Blondie couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“It’s the Bear, isn’t it?” he asked, surprised at the anger in his voice.
“What do you know?” she asked, grabbing his arm.
“I saw your cars at a motel.”
He no longer doubted it.
“Oh, God.” She shut her eyes and sighed. “Who else knows?”
“Nobody as far as I know. I never said anything.”
She relaxed a trifle.
“It’s not what you think,” she said.
He gave her an encouraging smile. She returned a wry one.
“What am I saying? It’s probably just what you think.”
Blondie felt his shoulders slump.
“You can’t understand why I’d be attracted to him, can you?”
Blondie shook his head.
“He’s so sure of himself, so authoritative, so ….”
“Married,” Blondie offered.
“Yes.” She sighed again.
Funny, he’d always thought of her as so much older than himself. He knew it was no more than five or six years, but she was an adult and he was a kid. At this moment, he saw her as a girl.
“He called it off yesterday, didn’t he?” Blondie asked.
“No. I did.”
She began sniffling.
Blondie sat down beside her and put his arm around her. She let him hold her for a long while until she stopped crying.
“Thanks,” she said, gathering herself and standing. She picked up her satchel and walked from the room without looking back. Blondie remained on the wooden counter, staring absently at the patterns the pale light threw onto the far wall.
Later, Blondie shared the episode with Grouper after eliciting a pledge of secrecy.
“What do you make of it?” Blondie asked him. “Why would someone like Miss Darlington fall for someone like the Bear?”
“Everyone is desperate for love,” he said.
“Desperate enough to turn a dickhead into a Don Juan?”
“Every time.”
Grouper gave him a knowing smile and Blondie realized Grouper was no longer talking about Miss Darlington.
“Or a cheerleader into a Cleopatra?”
“Even that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Flossie heated spaghetti for Ted and parked him in front of the upstairs television. She told him to go straight to bed after watching The Flintstones.
“Abba dabba doo,” he replied.
Then she led Blondie down to their rec room. A large Zenith TV monopolized one corner of the orange shag carpet and a fake painting of an Alpine scene hung on one wall.
Flossie wanted to snuggle with him on the couch and watch Rawhide. She seemed to prefer snuggling to sex. That made him feel a trifle inferior. She could take sex or leave it. He had to have it.
Again tonight, after but a few kisses and touches, Blondie felt the hot hand of lust take hold of him.
“You want to do it now … here?” Flossie responded to his suggestion. She looked at him as if were a lunatic, but he knew she wouldn’t deny him. She never did.
But the couch was all wrong. It was too short. It was too soft. A guy could break his back. How would he ever explain that to his mom?
A long oak table stood upright near the bottom of the stairs. Blondie rushed over and stood it on the floor.
“This will do,” he announced.
“That’s our old dining table. It’ll be hard and cold.”
“I’ll put my sweater under you.”
Blondie thought it a gallant touch, a bit of Sir Walter Raleigh.
Flossie was still hesitant, but she took off her skirt and stood before him in her panties. Blondie found her legs gorgeous in the faint light from the TV screen — slender and silver.
He helped her up on the table and slid off her panties. The sight of her most female part hoisted his member to high noon. Blondie frantically unbuckled his pants and pulled them and his underwear down to his ankles. He didn’t have the patience to untie his sneakers.
Just as he was ready to spring onto the table, Flossie sat up and stared beyond him. Her eyes were eggs.
Blondie turned his head. At the foot of the stairs, in rabbit pajamas, Ted was watching them in wonder. Large gray ears flopped over on each side of his head,
“I want some milk,” he said.
Driving home, Blondie told himself he’d crossed the line. He was mentally diseased. His blunder at Flossie’s house proved it. There had to be a name for what he had, lustus profundis or something like that. The cure would be long and painful — something like making out with Phyllis.
It was obvious he’d never gain control of his illness if he kept seeing Flossie. He phoned her when he got home and told her he needed to cool it with her for a while.
“Boys don’t quit dating girls because they get too horny around them,” she said. “It must be something else.”
“It’s not good-bye or anything. I just feel rotten about what I’m doing to you.”
“You’re not doing anything to me.” Desperation laced her tone. “I like you.”
“I like you, too. That’s the problem. I like you too much to bring you down. Don’t you understand?”
“No.” Her voice quavered.
“You’ve got to try,” Blondie said as he hung up.
He felt crummy, but he was determined. What else could he do? She wasn’t the one. Was it right to keep making love to her knowing that?
Blondie vowed to devote more time to his journalism, his golf, his studies — any activity that fit the connotation of wholesome. If his lust got too great … well, he could always pull his pork like a really caring guy would do.
Feller made it clear he wasn’t about to follow Blondie’s course of action.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “You’re on your own on this. I still want to get laid.”
Blondie told Grouper of his decision.
“Appropriate under the circumstances,” Grouper agreed.
They were at Grouper’s Overlook, imbibing Pabsts. Grouper had bought it at the Suds Cellar. He’d forced himself to go back and get it right, saying it was a “matter of face.”
