Waiting for Augusta

by Jessica Lawson

  “A sunset.” I took a chance. “It’s one of the things that works best with watercolors because everything melts together just like the sky does.”

  “Well, you always did like to make pictures. You’re pretty good, if I recall.”

  I smiled to myself. “I’ve won a few prizes.”

  “That right? How come this is the first I’m hearing about it?”

  “I never brought them home.”

  “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Why not?”

  “You never seemed to care about stuff like that. So I stopped showing you.”

  “Oh,” he said again. “Well, I’m not all that smart, Benjamin.” His voice winked. “All God’s work went into my good looks. I probably wouldn’t have said the right thing, anyway.”

  Maybe I hadn’t said the right things either. Maybe I should have said more. Tried harder. Mrs. Marino showed up in my brain. It’s harder to be proud of something you don’t understand.

  I rubbed my neck. “Before my art teacher, Miss Stone, left, she gave me her phone number and said if I wanted extra lessons, she would help me. She said that there were schools for people who get really good at drawing and painting, and there were competitions I could enter. She said she’d write me recommendations. She’s called, but I haven’t called back.” I paused and waited for him to snort or say I’d better keep up the barbecue business, or worse, say nothing, letting the silence fill with words anyway.

  Instead, Daddy whistled. “You don’t say. That’s something. So you’re that good, huh?”

  The day Miss Stone had told me she’d never seen such talent as she saw in my watercolor paintings had been the best day of my life. The glow I’d felt was like ten of Daddy’s “good boy”s. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, him wanting me to get my glows from barbecue and golf. “I’m getting better. Each one still takes me time. You know, Bobby Jones had a quote that makes me think of painting.”

  Now he snorted. “You don’t say. Well?”

  “He said, ‘It’s nothing new or original to say that golf is played one stroke at a time. But it took me many years to realize it.’ Drawing and painting is kind of the same way for me.”

  “Wise man, that Mr. Jones.” I saw Daddy nod to himself. “Lots of things are like that, you know, Ben. Being a father is like that.”

  “Oh.” There was something changed in Daddy. Like he’d softened up in a way that I’d only ever heard in his voice when he was telling me those few Abbott Meyers stories. This talk we were having felt real, like it was the right time to ask a question that had been weighing on me since his death.

  “Daddy, did you know you were gonna die?”

  A heavy sigh was followed by a heavy cough. “I guess nobody knows for sure. The odds of me coming out of that operating room alive weren’t good.” Another sigh, a slightly shaking one, like his urn was close to overflowing with whatever he was feeling. “I told your mother to stay hopeful. It wasn’t a lie. It was the right thing to say.” He paused, and I saw his eyes squint together. I saw him reach out a finger and thumb, squeezing the bridge of his nose the way he did when he was apologizing to Mama. “Those were the last words I said to her before they knocked me out. I held her hand and told her to stay hopeful.”

  It was almost too much, hearing that. I felt nearly overflowing with something myself.

  “Nobody lives forever, Ben. You know what Walter Hagen said. You’re only—”

  “—here for a short visit,” I supplied. “Don’t hurry, don’t worry. And be sure to smell the flowers along the way.”

  “Smart boy. So, are we back in Hilltop yet?”

  “Huh?” Wait. Daddy thought we were still going back to Hilltop. He thought I’d given up on him. He didn’t know that I’d changed my mind.

  And he still sat there and asked you about your painting, the fire said. And he answered one of the questions you’ve been wanting to ask him. Without expecting anything in return.

  He sure did, said my throat lump. Now, isn’t that something?

  It was something. It was something powerful enough to sway me into a decision on whether or not I’d be turning around after getting Noni to Augusta.

  “No. We’re not in Hilltop,” I told him. “We’re one long walk away from Abbott Meyer’s hometown. We missed the first day of the Masters, but I’m gonna do my best to get you in there and get you settled by tee time on Sunday.”

