Vertical

by Rex Pickett

  “All right,” I said, climbing out of the cart. I checked the yardage on my scorecard. 214 from the black tees. Christ! This was a full-on twenty-degree hybrid for me. I teed up one of the last of my dozen balls–as I had already lost plenty in the deep fescue–and took my customary practice swings.

  I glanced over at my mother to make sure she was watching. She bent her right arm into an L-shape and punched her elbow into the side of her body. “Keep your right arm close to your body on the downswing. You’ve been coming over the top. That’s why you’ve been slicing it all day.” She chicken-winged her arm to demonstrate exactly what I was doing wrong.

  “Okay, Mom,” I said, chuckling. She had been my only swing coach; a damn fine one, too.

  “And play for the wind,” she continued advising. “Aim fifteen yards right of the hole.”

  “Mom, you’re giving me paralysis by analysis,” I joked.

  She laughed at the old golfing adage she’d quoted to me countless times.

  I took a few more practice swings, rehearsing what she had advised. Then I found my target just as she recommended: right of the hole so that the shot, if I pulled it off, could ride the wind toward the pin. “Okay, Mom, here we go. If I hit this green, I’m going to try to qualify for the Champions Tour,” I blustered.

  “You can do it,” she encouraged. “I’ve seen you.”

  I took one more practice swing, set up over the ball, then hit the shot. When you really pure a shot you know it the moment the club strikes the ball. You can’t even feel it on the clubface. It’s like butter. It was. When I finally looked up, the ball had started out over Lake Michigan, but it was turning with just a slight draw, the way great pros like to shape it. As it arced, the wind caught it and started pushing it inexorably toward the pin. I must have pulled the perfect club because the ball landed on the green, took a few hops and rolled to within ten feet of the hole.

  “Great shot, Miles,” my mother exclaimed.

  I stuck my club back in the bag, with triumphant force this time, and clambered back into the cart. “God, I hit that one good, Mom,” I gloated, feeling strangely ecstatic.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “See, you just have to listen to me.”

  “I haven’t been listening to you for a long time, have I?” I said, waxing emotional.

  “No,” she said.

  “But I’ve been listening lately. I got you to Wisconsin.”

  “I know,” she said. “That must have been hard. Especially when Joy left us.”

  “It wasn’t easy.”

  “And all your damn wine! I was worried.”

  “Well.…”

  “When’re you going to get married again, Miles? You need a woman in your life.”

  “You’re her, Mom.”

  “I won’t be around much longer.” She smiled, and raised her good hand to still my rising protest. “You know Rusty thought you might be homo when you started writing poetry.”

  “Oh, yeah? That’s news. Well, I have nothing against gay folks. Half my agents have been gay. But I’m not. I love women.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. What about that Spanish girl, Laura? She’s pretty. Why don’t you marry her?”

  “Well, it might be wise to do a little dating first. Plus, she lives in Spain, and that’s a long way to come visit you.” I patted her on the thigh.

  She gave me a withering look.

  “And you know I have flying issues.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Miles, stop being so neurotic,” she blared. She wagged her finger admonishingly at me. “Get on a damn plane and go live your life!”

  I turned and looked at her. I felt as if I’d run into a lamp post.

  She bent her face toward mine. “Get on a damn plane and go buy that girl some flowers. They’ve got that street in Barcelona that’s nothing but florists’ little stalls.”

  “You’ve been to Barcelona?”

  “Yes,” she barked. “I’ve been all over the world.” She gave me that withering look again. “Live your life. You’re such a stick-in-the-mud with all your damn problems.”

  I looked into her sad, but defiant face. It occurred to me that she had been thinking this about me all along and now suddenly it all came exploding out of her. As if this were her last chance to be a real mother to her son. “You’re right, Mom. I’m afflicted with too many neuroses.”

  “Live your life,” she repeated. “It doesn’t last forever.”

  Her words had a weirdly galvanizing effect on me I couldn’t quite pinpoint. Or didn’t want to.

