Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto (10 page)

“Y
ou've got to keep that back elbow pinned to your side.” I take a swing to show her and launch my ball straight and long.

“My elbow
is
pinned to my side,” Audrey insists. It's after the round with my father, just after Audrey's shift, and she and I have decided to hit a bucket or two. I can't figure out how I got talked into it. I hate the golf range. And Audrey's swing is terrible.

I watch her hit a few more. Her elbow keeps coming up like a chicken wing, and every one of her shots slices off to the right.

“Back elbow. Back elbow.”

“Shut up,” she says. “Maybe I'm trying to hit to the right. You ever think of that?”

“You're full of it.” I stand behind her and hold her elbow against her right side to show her how to turn at
the hips. “I used to do the exact same thing,” I say. “Keep your head down and that elbow tight or you'll be all over the course.”

Audrey hits another. It pops straight into the air and lands about ten feet in front of us. “Maybe I like variety.”

I press Audrey's elbows against her sides and bend her arms. I turn her palms up and lay her club across her forearms. It's an exercise my golf instructor showed me when I was eleven. “Turn at the hips and keep the club balanced,” I say. “Twist back and forth a bunch of times. Get used to how it feels.”

She does as I ask, but after a few repetitions the club slides off her arms. “The range is so boring!”

“It's only boring because you don't know the right way to do it.” Did I just say that, or was it my father speaking through me?

“So what's your big secret?” she asks.

“Okay, my big secret is that I hate the range, too. I'd rather be out there playing, but if you give yourself goals, it becomes a lot more bearable. Most people just grab their driver and see if they can pound it against the back fence or hit the ball-collection truck.”

“I'd love to hit that truck.”

“It makes an awesome clanging sound,” I say, “but the groundskeeper gets pissed off. Anyhow, if you want to get anything out of the driving range, start with your wedge or nine-iron and hit a few dozen balls, enough to get into a rhythm. Then slowly move to your longer clubs. I go in two-club increments: nine to seven to five to three.”

“Then what?”

“Then I grab my wood.” Before the words finish coming out, I know what's next.

Audrey chuckles. “You said ‘grab my wood.'”

My cheeks heat up. “You're no different than Dimitri.”

“Oh, I'm different, all right.” She coils back with her iron in her hands and swings. Her ball rockets into the air and lands ninety yards straight out. It bounces another ten and curls around the back of the practice flag.

“Do that again,” I say.

Audrey hands me her club. “Do what again?”

A horn honks behind us. A yellow Wrangler with a surfboard in the backseat pulls up, and Kevin hops out. He walks across the practice green to us. He's lanky, with dark floppy hair that covers most of his face. “Hey, what's up, Aud?”

“Hey, Kevin. This is Dimitri's friend Seth.”

Kevin pushes his hair from his eyes with one hand and extends the other to shake. It's a limp sort of shake, like I'm squeezing a piece of uncooked chicken. “What's up, man?” he says to me. “Giving my lady a golf lesson?”

“Looks like she's the one schooling me,” I say.

“I'll just wait over there,” Kevin says, flipping a thumb at one of the benches. “You guys take your time.”

“Nah,” Audrey says. “I think I've learned everything I need to learn today.”

“You sure?” Kevin says. “I don't mind waiting.”

“No, it's cool,” Audrey says. She starts to trot across the grass toward the Wrangler.

Kevin jerks his chin at me. “Later, dude.”

“Later,” I say.

As they walk away, Kevin slips his arm around Audrey and she leans into him. I bend down to grab my clubs and hear two car doors slam. Kevin starts his Jeep, and some mellow reggae starts to pulse from the speakers.

“Bye, Seth!” Audrey calls to me. She waves as Kevin pulls away. I lift Audrey's club in the air and use it to wave back. Then I watch the blue-and-green surfboard disappear down the driveway.

