he had with the club manager or the pro, that was when he did it, before the members showed up and saw an unnecessary nigger in the clubhouse. But the Cadillac was gone, and the shed was still locked up, and Train walked out in back, where last Christmas some members had nailed a fruit basket against the side of the building for the caddies to play basketball while they was waiting for totes. He found some golf balls from the practice range and began hitting soft little shots off the dirt, opening the blade of his nine iron and cutting under the balls, almost without touching them, lifting them up against the side of the shack until he found the right spot and began dropping them through the hoop.
Just like Bob Cousy at the foul line.
He did this for half an hour, until after they turned off the sprinklers and he heard the tractors out on the course, cutting the grass; until he’d dropped nine in a row through the fruit hoop. That was his lucky number, nine. Born on the twenty-ninth day of the ninth month in the year 1935.
The ninth ball in a row dropped through the hoop, and a few seconds later he heard Sweet’s Cadillac coming into the parking lot at fifty miles an hour, throwing up pebbles and dust, and took that for a good sign.
And then he saw there was another Cadillac in the lot too, gleaming in the sun. He couldn’t tell what color it was, blue or black, but it was parked close to the driveway, overlooking the caddy shed, somebody in it, relaxing against the seat, maybe watching.
Train felt himself trying to hide the club. He was always thinking that today was the day somebody might come around about his missing nine iron.
Train heard Sweet open the car door and slam it shut; then Sweet come down the slope of the hill toward the shed and went past Train without saying a word, smelling stale— most days he splashed himself with toilet water— and opened the padlock to the shed. He stepped inside, hurrying, and then unlocked the cage. He sat down back there and began drawing plans on a pad of paper. He was in a hurry, like there was something he wanted to get wrote down before he forgot.
Train walked in behind him, then went over and hung his hands in the wire separating the two sides of the room, but didn’t try to get any closer. The cage was off-limits.
It looked like Sweet was drawing the rooms of a house. The lines were zigzag and jagged, some places the drawing looked like he’d stabbed it.
He waited for Sweet to look up and see him so they could talk.
A little time passed, and then it was almost seven o’clock, and the other caddies begun coming in. One and two at a time, smoking Luckys and eating a jelly roll or a sausage. Some of them come to work with hangovers or without cleaning up, some of them talking about the cars they want to buy, or the girls they want to fuck. Henry Disharoon wanted everybody to smell his finger.
Sweet looked up at Henry, and the caddies noticed he was drawing pictures, and the room went quiet. Everybody knew not to bother Sweet when he was drawing, even though they never seen him at it before. The next time Sweet looked around, it was to ask if anybody knowed where Arthur was at. He paid no attention to Train, still standing there by the cage.
The phone began to ring, and Sweet handed out the totes. The caddies saw he was still drawing his picture, and nobody complained about who they got. They just put on they hats and went out to the first tee when he told them to go. Train went to a spot on the bench near Plural and took a seat.
Arthur come in finally at eight o’clock, and him and Sweet whispered awhile, and then Sweet showed him the picture he made. They whispered some more about that, and afterwards Sweet leaned back in his chair and relaxed, looked more like his old self.
Train got up and walked to the cage again. Sweet was staring at the tips of his
Just like Bob Cousy at the foul line.
He did this for half an hour, until after they turned off the sprinklers and he heard the tractors out on the course, cutting the grass; until he’d dropped nine in a row through the fruit hoop. That was his lucky number, nine. Born on the twenty-ninth day of the ninth month in the year 1935.
The ninth ball in a row dropped through the hoop, and a few seconds later he heard Sweet’s Cadillac coming into the parking lot at fifty miles an hour, throwing up pebbles and dust, and took that for a good sign.
And then he saw there was another Cadillac in the lot too, gleaming in the sun. He couldn’t tell what color it was, blue or black, but it was parked close to the driveway, overlooking the caddy shed, somebody in it, relaxing against the seat, maybe watching.
Train felt himself trying to hide the club. He was always thinking that today was the day somebody might come around about his missing nine iron.
Train heard Sweet open the car door and slam it shut; then Sweet come down the slope of the hill toward the shed and went past Train without saying a word, smelling stale— most days he splashed himself with toilet water— and opened the padlock to the shed. He stepped inside, hurrying, and then unlocked the cage. He sat down back there and began drawing plans on a pad of paper. He was in a hurry, like there was something he wanted to get wrote down before he forgot.
Train walked in behind him, then went over and hung his hands in the wire separating the two sides of the room, but didn’t try to get any closer. The cage was off-limits.
It looked like Sweet was drawing the rooms of a house. The lines were zigzag and jagged, some places the drawing looked like he’d stabbed it.
He waited for Sweet to look up and see him so they could talk.
A little time passed, and then it was almost seven o’clock, and the other caddies begun coming in. One and two at a time, smoking Luckys and eating a jelly roll or a sausage. Some of them come to work with hangovers or without cleaning up, some of them talking about the cars they want to buy, or the girls they want to fuck. Henry Disharoon wanted everybody to smell his finger.
Sweet looked up at Henry, and the caddies noticed he was drawing pictures, and the room went quiet. Everybody knew not to bother Sweet when he was drawing, even though they never seen him at it before. The next time Sweet looked around, it was to ask if anybody knowed where Arthur was at. He paid no attention to Train, still standing there by the cage.
The phone began to ring, and Sweet handed out the totes. The caddies saw he was still drawing his picture, and nobody complained about who they got. They just put on they hats and went out to the first tee when he told them to go. Train went to a spot on the bench near Plural and took a seat.
Arthur come in finally at eight o’clock, and him and Sweet whispered awhile, and then Sweet showed him the picture he made. They whispered some more about that, and afterwards Sweet leaned back in his chair and relaxed, looked more like his old self.
Train got up and walked to the cage again. Sweet was staring at the tips of his
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