill Sri?” replied April, and then she sniffled. “He was the only one of you who was nice to me.”
“God, I can’t believe you did it with Sri, you sly little girl,” said Marla. There was an edge to her voice. It occurred to Sussannah that maybe Marla liked him too. But had just restrained herself better. Or did so in the name of their friendship, to keep them all together. Or had been too scared and timid. Who knew?
And what kind of friends were they all, Sussannah wondered, if they couldn’t show their true selves to each other?
She thought back to that summerlike Saturday in September—they’d gone on a road trip to Newport, spent a day at the beaches, ate seafood, and headed back to Providence in the early evening.
“That was fun, but I think I might be sunburned for the first time in my life—take me home!” Sri had howled. Marla had busted out laughing.
“What?” said Sri. “Is my pain that funny to you?”
“You said home. When I say home, I mean Clayhatchee.”
“I dunno. I guess I now think of Brown as home.”
“Environmental House is where the heart is . . .” said Brent.
And then they’d started singing “Country road, take me hoooooome . . .” in their cheesiest voices. Sussannah could swear she felt the car lifting with their energy. And they’d had that feeling, the one that overcame them sometimes, like they were in the movie of their own lives. A brightly lit comedy. Happiness, the future, all on that road in front of them.
* * *
“Holy shit,” said Brent. “Holy fucking shit.”
“Look what the cat dragged in,” said Al, grinning from ear to ear, like he’d just caught the biggest fish at a fishing derby.
“Sri—” said Brent. “Sri?”
It was Sri, but he looked like a middle-aged janitor; Sansabelt slacks, plastic sandals, a Stuffies Quahog Chowdah T-shirt. His beautiful hair was cut short, shorter than the Boston detective’s, his face, as if in compensation, a cactus mess of stubble.
“Sri,” said Marla.
Sussannah was stunned into silence.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m Sri. And you are . . . ?”
* * *
“I thought amnesia only happened on soap operas,” said Brent. “As a convenient plot point.”
“Apparently not,” said Sussannah. A little accusingly, she added, “And you never noticed him all that time you were at that homeless shelter?”
“I wasn’t there for the shelter, I was there for the obesity clinic,” he replied tetchily.
“But it was in the same building, Einstein.”
Apparently that fateful night, for whatever reason, Sri left the SciLi in a rush, loped down College Hill to the tiny park that overlooked the city. In the dark he tripped, fell into a puddle. Ritalin and alcohol and sugar, not a good combination. A few minutes later, he tripped again, and this time hit his head.
When he was brought in, the ER docs saw a drunk with no ID and, as was typical, booted the inebriated man to the homeless shelter, where he remained, affable but memoryless, looking like any of the dozens of brown-skinned men who inhabited the place. Until the day he saw Al in his Brown University medical student coat, which reconnected a neuron or two, and he said, “Hey, I go to Brown.”
* * *
Bits of Sri’s memory came back, like the Tetris game he’d helped his friends with. Sussannah sometimes thought she saw that look in his eye. It took all of her will not to ask, Do you remember us having sex?
Whether he remembered or not, the damage was already done. The senior year housing lottery had come and gone, and Brent, Sussannah, and Marla had pointedly each pursued their own options. Marla was going to the Young Orchard Apartments, Brent was living off campus with Al, Sussannah was going to be a counselor in a dorm. Sam was graduating (going to film school), April would be moving to hospice. Environmental House would be Sri and whoever the new people were.
* * *
Sussannah and Sri were walking down Thayer.
“Are you Sri Patil?”
They turned. A man in a dark suit and sunglasses. Sussannah instinctively stiffened.
“FBI,” the man said, showing them a badge.
“Am I under arrest?” This was part of a liturgy Sri had memorized, that he’d been told could keep you from getting busted for pot. “Am I under arrest? Am I free to go? I do not consent to being searched.”
“You’re not under arrest,” the man said, smiling a little. “I just want to talk to you.” He motioned that Sussannah should scram. She felt reluctant; she didn’t want to leave him.
“It’s okay, I’m not under arrest,” he said softly.
Sussannah forced herself to turn and walk away. What it was, she realized, was that she was in love with him. For him, she’d lost her best friend—both of them. And you know what? She’d do it again. What an unimaginable gift it had been when he’d reappeared, and she knew right then it would be him. No matter what. Even if he never remembered her, she’d stay by his side. She’d wait.
Sri whipped around, yelling, “I remember! I remember! Sussannah!” And he started to run to her. She turned, her face blasting open with the stupidest smile, her arms opening.
And for reasons that no one seems to know, will probably never know, because those in power don’t have to tell anything when they declare that an incident has to do with “terrorism,” that’s when the FBI agent drew his gun and shot the running Sri right through the heart.
$1,000 NASSAU
BY THOMAS COBB
Triggs Memorial Golf Course
He was on the third tee at Triggs Memorial when he slid his left thumb to the right side of the grip, strengthening it. He swung hard, a little harder than usual, and watched the ball come off the tee, sailing upward and out before it started to draw to the left as he wanted, then turn harder, through the trees and over the chain-link fence and onto College Road. “Shit.”