  We rolled off toward the green where I was hoping to make my first birdie of the day.

  “Oh, this is such a beautiful place,” she said, casting her gaze out over windswept Lake Michigan, which was now specked with whitecaps. “This is truly heaven.”

  We finished out the nine holes, my dozen balls now history in the dunes and grasses and water, but I didn’t care. Playing golf, especially on tracts like this, always elevated me out of myself and made me oblivious of all the travails of my life. And to see my mother so happy for once, so exultant in the freedom that being out on a course like this evokes, lifted me out of my solemn mood.

  It was growing cold as the sun dipped in the west and the lake colored gray. We carted back to the clubhouse. The course manager helped me transfer my mom back into her chair.

  “Did you have a nice time, Mrs. Raymond?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I wished I could have played. I once got second in the NCAA. I qualified for the U.S. Amateur three times.”

  “You did?” he asked, sounding surprised.

  “Trust me. She had serious game,” I explained. “She taught me everything I know about the game.”

  “Well, I’m glad you both got a chance to play Whistling Straits. Come back again and play all eighteen.”

  “We will,” I promised as I rolled my mother to the lot where our car was parked.

  Back in the car, I said, “Do you want to get something to eat? You must be starving.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Do you know a place?”

  The hot dog stand my mother remembered on the shores of Lake Michigan was no longer extant, but we found a place called the Blue Lake Resort, a grand white manse built in the early ‘90s, now beautifully restored and operating as a resort for estivating Midwesterners. We were seated out on a patio with a panoramic view of the lake. The sky was sealed off by dark clouds and the water was a slate gray as far as the eye could see. The wind that appeared to herald an approaching storm while we were playing had kicked up the whitecaps with greater ferocity, transforming the lake into a churning sea of white.

  We ordered seafood salads. I stayed with the mineral water while I allowed my mother one glass of Chardonnay. For a moment she was back in heaven, the wine affording her that ephemeral lift that, in her words, made her “fly with the angels.”

  “Once, Rusty flew me across the lake right into a storm. It was so dangerous.”

  “I remember,” I said, flashing back to that image of my father as a young USAF pilot.

  “We could have been killed.” Tears leached from her eyes. “He was a good pilot, though. We made it.”

  “How’re you feeling, Mom?”

  “Pretty well.”

  “Did you have a good time today?”

  “Oh, yes. It was the best day of my life.”

  “I’m glad. Do you think it’s going to work out at your sister’s?”

  “I hope so.” Her eyes squinted almost shut. “I don’t want to go to the poor house.”

  “I’m going to try to get someone else to help out. We’ll find someone. We’ll make this work.”

  We rode back to Alice’s in an introspective, clock-ticking silence. It looked to have been a splendid afternoon for my mother, revisiting a few of her old haunts, the flood of mostly fond memories revivifying her downcast spirit.

  Alice, seeming to have sensed our worry, was busy preparing a pot roast with all the
trimmings–food being her ameliorant for everything. I excused myself and went out and bought a bottle of over-oaked Chardonnay I knew my mother would like.

  We ate in the living room. My mother and Alice reminisced about their past growing up in Sheboygan, traded stories about friends and relatives and boyfriends, both a little giddy on wine and the glow that came from sharing memories. Soon, my mother was sleepy.

  As Alice looked on, still a bit timid, I administered the medications, then got my mother to bed. I eased onto the mattress and said, “You’re not going to fall tonight, are you?”

  “Oh, no. I was nervous last night,” she said.

  “Okay, good. Because I’m not going to stay here. You have to learn to live with Alice.”

  “I know.”

  Alice had drifted out. A moment later we heard running water issuing from the kitchen.

  “But she’s not as good as you are,” my mother said confidentially.

  “I have a life back in LA, Mom. People finally want to pay me to write screenplays and novels and TV shows. This is my time. I have to capitalize on it or I’m going to be in the poor house with you.”

  “Oh no,” she laughed. Tears sprang suddenly to her eyes. “You’ve been so good to me.”

