Charlie was relieved that they had a common interest, and for several moments they spoke about the elusive nature of golf, and how, in many respects, golf was a metaphor for life.
“It’s three percent mechanics and ninety-seven percent psychological,” Charlie said.
Mr. Galbraith nodded. “I understand what you’re saying, Charles, but I just wish I could lower my handicap.”
“Now, this is only my experience, J. D., and I don’t mean to imply that I know what’s best, but for me it’s all about coming to understand my place and learning to transcend tensions.”
Mr. Galbraith nodded his head approvingly.
“Again, this is just my experience. The main lesson is that I should live for the moment and not let the bad shots bother me. Think about it: You’re trying to put a tiny ball in a tiny hole on an expansive course, set with sand traps and bodies of water; you can’t take that seriously. There’s a tremendous amount of humor.”
“I suppose you’re right, Charles. I’ve never thought about it that way.”
“And really, golf encourages Eastern thought to go with our Judeo-Christian tradition.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Mr. Galbraith said.
“Well, let’s see. It’s a happy medium. Think about the golf swing itself: We’re all trying to hit a straight shot with a circular swing.”
Mr. Galbraith’s bottom lip jutted out in thought.
“The more I analyze my shots,” Charlie said, “my techniques, the further away I can get from their true essence. Besides, no matter how much you practice, no two shots are ever alike.”
“I see what you’re saying, Charles.”
“Life is all about paradox, and golf teaches you to live with absurdity.”
Mr. Galbraith laughed good-naturedly. “I’ll tell you what, Charles: I appreciate what you’re saying, I really do, but if I could make it through a round without blowing my top, that would be a spiritual thing.”
Charlie laughed. Mr. Galbraith reminded him of his father—a certain appealing affability, a permissive acceptance.
“I’ll tell you what’s spiritual,” Charlie said. “Think about the quiet on Pelican Hill, maybe a few sprinklers going, making it smell like wet grass, late afternoon, five-ish, with those incredible shadows, those shades of green, the ocean as a backdrop, sky overhead, and there you are, walking along the fairway, a few clubs in your bag.”
“That’s nice, Charles. That’s very nice.”
They were quiet, appreciating their shared love. Charlie’s martini was tart, and before he was halfway done, Mr. Galbraith was snapping his fingers and ordering another round.
With the flush from his second sour apple martini and Mr. Galbraith’s appreciative reception, he was enjoying himself. (It wasn’t so bad, he imagined himself telling Esther. I mean, the guy’s just human, when you think about it. Trying to make his way, like the rest of us. And he’s charming, in this everyman kind of way, which is fascinating. I’m sure he’s spent a lifetime cultivating that persona. It’s how he got to be where he is.)
The sounds of the restaurant and Mr. Galbraith’s loud voice resonated into one excited drone, and Charlie’s vision was a colorful blend of attractive people and palm trees and surfers riding waves on television screens.
Mr. Galbraith’s recounting of his recent hole in one on the fourth hole of Pelican Hill had a staged quality. His anecdote about golfing with Billy Graham was long and rambling (“I’ll never forget how Billy wanted to walk instead of using a golf cart, saying he preferred ‘a good constitutional’ where he could observe nature firsthand”) and held great personal significance, because his eyes misted.
And then, in the reflection of the window, Charlie was distracted by a mirror image of Jennifer Platt’s back, the V of her silky dress plunging at her spine. Jennifer was sitting at the same barstool where he’d first seen Esther.
A resurgence of humiliation came over him as he remembered his fumbling attempts at seduction, the feel of her nipple between his fingertips, the underwire of her bra pressing into his hand; but then he remembered that Jennifer harbored no ill feelings, and besides, it had happened a few months ago.
Jennifer’s barstool turned so that he could see a leg crossed over the other and the side of her face—she was smiling rapturously.
Her arm extended, and a cluster of women congregated around her hand. Even from the booth, he could hear the women disguising their envy (“Oh my God! Jennifer! It’s just so gorgeous”) in what appeared to be exaggerated vocal admiration of an enormous diamond engagement ring.
