The Nine Lessons (10 page)
I’d like to see the fairways more narrow. Then everyone would have to play from the rough, not just me.
—Seve Ballesteros
B
y the Fourth of July
the humidity in Vermont had risen to a level near 100 percent. It was an uncomfortable mix of moisture and heat for everyone, and nigh unbearable for pregnant women. By the middle of the month the little black flies that return annually to swarm at the nostrils of unsuspecting pedestrians were out in full force. Between the flies and the humidity Erin was left with few reasons to leave the house, so for much of July she just sat indoors, wishing she felt better and longing for a break from the annoyances of summer.
But that all changed near the end of the month. Without fanfare or warning the nausea and vomiting that had plagued her for so long magically disappeared, replaced by a new and unquenchable hunger for anything that was digestible. Whereas before she’d resisted food of any kind because of nausea that lasted from dawn till dusk, suddenly she wanted to eat
everything,
and she wanted it
now.
More than once Erin sent me driving in the middle of the night to procure more Ben & Jerry’s ice cream from whatever quick-mart I could find open, and Captain Crunch cereal had to be purchased by the case just to keep her satiated.
Since we hadn’t eaten out in nearly three months, Erin wanted to celebrate her newfound appetite by going to a restaurant and stuffing herself to the gills. The only catch? She wanted to eat at Scotland Yards. It didn’t matter to her that I had refused to patronize my father’s restaurant since I was in high school, or that the golf atmosphere of his establishment made me self-conscious. On this night she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
When we arrived at Scotland Yards, London was merrily greeting patrons, dressed from head to toe in traditional Scottish garb. His cheerful disposition made me wonder if he only saved his hostility for me. He was obviously surprised to see us walking through the door, but at the same time he seemed pleased as well. While his lead hostess was scouting out a table for us, my father gave Erin and I each a shot on his famous “Nineteenth Hole,” a small indoor putting green full of bumps and hills and obstacles. Customers with enough luck to sink a hole-in-one are given a free dessert as reward for their handiwork. Neither of us made the putt, but just to show us it could be done, London stepped up and sank two in a row.
“Your table is ready sir,” said the hostess when we were finished putting. “Please follow me.” She guided us through a throng of tables to a large booth near the far window that had a gorgeous view of Lake Champlain, which Vermonters lovingly refer to as “the
other
Great Lake.”
The food at Scotland Yards was better than I remembered as a kid, which could be the result of my father’s buying out his original partner and hiring two new chefs who had actually graduated from culinary school. We were finishing up the main course and eyeing the dessert menu when a loud set of bagpipes began howling from somewhere back in the kitchen. We turned around to find a college-age kid emerging through a double-hung door, playing a slow and dreary rendition of “Happy Birthday” on the windy instrument. He paraded at a snail’s pace through the restaurant, stepping in time with the music, weaving back and forth between the tables until he finally came to a stop right beside us. A teenage girl with braces trailed him the entire time, and when the music finally petered out she scooted forward and handed each of us a slice of the largest dessert we’d ever seen, a giant wedge of a six-layered cake, covered with a thick layer of frosting and nuts, and drizzled with warm chocolate syrup. A single piece would have easily fed four people, yet we were both given one to consume by ourselves.
Erin was salivating over the chocolate monstrosity before her. “But it’s not our birthday,” she remarked.
The kid with the bagpipes smiled. “I know, but that’s the only song I can play. Mr. Witte asked me to play you a little something to say congratulations that you’re feeling better.”
Erin smiled back. “Please tell Mr. Witte that we’re very grateful for the kind gesture. Oh, and would you let our waitress know I’d like to order another one of these to go?”
It was getting quite late by the time we left Scotland Yards, but Erin wanted to burn off some of the extra helpings she’d downed over dinner, so we set off on a leisurely walk through downtown Burlington. We started out on the long boardwalk that spanned Lake Champlain’s northeastern shore, and then made our way several blocks inland to historic Church Street, Vermont’s most beloved and highest-priced shopping district. Even though all of the stores were closed for the night, it was nice just to window-shop and enjoy each other’s company. The late hour meant that we didn’t have to compete for space on the typically crowded thoroughfare. We passed an occasional couple walking and whispering hand in hand, relishing the tranquility of the warm July night, but beyond that we had the place to ourselves.
Since Erin had been less than congenial for the past couple of months while suffering from morning sickness, it was refreshing to talk to each other without the worry that we might be interrupted at any moment by a horrific bout of vomiting. After going so long wondering if it would ever end, Erin finally felt well. That fact alone made everything else in the world seem right. I had my wife back, and that was all that mattered.
For most of our walk, we simply caught up on things that we’d failed to share during the stress of the previous weeks—how things were going at work, news from Erin’s family in Maine, and a few tidbits of gossip about our next-door neighbors, who, rumor had it, were on the verge of adopting their eighth child from Romania.
“Do you think you could love a child that we didn’t conceive?” Erin asked.
I suppressed a laugh. “I can’t imagine it, no. Heck, I’m having a hard enough time coming to grips with having one of my own.”
