Fast Greens Read Free Page A

putt about four feet past the hole.
    True to Jewel’s word, March was a big tipper. He even gave me a ride home and bought me a chocolate milkshake at Dinty’s Hamburgers on the way. We pulled up to our little rented house in South Austin, and March seemed pretty disheartened when I pointed out that Jewel’s car wasn’t in the driveway. I got out, thanked him for the tip and the milkshake, and went inside. A half hour later, I peeked out the window and March was still sitting there in his big Cadillac, just staring up at the house.
    That night at the dinner table, I hadn’t even said grace before Jewel started pestering me for details about the game.
    â€œIt was okay,” I told her. “But I didn’t understand what they were always arguing about.”
    â€œWell, they’re probably just being pigheaded,” Jewel told me. “But if you really want to know, ask March. You might find it … interesting.”
    The pause as she considered that final word, combined with the slightest hint of mystery in her voice, suddenly seemed proof positive that March would allow me a glimpse of some secret of the adult world that lay beyond my imagination. And that was all it took for me to find myself staring at old photos in the hallway of an oil company.
    The tall door of March’s office swept aside and the secretary led me in. I’d never been in a real office before and it was different than I expected, darker, a little scary. The curtains were drawn tight and the room was lit only by a desk lamp that threw tall shadows onto the bookcases and walls.
    Only half in the light, March was barely discernible from his big leather chair. Approaching slowly, I rested a hand on the big desk; it felt solid and heavy, and compared to the stuffy room it was cold as chiseled marble. The way it grew out of the floor reminded me of a tombstone. There was an odd odor in the room that reminded me of science class formaldehyde and dissected frogs, and I wanted to run away.
    Looking older than his years, March produced a quart of Scotch from the desk drawer, opened it, and poured a glass halffull. Then he scooped in two heaping teaspoons of bicarbonate, stirred the concoction into a murky cloud, and drank it down.
    â€œScotch and soda, kid. That’s what it comes to sooner or later. A man spends a lifetime washin’ down greasy chicken-frieds and jalapeño pinto beans with a hundred dry wells and it all comes down to Scotch and soda.”
    He held the bottle out toward me.
    â€œYou want a taste?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œSuit yourself,” he said. “Have a sit.”
    Releasing his death grip on the bottle, March’s focus swung involuntarily toward the cloudy dregs in his glass. I couldn’t imagine what he saw in there, but his gaze reminded me of the snow scene in a crystal that Jewel had given me. When I shook it and stared through the swirling snow, I liked to think I could see through the windows of the tiny house to a happy family gathered around a dinner table, the father saying grace before he carved a big golden turkey.
    â€œTell me, kid,” March finally said. “A good caddie can really make a difference, can’t he?”
    I looked up at his eyes and noticed he was smiling now. It was as if the very mention of golf had lifted the pall from the room.
    â€œYes Sir!” I told him. “A good caddie can read the greens like a book, and he knows the grain and the yardages, lots of stuff.”
    March leaned forward.
    â€œYou like golf, don’t you kid?”
    â€œMore than anything,” I answered.
    â€œAnd for you—tell me if I’m right—for you golf is a pure game: physical and mental, joined together without any questions of right and wrong?”
    I wasn’t sure I understood but I nodded yes anyway. Golf is a noble game, a combination of uncertain skill and specific laws, untainted by ethical dilemmas or moral