  “Don’t cry.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Give me a kiss good-night.”

  I rose from the bed. “Okay, Mom. Good-night.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be a good girl, or we’re going to have to take you out back and shoot you.”

  She chuckled uneasily. “Miles?”

  “What now?”

  “Could you call and check on Snapper? See how he’s doing?”

  “Okay. I promise. But, Mom, you’re going to have to start accepting the fact that Snapper, if he pulls through, is not going to be with you anymore.”

  “I know,” she said, resigned. “But, I’d like to know how he’s doing.”

  “Okay.”

  On the way to the hotel I checked messages. The second in-home caretaker prospect had returned my call, saying she was interested in the job. My spirits were buoyed, at least briefly. I kept intoning in my head: this is going to be a process.

  chapter 20

  It was another night of disquieting sleep. I called Alice first thing. She said that her sister had managed to toilet herself, but that bathing her was still difficult. I promised to come over and advise her on what she could to do to improve her performance.

  I endured another dreadful breakfast at the same coffee shop because I was too mentally fried to figure out something new. Over runny eggs I called the Lakeview Veterinary Hospital. The receptionist directed my call to Dr. Ariel. She came on, sounding surprisingly chipper.

  “So, what’s the status on Snapper?” I asked.

  “We took the leg off and… he’s doing well.”

  “He’s alive?” I said, hoping my surprise would mask my disappointment.

  “He’s very much alive. In fact, he answers to his name and acts like his old self.” She paused. “Do you want him back?”

  I sucked in my breath. “If you were going to get a three-legged dog to Wisconsin–and I’m not saying I’m going to–how would you go about it?”

  “Get an animal transporter,” she said. “Someone who’ll accompany the dog on a flight.”

  “Do you know of such individuals?”

  “I could find out.”

  “And Snapper’s…”

  “He’s fine. He’s hopping around like a little bunny rabbit. Unlike humans, he’s not bummed out he’s missing a leg. He’s just thrilled to be alive.”

  “Great. Okay, let me get back to you, Doctor.”

  I dropped my hand with the phone to the bed. Maybe Snapper’s return would perk up my mother’s spirits, take her mind off the new, compromised, circumstances. Animal transporter! Christ. This was turning into one expensive hegira.

  I autodialed Jack. He was asleep when he answered. “Jack?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Miles. I’ve got a job for you.”

  “More chocolate?”

  I laughed. “No. Hey, you like to fly. Would you be willing to wing it up to the upper Central Valley, rent a car, pick up Snapper from the vet, then fly out here to Wisconsin?”

  It took him a moment to wake up and process this seeming harebrained proposal. “What?”

  “We amputated the leg. He’s doing great. I think it would go a long way toward improving my mom’s mood if we reunited the two.”

  “Have you lost your mind? I hate that little fucker. I’m not going to get on a plane with him.”

  “Jack. What’d I pay you for this trip? Ten grand, right? And I cut you loose halfway in. You owe me, big guy. Snapper’ll be in one of those carriers. Grin and bear it.”

  “Fuck, man.”

  “I heard three-legged dogs are chick magnets.”

  “Really?”

  “According to Dr. Ariel.”

  “Hmm. Interesting.”

  “Okay. That’s settled. I’ll make the arrangements and call back with your marching orders.”

  “Hey, wait a sec…”

  “Jack, I’ll see you tomorrow. With Snapper.”

  With a flurry of keystrokes I had Jack on an early morning flight to Sacramento, a rental to take him up to Clearlake, and on a flight to Milwaukee by noon, and another rental to Sheboygan. I put it all in an e-mail and exhorted him: “Don’t disappoint me.”

  I called Dr. Ariel and told her to expect Jack. She seemed a little saddened by the news.

  “I was getting attached to him,” she said.

  “Well, be a professional. Buck up.”