Blondie told Grouper about the plans for college he’d made with Feller. He was hoping Grouper might invite himself along. He realized he felt a strong affinity for the big fellow.
“Smith-Reid, huh? Sounds good,” he mused. “I wish I could go somewhere like that.”
“What’s stopping you?”
He made a sound like the moan of a distant foghorn.
“My dad has decreed that I should go to an Ivy League school,” Grouper said.
“You think you could get in?”
“I don’t know. I’m an extracurricular washout. That’s important to those schools. If I can’t get, my dad wants me to go to one of the Philadelphia schools.”
“Don’t you have a vote?” Blondie asked.
“One would think.” Grouper belched. “But you don’t know my dad.”
Grouper took the church key and popped another beer.
“You don’t seem to like your dad much,” Blondie said.
“He’s a pompous, arrogant prick,” Grouper said.
Blondie couldn’t remember ever hearing anyone speak so harshly of their father.
“Then why do you care so much what he thinks?”
“I’ve asked myself the same question a thousand times. I can’t find an answer. Somehow pleasing him seems to be important, even though I seldom do.”
“You get good grades. You stay out of trouble.”
“He likes that all right.”
“Then what …. ?”
“He doesn’t think I’m ambitious enough, athletic enough or ….”
Grouper stopped and Blondie realized he was choking up.
“Or?”
“Manly enough.”
Grouper forced the words ou
t.
Not manly enough? Grouper wasn’t the Mountain Pulaski type, but he was just as manly as he was.
“That’s bullshit,” Blondie said.
“I appreciate your feeling that way.”
In bed that night, Blondie wondered what kind of father could cause someone like Grouper to be so negative.
* * * * * * * *
Thursday afternoon, Blondie stood on the ninth tee at Meadowbrook, waiting for the ferret-faced boy to tee up the ball. His name was George and Blondie didn’t like him. The main thing he didn’t like about George was that, although he had a girl’s swing, he’d somehow managed to keep pace with Blondie for eight holes. They were tied at four holes apiece with one left.
Because Blondie was new to the team, Beasley had him playing sixth man — the last spot, the one reserved for the poorest player. Blondie resented that. He knew he was better than most of the others on the team.
Beasley had crept up to him as Blondie was walking between the eighth green and the ninth tee. He was wearing a pair of loud checked shorts, his spindly legs knobby as a crab’s.
“How’re you doing?” he’d whispered.
“We’re tied, coach,” Blondie had told him.
Disappointment had broken out all over his face.
“That’s okay,” he said in a sudden change of heart. “Here’s the situation. Everyone else is finished and so far, we’ve had two wins, a tie, and two losses. So, whether we win the match or not is up to you.”
He looked Blondie straight in the eyes to make sure he grasped the significance of the situation.
“Now, I want you to go after this little peckerhead … ”
Beasley stopped and rubbed the whiskers on his chin. He scowled.
“Is there anything else, coach?”
“I hate their coach. I’ve never beaten the son of a bitch. This is the best chance I’ve ever had. Don’t fuck it up.”
Beasley walked off a few paces, then looked back and yelled, “Don’t be nervous.”
Now, George carefully placed his tee in the ground, centered his ball on it, and aligned his driver behind the ball. Then, he arranged his feet in the same precise way he’d done for eight holes and took two or three practice swings.
What a dork, Blondie thought.
Finally, he was ready, sighting down the fairway, aiming between two large maples on either side of the fairway fifty yards away. He waggled the driver back and forth behind his ball.
Hit the fucking thing, Blondie urged under his breath.
George drew the club back and, with the same jerky rhythm as his practice swings, somehow brought the clubface into contact with the ball. There was a loud crack, followed almost immediately by another sharp report as George’s ball hit the maple guarding the left side of the fairway. Dead smack center. It bounced all the way back onto the tee.
Blondie was astounded. The little shit hadn’t hit a bad drive all day. What a break!
George pulled out his three wood. Again, he went through his ritual, this time aiming the ball farther to the right.
THWACK! The ball leapt off the clubface and BAP! He nailed the tree on the right. Again, the ball bounced back onto the tee.
Blondie had trouble hiding his glee. He looked up the fairway and saw Beasley hiding behind a bush. When George turned to collect his thoughts, he jumped out and pumped both fists in the air.
On his next attempt, George hit the ball straight down the fairway. But he was laying three. All Blondie had to do was avoid making the same mistake and victory would be certain.
As soon as Blondie saw his ball split the fairway, he let out a sigh of relief. How could he possibly lose now? He hadn’t shot worse than a five all day and George would have to play well from here on in to get six.
George’s drive was a good twenty yards behind Blondie’s, so he hit next. He seemed flustered and knocked his bag over while taking out his seven iron. But George put his shot onto the middle of the green, about thirty feet from the pin.
Blondie had a routine nine iron to the pin. He felt confident now. He was Arnold Palmer at the Masters. He felt his brows knit together into Arnie’s determined squint. Keeping his eyes locked on the ball, Blondie took his club back smoothly and hit his best shot of the day.