“Your little draw grew up, didn’t it?” Victor said. “And looks like it ran away from home.”
He shook his head slowly. “It does that sometimes.”
“Looks like it wanted to go to college,” Don said. “Can’t blame it. Lots of pretty girls over there.”
Bobby took another Titleist from his pocket, teed it up, regripped the club, sliding his thumb back to the center of the grip, and sent the ball down the right side of the fairway, drawing back to the middle. “Why didn’t I do that the first time?” he said, anticipating the likely response. He walked off the tee and watched Don and Victor send shots down the middle, Don’s twenty yards short of his, Victor’s back another ten or twenty yards. “Good shots,” he said. “All of us.”
“Except we’re lying one and you’re lying three.”
“That’s okay,” Bobby said. “I’m all right.”
“You all right to increase the bet?” Don asked.
“I don’t know if I feel that good.”
“You think he’s playing, us, Vic?”
“First bad shot he’s hit, Don.”
Don went to his bag, took out a cigar case, extracted a cigar, already unwrapped, clipped the end, and lit it, expertly toasting it to get an even light.
“That smells good.”
“Because it is good. Montecristo No. 2. Straight from Havana, Cuba.”
“Nice,” Bobby said. “Hard to come by.”
“Nothing’s hard to come by if you have the right connections. I have the right connections. You want one?”
Bo
bby hesitated, tempted. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
Don nodded. “On the bet too?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“A thousand.”
Bobby paused, waiting to make sure the hook was set. He had been on the practice green for over an hour when Don and Victor showed up. They were older guys, well dressed, good equipment. He figured a grand each for the outfits and shoes, more than that in the bags. He had watched them chip and putt as he did too, for about fifteen minutes, before he went into the clubhouse to see if he could be sent out with them.
He had been through a rough couple of weeks, blocking tee shots for some reason he couldn’t quite put a finger on. He had been playing in Connecticut and Massachusetts. A fellow at a course in Massachusetts had told him about Triggs in western Providence, a Donald Ross course, once the Providence Country Club, now a public course with a lot of old money and a lot of old egos.
He was broke and he needed a score, and Triggs Memorial seemed like the place. He had played it three times earlier in the week, his swing gradually straightening out, and figured he knew the course well enough to make a play.
“Don and Victor?” Stan at the desk had asked. “They’re good.”
“How good?”
“Victor is a ten handicap, maybe. Don’s about a seven. Be careful with them.”
“That sounds good to me.” Bobby was officially a five, though it was a carefully managed five. He could be scratch easily if he didn’t keep the handicap up where he wanted it. He gave up the last of his money, except for fourteen dollars for the greens fee and a cart. On the first tee they had exchanged the information. Bobby had suggested a hundred-dollar Nassau—a hundred to the winner of the first side, another hundred for the second side, and a hundred on the total score. Pretty simple, pretty conservative. If they didn’t take the bet, he would have to beg off and wait for someone else. He didn’t play for free.
“I don’t know,” Victor had said. “Young kid like yourself. Probably hit the ball a ton. How about you against both of us? We’ll play a better ball, our best score against you.”
“We’re within three strokes of each other. That gives you a huge advantage. Odds are at least one of you is going to play pretty well on every hole. I got to beat that.”
“You’re young and I’m figuring you’re a little bit better than a five. I think it’s a good bet.”
“I need a lot of incentive to pull this off.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred?”
Don and Victor exchanged looks, then Don nodded. “Done. Five hundred–dollar Nassau.”
They had played even on the first two holes, birdie, par. Now he was in the fairway of the third in three. He would lose the hole and go one down. It was exactly what he wanted.
“We’re up by one,” Victor said.
“Maybe Bobby Boy here would like to increase the bet. Say, a thousand.”
“A thousand?” he asked.
“That’s right. You’ve made your mistake. Don’t figure you’re going to make a lot more from here on out.”
With no money, he could afford to lose only one of the bets. He had to have at least one very good side and a decent score on the other so that he would take two of the three bets, win a thousand, and be on his way. If he didn’t, he was in trouble. He didn’t have the thousand, and he hadn’t had the hundred, either. Neither did he have an obvious way to get it. He was pretty much tapped. He would need to lose a couple more to make it convincing, which meant he would have to win four or five holes by at least a stroke. That was doable. “Okay. Fuck me for a fool. A thousand.”
“Oh yeah,” Victor said. “Now we got a game.”
Bobby bogeyed the third, Don and Victor each parred it, Don lipping out his birdie putt, then giving Bobby a smile. They played the par-three fourth hole even, Bobby and Don birdieing it, Victor parring. They did the same on the fifth, with Victor getting the birdie to match Bobby’s.
At six, he was still one stroke down, feeling pretty good about the way this was going. Don and Victor had the tee, and both put good shots into the middle of the fairway just beyond the beginning of the dogleg. Bobby teed his high and hit a long fade that took the turn and left him little more than an eight iron to the green.
Bobby dropped his eagle putt, Don parred, and Victor bogeyed from the fescue in front of the green. Bobby picked up two strokes and went one up.
