Making Love (12 page)

The airport festered in gray fog when she arrived; feeling sticky, her left ear numb, she waited patiently for the Avis girl to fill out the endless form and finally she was led to a fighting-fit Mustang with enough maps, motorist brochures, and recommended dining places to keep her behind the wheel forever. Freeway gave birth to freeway in the interminable stark highway that is California; and Napa, north of the crotch of San Pablo Bay, came into focus at about three o'clock Pacific Coast Time.
 

Signs mounted every few highway miles directed Jane to the Buccaneer Motel, a gerrymandering affair with a large neon triumphal arch. She couldn't believe the full notice, and ten dollars in the right hands proved her point. The clerk folded the bill neatly into eighths and fitted it into the small-change pocket under his belt.
 

She was hot, tired, and hungry. Her stomach was still in New York with the hotel's shirred eggs. A Mexican bellhop with a breath of fire and enough Old Spice on his person to qualify him for the Marines carried her bag to a third-floor room. The walls weren't thin, they were soluble, she discovered as she watched bits of ceiling plaster dissolve in the shower. Her stomach was still deceptively flat and she slapped it unselfconsciously in front of the bathroom mirror without getting a rise, slipped into a light, sleeveless micromini, and promised herself, after a two-week sex watcher's diet, Sonny Jackson on toast. She put on her dark glasses and wondered if her father would recognize her.
 

She went down to the front desk, where her operative touched his change pocket in a sign of recognition and informed her that James Harmon Siddley was on the course, playing a qualifying round, and would probably be clustered on the back nine with some local club pros who, to save face with their pupils, had to play a round from time to time, no matter how disgracefully, if only to demonstrate that hitting a golf ball was still one of nature's well-kept secrets.
 

The course was four miles away and the approach was crammed with the usual assortment of fanatics she'd seen at other such events. At the PGA desk a blazored official suggested that she might find Jim Harmon on the sixteenth or seventeenth tee.
 

“He had a real fine front nine. Thirty-four,” the official said.
 

There was little enough to be said for California north or south, she thought, but the weather here was clear, and crisp as a bakery roll. The Bermuda-shorts contingent followed the leading pros, and Jane knew that wherever the crowd wasn't, that's precisely where Jim Siddley would be, unless he happened to be paired with a declining name pro who had to suffer the indignity of qualifying but still had a few old-time fans. A pack of derelict housewives; the golf tours' version of groupies, were trailing Nicklaus and Chi Chi Rodriguez, who were eating up the course.
 

On the seventeenth, a dogleg to the left, favoring a controlled draw, she saw her father. As a boy of nine, he had been tutored, cajoled, and ultimately brought to the point of obsession, until the game became his consuming passion. He discovered that golf didn't necessarily relieve his fits of depression, but that it possessed the twin virtues of being so trivial, so majestically pointless that it provided him with something to worry about. Having found his spiritual objective correlative, he proceeded to devote his life to its pursuit. In an age of casualness and jersey knits, Jim Siddley was a dandy, amateur golf's leading dresser. People were more inclined to ask what he was wearing than how he scored. There were about a dozen people watching his foursome, an attendance record, and be was wearing a cardinal-red version of the Hogan peaked cap, black checked plus fours, and a silky white see-through shirt. Jane stood behind a bush so that he wouldn't have any excuse for a poor tee shot.
 

Her father teed off last of the foursome, so he'd been high man on the sixteenth. There was a rustle of excitement when he lined up in the direction of the rough instead of the fairway. He was going to try to go over the trees, a foolhardy and desperate measure which carried the same odds as a double zero in roulette.
 

God, she'd watched that swing thousands of times—from their own front lawn, courses in nine countries, driving ranges from Maine to Miami; and there it was, still beautiful, the complete compact arc, a miracle of human geometry. He carried the trees and with any luck would be in position for an approach if he hadn't landed in the dense rough.
 

“We got somebody playing for an eagle,” one of the pros said.
 

A buxom Mexican girl clapped her hands and gave Jim a big wink which he returned. Jane followed at a distance, not wishing to disturb his concentration. He had everything required for the great golfer: the long game, zinging line drives with irons that conquered winds, fearlessness with a putter; a master of the wedge, he played out of sandtraps as if he'd been born in one. But he never won. Somewhere along the line he was missing the basic constituent element that makes a champion: desire. He wasn't hungry for the buck, he'd never been a caddy or fished for lost balls, and his sense of competition never extended beyond the confines of a country club bet at Bel Air or La Gorse. Hustling hustlers was the final extension of his ambition. He had the perfect nerves and composure of the golfer but he always lost in tournaments because nothing was at stake. He had earned twenty thousand dollars a week from his investments and had this monstrously disproportionate income since turning twenty-one. The only requirement to maintain the fortune was to keep away from the family company, Invictor, a dynasty now run by skilled technocrats and highly paid management who did have something at stake. James Harmon Siddley, a director of the company in name only, kept his distance. He could live with the disapproval of society, and had done enough maid chasing to outrage even the jaded but generous sensibilities of his Connecticut neighbors. Contempt he could not survive, so he turned his back on it and played in golf tournaments which kept him occupied but not completely out of trouble.
 

