But You Scared Me the Most

by John Manderino

  Ever see Nixon’s golf swing, though? Yikes. Dad says if he’d seen that swing before the election he never would have voted. Dad’s very big on golf.

  He’s also very big on America. You should see the flag on his front porch, the size of it. He earned a medal over in Korea and thinks I belong in Vietnam, but they wouldn’t take me. Bad knees, they said. I was glad. They’ve probably got some humongous insects over there. I hate bugs. That’s the reason I always eat over the sink and clean up right afterwards.

  Cockroaches, that’s all I need.

  They say if there was a nuclear war and the whole planet was blown to smithereens the only survivors would be cockroaches, radioactivity being like mother’s milk to those fuckers. They’d be the size of cars. Can you imagine?

  Which is why it’s so important that we hold the line in Vietnam. The hippies all want us to leave, but as soon as we do the whole place will go Communist, and then what?

  I’m not real sure. To be honest, I don’t know that much about it. I just know I don’t like hippies, especially the way they dance.

  They have this dance floor at the bar and I enjoy going out there with a girl, bad knees and all, and doing an actual particular dance together, the funky chicken or the swim or even the twist. But these hippies, they just go out there and start doing whatever, mostly just flinging themselves around. That shouldn’t be allowed, especially with all the fringes and beads and crap they all wear. Somebody’s going to lose an eye.

  I decide to call it a night. I have to get up early tomorrow. So I get in my pajama bottoms and watch some TV. I’ve got this little black-and-white on the floor by the couch and sometimes I like to just sprawl there and stare at whatever’s on.

  Star Trek is just starting.

  I think I’d be happy on that starship. They’d probably have me waiting tables, same as down here, but I’d be very happy doing my part along with the rest of the crew, meanwhile flying at warp speed farther and farther away.

  After I go to bed I have this dream again about my mom. She died three years ago, breast cancer, slow and awful, and I keep having this dream where I’m eight years old or so, standing in the middle of the kitchen in my seersucker pajamas. She’s sitting at the table in her housecoat flipping through a magazine, Good Housekeeping, smoking a Lucky Strike, eating potato chips with a bottle of Pepsi. There’s dirty dishes in the sink, bugs crawling around on them. Mom looks at me and smiles. “C’mere, Benny.” She jabs out her cigarette in the loaded ashtray and holds out her arms. “C’mere and give Mommy a hug.” I keep standing there. And that’s it, the whole dream.

  The reason I have to get up early is to go golfing with my dad. We go every other week, early spring to late fall. Trouble is, I don’t go any other time—to be honest, I’m not that fond of the game—so I stay pretty lousy, especially compared to him. You should see his trophy case from all the amateur tournaments he’s won. He’s also got three golf balls with a different date written on each, for the three different holes-in-one he’s had. The thing he really cherishes, though, is this book signed by Arnold Palmer:

  To Jim,

  Best wishes!

  —Arnold Palmer

  Dad loves Arnold Palmer. He wears sweaters just like him—in fact they’re called Arnold Palmer sweaters. He’s got about a dozen, in every color. He’s wearing his light blue one this morning. I’m in my mirrored sunglasses and good pants—he gets pissed off if I show up in jeans. I’m also wearing one of the many golf shirts he’s given me, a bright yellow one to go with this bright, sunny morning. I always try to seem glad to be here, like this is terrific, out here golfing with my old man.

  He doesn’t look at all like Arnold Palmer, by the way, even in the sweaters. He looks more like the channel 7 newscaster Fahey Flynn, only a lot heavier and not as twinkly-eyed, not nearly.

  But Jesus, can he ever golf.

  It disappoints him a lot, how lousy I am. He thinks it has to do mostly with character. He says golf is only 35 percent skill, which he says I’ve got, and the rest is character, which he says I lack.

  He starts in on that shit this morning.

