As It Lies

Most people, hearing the story of your first hole-in-one, assume you were playing from the kiddie tees. Or the women’s tees, at least. When they ask you to confirm their suspicions and you answer in the negative, they force a face of admiration, although you can tell that deeper down they’re pouting, jealous of you, second-guessing their own abilities. No, you were seven years old on the seventh hole of Greenhaven Country Club—the men’s tee, you’ll emphasize. Swinging your driver with all four feet of you.

The seventh green sits at the top of a steep hill, so you can’t watch the ball land. You’ve played this course every weekend since you could hold a club, and this is always your least favorite part: the upward trek, the sweat in your eyes and the ache in your calves. Your dad, whose ball sits five feet from the pin, is searching in the grass for yours when you make it to the top. When he asks you to check the cup, you laugh. And then you do, and there it is, your pink Callaway wedged against the flagstick.

The next day, your dad engraves your name on the clubhouse plaque commemorating eagles on the course. You’re sandwiched between two par-four fairway hole-outs from Jeff, the head teaching pro. Behind the register, your mom extracts a sleeve of pink Callaways and gifts them to you, closes the pro shop early and calls her favorite club members on the phone, inviting them to a celebration of your certifiable talent.

Under the pavilion, you’re surrounded. Free Sprite to wash down the hotdogs and hamburgers that Bruno, your dad’s golden retriever, snatches from the hands of the more sedentary members. Beers in the cup holders of golf carts that the men drive to their trunks and back; you hitchhike one ride and return dizzied by the sun.

“Don’t let your short game get rusty, kid,” jokes Jeff, squeezing mustard on a bratwurst, when you sit down next to him. He’s one of the few old men who doesn’t seem the slightest intimidated by you. The others like to segue to dramatic renditions of their own holes-in-one, finding their name on the plaque or tallying the courses where they used to play. Jeff breaks off a piece of his bratwurst, sticks it in Bruno’s open mouth.

Jeff has offered you free lessons from time to time, but that summer he insists on weekly meetings. He fixes an unnecessary tic in your backswing, then shifts to the practice green. You make putting too complicated, he tells you. Fewer moving parts—instead of swiveling your head to watch the ball, expect it to go in. So you start expecting to make it. Start using a hybrid off the tee on number seven, and then a six-iron, usually two-putt or tap it in, outgrow your clubs and pick a new set from the front of the pro shop.

***

Outside of your parents, the teaching pro might be your closest acquaintance. The other kids at the club prefer tennis or the swimming pool. You make friends in the women’s locker room, where you introduce yourself to mothers smearing sunscreen on their hardened faces, to the older girls loitering amid the air conditioning and carpet floors. You tell them that in order to pet Bruno, you have to hold out one hand so he can sniff you first, and any golf balls you find are yours to keep, and the best Gatorades are the blue ones. They invite you to try tennis sometime.

You make one attempt at the sport on the other side of the clubhouse. The racket feels too thick in your hands, and you keep hitting the ball too far, can’t make it spin forwards. Your playing partner, a girl your age, is shooting impatient glances at her dad, which annoys you. The other girl isn’t so much better.

When you head to the clubhouse for water, you see a group of men you don’t recognize, leaner than the golfers, sitting in folding chairs beneath the shade. Smoke rises from a few cigars amidst the ensemble. One of them is talking about a couple he knows who moved to Alaska, bought a boat, and live together on the seas. “They go grocery shopping six months at a time. And when they buy cabbages, they buy, what, ten or so cabbages… but they don’t eat them one cabbage at a time. First they eat the outer layer of every cabbage, and then the next layer, all the way to the center.”

For your eleventh birthday, you ask for a sack full of cabbages. It rains that day, so you wait until the ground is dry and a cool breeze relieves some of the heat. As the sun begins to set, you drag the sack to the twelfth hole, an island green. In the drop zone—a spray-painted circle in the grass—you set up camp. Peel a cabbage leaf, take one bite and find it bitter, untamed. Splash your toes in brownish water; they’re dip-dyed when you pull them out. Orange in the sky turns purple as you drift away, anywhere other than Illinois.

Your mom makes cabbage every dinner for the next few weeks. It tastes better when she cuts up the pieces and sautés them with lemon and garlic, but the smell still carries a hint of lakewater. These days, you spend a lot of time on the course, beat your dad for the first time, 81 to 84, grab hotdogs from the clubhouse and come home late. That’s how the summer ends: as you’re running in another direction.

***

The ground hardens, Bruno dies of heart disease, and you play a bad round. Triple digits for the first time in years. You slam your club against the ground, and then you have to chase after the patch of fairway you uprooted, pat it neatly into place. Your mom rolls her eyes when she hears from the maintenance that you’ve been throwing tantrums on the course. That’s an exaggeration, but when you correct her, she shoos you to your room.

Jeff gives you swing tips that you don’t write down. If they don’t work within a day, you discard them. Swing harder. Then for a week, you stop swinging—a month, a year. When regret arises, you take yourself walking along the creek on hole fifteen, using your nine-iron to extract Callaways from the water. One of them is pink.