“A
ren't you going to eat?” My mother is talking to me over the sounds of the James Cattrall Orchestra. It's the same band the club gets for every big function, and the Fourth of July Dinner Dance Gala is the biggest of the biggies. “Lemon chicken over pierogi. It's your favorite.”

I poke my fork at my plate. “I had a late lunch.” The truth is that seeing my parents together, laughing and smiling, having a gay old time, makes my digestive system want to work in reverse.

I take a sip of water and glance around the dining room. The dance floor is packed with people strutting around like they have no idea how ridiculous they look in their brass-buttoned jackets and stuffed-beyond-capacity sequined gowns. I wish Dimitri were here. He'd have a blast ripping everyone apart.

I slouch in my seat.

“Something bothering you?” my father asks.

It's been two days since our round of golf, since my BMW/Acura comment, but after we finished on Friday my father and I have hardly spoken a word. We've hardly even crossed paths.

“I'm good,” I say. “It's just this jacket. It's pulling tight across my shoulders.”

My mother winks at me. “My baby boy is getting so big,” she says.

My father points at my chest with his butter knife. The butter square clings to it like it's a refrigerator magnet. “I always said you should have been a halfback.”

“Puh-leeze,” my mother says. “Golf and tennis, those are the only sports that matter.” She nudges my shoulder with her fist. “You can play them until you're ninety.”

My dad tries to catch my attention, probably so he can roll his eyes about my mother's comment, but I drop my gaze to my plate. My mom goes on about how golf and tennis are the best sports, and my father goes back to buttering his bread. They smile at each other across the table.

“Hey, I'm sorry for talking about you again on the radio program.” It seems like my mother has been making it a nightly feature on her show. Now she's getting calls from listeners to console her, to send me reassuring messages. “I just know how down you are about everything, and telling my listeners about it helps me get it off my chest.”

I did not hear the show these past few days, only fielded
the phone calls and emails from all the kids who did. I let her apologize but don't pay attention to her words. Instead, I look out at the dance floor and wonder what it is about the Macarena that gets people to want to stand in a line and do flagless semaphore in the four cardinal directions. It reminds me of schools of fish, each fishy following the ass end of the fishy in front of it. One darts to the left, and they all dart to the left. I read once that there are caterpillars that follow the one in front of it so unconditionally that they'll keep marching until they die. If the band kept on playing, would these people Macarena themselves to death?

“You're not listening to me.” My mom's hand slides across the table and squeezes my forearm. “Are you thinking about Veronica?”

“I guess.”

“Don't sweat it,” my father says. “It was puppy love. Mr. Peepers love. Before you know it, you'll be dating some other girl and you'll forget all about that one.”

The hair on the back of my neck bristles. If I followed my dad's philosophy of relationships, I'd have been screwing someone else long before Veronica had the chance to dump me. That or I'd have been digging ditches in the backyard until my parents had a few Olympic-sized swimming pools to show off to the neighbors.

“Mike, that's not what Seth needs to hear,” my mom says. “This sort of thing crops up on the radio program all the time. He's going through a difficult period right now. He needs to process his feelings.”

My dad takes a bite of his roll and moves his attention to the band.

“Seth, my boy!” It's Mr. Haversham, the director of the club. His voice sounds more like a tuba than anything that might come out of a human being. His seersucker jacket barely stretches across his paunch, and his cheeks, part ruddy from the sun and part ruddy from the wine, make his head look like an overinflated party balloon. He extends his hand and I shake it. “So glad to have you join our team,” he says. “Have you given any thought to what you want to do around here?”

“I was thinking about the pro shop,” I say. “I stay current with all the new gear, and I'm pretty good on the computer.” The truth is that aside from working in the restaurant, the pro shop is one of the only air-conditioned positions at the club. It's a sweet gig.

“Sounds great,” Mr. Haversham says. “We could use a young gun down there. Old Al, he still thinks knickers and knee-high socks are all the rage. Maybe you can bring him up to speed.” Mr. Haversham takes a long sip of wine, and I swear I can see his face turn two shades redder.