  We’re on the third tee, waiting on this pokey foursome ahead of us. He’s one under par and I’m already five over. He refuses to believe I’m that bad: “You have an excellent swing, Ben,” he’s telling me. “A little bit flat but so is Arnie’s, and I don’t think he’s done too badly with it. But here’s what else he’s got: a fierce determination to win—in whatever he does, not just golf.”

  “Dad . . .”

  “A man who’s able to look straight down the fairway of life, straight down to where he wants to be, and then go there. He even flies his own plane, did you know that?”

  I did.

  It bothers Dad that I’m working as a waiter in a Mexican restaurant, that I’m twenty-two years old waiting tables at the Silver Sombrero, whereas he at my age was already setting up his own company: Chalmers Home Insulation, call and ask for Jim.

  “The road to success is always under construction, Ben,” he reminds me now, quoting Arnie, meaning it’s not too late to change my pointless life.

  “Jesus, Dad,” I blurt, “can’t we just play for once?”

  So that’s it. He goes totally stone-faced and silent.

  Which is fine, you know? Fine with me.

  The foursome is on the green by now, so I go ahead and tee up my ball, get in my stance, don’t even hesitate, just swing. And Jesus, will you look at that. It takes off in a low line drive but then it starts rising, rising, and then it just sits up there a while enjoying the view before beginning its descent, and when it finally lands it goes leaping straight ahead, takes a bunch of smaller and smaller bounces, then rolls another ten yards before coming to a stop, dead center of the fairway, 250 yards out there at least, at least.

  Dad doesn’t say a word. Absolutely the best drive I ever made in my entire life and he’s got nothing to say.

  Me neither. I pick up my tee.

  I hate this. I really do.

  He tees up, and as he stands over the ball I can tell what he wants to do with it, fucking crush it, show me how a man of character hits the ball, send it fifty yards beyond mine, and he ends up doing something rare for him: he overswings, hooking it badly, off into the trees.

  I feel like saying, See what happened here, Dad? You got angry, you let it affect your swing, and look at the result. But all I say is “Ah, gee,” like I feel bad for him.

  We pick up our bags in silence, hoist them onto our shoulders, and while he goes off into the jungle I go for a stroll down the middle of the fairway. We never use a cart, even the kind you pull around by hand, Dad being very old-school. You carry your clubs on your shoulder. Those clubs are your friends, he says, and you want to stay close to your friends.

  When I finally arrive at my ball, I set down my rattling bag and wait to see Dad’s shot from off in the wilds. I don’t know what he uses but he drills it low, threading the trees and reaching all the way to the green, in fact rolling to the other side of it and down a slope, where I think there’s a sand trap waiting.

  “Ah, gee,” I whisper, pulling out my four iron. I get in my stance, wiggle my ass, look at the flag rippling in the distance, look at the ball, swing—and there goes another fine shot, look at that, fading to the right but not badly, rolling up just a few yards off to the right of the green.

  I wait for Dad to holler something, Well done or something, before I remember we’re not speaking. I watch him trudge on over towards his ball.

  I’m beginning to feel a little bit sorry for the guy.

  He explodes the ball out of the sand and up onto the green but it rolls past the cup and doesn’t stop for another ten yards. He comes up, muttering to himself, and holds the flag for me. I use my wedge and take a short, easy stroke like he’s taught me with a shot like this and loft it softly onto the green, rolling off to the right a little, stopping three feet from the hole.

  That was pretty, and I know Dad’s thi
nking how pretty, but he just sets down the flag, steps over to his ball and squats behind it, holding the putter up vertically in front of his face and closing one eye. He explained to me once what he’s doing when he does that but I forget now. Then he stands over the ball. And you can see, you can really see him gathering back all his calmness and confidence and character, and he taps a beautiful putt, allowing for a long dip in the green, curving towards the hole, curving around the hole, then sitting there on the lip, refusing to fall.

  Ah, gee.

  I wait while he taps it in, takes it out and moves away so I can sink this fucking thing. I’ve never once beaten Dad on a hole before, and as I stand over the ball, looking at the cup three feet away and tracing an imaginary dotted line back to the ball, I tell myself to tap it firm enough, give it a chance.