  Daddy sputtered and hooted and perked up like I’d poured a pot of extra strong coffee on his ashes. “Hot dog! I mean, hot dog! Do you mean it?” He whooped a few more times, and I saw the victory dance he’d done the summer he’d driven to Birmingham for a pitmaster contest at the state fair and won a prize for the king of contests, roasting a whole hog on a pit made of cinder blocks. He’d celebrated with a double round of golf at PJ Hewett Municipal the next day and came home glowing from a hole-in-one and his lowest score ever.

  I couldn’t help laughing, looking into the past and seeing him twirl Mama around with one hand, picking me up in his free arm and swinging us all around in the kitchen. “Yep, Daddy, I mean it.”

  For the next few minutes, I listened to him talk excitedly about the beauty of the course, the sacred space it was, the talent it took to play the Masters, and his hopes for Hobart Crane. I let him talk. I’d heard it all before, but for maybe the first time, I really listened.

  Then I let our talk fade out and listened to the night sounds, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. I would get Daddy to Augusta, and I would find a way onto that golf course, even if I had to battle all the pigs and peaches and chickens in Georgia to get there.

  When the fire died out, I shook Noni awake and we started walking.

  HOLE 6

  Cradle of Dreams

  There’s nothing like giving your father a piggyback ride to his dream destination to make you feel like your life has gotten a little mixed up. As we approached the outskirts of town, Friday morning air flowed through the open fingers of my free hand, thick and humid and heavy with coming rain. I waved against it, and the wind answered my hello with a gentle pressure that had me standing my whole self straighter to feel and breathe in how the world was different here on the edge of Augusta, Georgia.

  We stuck along the riverside, where warm breezes perfumed with blossoms and earth and all sorts of other smells drifted around as we got closer to town. Gasoline and growing things. Concrete heating up with the day’s sun and potatoes frying. I wanted to swallow those smells, catch them in a jar to sniff at later. I nearly made myself lightheaded, trying to suck Augusta inside me. I almost expected to see an eleven-year-old Abbott Meyers walking toward us, tipping his hat my way.

  Instead, we came upon a thin man, sunburned and shaggy-looking, his stringy blond-brown hair and chin stubble in need of a haircut and shave. He crouched against a tree, watching over a set of five or six fishing lines. He stood at the sight of us, straightening a threadbare army jacket and pants.

  He smiled a happy, helpful, innocent smile filled with yellowish teeth. “Nice backpack,” he told me. “New to Augusta? Need some information and a map?” Holding up a finger for us to wait, he limped over to the tree and rummaged through a garbage bag next to it, coming up with a stack of pamphlets.

  He wasn’t the best-looking of welcoming committees, but seemed friendly enough. “Actually, yes,” I told him. “A map would be great.”

  “Five dollars,” the man declared, his smile straightening out as he changed from welcome crew to businessman.

  “That’s crazy,” Noni said. “And we don’t—”

  “Crazy’s crazy.” He shrugged, waving the pamphlet. “And a boy in need of a map is a boy in need of a map,” the man said. “Oh, fine, three dollars.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “We don’t have any money.”

  The man plopped to the ground with a disappointed grunt, scattering the pamphlets with a casual fling of the arm. “Of course you don’t. That would’ve been too lucky for me. Just take one,” he
said, eyeing our appearance, which after miles of walking wasn’t much better than his. “You look a little rough, and we got to take care of our own, don’t we? Besides,” he said, laying a finger on one nostril and blowing out the contents of the other. “They’re free at the visitor center. Got any food?”

  I shook my head.

  “Darn. Haven’t eaten since Wednesday. The VFW does grub on Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays, and there’s a church in town that does Sundays. Park Street, if you need it. Wednesday noon to Friday nights are always hard on the belly, though.” He pounded on his absent belly and coughed like Daddy used to.

  I picked up one of the fallen maps, wanting to move along but not wanting to be rude, especially not to a man who’d probably killed people during the war. “How’s the fishing around here?”

  He picked up the fallen pamphlets, wiping and stacking them neatly and placing them back in the bag. “I come here every week and I never catch a thing.” With a swift hand movement, he took a short comb from his back pocket and tried running it through his long hair. Tangles soon had him grooming face hair instead. “Where ya headed?”

  “Um . . . a golf course. Augusta National. Is it on the map?”

  His eyes twinkled. “The big one, huh?”

