Two Under Par (3 page)

“I want you to know the classics, Wedge,” Sally had said once, before she began reading. “I never read them until I worked at the library. You'll be getting a real head start. At least you'll know a lot more than I did at your age.”

Camelot reminded Wedge of that picture book again—that knight and that dragon. He envisioned them coming to life—the dragon turning King into a pile of ashes that the wind would blow away.

But like a circle, Wedge's mind always ended up where it started. Thinking about Sally. And missing her.

Just then Wedge's stomach rumbled—it was time for a snack.

After preparing a peanut-butter-and-cream-cheese sandwich, Wedge poured himself a glass of milk and sat down at the kitchen table. While he ate, he watched the golfers who were making their way around the course. One golfer in particular caught his eye—she looked just like Judith Mills, except that her hair wasn't black enough.

Judith, along with Jackie DeRose and Eric Scheller, were Wedge's friends from the apartment building he used to call home. Sometimes Judith seemed more like an enemy than a friend, but Wedge missed not having her right across the hall.

Besides sending Wedge notes with hearts drawn all over them, Judith was the one who thought of the nickname Wedge.

“You look like a wedge,” she said to him one day at lunch, when they were in the second grade. That morning in science class they had learned about pulleys, wedges, ropes, and wheels. “You've got a small head and you just keep getting wider all the way down,” she observed. Then she made kissing sounds and stuck her tongue out at him.

From that day on everyone called him Wedge—even Sally and his teachers. Wedge never thought the nickname actually fit—
he
didn't think he looked anything like a wedge—but he liked it much better than his real name. His real name was Conrad (after a character on Sally's favorite soap opera).

Wedge finished his sandwich. He decided to call Judith on the phone. Maybe, he thought, Judith's mother could drive her, Jackie, and Eric out to play miniature golf. He smiled as he dialed the number. He felt better than he had all morning.

“Hellome?” Judith's familiar voice said.

“Judith, this is Wedge.”

“Wedge? Wedge who?” she asked, giggling.

“Come on, you know.”

More giggling.

“I miss you,” Wedge said suddenly. He didn't know why he said it—he hadn't planned on it. It just came out.

The giggling stopped.

“I didn't want to move,” Wedge added. “I wish I could move back.”

“You know,” Judith said in a serious voice, “my mom said the only reason Sally got married and you moved away is because she's pregnant. In case you don't know—that means she's having a baby and—”

Wedge dropped the phone. Then he picked it up and hung it up without saying another word to Judith. He felt weak. He began to tremble.

Of course he knew what pregnant meant. As a matter of fact, it was Judith who had told him.

Wedge dialed Judith's number again.

“Hellome?” It was Judith.

“You stink worse than a wet dog!” Wedge shouted. He slammed down the receiver, his heart pounding as if it might jump right out of his body.

It was still pounding as fast and hard ten minutes later.

W
edge dialed another number (his heart still drumming) and listened to the phone ring. “Please answer,” he whispered into the receiver. The phone kept ringing. And ringing.

“Hello?” an out-of-breath voice finally said.

Wedge sighed in relief. “Aunt Bonnie? This is Wedge.”

“Oh, hi, honey. How are you?”

“I'm okay,” he lied. “Are you going to be home for a while?”

“I sure am. Your Uncle Larry and I are working in the garden. And we've got enough weeds to keep us occupied all afternoon.”

“Mind if I come over?”

“You know you're always welcome, honey.”

Wedge forgot to say thank you and goodbye. He darted from the kitchen and snuck his bike out of the basement. He headed in the direction of Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Larry's house. He didn't tell King he was going.

The one and only good thing about moving in with King was that now Wedge lived less than a mile from Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Larry. Just a short bike ride away.

Wedge loved Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Larry's house more than anyplace on earth. It smelled sweet and spicy like gingersnaps, and their thick sofa and chairs were the kind that settled in around you when you sat—making getting out of them as hard as rising from a warm bed on a cold morning. The walls were light and airy, the floors deep dark chocolate shag. Outside—flowers and shrubs surrounded the house in bright clusters.

Wedge pedaled furiously. He was forming questions in his mind to ask his aunt. Questions about Sally. He wondered if he should come right out and say, “Is Sally having a baby?” But he didn't think he could actually say those words, and he knew how miserable he'd be if he heard a certain answer. He decided to simply bring up the topic of babies and see where it led.

For a moment Wedge convinced himself that it was all a joke. It would be just like Judith to kid around like that, Wedge thought as he jumped the curb and veered into Aunt Bonnie's backyard. But the terrible gnawing in his stomach (it wasn't hunger) didn't go away. And stomachs never lie.

“Wedge!” Aunt Bonnie called. “Come give me a hug and a kiss.”

Wedge dropped his bike on the wide, sloping lawn and ran toward her. “Hi!” he said.

Aunt Bonnie was wearing denim coveralls and she carried a forked digging tool that looked like a snake's tongue in her gloved hand. When she smiled, her teeth showed just the way Sally's did, and her eyes had the same sparkle. But the similarities between Sally and Bonnie ended there—not much for sisters to have in common.

Bonnie was taller and heavier. Her hair was lighter and her voice deeper. Details were important to Bonnie; Sally didn't let details bother her. For example, in Wedge's first year of Cub Scouts, instead of sewing his cloth insignias on his uniform (like everyone else), Sally glued them on with Elmer's to save time. “No one'll know the difference, honey,” she told Wedge. But Bonnie noticed. So she offered to stitch them on. And she did, with all the precision of an accomplished seamstress. Aunt Bonnie kept a spotless house; Sally didn't believe in dusting or vacuuming except in emergencies. Sometimes Wedge thought that Sally and Aunt Bonnie were as different as two sisters could be. Like vinegar and oil in a salad dressing that just won't stay mixed long, even though they belong together.

