his face tightened to a look of pain.
“Tom,” Anna whispered, “there’s something wrong with him.” She let go of the porch door, and it shut with a bang. She hesitated for a moment and then rushed past her husband down the porch steps. She pressed her lips together for a moment, and then she called out to Paul.
“What is it? Are you all right?” The cat looked up at her, but Paul did not meet her eyes. “Yeah,” he said, lowering his hand and walking toward her, his eyes on the ground. He brushed past her and entered the house. There was no trace of color in his complexion. She watched him go into the kitchen and greet Tracy, who was seated at the kitchen table. Tracy mumbled in reply.
Anna clenched her fists and looked back out to where the play yard had once been. The cat sniffed in the grass, carefully traversing the area. It picked its way across the unfamiliar territory, as if suspicious of every stone and weed.
6
D ry branches snapped sharply against his bare forearms and flying bugs hovered around Rambo’s face as he worked his way through the dense growth of trees and bushes known to golfers as the rough.
It had not been difficult to find Hidden Woods Lane when he got off the parkway this morning. He had parked his car in a little dirt road that forked off it and waited. He had seen the boy and his father being picked up by the man in the Cadillac and had trailed them to this golf course. He had climbed over a fence to conceal himself in the trees and overgrown bushes along the fairway. He had already gone six holes through the thickets, following the progress of play. It had made him laugh to himself to see the way the boy lagged behind the two men, clearly disinterested in the game, sweating under the sun in that camouflage vest that he always wore. He could see that the Lange man was trying to be patient with the little heathen, but the boy didn’t pay attention to the instructions, trudging along without a smile, his shoulders slumping. He wondered bitterly if the man was satisfied now to have the stubborn little monster back again. The voices began to speak to Rambo once more, railing at the child’s ingratitude and at his return to the land of silver and gold, where evil was called good. His own lips moved to form the words he heard, and he tried to control the muttering which rose from his throat, threatening to expose his hiding place.
Thomas picked up a club and whacked his ball far into the distance toward the seventh green.
Edward shaded his eyes with his hand and watched the ball drop. “You might birdie this hole,” he admitted grudgingly. Thomas turned and handed Paul a club that he had lifted from his bag. They had been trading off shots for the first six holes, Thomas instructing the boy on how to set up a shot and how to swing. Thomas had tried to ignore the boy’s sullen expression and had complimented him frequently on his playing. “Probably want to use this club for this shot. We could be on the green with this one.”
Paul stared at the iron for a minute and then held it away from him. “I’m getting pretty tired,” he said. “Is it okay if I go back?”
Thomas replaced the club in his bag, carefully arranging the heads. “Sure. I guess so.” He looked up at their host. “Can he wait at the clubhouse, Edward?”
Edward Stewart nodded. “Of course,” he replied. “You might want to remove that garment you’re wearing though. Someone will mistake you for a grounds-keeper.”
Paul ignored him, and kept his vest on. “Can I go now?”
“We’re almost done,” said Thomas. “We have only two more holes after this. Are you sure you don’t want to hang in there?”
“No,” said the boy.
“Okay, fine.” Thomas watched Paul as he started slowly back toward the clubhouse.
Rambo thought that he didn’t blame the kid. It seemed a dull game to him. He swatted a bug that was humming around his head and waited impatiently for Edward to shoot.
Edward
“Tom,” Anna whispered, “there’s something wrong with him.” She let go of the porch door, and it shut with a bang. She hesitated for a moment and then rushed past her husband down the porch steps. She pressed her lips together for a moment, and then she called out to Paul.
“What is it? Are you all right?” The cat looked up at her, but Paul did not meet her eyes. “Yeah,” he said, lowering his hand and walking toward her, his eyes on the ground. He brushed past her and entered the house. There was no trace of color in his complexion. She watched him go into the kitchen and greet Tracy, who was seated at the kitchen table. Tracy mumbled in reply.
Anna clenched her fists and looked back out to where the play yard had once been. The cat sniffed in the grass, carefully traversing the area. It picked its way across the unfamiliar territory, as if suspicious of every stone and weed.
6
D ry branches snapped sharply against his bare forearms and flying bugs hovered around Rambo’s face as he worked his way through the dense growth of trees and bushes known to golfers as the rough.
It had not been difficult to find Hidden Woods Lane when he got off the parkway this morning. He had parked his car in a little dirt road that forked off it and waited. He had seen the boy and his father being picked up by the man in the Cadillac and had trailed them to this golf course. He had climbed over a fence to conceal himself in the trees and overgrown bushes along the fairway. He had already gone six holes through the thickets, following the progress of play. It had made him laugh to himself to see the way the boy lagged behind the two men, clearly disinterested in the game, sweating under the sun in that camouflage vest that he always wore. He could see that the Lange man was trying to be patient with the little heathen, but the boy didn’t pay attention to the instructions, trudging along without a smile, his shoulders slumping. He wondered bitterly if the man was satisfied now to have the stubborn little monster back again. The voices began to speak to Rambo once more, railing at the child’s ingratitude and at his return to the land of silver and gold, where evil was called good. His own lips moved to form the words he heard, and he tried to control the muttering which rose from his throat, threatening to expose his hiding place.
Thomas picked up a club and whacked his ball far into the distance toward the seventh green.
Edward shaded his eyes with his hand and watched the ball drop. “You might birdie this hole,” he admitted grudgingly. Thomas turned and handed Paul a club that he had lifted from his bag. They had been trading off shots for the first six holes, Thomas instructing the boy on how to set up a shot and how to swing. Thomas had tried to ignore the boy’s sullen expression and had complimented him frequently on his playing. “Probably want to use this club for this shot. We could be on the green with this one.”
Paul stared at the iron for a minute and then held it away from him. “I’m getting pretty tired,” he said. “Is it okay if I go back?”
Thomas replaced the club in his bag, carefully arranging the heads. “Sure. I guess so.” He looked up at their host. “Can he wait at the clubhouse, Edward?”
Edward Stewart nodded. “Of course,” he replied. “You might want to remove that garment you’re wearing though. Someone will mistake you for a grounds-keeper.”
Paul ignored him, and kept his vest on. “Can I go now?”
“We’re almost done,” said Thomas. “We have only two more holes after this. Are you sure you don’t want to hang in there?”
“No,” said the boy.
“Okay, fine.” Thomas watched Paul as he started slowly back toward the clubhouse.
Rambo thought that he didn’t blame the kid. It seemed a dull game to him. He swatted a bug that was humming around his head and waited impatiently for Edward to shoot.
Edward
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