On the seventh, Don made the birdie to tie Bobby. On the eighth, Bobby’s tee shot ended up in the rocky burnout in the right rough, and he carded his second bogey. Don and Victor both parred. They were even after eight.
On the ninth, Bobby’s drive put him just in front of the green, forty-five yards out. Both Don and Victor were behind him some forty yards. Don got his second shot to within fifteen feet, Victor was at the very back of the green thirty-five feet away. Bobby followed with an easy wedge to within six feet. Victor lagged to within five feet, but Don put his in for a birdie. Bobby had an easy six-footer with a little right-to-left break at the end. His ball rolled toward the hole, hopped on an old ball mark, and lipped out.
“Damn. Did you see that?”
“One of the drawbacks to a public course, my friend,” Don said. “One of the drawbacks. And there are a few. Lots of people here don’t bother to fix a ball mark, replace a divot, nothing. You got to watch your ball like a hawk, or someone will pick it up. Balls just vanish into thin air.”
“Into pockets,” Victor corrected. “No fucking respect for the game.”
They went past the clubhouse to the tenth tee. Bobby was one down on total strokes, and he had lost the front side. He was a thousand dollars down, and could only take the lead by winning the back by at least two strokes, taking that side and the cumulative too. He would have to win at least three holes and not lose any.
“How you feeling, kiddo?” Victor asked on the tenth tee.
“I’m feeling all right,” Bobby said. “Thanks for your concern.”
“Not just a little bit nervous? A little angry? I’d be pissed off if two old futzers had just taken a thousand bucks out of my pocket.”
“You haven’t gotten it yet.”
“No, but we will. Come over here.” Victor motioned toward his bag. “You get nervous, need something to do, help yourself.” He unzipped a pouch in the bag. “The cigars are right here. Right here, do you see?” There was the black cigar case, and next to it, Bobby could see the walnut grip of a revolver. “You see?”
“What’s that?”
“Cigars. What, you think we’re going to shoot you if you win? No. I want you to see where the cigars are. Help yourself. Maybe that’s just a lighter, you know? A gag. You got nothing to be worried about.”
Don walked over. “You’re worried? It’s a brand-new nine. You’re down a stroke. So what? This is a Nassau. You still win a grand if you beat us by at least two strokes on this side. What are you worried about?”
“You do have enough to cover the bet if you lose, don’t you?” Victor asked.
“Of course I do,” Bobby lied. “I wouldn’t take a bet I couldn’t make good on.”
“That’s good. Because this is a gentleman’s game. I would hate to think that we were playing with someone who’s only pretending to be a gentleman.”
“Yeah,” Don added. “We like you. You seem like a nice boy. I would hate to find out different.”
“No. I’m good for the money,” Bobby said.
“That’s great. That’s what we want to hear, right, Vic? Let’s play some golf.”
There was nothing to do but go ahead and play, and play well. But he had been threatened, and if he played his full game, he knew he would be threatened again, or worse. To successfully sandbag someone, you had to keep the illusion going. But he had an adrenaline spike too, and on the tenth tee he unleashed a drive that went past Victor’s and Don’s on the fly. He stuck a five iron within five feet and carded an eagle to take a one-up lead on the back, and a one-stroke
lead in the cumulative when Don and Victor both parred the hole.
“See there? Everything is all right with you now. Right? You’re in the lead in the first hole on the back. Being behind didn’t last very long, did it?”
Bobby birdied the short par-four eleventh and the par-three twelfth, as did Don. Still, one up going to the par-five thirteenth.
“Maybe the thirteenth isn’t going to be so lucky for him, Victor. What do you think?”
“I don’t think luck’s got a lot to do with it.”
“He is playing pretty well. Eagle, birdie, birdie. Like Tiger Woods, except right now I don’t see a flaw in his game. You think he’s sandbagging us, Victor?”
“No. I think he’s smarter than that.”
“He’s a pretty smart boy.”
“Go on, hit away. Don’t mind our gabbing.”
There was only one more par five after this one. One more great opportunity to put the match out of reach and make his thousand bucks. He didn’t like the sandbagging remark, though. He kept thinking about that gun in Victor’s bag.
Bobby held back a little on the drive, but kept it far enough out for the green to be easily reachable in two. Both Don and Victor hit good drives, within twenty yards of Bobby’s.
“You know, Victor,” Don said as they put their drivers into their bags, “I can’t play this hole without thinking of that guy you caught rolling his ball over in the rough.”
“You think he still limps?” Victor asked.
They both laughed. “I think he still does, and I think he’s grateful that he only limps.”
“You’re not getting in my head,” Bobby said.
“Wouldn’t have even considered it,” Don said.
Bobby hit a four iron, low and long. It landed just in front of the green and hopped on, rolled at the flag, then past it and into the tall grass at the back of the green. Don and Victor both reached in three. Don was in easy birdie range. Bobby had a long chip that traveled down for about thirty feet, then broke to the right a good two feet. His ball stopped two inches from the hole. He tapped in the par and Don followed with his birdie putt. They were back to even.
“See,” Don said, “I told you. Luck. And his is running out. Thirteenth hole got him.”