  I putt.

  It heads straight for the hole, then a foot away starts falling off to the left, slides on by, and continues for another three feet, leaving me the same putt coming back. I look straight up at the sky and holler, “Fuck!”

  Believe it or not, that’s the first time I’ve ever used that word in front of Dad. He has no comment, though, just stands there off to the side waiting with the flag, watching me miss the return three-footer, miss the following one-footer, and tap it in for a seven, losing the hole by two strokes.

  How’s that for character?

  We’re on the eighth hole, still not speaking. I’m off among the tall grass and the bugs, looking for my ball, swiping around with my six iron, Dad already on the green, waiting. I give up and go to my bag for another ball, my fourth one already. Looking towards the green I see him lying there on his back, one knee raised, which is something he would never do, lie down on the green like that, and I holler out, “Dad?”

  He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move.

  I drop my club and run over to him. When I get there his face is gray, the eyes a little bit open but not like they’re seeing anything, and there isn’t any breathing going on. Straddling his fat stomach I sit there pounding the left side of his chest, telling him, “Talk to me . . . talk to me . . . talk to me . . .”

  Dad’s now wearing his dark green Arnold Palmer sweater, along with lipstick and rouge. His putter is in there with him—Uncle Pete’s idea—his hands around the grip like he’s holding it, but he isn’t really. He isn’t holding anything anymore.

  Standing over him I promise, not out loud: I’m gonna keep golfing, Dad. I’m gonna get good, make you proud. Get some character too, watch and see. Say hi to Mom.

  Later, Uncle Pete goes up to the podium and talks about what a wonderful older brother Dad was, how he learned so much from him, and not just about home insulation but about life itself, the meaning of life, things like that, Dad always teaching him, always correcting him, always, constantly. Then he talks about Dad’s service in Korea and the medal he got, how much he loved his country, the size of the flag he always displayed. And then about golf, all the trophies Dad won, how he always kept them polished and prominent, first thing you’d see when you walked in the door. He finishes by speaking to the ceiling like he’s talking to Dad and says he bets they’ve got some awfully beautiful golf courses up there: “I’ll bet they’re really something, Jim, really . . . something,” and breaks down crying, Aunt Connie coming up and helping him back to his chair.

  Afterwards there’s food and drink at Uncle Pete’s. People from the company are there, a few from the country club, mostly people I don’t recognize. Dad had a lot of friends, or anyway a lot of people he knew. Uncle Pete comes up to me. I’m nursing a can of beer in the corner and he comes over wanting to know what I thought of his speech—his eulogy, as he calls it. I tell him I thought it was fine, real good.

  “Not too short?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Not too long, though, was it?”

  “It was just about right, Uncle Pete.”

  “Afraid I kind of lost it at the end there.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “A good way to finish though, you know? People were touched. They could see it was genuine. Those were real tears, Ben. I loved your dad. He was my brother, for Christ sake.”

  I nod, agreeing.

  We stand there looking at the roomful of people eating, drinking, talking, laughing.

  “Everyone seems to be holding up pretty well,” he says.

  I nod, agreeing.

  Then he faces me. “Listen, you want those golf trophies? That would be a nice thing to have, wouldn’t it? A nice memento?”

  “All of ’em?”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I think that would be your dad’s wish, Ben, don’t you?”

  “I don’t have any room, Uncle Pete.”

  He takes his hand back. “Yeah, well, I don’t want the damn things.”

  “What about the country club?”

  “I already asked. They don’t want ’em either.”

  “Well, don’t just throw them out, okay?”

  He stares at me. “Jesus, Ben, what the hell do you think I am? The man was my brother, for Christ sake.”

  I nod, agreeing.

  We stand there sipping our beers.

  “Maybe I’ll bring ’em over to Goodwill,” he says. “Donate ’em. That would be nice for somebody, wouldn’t it? Some loser? Have a trophy or two? Make him feel good about himself?”