On the last day of eighth grade, a classmate breaks your wrist in a mandatory game of Red Rover. Your parents seem relieved. Now they have an excuse to feed to probing regulars: any more eagles from your little prodigy? Not until she heals.

Besides, you’re not so little anymore. Almost as tall as your mom. Apparently swimming is a good way to avoid muscle atrophy, so you spend your afternoons doing laps at the pool and lying in the sun. You burn, but then it fades to gold. You begin to resent the other bodies at the pool: the kids are noisy, their parents pruned where you are sleek. Everyone is looking at you for a moment too long. One day, you forget to bring a towel to the pool, and you have to walk back to the clubhouse like a showgirl, with half of the men turning away and the other half silently appraising how you’ve changed over the years.

The only one you look up to is the lifeguard, a high schooler named Marin. She’s a better version of you—longer legs, smoother walk. You like to float in the pool among the dried leaves and June bugs and helicopter seeds on the surface of the water, catch glimpses of her from upside down until you blind yourself in the sun.

You’ve never seen her swim, but you imagine she’s ten times faster than you, and although you don’t talk to her, you assume that she knows you. From interrogating your mom, you learn that Marin is from St. Louis, staying with a relative in town for the summer. You want to ask her what it’s like to trade homes.

Eventually, you get your chance. The first step is to linger at the bottom of her tower until the other swimmers have left. “Hi, Marin,” you say as she climbs down. You want her to say your name back, but all she says is “Hey, kid.” You gulp, and then in one breath, you personally invite her to Greenhaven’s annual Fourth of July dinner. All employees are welcome anyway, but you want to make sure she understands the gravity of her invitation. She says she’ll see you there. Gives you a high five, and you almost miss her hand.

At the dinner, you scan for her head among the crowd. You’re thrilled to find her right by your parents, so that you can sit next to your mom, across from Marin, and absorb their exchange. Not only does Marin live in St. Louis, but she used to live in China, where her dad worked. Your dad asks her to say something in Chinese. When she does, he nods in baseless approval. “What did she say?” you whisper to your mom, who repeats your question to the table, and Marin translates: today’s weather is stifling.

***

In August, Marin returns to the city and your cast comes off. Your dad enlists Jeff to take you out on the course once a week, starting around the green and stepping backward to the tees. Every now and then Jeff is too busy for you, so he sends you with one of the caddies, a boy with acne on his cheeks. The boy introduces himself as Connor, and you nod without turning. You’re playing well enough these days that his presence means little to you. On hole three, you swing your five-wood from the right rough, leave it pin-high and putting for eagle. Connor whistles.

For the first few weeks, Connor keeps offering you the wrong clubs, so you have to reach past his outstretched hand—a seven-iron, not a hybrid, and you’ll use a sand wedge from sixty yards, thank you very much. Once he gets the hang of your yardages, Connor tries to make small talk. He asks you if you’re in high school yet, and you tell him you’re an incoming freshman in the local district, which makes him brighten. He says he’ll be two grades above you. Maybe you’ll run into each other in the hallways.

Maybe, you say with a lack of enthusiasm that he doesn’t seem to notice. During your next lesson, you ask Jeff what’s been keeping him so busy. He answers that the older boys are in the throes of summer training. But so are you, you point out. He shrugs. You’re not chasing scholarships yet, are you?

You hear from Connor that Greenhaven is scheduled to host a tournament in the spring, some junior league qualifier, so you ask your dad to sign you up. He pulls a few strings to sneak you into the final foursome, and as the year progresses, you shave a handful of strokes off your eighteen-hole average. No thanks to Connor, who talks as if he could match you on the course; you’ve seen his swing and it’s graceless, but you let him pretend.

Somehow, Connor finds your name on the tournament roster and congratulates you on taking initiative. He uses this flattery to segue to another initiative: would you like to join him on a picnic under the stars? You can’t figure out how to say no. That Saturday, when your parents are asleep, you run a brush through your hair and slip out the front door.

Walking along the cart path, illuminated by the occasional television from the houses surrounding the course, you consider going back. You could apologize the next time you see him: you were tired, a little feverish, slept until noon the next day.

But he likes you, you remind yourself. Sure enough, when you arrive, he’s waiting with a basket of popcorn and melted Milky Ways. The place he chose was number twelve, the same hole where you once camped out with cabbages. He wants to picnic on the green, which you know is poor etiquette but don’t care enough to protest.

He tells you you’re pretty when you sit down next to him. Tries to feed you a Milky Way, but you take it with your hand, chew each bite into mush. Then he puts his arm around you and calls you hot. Kisses you and slips his hand under your shirt. Kisses you again, with tongue. His breath smells like popcorn; yours, like the caramel stuck between your teeth.

When he reaches down, you pull away. His face is flushed as he repeats your name, but you’re already walking away, firing excuses, and he’s reluctant to stand. Later, he brings you a bag of M&Ms that you accept without thanks.