He watched the ball soar high in a straight line with the pin and then begin to fall. It was right on top of the pin. It could go in! To Blondie’s amazement and horror, his ball landed on top of the pin, bending it. For an instant, the ball seemed to balance there, and then the pin straightened, catapulting Blondie’s ball about thirty feet to the right and into a sand trap.
He couldn’t believe it. Blondie turned his face to the heavens and mouthed the word “Why?” Then, he looked over at George, as if expecting him to say, “You were robbed. Go ahead and pick your ball out of the sand and place it near the pin.”
George was looking away. Nonetheless, Blondie could see that the corner of his mouth had curled into a slight smile.
Blondie looked toward the bush where Beasley had been hiding. He was sitting behind it in the grass, his fists pressed against his head. In a moment, he recovered and came rushing up to Blondie like a buffalo in heat.
“Forget about it,” Beasley encouraged. “You were robbed. But you’re still a shot up on him. Just get the ball out of the trap and two-putt. He’ll never make his putt from where he is.”
Blondie appreciated Beasley’s support and took up his task with fresh resolve. He strode confidently into the trap. No point in letting George have any inkling of how much he hated sand shots.
Blondie focused his eyes on a point an inch behind the back of the ball. That was where he wanted his club to hit. He took his sand wedge back in a graceful arc and let it drop into the yielding sand. There was a splash of gold against the sky and the momentary rising of the ball. It landed on the edge of the green, but instead of skittering forward, it began spinning backward. Blondie watched it hang for an instant on the edge of the trap, then roll back in.
Full-scale panic set in. Blondie’s one-stroke lead was gone. George looked at him with a smirk. From the corner of his eye, Blondie saw Beasley tearing leaves off a nearby tree.
His confidence wavering, Blondie swung again. He half-expected to catch the ball thin and rocket it over the green and into the firmament. But somehow, shaky arms and all, he scooped the ball from the trap and dropped it two feet from the pin.
Blondie allowed himself the pleasure of turning toward George and grinning. George looked ill. Blondie marked his ball and waited for George to putt. If he missed his thirty-footer and Blondie made his tap-in, the match was his.
George bent over his putter in his peculiar hunchbacked way. When he stroked his putt, Blondie saw it was way too hard and offline to the left. But somehow, the grain of the grass slowed the putt down and, as Blondie watched in horror, it began to break to the right. It was headed straight for the hole! The ball began to slow. When it reached the edge of the cup, it ran out of gas and stopped. Blondie turned toward Beasley and smiled. From behind, he heard a clunk. When Blondie turned, the ball was out of sight and George was grinning.
“It fell in,” he said in a snotty tone.
Blondie’s stomach tightened like a fist. He could no longer win. He had to sink his two-footer to tie.
As Blondie surveyed his putt, it began to grow. Three feet. Four feet. Ten miles. Blondie forced himself to calm down. It was straight in, he told himself. A beginner could make it. An octogenarian could make it.
His pep talk wasn’t working. His arms felt like two-by-fours, knotted and stiff with tension. He aimed the ball right for the center of the hole, but somehow, he flinched. Not much. Just enough that the ball caught the rim, circled the cup, and perched on the back edge.
He’d lost!
Blondie turned to Beasley for sympathy, but he wasn’t there. Testerman and Carrington, the number one and two men, were looking at him as if he’d molested their sister
s.
It wasn’t fair. He’d hit the shot. He’d been robbed.
Blondie heard Beasley talking to someone as he approached the clubhouse.
“And then he hits the fucking pin … ” Beasley was saying as if Blondie’d plotted with the pin to lose the match.
“Tough shit, Beasley,” a voice answered. “You lost again. That’s fifty big ones.”
Blondie could guess whose voice that was.
Over dinner, Blondie’s mom asked him how he’d performed at “his golf thing.”
“I blew the match for us,” he told her.
“That’s wonderful,” she said, “and I have some good news for you, too.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“I knew you’d do well. Now, let me tell you my news. We’re going to New York state for the summer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dad’s been accepted into a master’s program at the state university at Potsdam.”
“What does he need a master’s degree for?”
Why were parents so weird? Just when you thought you were finally settled, they went and changed things.
“Your dad,” his mom said proudly, “is considering teaching military history at the college level.”
That would be dangerous to the security of the nation, Blondie thought.
“Anyway, we thought you’d be pleased. You can come up with us and explore the area around Potsdam. There are mountains to hike, lakes to swim in, and plenty of golf courses.”
“No.”
“You don’t want to go?”
His mom cocked her head, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“No.”
“It’ll be fun,” his mom persisted.
Now his dad was looking over and his look wasn’t friendly.
“We’re not leaving you here alone,” he said firmly.
“Why not? I’ll be eighteen by then. A grown man.”
His father wasn’t convinced. Blondie argued with him for a while, then let his mother — who’d unexpectedly taken a sympathetic turn — take over.
“Francis, we shouldn’t make him. Perhaps it’s unreasonable to expect an 18-year-old boy to spend the summer with his parents.”
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