“Now, that’s a happy girl,” Mr. Galbraith said, leaning back into the booth. In a singsong voice, he added, “Somebody’s getting married.”
“She’s a former student. Plans on studying sports medicine.”
“By the size of her ring, looks like she won’t be studying much besides the inside of a Neiman Marcus.”
And then Jennifer, as if in extrasensory perception, turned her head and aimed a brilliant smile in their direction. She rose a few inches from her barstool, hand raised, flashing her engagement ring and pointing at it.
I’m engaged, she mouthed. Can you believe it?
Charlie smiled back his congratulations and she waved. He raised his martini glass in a toast and she followed suit. Then she was swept back into the fawning admiration of the women.
“What a cutie,” Mr. Galbraith said. “Good for her. I can’t wait for the time when my daughters bring home some good news. Of course, their weddings will cost a fortune—they’ll make sure of that—but after they’re married . . . phew!”
Charlie laughed in pleasant commiseration.
Mr. Galbraith bent his head over his clasped hands, as if in thought. When he looked up, he was smiling, but there was a glint in his eyes. “Now tell me about this class”—he made his voice authoritative—“Discrimination in Society.”
“Well, J. D., the class is actually called Social Class & Inequality.”
Mr. Galbraith ducked his head, as if to conceal his expression. “Okay then, Charles, tell me about Social Class & Inequality.”
Charlie wondered if he had imagined the note of sarcasm.
“Well, J. D., as a matter of fact, what I’m trying to do is get these kids to think about their privilege, probably for the first time in their lives. I’m attempting to show the larger context.”
Mr. Galbraith met this information with skeptical silence.
“I’m teaching these students about what it means to be living in an environment that doesn’t acknowledge these things.”
Mr. Galbraith pensively buttered a thick slice of bread.
“You see, I think it’s important to confront students, make them think about their objectives. It’s good for them to have their ideas challenged.”
Mr. Galbraith nodded and chewed on his crust.
“And my greatest hope is that when they finish my class—and I know this sounds idealistic—they’ll be more empathetic.”
Mr. Galbraith nodded while he continued to chew. After a pause, he said, “That’s a noble objective, Charles, but in some respects—excuse me for saying this—shouldn’t we enjoy what we have and not feel guilty? After all, life is short! Some of us have worked damn hard. And it’s not our fault. It doesn’t make us bad people!”
“I understand what you’re saying, J. D., I really do. But most of my students will end up with a stunted maturity.”
Mr. Galbraith was unconvinced, his mouth set in a grimace. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Charles,” he said, “but it sounds to me like you’re promoting socialism. And we know how that worked out for those Russians, East Germans, Chinese—oh, and let’s not forget those North Koreans. To paraphrase Winston Churchill: The only way for all of us to be equal is for us all to be equally poor.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Charlie said.
Mr. Galbraith smiled, and Charlie had the sensation that he was deciding how to change the subject. But Ch
arlie didn’t want to be dismissed. He was contemplating what to say next when he saw Paul Rice enter the bar. Paul walked to Jennifer, and one of his shaky hands lodged itself at the bare skin of her back. He put his other hand on her shoulder, and then he leaned in for a prolonged public kiss.
“The lucky groom,” Mr. Galbraith said, taking on the voice of an announcer. He leaned in and, in a tone of sober responsibility, added, “Paul’s father is one of our most generous supporters; I’d better offer my congratulations.” He rose from the booth and walked to the bar.
Charlie watched as Mr. Galbraith shook hands with Paul, kissed Jennifer on the cheek, and, after a moment of smiling conversation, gestured toward Charlie.
All heads turned in his direction.
And, just as Charlie had feared, Mr. Galbraith led Paul and Jennifer to their booth. When Charlie rose to meet them, his napkin fell to the floor. Halfway down to pick it up, he saw that Paul had extended one of his unsteady hands. He decided to leave his napkin, lifting to a full stand and partaking in a sweaty-palmed, aggressive handshake.
