“Where’s your dad?” I asked him.
Benji tilted his head towards the front door, which was slightly ajar, the screen closed over it. “On the phone with Mom.”
“How’s she doing?”
He shrugged, kicking at the floor with his sneakers. The swing creaked as he pushed himself back a bit. “They always end up on the phone forever.”
“Oh.” I looked at the door again. “Maybe I’ll just stick my head in, tell him we’re going out for a bit?”
This got his attention. “Really? We can go ahead and go?”
“Can’t hurt to ask. Wait here.” I went over to the door, eased the screen open, and stepped inside. The house was dimly lit, but looked pretty much the same as I remembered it: dark hardwood floors, gauzy window treatments, furniture that looked heavy. Remembering my previous conversation with my father, I checked the doorknob. It was fine.
“—just don’t see the point, is what I’m saying,” I heard him say suddenly, from the other end of the hallway. I stopped, not wanting to eavesdrop even as I realized I already was. “It’s a long trip to make for just a couple of days, and I thought we agreed . . . well, that was my understanding. It’s not working. You coming down here, no matter the pretense, won’t change that.”
Yikes, I thought, looking back out at Benji. My father was quiet for a moment, but I could hear him in the kitchen, pacing as he talked.
“Yes, I know. I don’t want to do that either. But do you really think we can be here, together, and have him not be aware of what’s happening? That was the whole idea behind this trip, to work out the details while . . .” He paused. “Well, I did. I assumed we were on the same page.”
I knew I should just turn around and go back outside, wait until he was done. But I couldn’t stand knowing Benji might be able to hear any of this. “Hello?” I called out, louder than necessary. A beat later, he appeared in the open kitchen doorway, the phone to his ear. “Oh, sorry,” I whispered, like I hadn’t realized. “I was just . . .”
“Hold on, Leah.” He covered the phone with his hand. “Emaline. I didn’t know you were here.”
“I’m just going to take Benji to minigolf, if that’s okay,” I said, still keeping my voice low. “I’ll bring him back in an hour or two?”
He looked at me for a moment, then at the slightly open door behind me. “Yes, of course,” he said. And then, “Thanks.”
I slipped back outside, then smiled at Benji. “We’re in business. Let’s go.”
“Awesome!” he said, hopping off the swing. He darted ahead of me, down the stairs and onto the walk. Watching him, I felt a pang of sadness, thinking of everything he didn’t know yet. The least I could do was spring for eighteen holes.
At SafariLand, he picked out a blue putter, while I, out of habit, grabbed a yellow one. As a kid, I was always yellow, Amber red, Margo blue. It’s funny the things you remember. We headed out to the first hole, the easiest, a straight shot right into the cup.
“All right,” I said, waving my club. “You’re up.”
Benji put down his ball, then readied his stance, wiggling his hips a little bit. I tried not to smile. Which quickly morphed into trying not to gasp as he swung the putter backwards, up, up, up over his head, before hitting the ball with full force. Crack! It went flying, soaring through the air to land in the bushes by the eighth hole.
“Whoa,” I managed, as the people currently on that hole looked at us, alarmed. I smiled, waving to acknowledge that, yes, we were responsible for the projectile. “Easy now.”
“Sorry,” he said.
I jogged over to retrieve the ball, jumping a small river on the way. I felt around in the bushes for a minute, trying not to think about all the other trash that was probably down there, before finding it. SafariLand was older than I was, and not exactly known for its cleanliness standards.
Benji looked cowed as I returned. “I didn’t mean to . . .” he began, then stopped, kicking at the grass. “That’s just how they do it on TV.”
“I know. But a hit like that is more for long drives at the Masters,” I told him, putting the ball back down on black starting mat. “Putt-putt requires a more gentle touch. Right?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done it before.”
I tried not to look surprised. “No?”
He shook his head. “It’s not something we . . .” He paused, then set up again, giving the ball a cautious tap. It rolled forward, perfectly centered, right into the cup. “No.”
I had a flash of him at the table with Leah a couple of years earlier, wanting crayons but being told to do word puzzles instead. “Right. Well, there’s a first time for everything. And there will be some holes later when you need to give it a good whack.”
“Yeah?” he said.
I nodded, then put down my ball to take my shot. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how many times I’d played this very same course: as a kid, then a middle schooler, all the way up to when I, too, had gotten overenthusiastic and hit Luke in the forehead. My dad had always been all about family activities and certain nights at SafariLand kids golfed free. It didn’t matter (to him, anyway) that my sisters and I were quickly bored with the course and bickering, dragging our clubs along behind us or swinging them at each other. If it was a collective outing, you went, like it or not. Yet now, as Benji and I moved to the next hole, I realized the memories I had weren’t bad. Not at all.