Chapter 16

THE DAY AFTER DAVID AND KRISTIN’S DATE at the Mr. Donut parking lot, Ron Hendrickson rang the Howards’ doorbell around one o’clock, stirring the house from its Sunday afternoon stupor. Other than the occasional Jehovah’s Witness and young Beth Willard, who came around each February to sell Girl Scout cookies, the Howards didn’t get many visitors. Adina had once had friends, but they’d disappeared over the years—some through normal attrition, the rest because Mal found fault with them or perceived that they’d slighted him in some way. Mal never explicitly demanded that Adina end a friendship, but she understood that failing to do so would be perceived as disloyal. Disloyalty had repercussions.

Mal had no friends per se. He had drinking buddies, and perhaps an illicit relation or two, but he kept these segregated from his home life. David had heard an occasional story about Frank and Joe from the bar, but they seemed like apocryphal characters from a novel. David had friends, but he’d never thought of bringing any of them by. Even Kristin had only been to the house a couple of times.

When the ball rang, Adina was busy doing laundry, so she called for Mal to answer the door. On any day other than Sunday, Mal would, in turn, have summoned David. On Sundays, Mal allowed David to sus-

pend his rigid practice routine and play with friends or the club pros. David generally looked forward to spending Sundays at the course, but he hadn’t cared to play that morning, as he hadn’t cared to play the day before that, and didn’t expect to want to play tomorrow. He preferred to remain in his room and read and write.

For a variety of reasons, Mal didn’t know any of this. Adina had been doing her best to conceal David’s protest from Mal. On the first day he came home early, Adina dropped Centennial and called Mal at work to say that David was sick and that she’d picked him up at the course. It didn’t help Mal’s powers of observation that he’d gone out drinking the night before and slept in until noon. Mal groggily answered the door himself.

The doorbell piqued David’s curiosity. Neither the Witnesses nor the Girl Scouts came by on Sundays. David peeked out from behind the curtains of his bedroom window. When he saw that it was Mr. Hendrickson, David quietly slipped out his room, slid along the floor and poked his head around the wall of his parents’ bedroom. Through the iron railing that guarded the second-floor landing, David could see down to the foyer and living room below.

As Mal answered the door, the teacher extended his hand and said, “I’m Ron Hendrickson, David’s English teacher at Palmer High.”

Mal always shook firmly to test manhood, but he had a suspicious look about him. He knew that he recognized Hendrickson, but he hadn’t yet pieced together from where. Mal was sizing him up when Adina entered the scene, ironing her housedress with her hands and pushed her husband aside.

“Come in, come in. David has told us so much about you.”

“Thank you.”

Adina led Hendrickson to the living room and gestured for him to

sit. Mal followed and sat in his preferred recliner, the site of many weekend naps, including one that Hendrickson had just interrupted.

“Would you like something to eat?” Adina asked.

“No, thanks.”

“A cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you very much. I’m fine, really.”

“Well, if you change your mind just say so.”

“I shall.”

As Mr. Hendrickson gave the Howard’s house a once-over, David could tell that Mal finally had placed his face. If the teacher didn’t already regret coming to his house, he would soon.

“You have a lovely home,” he said.

“Thank you,” Adina replied and smiled, too widely. It had been a long time since anyone had paid her any kind of compliment, even if it were for her house and not really true. Suddenly, she caught Mal’s stare and shrank.

“So what did David do?”

“Nothing, Mr. Howard,” Hendrickson said, surprised. “Nothing bad, that’s for sure.”

“Then why are you here?”

David could tell, as anyone could have, that Hendrickson had been on the course that morning. Though he’d taken it off before entering the house, his cap had mussed his hair, and he had sweat stains under his arms. He wore a white polo, a thin blue vest and khakis. The golf outfit no doubt made Mal even more mistrustful. Mal believed people should know their place. Mal wasn’t the kind of parent who attended open school night, and if he did, he wouldn’t show up with a volume of War and Peace tucked under his arm. The teacher should have exercised similar forbearance regarding golf, a domain that belonged to Mal.

“If my son didn’t do something wrong, what are you doing here on a Sunday?” Mal asked. “Shouldn’t you be at the course giving putting lessons?”

If David’s teacher hadn’t yet figured out that he’d entered enemy territory, he got it now. Mal had entered attack mode. Hendrickson tried to deflect. “I’m here because your son has a gift.”

“My son doesn’t have a gift,” Mal said, cutting him off. “My son is a good golfer because he works at it continually, and perhaps, if people don’t distract him, he’ll be good enough to make a living at it someday.”

“I’m not talking about golf.”

Even from his imperfect vantage point, David could see the signs of Mal nearing the end of his short rope. His mother had obviously seen it, too, and she put her limited powers to work. She placed a warm hand on Mal’s knee and said, “Please tell us what you came to say,”

“Your son is a gifted writer,” Mr. Hendrickson said, smiling. “An extremely gifted writer.”