They stood near the corner booth in the direct path of the servers and busboys, forced to navigate around them. Mr. Galbraith made the introductions. Jennifer’s silky dress was knotted at the small of her back, a slit at the side, ending at her thigh. She pretended not to be that familiar with Charlie.
“What can I tell you?” she said, explaining the speed of her engagement. “Love at first sight. We were both nursing broken hearts, and then we found each other. I thank God every night. It’s so true, you know: When one door closes, another door opens.” She faced Paul, took his hand in hers. “Isn’t that right, honey?” Her tone carried a hint of urgency.
There were pink notches at the sides of Paul’s nose, markings from his sunglasses, which were propped on his head. “That’s right,” he said, but when he looked at Charlie’s sour apple martini, his face took on an afflicted expression. His eyes lifted, taking in Charlie.
“Honey?” Jennifer said.
Paul continued to stare at Charlie, sending him a clear message: I know who you are and I know that you’re with Esther—that woman broke my heart, chewed it up, and spat it out, and she can do the same to you.
Charlie dreaded uncomfortable situations. He did his best to disguise his anxiety with a smile. Despite everything, he felt an allegiance to Paul because of Paul’s distress.
Jennifer had become visibly grave, holding Paul’s hand. But then Paul shook his hand from her grip, tucked his fingers in his pocket, and moved half an inch away from her, enough for everyone to understand that whatever he was suffering from, he wanted to be alone with it.
Jennifer’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she was maintaining (Do you know what I mean? Charlie could hear her saying. Do you know what I mean? Know what I mean?). Paul continued to stare at Charlie, and Charlie experienced a weighty ambivalence: With Esther’s complicated past and complicated present, she guaranteed him complications.
Sensing the uncomfortable nature of the meeting and perhaps wishing he hadn’t orchestrated it, Mr. Galbraith at once launched into a distracting joke: “I was golfing the other day with my friend Chuck. I got home late and my wife asked, ‘What took you so long?’ ‘That was the worst game of golf ever,’ I said. ‘Chuck hit a hole in one on the first tee and immediately keeled over dead from a heart attack.’ ‘That’s awful!’ she said. ‘I know,’ I said, ‘it was hit the ball, drag Chuck, hit the ball, drag Chuck, hit the ball, drag Chuck.’”
Charlie laughed along with Jennifer, and he noticed how Paul barely smiled. But the joke had fulfilled its purpose as a conduit to a smooth exit, and when Paul and Jennifer walked back to their positions at the bar, Charlie was relieved.
Her thin wrists quivering, Heather delivered their king size–proportioned plates—steaming cheeseburger and fish tacos—and her appearance seemed perfectly timed. They ordered another round of drinks, and a natural silence developed as they began to eat.
With each bite of his fish tacos, Charlie felt the sobering effects of food. He was grateful to Mr. Galbraith: He hadn’t asked Charlie to explain the earlier tension with Paul and Jennifer.
He decided that Mr. Galbraith, in some respects, was a class act. But he reminded himself not to succumb to Mr. Galbraith, knowing that their worldviews were fundamentally at odds.
Mr. Galbraith used his knife to slice his cheeseburger into quarters. He concentrated on his meal; between bites and chews, he wiped his napkin over his mouth, icy blue eyes revealing nothing. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, and Charlie was certain that Mr. Galbraith had more to say, that he’d brought him to lunch for a specific reason, but there was no rush.
And then, with a fork balanced over his plate, shredded cabbage and carrot from the coleslaw caught in the prongs, Mr. Galbraith said, “Let me tell you something, Charles. Between you and me, you understand—this doesn’t leave the table. My job is basically that of a salesman, and it’s not that different from yours.” He nodded as if in agreement with what he’d already stated. Then he set his fork on his plate, indicating that what he had to say was far more important than eating.
Charlie chewed lettuce and tortilla and a piece of tomato, keeping his eyes on Mr. Galbraith.