***

By now you’ve learned that Jeff is sick with lung cancer, and although you don’t know any of the details, you play this card to your advantage. All you want is to impress the poor old man who raised you in the grass and sun. No time for anything, anyone else.

When the morning of the qualifier arrives, both Jeff and Connor are there to watch you play. Jeff drives a cart behind your dad while Connor walks the course, dwelling in patches of shade. You par half of the front nine, and when Connor hikes to take a bathroom break, you birdie two in a row. Your playing mates, a sophomore and a senior who have never heard your name, compliment you on your first birdie, but their voices fade to deadpan as you drain more putts. A few messy holes here and there, but as you round off the last hole with another par, Jeff is clapping you on the back.

Your dad takes you to the clubhouse, where you eat onion rings with your mom while the officials finalize the scores. Seeing your name circled in blue feels like your first hole-in-one, discovering you’ve placed yourself in the perfect spot. And then you’re following the men around you to the bar, on leather stools where your legs dangle a foot above ground. The nineteenth hole. They’re ordering drinks, and Jeff winks at your dad, hands you one with shining eyes. Your face is already red and sweaty when you throw your head back. Down the gin.

Someone hands you a cup of Sprite to wash away the taste, but it still tastes like liquor. You look up and see Connor, all of the other players gone. His smile is warm and crooked. He’s been talking to your dad and you wonder what each of them knows. Connor says something about a college recruiter, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you, and your dad is now talking to someone else. Connor hands you another drink. Clinks with you, calls you a big shot, moving on to better places.

The women’s bathroom—you follow your feet there. It’s just you. And you in the mirror. And rows and rows of lockers, and hand towels, and soap. Maybe you’ll wash your face. Wash your hands, sticky like a child’s.

***

The following weekend, your parents drive you to a course just outside of Jefferson City for the two-day championship tournament. You’ve arrived too late to play a practice round, so your dad just lets you drive a cart around each hole, note the doglegs and hidden bunkers on an empty scorecard.

You stay in a hotel with a wooden moose at the entrance. Peel a hard-boiled egg for breakfast, bits of it catching beneath your fingernails. The girls here are crueler. Most of them wear pants with pockets. They shake their heads and smile when you slice your opening drive into the trees, or when your tap-in comes to a rest at the edge of the hole. Nice try! You shiver with fury. The second day you’re paired with the earliest group, two other freshmen who have already given up on the win. You hate them even more.

Sunday evening, you fall asleep in the back of the car. Your parents are arguing about which club you should have used on the last par three. A week passes before you make it back to the range, and you’re slicing drive after drive when you hear a voice from the stall behind you—Connor. He wants to see you tomorrow night.

So you meet him in the parking lot at midnight. His car reeks of something stale and salty; when you ask him to open the back seat window, he cracks it half an inch. He asks you where you’ve been, and you gloss over Missouri, attempt to express a general feeling that you can’t quite capture. Connor nods. The acne on his cheeks is fainter than you remember.

He clicks on another light to see you better. You’re wearing a tank top that he pulls over your shoulders, unclasps your bra. Wet hair clinging to both of your foreheads. After he finishes, he rolls away from you, panting like a dog. You retrieve your clothes from the floor and wriggle back into your body, exchange a few words—he thanks you and it feels one step away from a high five—before you extract yourself, noticing a streak of dirt on your collar while his car hobbles out the front gate, headlights flickering.

***

At the start of the next summer, Jeff invites you to play a round at Greenhaven. He hasn’t given you a lesson in months. You can’t think of a conversation to trade with him, but your dad, delivering the invitation, reminds you that this could be the last round of the teaching pro’s life. You wake up just in time, jog outside to see Jeff hitting a mulligan off the first tee.

Your clubs feel heavy in your hands. Jeff matches you for the first few holes without striking the ball quite as cleanly, just cleans up well around the green. Neither of you talks much until after he bogeys the seventh.

Stepping down from the next tee, Jeff asks what happened to you at the championship. You don’t know. “I think I know,” he says to you, setting down his bag in the right rough. “You’ve memorized every inch of this course. But you don’t leave it. You haven’t learned how to play without the home field advantage, so you lose your nerve, and then your game falls to pieces.”

From the center of the fairway, you watch him rotate to the side as far as he can. Looking for you, you’re guessing. But his back is too stiff to let him face you. His ball lies buried in the rough. Thinking you aren’t there to witness, Jeff digs his wedge into the grass and lifts the ball to a nicer lie.

You consider making a remark about his cheating. A minor transgression, but still. He takes a practice swing and then pitches the ball within makeable range. You’re waiting for him to say something, or turn into another version of himself; yes, you can imagine closing your eyes and opening them to someone else. The sun is too bright. He sinks the putt. You ask him if the two of you can stop after nine, and he laughs—aren’t you supposed to be the young one?—but agrees to end the game early. You brush away the sweat dripping from your lashes, and now your palms are damp so you rub them against your skirt. Onto the last hole.