Rationally, David knew that this couldn’t end well, but his heart leapt. It was one thing to get an A on a paper and quite another for a teacher to visit a student’s home. Surely that didn’t happen every day. Even Mal could recognize this. Perhaps he could be persuaded.

“I’ve been teaching for thirty years,” Mr. Hendrickson continued, “and I’ve seen only a handful of students with talent like David’s. He’s young, of course. His grammar has room for improvement and some of his structuring is immature, but these things can be learned. On the other hand, his creative spark is something that can’t be taught. His writing is uncommonly sophisticated for a sixteen-year-old. He has beautiful command of the language, and he writes with humor and insight into human nature. He has a writer’s eye and ear, there’s no question about that. That’s what we really look for.”

For the first time that David could remember, his mother swelled.

“You think he could write novels?” she asked.

“I know he could,” Mr. Hendrickson replied. “He’s got the imagination and, just as importantly, perseverance. That’s another quality you can’t teach. I’m absolutely convinced he has a novel in him—probably more like nine or ten. The only question is whether he dedicates himself to writing. Now, I want to be completely candid with you—whether he makes money at this is another matter. Writing can be an arbitrary business. Lots of hacks get books published and plenty of brilliant writers never get read. But I’m sure you understand that, Mrs. Howard. You’ve turned your son onto some very powerful books. You clearly know this universe. I understand from David that you’re a writer yourself.”

Adina, still inflated, reflexively started to speak. How long had it been since she’d been treated as a peer, or even with respect? She caught herself just in time. The trapped air squeaked in her throat. She looked at her husband and shrunk back down.

“No,” she smiled. “I like to read. That’s about it.”

Hendrickson’s attention seemed to shift momentarily to Adina’s plight, but Mal sensed the shift and nipped it in the bud.

“So what do you want from us?” he asked, in an accusatory tone.

“I don’t want anything from you,” the teacher replied. “I came to extend an opportunity to your son. There’s a summer workshop for gifted young writers at Penn State. It’s an incredible program. They bring in all sorts of writers—poets, journalists, novelists. The students write an original project—a short story, a novel, whatever—and they workshop it with their fellow students and the professionals. They leave with a polished, finished product. The program has had great success. Dozens of graduates have gone on to professional writing careers. The director is a friend of mine from way back. I’m sure that with a call and a sample of

his work, I can get David in.”

The English teacher had the right to expect thanks and adulation for his generosity, but instead received only silence. David’s mother stared at the ground.

“David has tournaments this summer,” Mal said.

“I know he’s a wonderful golfer and that he has tournaments scheduled this summer. He’ll still be able to play in some of them—many of them, in fact. The program is eight weeks long, but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind letting David sneak out every now and then to play some golf.”

Mal snarled. “Sneak out every now and then?”

“This program is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“Winning the Pennsylvania Open as a junior is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Getting an exemption to the U.S. Amateur is a once-in-alifetime opportunity. David isn’t going to win the state open by sneaking out on weekends. Golf is a full-time commitment. During the summer, it’s twenty-four, seven.” “Writing’s a full-time commitment, too, and it’s such an extraordinary thing to do.” Hendrickson said boldly. The teacher had more to say, but he noticed Adina shrink further into her chair and knew that he’d gone too far.

Mal leaned forward. “So golf is ordinary?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did, you just didn’t have the courage to say it explicitly. Why don’t you go ahead and say it now? ‘Golf isn’t respectable.’ That’s what you’re really here to say, right? The intellectuals at Penn State won’t regard golf as a worthwhile career. Well, I suppose if you don’t think golf is good enough, you won’t look too favorably on the steel mill that I’ve worked at for the past twenty-seven years. Do you look down on that too?”

“I don’t look down on anything, Mr. Howard, and I certainly don’t

look down on golf. I play myself. I just want you to understand David’s talent. He has options. He has choices to make.”

“Options? Choices?” Mal spit the words. “Do you know what choices I had when I was a teenager, Mr. Hendrickson? My choices were to go to work in a coal mine, join the Army, or starve. That’s a real-world choice.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I could’ve gone to Penn State too, you know. I wasn’t stupid. I had a good average in high school. I applied and got in. But my father got sick and my family needed an income, so I joined the Army. I could’ve played golf, too. But I answered the call to duty. I did what was right for my family and for my country.

“David has more than I ever dreamed of. What you’re talking about is self-indulgence. We’ve given our son a good life. Playing golf is an honest way to make a living. I wish that I’d been given the opportunity to see what kind of player I could have been. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in being a professional. Golf is a proud game.”

Mal took a breath. “I would think that you’d understand that,” he continued. “You say you play. You teach at a school named after Mr. Palmer. Seems to me you should have respect for the game that made him the great man he is.”