  She laughed. “I think it’s a great thing what you’re doing for your mother.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  After breakfast I drove over to Alice’s to check on the two of them. The pall was undiminished, so I took my mother out for a drive. We went to the same restaurant on the water and she ordered the same entrée and the same glass of wine. Amidst meaningless chitchat, she admitted living with her sister was an adjustment, but she was trying, she would do it for me. I purposely didn’t tell her about the arrangements to bring Snapper out, hoping the surprise–and the companionship–would further her resolve to make it work with her sister.

  Dave the handyman made progress on the handicapped ramp. I don’t know if my presence galvanized him or not, but he seemed to work with a fervor one didn’t find in LA.

  I traded calls with Jack all the next day, charting his progress. It proved to be a mad dash from Clearlake back to Sacramento, but he made the flight, Snapper cozy in his cage, albeit sans a leg.

  I met with the second in-home caretaker prospect. She was an elderly woman, wheezing on mentholated cigarettes. I excused her, called the agency again and asked for another referral. Hell, I needed a referral for another agency, the way my luck was going.

  Jack and Snapper met me in the lobby of the Sheboygan Hotel. Snapper, curled up in his cage, jumped up and began barking when he saw me. I reached a fist toward the lattice-door enclosure. “Hey there, little guy.” I looked up at Jack. “How was he?”

  “Fine. I felt a little weird, but, you were right, it’s a chick magnet.”

  “Get some digits?”

  “Got some digits.” He puffed out his cheeks. “I’m tired, man. It’s been a long day.”

  “I appreciate everything, Jack.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “Let’s get Snapper to my mom first.”

  “All right,” he groused.

  We drove in his rental to Alice’s. Outside his rental I released Snapper from the cage. His right hind stump was stapled closed and still healing, but he bounced around on his three good legs with surprising alacrity. I squatted down to be at eye level. “Hey, Snapper.”

  Snapper came toward me. I held out my hand. He gave it a playful nip, ran five feet in the opposite direction, turned and panted at me.

 
“Some things never change,” Jack laughed.

  I straightened to my feet. “Come on, Snapper. Let’s go see Mom.”

  Alice answered the door wearing an apron. The piquant aromas of a meatloaf–my mother’s favorite–wafted out from behind her. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi, Alice. We’ve got a little surprise for your sister.” I pointed at Snapper.

  Alice’s expression changed from one of seeming contentment to instant apprehension. “Oh.”

  “My mom’s dog. The one who was in the accident. Trust me. I know he only has three legs, but he’ll do a lot to occupy her.”

  Alice opened the door. My mother was stationed in her chair with a glass of wine, in front of the blaring TV.

  “Mom,” I said. “We brought you an old friend.” I stepped aside to reveal Snapper. “Go get her, Snapper.”

  My mother almost fainted on the spot. “Snapper,” she cooed. “Snapper!”

  Instinctively, Snapper ran forward and tried to leap into her lap, but his attempt fell short and he toppled to the ground. He tried again, but he couldn’t make it to her lap. I bent down and helped him up and placed him in her lap. My mother started crying. Snapper, clearly recognizing her, licked her face.

  “Oh, this is the best surprise ever,” my mother said. “This is the best.”

  Alice came out from the kitchen and forced a smile, hearing my mother exult over Snapper’s appearance.

  “They had to amputate, Mom. I didn’t want to tell you, because I thought it would upset you.”

  “They amputated a lot of us back in the war,” she said.

  “The doctor said he should live a normal, healthy life.”

  “Oh, that’s such good news,” she said, letting him lick her. She turned back to Snapper. “Oh, Snapper, you’re such a bad dog. But I love you so much.”

  I stood up. “Jack, this is my mom’s sister, Alice.”

  “Hi Alice,” Jack said.

  “Hi, Jack.”

  “And, of course, my mother.”

  “Hi, Phyllis,” Jack said.

  “Jack’s the one who brought him out, Mom.”

  “Oh, that’s so nice of you,” she said. “How much did Miles have to pay you?”

  “Not enough,” Jack said, and everybody laughed.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?” Alice offered.