While Wedge wriggled away from Aunt Bonnie's hug, Uncle Larry came out of the garage. The expression on his face was frequently that of a young child who had just done something he shouldn't have. “Hi, Wedge-O!” he yelled. He wiped his right hand on his jeans and outstretched it for Wedge to shake.

“Hi, Uncle Larry,” Wedge said, cringing from Larry's firm grip. Uncle Larry used to be a football star at Mayfield High. He even played a season with the Badgers before he dropped out of college. His hands were the size of Wedge's baseball mitt (the rest of his body was in relative proportion), making his handshake deadly.

Once, Wedge put his hands in his pockets and kept them there to avoid his uncle's famous grasp. But that was worse—Uncle Larry got down in a three-point stance and charged after Wedge. He picked Wedge up, tossed him in the air a few times, and then ran around the yard pretending Wedge was a football. It had happened after dinner, and consequently Wedge lost his stuffed porkchops all over Aunt Bonnie's purple rhododendrons.

“What brings you here?” Uncle Larry asked, as Wedge blew on his hand and tried to wiggle some life back into it.

“Um.” Wedge didn't know what to say. “Just to say hi, I guess.”

“How's your new family? And your new house?” Aunt Bonnie asked. “Come sit by the picnic table and fill us in.”

“Well, one thing's certain,” Uncle Larry said, lightly jabbing Wedge's stomach. “It looks like your new dad's been feeding you okay.” Aunt Bonnie shot Uncle Larry a disgusted look, but Wedge didn't care. He never minded when Uncle Larry teased him. A few jokes and his handshakes were well worth suffering through. After all, Uncle Larry made the best fudge walnut brownies Wedge had ever tasted, and he regularly took Wedge to Brewers and Bucks games.

Wedge told them all about Sally and Andrew's trip and how he was stuck in a new house with a scarecrow who wore a crown.

Uncle Larry rested his arm on Wedge's shoulder and chuckled. “Come on, Wedge-O, it can't be that bad. It'll just take some getting used to. King seems like a nice guy, and it must be great fun to have a miniature golf course in your own backyard.”

“Not really.”

“Why don't you stay here for a few hours,” Aunt Bonnie suggested pleasantly. “We can have lunch outside. We'll have a good time together, and then we can put your bike in the pickup and drive you home in plenty of time for dinner.”

“I wish I could stay with you tonight,” Wedge said. “Maybe even
live
with you.”

“Now, Wedge,” Aunt Bonnie said, a worried look on her face, “you're the most important person in Sally's life. Always were, always will be. Without you she just wouldn't function. And I'm sure King would be brokenhearted if you slept here tonight. Furthermore—I think the four of you make a handsome family.”

Speaking of families, it seemed like a big waste to Wedge that Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Larry didn't have kids. They'd be perfect parents. That thought brought Wedge's mind back to his phone call with Judith. And to babies. Mustering all the courage he could, Wedge asked, “Why don't you guys have kids? You know, a baby.”

The second the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them.

Aunt Bonnie blushed instantly, matching the color of her pink geraniums. “Oh . . . Wedge,” she stammered. “Well, Wedge, some people just have kids . . .”

“And some don't,” Uncle Larry added quickly, in a stern yet gentle tone that indicated that the subject was off limits as far as he was concerned. He winked at Wedge. “Come on, team, we've got a slew of weeds to annihilate.”

As he walked to the garage to get a small shovel, Wedge wondered if Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Larry always seemed so happy together because they
didn't
have kids. Maybe it was kids who caused all the trouble. And maybe, he thought, my real father left because I was on the way. Wedge decided that if Sally was really having a baby, he'd take off, too. For good.

They spent the afternoon working in the garden, only taking a break for lunch. Then Uncle Larry and Wedge made brownies while Aunt Bonnie arranged vases of her prized flowers throughout the house. While they waited for the brownies to come out of the oven, Wedge wished that he had the power to stop time. If he could, he'd have stopped it right then and stayed there forever.

W
edge, Aunt Bonnie, and Uncle Larry were back outdoors—sitting in lawn chairs by the flower bed in the side yard—when King pulled up in front of the house. The car screeched to a lurching halt. Wedge spotted the large, gold, fancy letters that spelled Camelot across the car doors instantly. His heart sank.

King dashed up the sidewalk and across the grass. “Wedge! There you are!” he said loudly. “Thank God.” He sighed deeply in relief and patted Wedge's head.

Wedge shrank away from King. Patting heads, Wedge thought, is something you do to dogs and cats. Not people.

“I was worried about you,” King explained. He was talking fast and puffing. “You should have told me where you were going.”

Wedge shrugged his shoulders and absently scratched a mosquito bite. “Oh,” was all he managed to say. He was staring at the ground, shifting his feet.

King slowed down a bit and said hello to Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Larry. Then he told his story. About how he had discovered Wedge was missing. About how he had looked everywhere for him. At Sally and Wedge's old apartment building, the arcade in downtown Mayfield, the library, the department store, the playground, the public pool, the riverbank, Gunther's Bridge, McDonald's. Then he had telephoned everyone he could think of; no one knew where Wedge was. He had even called Bonnie and Larry, but nobody had answered. So he made the rounds of town again. And again.