“I have the greatest respect for golf,” Hendrickson said, extending his palms in a gesture of supplication. “You’re missing my point. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with golf, Mr. Howard. I love the game. I just want to make sure David does whatever will make him happiest. If it’s golf, fine. But it’s my job as a teacher to help him understand his full potential. David has the chance to make his living with his mind.”

“And golfers don’t use their minds?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You ever hear of a little man from Texas named Hogan?”

“I know Ben Hogan.”

“You tell me he doesn’t use his mind. You tell me he doesn’t think his way around the course.”

“He does. He’s a brilliant player.”

“What’s your point, then, Mr. Hendrickson?” He said the teacher’s name with derision.

“Ben Hogan uses his mind. All great golfers do. But they don’t use them in the same way as writers or doctors or lawyers. They don’t use their minds to make lives better. They play a game.”

“So golf’s just a game.”

“Not just a game—a great game, but a game.”

“And writing’s not just a game?”

“I suppose there’s some element to it that’s like a game. It’s competitive, there’s an output. But it’s different. It’s art.”

“And golf isn’t art?” “I don’t know,” Hendrickson stammered. Mal was wearing him down. David had been on the other end of this treatment many times. David imagined it felt like a witness being beaten up on cross-examination or interrogated by the CIA. “There’s certainly some aspect to golf that’s artistic,” the teacher continued, desperately, “but it’s different. A graceful golf swing is beautiful to watch, but it’s fleeting. It’s over in a second. Books last. Books make people think. They change lives.”

“And golf doesn’t change lives?”

Hendrickson was getting tired. That’s when mistakes happened.

“Look, I don’t really know how to make these distinctions, and my point isn’t to denigrate golf or to debate you about what’s meritorious and what isn’t. That’s not what this is supposed to be about. This is really about choices, about David getting to be the person he wants to be.”

Mal nodded his head, apparently calmly, but David, who’d seen this

act many times before, knew that his father’s pot was simmering.

“So you think our son is a good writer.”

“Better than a good writer.”

“Can you promise him that these novels he’s destined to write will ever get published?”

“No, I said that before.”

“And what about a job? Can you promise him a job?”

“No.”

“What can you promise him then? Food? Money? A place to live?”

“I can’t promise him anything.”

As Mal grew more agitated, he talked faster. “So what good is your offer? Maybe my son is smart enough to be a writer? I don’t know. I’ll tell you what I do know. He hits a golf ball well enough to make a living at it. If he practices hard every day, without distraction, he can have a career as a professional. He might make $100,000 a year. More if he’s good. That’s real money. That’s reality. You’re talking about fiction.”

Hendrickson drew a deep breath. “Childhood isn’t just about preparing yourself to get a good job, Mr. Howard. I mean that’s important, but there’s more to it than that. It’s about opening the mind and cultivating interests. You can’t really say with certainty that David is going to be a professional. And even if you could, it would still be worthwhile for him to attend this program. I’m not saying that he should give up golf. I’m just saying that he should explore other things. At the Penn State program, he’ll learn so much and meet so many interesting people. It’s a great opportunity for him. You have to be open-minded.”

Mal’s jaw clenched.

“So I’m closed minded.”

“I’m not saying that you’re closed . . .”

“You know better than everyone else.”

David’s father rose and Mr. Hendrickson, in turn, rose in self-defense. As Mal moved toward him, the English teacher backed his way to the front door. David’s heart sank. He’d seen his mother retreat in this manner before, as he had himself, and he knew the terror his teacher must be experiencing.

“You think that because you’re a teacher that you can tell everyone how to live their lives,” Mal said accusatorily. “Here’s my guess. You wanted to be a writer yourself and now you go around sticking your mind into other people’s business because it makes you feel better about your own failed ambitions. If you have your way, he’ll end up with three novels on his shelf like my wife and teaching high school English in a steel town.”

Ron Hendrickson held his hands out in front of his face.

“You have me all wrong.”

“Get out of my house!”

Mr. Hendrickson did. He got out of the house straight away, tripping over the doorframe as he did, falling to the concrete walkway that led to 113 Spruce Lane. For a moment, David though Mal might strike him while he lied prone on the floor. The teacher clearly did, too, because, as he lied on his back, he held his hands in front of his face. With Mal, one often had the sense of imminent violence. Even if he didn’t act it out, it seemed always to be just under the surface, a little bit closer after a beer or two. David gave thanks for it being Sunday.

When Hendrickson finally accepted that he wouldn’t be attacked, he began to crawl away from the house, then finally righted himself and made for his Pontiac, never daring to turn his back to Mal. After having arrived with noble intentions, Ron Hendrickson made his retreat from the Howard home in this pathetic manner. Mal had worked his special magic.

Watching from his bedroom window, David yearned to run to the aid of the man who’d cared enough to try to make his life better, but as far as his father knew, David was playing golf, and for everyone’s sake, it had to remain that way.

David was trapped, with no obvious possibility of escape.