After wiping his mouth with his napkin, Mr. Galbraith continued, “Last year, we were able to redo our basketball courts and the swimming pool. Did you know that? All because I golfed five times with a certain somebody who will remain unnamed but who willingly made a sizable donation.” His head made an unmistakable nod in the direction of Paul. “All for the students. And that’s where we’re the same. Because what you’re doing, Charles, is also expanding students’ worlds. And what I’m here to tell you, Charles, is that that is no small feat.”
Charlie took a sip of his ice water to wash down his food. He ran his napkin across his mouth. “I appreciate that, J. D. I really do.”
Mr. Galbraith crossed his fork and knife over his plate in an X, and then pushed his plate a few inches away from him on the table.
“Well, I’m sure you do, Charles. I’m sure you do. But it feels like you’ve been hiding. How could we have missed you all these years?”
“Now, J. D.” Charlie was shaking his head. It was unconscionable for Mr. Galbraith to take any kind of blame. “It’s not your fault. I mean, as an adjunct, I had time to figure out some things on my own.”
Charlie knew that Mr. Galbraith was about to offer him a promotion—it felt like cosmic timing. Charlie’s father had called him this morning, letting him know that a “large check” was on its way (he hadn’t indicated the amount) to help Charlie “settle down, buy a home, and start thinking more seriously about your future.”
“I mean it, J. D., there’s no hard feelings.” While he certainly didn’t disparage the pay increase and respect that came with a promotion, a rise in position at a second-rate community college wasn’t his ideal. But he could feel his ego pawing at the idea anyway.
Mr. Galbraith was in sober contemplation, his mouth set. “Well, Charles, it’s about time your accomplishments were recognized.”
“Well, thank you, J. D. I don’t know what to say, except that I’m very honored and I feel that I’m ready for the responsibility.”
“I’m sure you are, Charles.”
Mr. Galbraith smiled, a triumphant, we’re-together-on-this smile. His arm came across the table, over the basket of french fries, freckled age spots merged on the back of his hand, and Charlie gripped it in his own; they shook on it.
Charlie kept his grip firm, the way his father had taught him, and despite how he had struggled to separate from his family, it was his father he thought about, imagining what it would be like to have his wholehearted approval, finally, after all these years.
8
ERIC GRIPPED THE sand with his toes, the sea sucking against his feet, retreating and bubbling, a strand of seaweed catching at his ankle and then slipping away. The motion of the tide drawing back over the sand sounded like water sli
ding over pebbles. His jeans were soaked and heavy, rolled to his calves. The sun was a bright yellow monster, chewing at his head, neck, shoulders, so he kept his gaze down.
He saw the sand crabs burrowing into the slick surface, a clicking noise, invisible except for the tiny dark dents they pressed into the shoreline. He leaned over, scooped wetness, and watched a translucent, iridescent quarter-size shape dig up through the sand in his palm.
He and Esther used to collect sand crabs in a red bucket and then release them back to the sand. The sand crab in his hand looked like a little piece of cloud. In its shape and color, he saw the domed skylight above his father’s bed: the color of lead when it was overcast or foggy, dividing into squiggles with rain, and, when it was sunny, sending a shimmering square of sunlight swaying onto the bedspread, or the wall, or the curtain.
And for a moment, he was a kid again, lying in the big bed with Esther, underneath the skylight. He saw the round perfection of Esther’s shoulder, loving her so much, loving their mom. The smallest memory sending tremors, toppling his heart: his mom wearing her blue nightgown (she was under the covers, he couldn’t see her nightgown, but he knew she was wearing it), her shoulder the only thing visible above the bedspread. But it was Esther’s shoulder, with its cluster of freckles. She was the one who had found their mom dead from an overdose, but that was only because he knew already—he knew, he knew—and he wouldn’t go near her bed.
But he’d called 911, like on television when something awful happens, and he was in her closet when the police arrived, and then the paramedics, and even a fire truck; and for a long time, no one could find him. Her shoes, her smell, her clothes rustling the top of his head. Most of the clothes had plastic bags over them.
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