  “What about down in the basement?” I ask him. “You have a basement here, right? What about down there?”

  “I don’t want the goddamn things in the house,” he shouts, “Okay?”

  Everyone looks.

  He holds up his beer: “To Jim!”

  I take the trophies, minus the cabinet. Uncle Pete dumps them all in a big cardboard box, which just fits in one end of my closet. I feel bad keeping them in there like that, but I don’t want a bunch of trophies all over the place—that would look show-offy. I end up taking just one of them out, one of the smaller ones, and keeping it on the nightstand by the bed, next to the alarm clock. The little shiny golden guy on the pedestal is just finishing his swing, gazing off into the distance, admiring what a beautiful drive.

  “Did you win this?” this girl Abby wants to know, studying the little man, half off the bed, naked, drunk.

  “My dad,” I tell her.

  “So what’re you doing with it?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Sorry. Hey, guess what. I think the little man’s got a boner.”

  “Leave it, will ya?”

  She touches the front of the little pants with the tip of her finger. “He’s so hard.”

  “Leave it alone.”

  She comes back laughing, throwing her long, skinny arm across my chest. “What’s-a matter, boobie?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Disrespectful?”

  “Little bit.”

  She sits up all of a sudden. “Aw fuck, I think I’m gonna be . . .”

  I point the way towards the bathroom.

  She gets up and hurries off.

  I move over to the edge of the bed and take a look at the little golfer guy. It was a crease in his pants she was seeing, that’s all. Then I notice something I’m surprised I didn’t notice before: the face looks so sad. Maybe his tee shot wasn’t so beautiful, maybe he shanked it. Except, he looks a lot sadder than that, like he could almost start crying.

  She’s throwing up in there now. I hope she’s being accurate. I also hope she notices the bottle of Listerine I always keep on the sink.

  She comes back feeling all better, the toilet flushing behind her, and she did use the Listerine. We start going at it again.

  “Hang on a second,” I tell her, and roll over to the little golfer guy, turn him towards the wall, and roll back to her. “Okay.”

  She leaves the next morning.

  “See ya round,” she says.

  “You bet,” I tell her, still in bed.

  I’ve got the day off and I’m lying there wondering what to do with it. To tell you the tr
uth, I feel like staying in bed. I’m feeling kind of depressed, not sure why. But I made a promise to Dad and get up and get dressed to go golfing. I have a lifetime membership at the country club since last year, from Dad for my birthday. My clubs are there in a locker, waiting.

  Those clubs are your friends, Ben.

  I take the bus, wearing one of his Arnie sweaters, although it’s way too roomy. Uncle Pete gave me the whole collection, except of course the one Dad’s wearing.

  I end up playing a very decent eighteen holes for me, keeping Dad’s advice in mind, keeping my head down, both hands locked and working together, sweeping the club back, and when I fuck up, instead of getting mad, trying to figure out what I did wrong. I shoot a 92—which, like I said, for me is very decent. And not only that, I get a birdie, my first ever. This was on a par four and I belted a long, straight drive, but my next shot put me in the rough. I came out very nicely though with a six iron, the ball heading straight for the green, landing in front, bouncing on, and then I lost sight of it. I figured it must have gone over. But when I got there and looked on the other side I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find it anywhere. Then, almost like a joke, I went and looked in the hole. You cannot imagine how pretty that ball looked sitting in there.

  And you know what hole that was? The eighth, the one where Dad died. Kind of spooky, wouldn’t you say?

  But that’s nothing compared to when I get back to the apartment.

  I’m sitting there on the edge of the bed, all worn out. Eighteen holes is a lot of walking, especially with a bag of clubs on your shoulder—but I know Dad would be disappointed to see me using even a pull cart. So anyway I’m sitting there resting up before I go take a shower and I happen to look over at the nightstand and notice the trophy is still facing the wall from last night, which seems disrespectful, so I go over and turn it around. And I know you’re not going to believe this, but the sad little golfer guy from last night? He’s smiling now.