“I could,” she said playfully, then moved on to a different subject. “Are things all right between you and your father? You’re always so tight-lipped when you come home from golfing. Is it going okay?”
I hadn’t yet shared, nor was I ready to share, any of the things my father had done or said at any of our monthly golf lessons, so I kept my answers intentionally simple and evasive. I think I was afraid that if I verbalized what he’d been teaching me, I would be forced to admit that London understood the human experience much more than I’d ever suspected, and that was not something I was prepared—or willing—to accept. And it certainly wasn’t something I wanted Erin to know.
“Yep.”
“Are you learning anything?”
“Not sure.”
“Well, are you having fun?”
That one I could answer honestly. “Nope.”
She curled her brow and gave me a questioning look. “You really don’t want to talk about it, do you?”
I returned her look with a wry grin. “Not tonight.”
She clasped my hand and squeezed it tight. “Fine, if you want golf to be something just between you and him, I’m okay with that.”
I smiled at her and kept moving forward. We were nearing the far end of Church Street, where ornate stone pavers on the ground give way to the large brick church after which the road was named. The structure’s beautiful white steeple jutted up through a net of woven shadows cast by nearby street lamps; its highest point was lost entirely to the dark night above.
“Look!” whispered Erin loudly as the steps of the church came into full view. She let go of my hand and took hold of my upper arm. “Is that a girl crying?”
Sure enough, on the topmost step leading up to the church’s front door was what appeared to be a teenage girl. She was sitting down with her head bowed and her arms wrapped around her knees. It was clear that she was crying; her wails were echoing so loudly against the nearby buildings that I wondered why we hadn’t heard her earlier. I looked around in every direction. Other than a few men who were exiting a bar several hundred feet away, there was nobody in sight.
“Should we go see if she’s okay?”
“No,” I answered. “She probably just got dumped by her boyfriend and needs to cry it off. We should just leave her be and assume it’s nothing more serious than that.”
Erin slapped me impulsively on the arm. “You’re heartless.”
“I’m kidding! But—you’re doing the talking, right?”
She took my hand again and led me to where the girl sat hunched over, crying uncontrollably. “Hello there,” said Erin gently. “We don’t mean to intrude, but we wanted to make sure you’re all right. Is there anything we can do to help you?”
The girl lifted her head without speaking and looked first at my wife, then at me, and then back at my wife. She was clutching a small plaid purse in her fingers, which she pulled tightly against her body while she evaluated us. Tears streamed down her face. She was a pretty girl—probably fifteen or sixteen—and aside from her current state of sorrow, she appeared to be your average teenage kid. I couldn’t imagine what she was doing out so late all by herself. A new round of water welled up in her eyes and without saying a word she slumped forward dramatically, burying her face in her knees.
Erin shot me a glance that said I should try to say something, but I just shrugged. What was I supposed to say? If the creature before us was a rabid dog or a feral cat I’d know just what to do, but a stray, sobbing teenage girl was an animal beyond my veterinary training.
Erin tried again, touching her softly on the shoulder. “Are you lost? Are you hurt?” My wife, ever the nurturer, squatted and took a seat right next to her on the step.
The girl lifted her head again. Before responding she tucked a long lock of wavy blonde hair behind her ear. She looked at my wife, but kept close tabs on me out of the corner of her eye. She stopped whimpering to speak. “I… I’d rather not talk with
him
here.” She motioned her head in my direction.
“I see,” replied Erin sympathetically. “August, dear, would you mind hanging out over there by the bookstore, so we can have a girl-to-girl chat?”
I shrugged again and started walking away. It wasn’t far—maybe fifty paces—but far enough that I was out of earshot. The girl didn’t stop crying until I reached my destination. From there I could hear the sounds from their talking, but I couldn’t make out the words. After ten minutes or so the girl pulled a pen and paper from her purse and started writing something down, making sure to keep what she was writing hidden from Erin. When she was through she folded up the paper and handed it to my wife, who then stood and started toward me. My wife looked back over her shoulders a couple of times as she approached. The teenager sat waiting on the church step.
“What was that all about?” I asked once she’d joined me in front of the bookstore.
“I don’t know—it was very weird. One minute she was bemoaning her first broken heart, and then in the middle of our conversation she just started writing this note, and insisted that I bring it to you. She said it was for your eyes only. I’m supposed to have you read it and then go talk to her about what you think.”
I looked up at the church, and the girl waved.
“Very weird,” I agreed. In the back of my mind I was wondering about this poor girl’s parents. Were they worried about their daughter? Did they know she wasn’t at home? Or were they the kind of parents who didn’t care one way or the other? I unfolded the paper and held it up at an angle to better catch the glow from the nearest lamppost. I had to squint to make out the fine cursive lettering. “Dear sir. I just wanted to say thank you for letting me talk to your wife. We had a nice chat. She honestly made me feel better. Also, I want to say that I’m truly sorry. As you walked away it gave my boyfriend the perfect opportunity to take your wife’s—oh fetch!” My eyes darted back up to the church, but there was nobody in sight. The girl was gone.
Erin groaned as she realized what was going on. She quickly checked all around her person for the purse she’d been carrying earlier. “What? No… are you kidding me?”
