The Angle of Approach : Part 2

Addled: A Novel
by JoeAnn Hart

(Page 2 of 3)

It could be a golf ball on Saturday morning, or it could be a baseball tuned in to the radio in an air- conditioned Land Rover. It could be a football on a home- theater screen as they fended off another sleety New England winter on tufted- leather sofas. They could even be entertained by a Day-Glo tennis ball soaring over the heads of their wives in mixed doubles. The ball made them happy, but it had to keep moving. It made them nervous when it stopped for too long, foreshadowing the inevitable day when it - and they - would stop moving altogether.

Charles wrapped himself in a tight cocoon of concentration as he raised his club high, determined not to hesitate at the apex, hesitated anyway, and swung. The contact reverberated through his body as if he were sending a piece of himself into the universe, soaring. Up and up - the small white voyager sailed through the blue sky as through a heavenly sea, and his mind's eye followed along, looking at the course from high above, down at the giant amoebas of putting greens, the luxurious tops of trees, the reflective gaze of water hazards, all fitting together like pieces of a master puzzle. Then the ball - and the vision - began to fall from flight, plunging down, and down again, until the pieces broke apart. Neddy gasped in an asthmatic wheeze, simultaneous with the distant squa-a-ak. A grazing Canada goose fell over in a violent gesture, then went still.

The golfers, too shocked to laugh, stared at the inert body in the distance and waited to see if maybe it wouldn't decide to get up and shake off the whole affair. When they realized that such was not going to be the case, they walked over in trepidation, stepping over the divot.

Charles got there first and squatted by the goose spread in supplication on the flawless grass. He was about to touch it, until Andrew, slight and sandy, put his hand over his mouth and shook his head. Holding his 3- iron like a harpoon, Charles prodded the feathered body until it rolled over, causing the head to settle at an unnatural angle. Blood appeared at its nostrils.

"How disgusting," said Andrew, scrunching up his face, an act that made his Adam's apple protrude even more.

"Well done, Charles," said Neddy, laughing. He lowered his fireplug of a body and tugged at a wing feather. "What a pity hunting season doesn't open for another six months."

Gregg, a massive hulk of a human, bald and bubble- gum pink, got his best club out of his bag: The USGA's Rules of Golf. "You can't play the game without knowing the rules," he always said. He began to pace, digging his cleats into the turf with every lumbering step as he turned the pages, searching for an answer. Andrew, abnormally upright by orders of his doctor and chiropractor, who catered to his tight, fl inching spine, stepped away from the body and pulled a cell phone out of his pants pocket. Phones were forbidden on the course, but then again, as he often pointed out, so was foul language. And besides, he kept the phone on vibrate and only made outgoing calls when he had to. He dialed the grounds crew to clear away the mess.

Charles collapsed to a one- legged kneel, using his club as a staff to balance himself. He pressed his lips together and tasted blood where his cracked tooth had rubbed at his inner flesh, and he stared at the bird. The feathers of one wing were spread open like a fan, the tip pointing up, beckoning him. The bleakness and terrible reality of existence seeped into his very being, all on this fine blue day, played upon this smooth green grass. He'd been aiming for the other side of the fairway altogether. How was one to go on with the game?

"Is there a penalty?" asked Gregg, stabbing a finger in his book. "What do I look under?"

"Augury," croaked Charles.

"There's nothing here about that." Gregg paced in wider and wider circles with every rotation, not looking up from the Rules.

"Is a goose a natural obstruction or an outside agent?"

"Augury?" Neddy snorted, then stood with a groan, straightening the crease of his butter- yellow pants. "Charles, we should never have let you go to that wacky clinic this winter. Soon you'll be playing golf and buying bonds by examining the entrails of birds."

"Entrails!" Andrew turned his back to the men and shouted into the phone, his hand over one ear. "You'd better hurry."

Charles stood up with great effort, trembling at the joints. "I can't say we wouldn't all do any better if we did." He wiped his forehead with his arm, smudging his skin-deep glow, and looked up in time to see a lone crow sweep over them to inspect the carnage.

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.