“You'll do great over there,” my mom says to me. “Maybe you can help me pick out some new clubs. I've been meaning to get a new set.”

Mr. Haversham points at me with the rim of his wineglass. “See, you're selling already. Come by Tuesday morning, and we'll get you started.”

“Sure thing,” I say.

Mr. Haversham walks off, and I can't help but stare.
He's wearing brown-and-white saddle shoes. Inside. It's one thing to wear saddle shoes on the course—it's pretty standard, even nowadays—but to wear them to an evening event? They make him look like an overgrown three-year-old.

“You'll like working here,” my father says. “Everyone's really nice.”

“I know,” I say. But really, I'm just looking forward to working around Dimitri. Even though he'll be outside in the heat and I'll be in the pro shop, it'll kick ass to see him on breaks and after work.

The band gets louder. They must pump up the volume after the main course gets cleared. They start into that “Celebration” song, and people get up from their seats and stampede toward the dance floor.

Audrey clears our dishes. It's the first time I've noticed her.

“Took you long enough,” she says. “Your head's been buried in your plate all night.”

“You've been to our table already?” I say.

“Four times.”

Her hair is braided into two strands that curl over each ear and trail down her back. With her hair out of her face, her eyes are lighter than I remember.

“How's business?” I ask.

“I'm in the weeds tonight,” she says, reaching across me to grab the half-empty basket of bread. She smells of fryer oil and laundry detergent. “Chef Rigby recommends the cheesecake. They brought it in special from some
cheesecake-making nuns who live in the hills. Apparently, aside from praying, they bake up a storm.”

“We'll keep that in mind,” my father says, extending his hand. “You seem to know Seth, but I'm not sure we've had the pleasure. Your name tag…”

I look at her name tag. In bold block letters it says R
OGER
.

Roger?

“Oh, this is Audrey,” I say. “Dimitri's sister. Remember her?”

“Audrey!” my mother chimes in. “Ohmygod. We haven't seen you in…gosh, it's been years.”

“Four,” Audrey says. “Dimitri and Seth's eighth-grade graduation. We came to your party afterward. I threw up orange soda all over your Persian rug.”

“I don't…I don't remember that…” my mother says.

“Sure you do,” my dad cuts in. “You complained about that stain for weeks.”

My mother goes rigid in her seat. “Michael, I did not….”

“I'm just kidding.” He rubs Mom's shoulder. “So, Audrey, how are things going here at the club for you?”

Audrey hoists her tray onto her shoulder. “It's a good mix of inside and out,” she says. “Lots of different things to do and not enough downtime for me to get bored. Anyhow, I'm just glad I'm not in the heat all the time. Dimitri's been sweating his—”

“Head off,” I cut in, afraid of what anatomical part
she might come out with.

“Yes, he's been sweating his
head
off.” Audrey smiles at me. “So, unless you guys are low-carbing it, I'll put you in for three cheesecakes.”

“Actually, we
are
low-carbing it,” my mother says, “but Mike has been picking at bread all night anyway. After hearing about those nuns, I suppose I could be convinced to hop off the wagon, too.”

My father nods. “And coffees all around.”

“You're going to love it,” Audrey says. “It's peanut butter chocolate.” She heads into the kitchen through the swinging double doors, her long brown braids bouncing against the back of her tuxedo shirt.

“She seems nice,” my mother says. “She looks nothing like she did three years ago.”

“That's for sure,” my father adds.

I think back to when I first became friends with Dimitri, when we were in fifth grade and Audrey was in third, how she and her friends used to listen at Dimitri's bedroom door while we talked about the new manga books, video games, and whatever movie was busting box-office records. How once she overheard Dimitri say that he thought Jenna Leominster was cute and that he thought she liked him back because he saw his initials on her notebook. Audrey went skipping through the house chanting about how Dimitri and Jenna were going to get married, and the next thing I knew I was pulling Dimitri off Audrey, holding his arms back so he couldn't swing at her anymore. I felt bad for Audrey back then. She looked so tiny, so thin and delicate.
Things sure have changed. Nowadays, I suspect Audrey could handle herself in a saloon full of undead barbarian pirate ogres.

