come.
“And your grandmother’s been missing for how long?” Angela asks, tossing the words at me over her shoulder.
“A few hours,” I reply. “But she can get kind of disoriented. She forgets. She’s got Alzheimer’s.”
As we pass in front of the clubhouse, Jack Felder is standing in front of the plate-glass window. He’s got a phone pressed to his ear and he’s obviously upset because his mouth is going a mile a minute and there’s a vein sticking out from his neck like he’s being strangled. When he spots me just below the window, he flips the phone shut and starts tapping on the window and gesturing at me like a maniac. He’s even standing on his tiptoes to make his point—and his point is that he wants me.
“Me?” I mouth and point to myself.
“Now!”
he mouths back at me through the glass.
I give him an excited wave and pretend that I’m too busy now but will definitely get back to him—later. He starts gesticulating wildly again, yelling at the glass.
“So, you famous around here?” Desirée asks me once we’re beyond Felder’s sight lines.
“I work the grounds as a caddy,” I explain, and she looks at me like I’d just hit a hole in one.
“For real?” she says. “I never met a caddy in my life. Must be so cool.”
Cool? I’m not so sure. But on a night like this, when the moon is up and it’s spreading a carpet of light along the entire length of the third fairway, the place is beautiful and I’m happy to be a part of it. The grain of the grass is visible, like a close-cropped head of hair combed and sheening silvery white. The air is warm and heavy, carrying with it a smell so sweet I’d swear I was in a department store. I can hear the
tiki-tiki-thwack
of thewater system doing its nighttime thing out there in the distance.
“Marie!”
we call out in unison.
“Marie!”
“Is she religious, your grandmother?” Angela asks me. “Because maybe she was drawn to this place. A lot of people are these days. Miracles and all. Maybe she broke through security and found her way to the Virgin Mary.”
“She used to go to church,” I tell her. “Methodist, I think. But then I guess she forgot about religion. Along with everything else.”
“Methodists don’t believe in the BVM,” Crispy reminded us.
“Does she remember
you?”
Angela asks me.
“Most of the time.”
Up ahead the area is cordoned off with yellow police tape that says CAUTION: DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE over and over in big black letters. On the far side of the tape, the tree with the image of the Blessed Virgin is doing its thing in the moonlight, unaware of how it’s upsetting Jack Felder and the Jupiter community; it just sits there as oblivious as Doug after a beer and two tokes on a Saturday night. There isn’t a soul in sight, so I offer my posse the opportunity to sneak under the CAUTION tape and pay their respects to the BVM. In response, they give me various versions of a shrug and say that they’ve been there, done that.
“My mom and I have been to so many sites,” Desirée informs me. “She’s totally hooked now. Which is cool with me, because it gets us traveling. We meet people and stuff. But this site is notso great. I mean, from what I heard, you have to squint hard at the tree to see the Virgin Mary.”
“Still,” Angela says. “For me, it’s better than being stuck in Tucson. Because lemme tell you, in Tucson, no matter how hard you squint, you can’t see a thing.”
“This is my third spot,” says Crispy. “The last one was Stone Mountain, Georgia, earlier this summer. My mom and I were there for almost a month. That was cool.”
“Weren’t you just in Stone Mountain?” Desirée asks Angela.
“Yeah,” she replies, not looking at Crispy. “This one is number six for my mother and me. Texas, Ohio, two places in Georgia, Tennessee, now Florida.”
“For a virgin,” I remark, “she gets around.”
“Me, too,” says Desirée.
Angela kneels down to pet the
“And your grandmother’s been missing for how long?” Angela asks, tossing the words at me over her shoulder.
“A few hours,” I reply. “But she can get kind of disoriented. She forgets. She’s got Alzheimer’s.”
As we pass in front of the clubhouse, Jack Felder is standing in front of the plate-glass window. He’s got a phone pressed to his ear and he’s obviously upset because his mouth is going a mile a minute and there’s a vein sticking out from his neck like he’s being strangled. When he spots me just below the window, he flips the phone shut and starts tapping on the window and gesturing at me like a maniac. He’s even standing on his tiptoes to make his point—and his point is that he wants me.
“Me?” I mouth and point to myself.
“Now!”
he mouths back at me through the glass.
I give him an excited wave and pretend that I’m too busy now but will definitely get back to him—later. He starts gesticulating wildly again, yelling at the glass.
“So, you famous around here?” Desirée asks me once we’re beyond Felder’s sight lines.
“I work the grounds as a caddy,” I explain, and she looks at me like I’d just hit a hole in one.
“For real?” she says. “I never met a caddy in my life. Must be so cool.”
Cool? I’m not so sure. But on a night like this, when the moon is up and it’s spreading a carpet of light along the entire length of the third fairway, the place is beautiful and I’m happy to be a part of it. The grain of the grass is visible, like a close-cropped head of hair combed and sheening silvery white. The air is warm and heavy, carrying with it a smell so sweet I’d swear I was in a department store. I can hear the
tiki-tiki-thwack
of thewater system doing its nighttime thing out there in the distance.
“Marie!”
we call out in unison.
“Marie!”
“Is she religious, your grandmother?” Angela asks me. “Because maybe she was drawn to this place. A lot of people are these days. Miracles and all. Maybe she broke through security and found her way to the Virgin Mary.”
“She used to go to church,” I tell her. “Methodist, I think. But then I guess she forgot about religion. Along with everything else.”
“Methodists don’t believe in the BVM,” Crispy reminded us.
“Does she remember
you?”
Angela asks me.
“Most of the time.”
Up ahead the area is cordoned off with yellow police tape that says CAUTION: DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE over and over in big black letters. On the far side of the tape, the tree with the image of the Blessed Virgin is doing its thing in the moonlight, unaware of how it’s upsetting Jack Felder and the Jupiter community; it just sits there as oblivious as Doug after a beer and two tokes on a Saturday night. There isn’t a soul in sight, so I offer my posse the opportunity to sneak under the CAUTION tape and pay their respects to the BVM. In response, they give me various versions of a shrug and say that they’ve been there, done that.
“My mom and I have been to so many sites,” Desirée informs me. “She’s totally hooked now. Which is cool with me, because it gets us traveling. We meet people and stuff. But this site is notso great. I mean, from what I heard, you have to squint hard at the tree to see the Virgin Mary.”
“Still,” Angela says. “For me, it’s better than being stuck in Tucson. Because lemme tell you, in Tucson, no matter how hard you squint, you can’t see a thing.”
“This is my third spot,” says Crispy. “The last one was Stone Mountain, Georgia, earlier this summer. My mom and I were there for almost a month. That was cool.”
“Weren’t you just in Stone Mountain?” Desirée asks Angela.
“Yeah,” she replies, not looking at Crispy. “This one is number six for my mother and me. Texas, Ohio, two places in Georgia, Tennessee, now Florida.”
“For a virgin,” I remark, “she gets around.”
“Me, too,” says Desirée.
Angela kneels down to pet the
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