  “I guess so.” He stepped over to me, and I was surprised to smell soap. Now that I got a closer look, he wasn’t dirty after all. I was just seeing his clothes and hair. Well, and the teeth stains, but even Daddy had some of those.

  “There.” He jabbed a clean fingernail near the top of the map, where two wavy-edged ovals of light green bumped each other. “It jams right up against a whole ’nother golf club—Augusta Country Club, see? ACC’s course and clubhouse and property aren’t quite as nice as Augusta National’s, but then again, not much is.” He sniffed at me and backed away. “I do hate to be the one to tell you this, but I don’t think you’d get into either place dressed like that. Fancy gentlemen over there, most of them never seen the backside of Vietnam. If you’re thinking of getting in without a ticket, you’d best wait until nightfall. Three morons got kicked out earlier this week, and there was a big hoo-ha. Not that you’re morons. Well, you might be, for all I know. Anyhow, both courses are all the way on the north side.” He pointed upriver. “Follow the water a ways, and then you can walk through town. Begging’s bad this time of year, though, I’ll warn you that.”

  “Thanks, sir,” Noni said. “Why do you keep fishing here if you don’t catch anything?”

  “Oh, something’ll take to my worms one of these days.” He winked. “I got to be here if I want to catch it, don’t I?” He turned his attention back to the fishing lines. “Stay and talk, if you want.”

  Noni nudged me, her elbow saying, Time to go.

  “Good luck with the fishing sir,” I told him. “We’ve got to be moving on. Thanks for the map.”

  The river man raised his hand in answer, not looking up as we left him.

  • • •

  There was more to see in Augusta than in Hilltop. Sidewalks and cement roads and houses, buildings and businesses. Restaurants, offices. Even a fancy-looking arts and crafts store. More people, too, both white and colored, young and old. It was still early, but we saw folks walking to work, folks sipping coffee at diner windows, folks trimming bushes and mowing grass before it got too hot, kids walking to school together. Hilltop’s neighborhoods were more separated, and though signs banning people from stores were gone now, I noticed that I’d never seen May in town. When I’d asked Daddy about that, he’d said the west side of town had other places for groceries and goods that were closer to the Talbots. It made sense that they’d go to those stores, he’d said.

  Just as we passed a bank with a clock declaring the time to be 7:32 a.m., Noni barked with delight and pointed ahead. Up the street a block, gathering around a thick tree near a building’s parking lot, was a group of people. Behind them, sitting there like Augusta had decided to throw us a bone, was a long table filled with food.

  Half a block farther and I could see it was doughnuts, fruit, jugs of juice and steaming coffee. A big, clear jar marked DONATIONS sat there as well. My step lightened as we approached the crowd, which we now saw was focused on a tall man in an ugly white suit, a blue shirt, and a black tie. He held a clipboard and had slicked-back hair, two things that reminded me of the physical education teacher at Hilltop Primary—the one who’d laughed when the boys called me things that I’d never repeat to my mother, let alone my father.

  “Real casual,” Noni whispered, patting the backpack that I’d taken over carrying. “Grab and go.”

  “ ‘Grab and go’?” I whispered back. “Who are you, anyway? Some kind of professional thief? Didn’t anyone ever give you a sense of right and wrong?”

  “Says the boy who stole a money egg from a chicken. And yes, I was given a sense of right and wrong. That alone would be fine if I was just a soul floating around, but I was given a body, too, and that body was given a stomach, and that stomach wants one or three of those doughnuts. Wanderers have to eat, you know.”

  “I’m hungry too.” It was fortunate that wandering guidelines worked in favor of empty stomachs. I wanted badly to catch my first glimpse of Augusta National, but the chances of us sneaking in during the day weren’t good, considering the fact that ticket holders would already be lined up and we still hadn’t seen the course and we’d need time for planning our approach once we saw what we were dealing with.

  The second day of the Masters would have to be played without Daddy there.

  He hadn’t spoken since our talk the night before, and I was worried that he’d disappeared again. I’d figured on asking him the best way of getting on the course. I’d pictured us talking strategy together, like a captain and soldier, huddled together close. But it looked like Noni and I might be on our own.

