The Angle of Approach : Part 1

Addled: A Novel
by JoeAnn Hart

Eden Rock Country Club is a grand New England institution, a lush haven of leisure and cocktails, where gossip and intrigue lurk discreetly behind a veil of old-world propriety. But one Fourth of July, a flock of geese descends on the club's manicured lawns; never fond of outsiders, the Eden Rock denizens find these new guests distinctly unwelcome. When Charles Lambert, a bond trader with a strong portfolio but a weak golf game, accidentally kills a goose with a wayward drive, he sets in motion a series of events that will leave the club and its members changed forever.

His wife, Madeline, must face the mutterings of other members about the state of her marriage - and his sanity. Meanwhile, their daughter, an animal rights activist, mounts a quixotic campaign to make the club go vegan, much to the annoyance of Vita, a talented, obsessive chef who has her own plans for the geese. A deftly observed social comedy, Addled is a rich and riotous story of old money, new ideas, and the power of passion to disrupt even the most orderly of worlds.

Chapter 1

IT WAS a perfect lie. Charles Lambert handled his 3-iron as reverently as a divining rod, its finely calibrated balance sending a golden hum to his brain. The fairway lay open at his feet, presenting no obstacles between him and Plateau, the elevated green of Hole #14 - 200 yards away, still well within his capabilities. Still. Up at the club house, he heard fabric slap and cables clank as Old Glory fought the morning breeze, and he made a mental calculation to correct for the wind. If only he could freeze it all, these precious moments before the club made contact with the ball, when anything was possible.

He could even win. He was playing a decent game in spite of not getting out on the course nearly enough that spring. Freedom at the office had been sorely curtailed, what with one corporate scandal and SEC investigation after another. Here it was, the Fourth of July weekend, and he wasn't even tan yet - not naturally so, at any rate. He'd had to borrow bronzing gel from Madeline's bag of tricks for these ambered arms, making him feel like the vigorous youth he was not so long ago. Indeed, his muscles were still firm, his wrists supple and pronated, his hands - properly V-clasped firmly around the staff - as strong as ever. In a nod to authenticity, he'd even kept the bronzer off his left hand where a golf glove would have blocked the sun.

He looked down at the dimpled ball, then back up at the broad fairway. To the right, the wall of vegetation that straddled his backyard threw a purple shadow on the course. When he was a boy, he used to play over there, knocking acorns around with a stick - looking over the gate. How proud he was the first time his father brought him along for a game. He was no taller than a golf bag and yet he'd felt like one of the men, a hunter of balls, a conquering hero. But hunters and heroes did not, as a rule, wear bronzing gel, did they? When had vanity replaced his old selfassurance, his self- mastery - his self? Why was it that when his father turned silver at the temples he'd been called distinguished, but when his own chestnut hair lost its depth he was simply growing old? It wasn't fair to change the rules like that. Slings of flesh - jowls - had begun to round off his chin, once so pointed and cleft. His entire infrastructure was aging. After the game, he had to go see his dentist about a cracked tooth.

He tried to focus, reaching back to a lifetime of lessons: straight arm, bent knee, head down, eye on the ball. Or inner eye on the ball, as Steeve from the Buddha Ball Clinic would say - the double e's in his name like hooded eyes - enigmatically adding that "the hole and the ball have been one throughout eternity." If that were the case, Charles sniffed, then what was the point of going through the motions? And "be the ball" was nothing more than what Chevy Chase said in Caddyshack, a movie Steeve claimed never to have seen. What sort of golf pro was that?

But the three days and twelve hundred dollars were not entirely wasted. He did grasp the concept about forging a connection between hand, mind, and club, and the importance of keeping the head still - mentally, not just physically - to make room for abundance in his shot. But stillness eluded him. Steeve told him that it could not be sought, and the best he could do was prepare himself to receive it.

"How do I do that?" Charles had asked.

"You must find your own path," Steeve had said, with what Charles felt was a spiritual smirk. "No one can tell you. Be natural. Let it go to let it in."

"Of what?" Charles had been exasperated. "What do I let go of ?"

"Striving. Trying so hard." Steeve had stroked his severely clipped beard and studied Charles. "And if you can't let go, try loosening your grip."

Finally, some decent golf advice.

Charles waggled his club and breathed in deeply as he relaxed his hands, but then a chunk of air lodged at the base of his throat. How had a moment of peace degenerated so quickly into another opportunity for anxiety? He shifted his weight to his left foot and rotated his shoulders. At least he was tall - not shrinking yet! - and that gave him an edge. Even an inch or two made a difference in being able to assess the lay of the land. He could see, off in the distance, that old duffer Howie Amory disappear into the dogleg of #16, and over there, a stately parade of Canada geese was marching up from Oxbow Lake. The birds acted like they owned the place, posing in their formal attitudes, luxuriously plucking at the green turf. If they could hold a club with those feathered limbs, they'd be better than he was by the end of the summer. It used to be his fortunes that were on the rise; now it was his handicap. But a man's game only improved in proportion to the time available to work on it, and since his fiftieth birthday he'd felt he had no time at all.

He readjusted his grip and felt the scorecard in his pocket dig into his groin. He could sense his partners shifting uneasily as they ran out of small talk, waiting for him to take his shot. Gregg, Neddy, and Andrew, all friends and colleagues, had only a two-minute reserve of conversation, even among themselves. That is, unless they were involved in some sport so they wouldn't have to look at one another, but only look at the ball, and discuss the ball, what the ball did, why it did it, and what could be done to either encourage it or keep it from doing it again.

Copyright © 2007 by JoeAnn Hart

About the Author

I was never one of those writers who always knew she wanted to write, or for that matter, always wrote. I was born in the Bronx, but our family moved to a Westchester suburb when I was in the second grade. Our back yard abutted the Pleasantville Country Club golf course, a very modest, snack shack sort of place.