My mother takes a sip of wine and stands up. She pokes me in the shoulder. “How about a quick dance?” she says. “That is, unless you're too embarrassed to be out there with your mom.”

“I'll take a pass,” I say.

She turns to my father. “Then why don't you spin me around a few times?” she says. “We never get to dance anymore.” My father rolls his eyes—he's not a dancer, either—but he knows he's on the hook. He pulls his napkin from his lap and leads my mom to the dance floor. When they get there, he does this little side-to-side stepping thing with his hands jammed in his pockets. Dimitri danced better when he was doing his lame excuse for the Charleston in the passenger seat of my car.

Before I have a chance to devise an escape plan, my parents are back.

“Hey, Seth,” my father says. His voice is ten times more cheery than it should be. “Have you ever tried cognac?”

“Cognac?”

My mother is wringing her hands like she did the time I cracked my forehead open in first grade and had to be strapped to a wooden board so the doctor could get the stitches in. I glance around to try to figure out what the trouble is.

“A couple of the guys and me are going out onto the patio for an after-dinner drink.” Dad slaps me on the back
and urges me to my feet. “Grandpa Chester gave me my first cognac when I was about your age. I thought it might be fun if we had a little tonight.”

“Anyhow, you'll want to get a good spot for the fireworks.” My mother glances at her watch. “It's after nine now.”

It's weird enough that my parents spent all of five seconds on the dance floor. It's even weirder that my father is offering me booze. But when my mother shows interest in me getting a good spot for fireworks that are going off more than five miles away, I know something must be really wrong.

My eyes dart around even more, scanning for something out of place. My mother moves between me and the dance floor as my father ushers me toward the French doors that lead to the patio.

And then I see her.

Veronica.

It's hard
not
to see her. As she dances, her silver dress shimmers like mercury. She's with some blond guy whose back is to me. She's wearing a smile so wide, I'm surprised it fits on her face. She's doing this shimmy thing and bending forward and back over and over again.

And all of a sudden it feels like one of those scenes in a horror movie—the part when the good guy first sees the monster—where the view both sucks back and gets closer at the same time. Classic Sam Raimi.

My mom sees my face and knows I've seen what she and Dad were trying to protect me from. She steps closer.
“Seth, I'm so sorry.”

“She shouldn't have come here,” my father says.

“It's okay,” I say. “I'm fine with it.”

But it's not okay. I'm not fine with it. I stare at Veronica a few seconds longer until my father's tugging gets stronger than my need to run over to my ex-girlfriend—the ex-girlfriend who is dancing at
my
club with some other guy. Veronica shimmies again, and it reminds me of a mating ritual, like a red-assed baboon displaying her ripened fertility to the male baboon.

I let my father pull me toward the patio, all the while staring at Veronica and the guy she's dancing with, all the while staring at the two baboons. The guy turns around and, for a brief second, I get a glimpse of his face. It's that bastard Anders from Applebee's—the guy with the chin like a Thruway plow who was our waiter the day Veronica dumped me. Some part of me knew it all along.

My face ignites, probably redder than Mr. Haversham's.

Veronica glances up. Her gaze locks on mine, and her smile vanishes. She takes a step toward me. I hesitate, too, until I see that she's thought better of coming over. Maybe she can see something in my eyes. Maybe she's afraid of upsetting Anders or of making a scene at the club. She shakes her head, barely shakes it. Then she turns away and goes back to dancing, this time with a little less shimmy than before.

I let my father finish pulling me outside. The heavy night air and the blood pulsing through my neck make my tie feel tight. I undo my top button and yank my collar
loose. Music thrums behind me. The smell of cigars washes over me. Someone puts a cognac snifter in my hand, and I take a sip. The brandy burns my lips, sears my throat.