  “Okay, let’s get some food. Be careful.” It wouldn’t do to draw the attention of some runaway-grabbing adult, so we’d need to be cautious or we’d never see the outside of the golf course, let alone the inside.

  Just as we arrived at the table, the crowd broke up and people began mingling among one another with a low hum like a beehive, waiting for the queen to tell them to get to work.

  Slick Hair came over right as Noni was lifting a doughnut, lightly tapping her hand with a chuckle. “Now, darlin’, I know fighting for justice can strike hunger into a person’s belly, but this food’s for after.” He patted her on the head, not noticing the stink face Noni set on him.

  “After what?” she said.

  A woman came around the table, dipping beneath the plastic sheet and coming up with a stack of signs—thin, pale wood lengths attached to white cardboard rectangles. She handed one to each of us. “Here you go, children. I don’t believe you went to school with my Catherine and Lucille. What are your names?”

  “Byron Nelson,” I told her.

  Noni raised a hand. “Bridget Nelson.”

  “Your mama let you out of school for this?” she asked us both. She passed the stack of signs to another woman, who distributed them among the crowd of men and women, all around Mama’s age.

  “I’m taking a break,” I said. Following her eyes to Daddy’s backpack with the bucket hanging off, I added, “We’re going camping this weekend.”

  “I don’t go to school,” Noni said.

  The lady nodded in a knowing way and straightened Slick Hair’s tie. “We’ve taken our girls out, too. But where are your parents? Did you come alone to help the cause, bless your hearts? This’ll be perfect—you see those news cameras over there?” A shadow passed her face, and she jerked around and grabbed Slick Hair’s hand. “Honey, they’re interviewing the Negroes over there! You better start.”

  He straightened his tie and marched across the parking lot.

  “Now,” the woman said to us, “you get right up in front and wave those signs, okay? They’ll see how our children’s education is being taken away.” She looked up, distracted. “Listen, you tell you
r folks about the new school that’s opening. Freedom Academy, we’re calling it.” She turned and her face lit up with excitement. “Here come the buses! Places, everyone!”

  Noni shrugged and moved aside a stack of newspapers to reach for a plate of doughnuts while everyone was facing the other way, surging like a soft wave toward the building. She shoved a chocolate one in her mouth, passed me one, and put a string of grapes in the backpack.

  “I guess we’ll get more after whatever we’re doing. I’m not above working for my food.” She shouldered a sign and joined the group, which was approaching the steps of what I now recognized as a school. Slick Hair had gotten himself a bullhorn and was giving a speech about fighting against tyranny and injustice.

  A dull aching started in my throat, the lump growing thicker as six school buses turned the corner and approached the parking lot. I stared down at the sign in my hand, turning it over to see the words and having a flashback to the first time I’d seen the insides of an animal, bloody and wrong and nothing like the way it looked from the outside.

  I scanned the pile of newspapers, and two headlines caught my eye: FORCED BUSING LEADS MORE PARENTS TO WITHDRAW STUDENTS and EMPTY CLASSROOMS: DESEGREGATION ORDER PROVES LARGELY INEFFECTIVE. A photograph showed a classroom, empty of students except for a colored boy and a colored girl, seated next to each other in the second row from the front. A lone white boy sat in the front row, at the opposite end of the classroom. The children looked to be about my age. Another photograph showed people standing together, holding signs. It was just like Hilltop, when the bus that picked up high schoolers started picking up the older kids from our colored neighborhood. And when May and the other students came to my school.

  The Augusta buses came to a halt, and I saw immediately how they were only half full. The newspaperman had turned away from a colored woman and was gesturing to an opening bus door. Children started exiting.

  In Hilltop, there had been a big rally of white parents and a man with a bullhorn just like Slick Hair’s. I could hear the sound of speeches all the way down the road, but by the time I got to Hilltop Primary, those parents were already marching down the street, taking their boys and girls to the newly formed Hilltop Christian Academy, set up in the old church building. I remember the look on the faces of two of my friends as their mamas hauled them off. When I’d waved, it was like I’d already gone invisible to them. Like I’d never been there at all. And some of them had left their signs behind on the ground. Signs like these.