He had cleared the rough. His ball was by the side of a fairway bunker about a hundred and fifty yards from the pin and he waited for the other three to hit their second shots. There was a momentary uncertainty about his club selection; he preferred a nine but settled for an eight; if he was short he'd land in the water trap in front of the green. He was a stroke ahead of the others because of his gamble and with hot dice in his hands had no intention of dropping them. He hit an easy eight with enough bite on it to hold the green, leaving him about a sixteen footer. This time he turned to the Mexican girl and kissed her on the cheek. Trust Jim to bring his own rabbit's foot, a living, breathing one, bursting out of her dress, Jane reflected.
 

He sank the putt, kept his cool, although she knew that he wanted to howl with delight; but this stratagem would probably unnerve the others even more. He birdied the eighteenth, did a small jig with the girl after totaling his score and handing it to an official.
 

“Best goddamn round I've had since Phoenix in ‘65!”
 

His score was posted, a sixty-nine, and that sweet little-boy rowdy in him emerged as he clapped backs and handed out balls to a group of caddies who applauded him. She hated to spoil his fun, moments of triumphs were few enough in anyone's life. His name was put up among the qualifiers. He had survived the cut and sauntered along to the locker room, a man destined for great heights and two more rounds of golf for prize money that he couldn't and wouldn't accept.
 

Jane turned into the clubhouse and made her way to the bar. He was bound to turn up after changing, spreading good cheer and scooping up bar tabs, indulgences for one and all. He was unhateable, and that's what made him hateful at times, as far as she was concerned, because he forced her to turn on herself. She hadn't seen him since June, almost six months now. Before that she had spent two days with him over Christmas at Aspen. She'd spoken to him three times, twice from Europe and once on her return. Six postcards had been sent, four by her, and two by him in which he stated that he was feeling great, taking a vacation in Buenos Aires, to rest up before resuming the tour, which had ended sadly for him with a seventy-nine at Firestone—"a real sonovabitch of a course.” Her maternal advice, an American mother to a heartbroken son—
Dear Jim, re. Firestone, you can't win them all —
was taken in the right spirit by Jim, whose sportsmanlike conduct was a model for any boy.
 

He came into the bar and joined the Mexican, a waiting, compliant object. She had discovered some pot at the bottom of her bag, and remembered that Alan had laid it on her after his lecture on Schopenhauer. Jim took a corner table, looked splendid in his white trousers, red shirt, and double breasted blazer. At forty-six, he seemed no older than thirty-five, behaved like seventeen. Jane adjusted her dark glasses and came to the conclusion that reality, high or not, would ostensibly be the same, and that she'd be better off not getting hung up on subjects which would be of only peripheral interest to her father. Along with golf, his only other known field of expertise was, she had learned from a maid, the debatable method of contraception known in French as
se retirer
, and somewhat more piquantly in English as “coming out before the servant.” He had perfected this technique during his pre-twenty sorties.
 

Jane moved to a table opposite, then smiled coquettishly at him. She received a satanic glare from the lynx-eyed girl. He didn't notice her. Boldly Jane rose, removed her glasses, and got a real nervous-breakdown look from him.
 

“Jane ... Janey?” he said, squirming from his seat. Father and daughter embraced, Jim a bit emotional about it all.
 

“What in God's name are you doing out here?” he inquired nervously, a seventy-nine looming on the horizon.
 

“I wanted to see you.”
 

This seemed reasonable but unconvincing to Jim, who looked from one girl to the other and made the appropriate introductions.
 

“Francesca, this is my daughter, Jane. Darling, you look a little tired around the eyes,” he noted solicitiously. “Are you all right?”
 

“I've never been better.”
 

A gentle shark-bite grip was applied to Francesca's kneecap and the young lady swallowed her Margarita a bit hastily, salt adhering to her chin.
 

“I'll see you later, Jimmy,” she said, then nodded to Jane.
 

“I hope there's nothing serious.” Shocks at a time like this could tense him up, freeze his normally intrepid putter, he'd be a guest in bunkers. “Your mother's fine. I spoke to her a few days ago,” he insisted. Nancy's moods were as frequent as hijackings in Cuba. He could live with them. Her weather report, never varied—Romeos, binges, occasionally at the same time. A
Farmer's Almanac
of psychological regularity.
 

“I spoke to her, too,” Jane said. She wasn't being helpful, Jim thought, motioning a waiter for another round.
 

“How'd she sound to you?”
 

“Loaded,” Jane said.
 

“She's only been out a few weeks. Her liver'll just give out one of these days.”
 

“It won't be a pretty sight,” Jane agreed.
 

He waited silently, refusing to give her a lead. Nancy's liver wasn't really stimulating conversation between father and daughter. A drink arrived. Jim shakily downed it, clasped the waiter's wrist for another before he made departure plans.
 

“You're nervous, Dad. I thought you had a good round.”
 

“I'm a little unsettled. Seeing you, I suppose.”
 

“I thought it'd be pleasant for you.”
 

“Rabbits jumping out of hats,” he muttered.
 

“I missed you.”
 

“Aren't you supposed to be at school? This isn't some midsemester break, is it?”
 

“I've made it one.”
 

“I was coming home for Thanksgiving,” he said, thrusting out his chin, but it didn't scare her.
 

“You'll be in Palm Beach for Thanksgiving.”
 

He looked for someone to wave to, found a face at the bar, but the man simply waved back and shook off Jim's invitation.
 

“Terrific little player. He's the pro up at Saxon Vale. Nifty course. I went around in sixty-six.”
 

“That must've been nice for you.”
 

“Well, it wasn't a tournament or anything. Just a friendly foursome.”
 

Away from her father, she could secretly indulge in contempt for him. But in the flesh he was such a gorgeous, pleasant weakling that only the present had any reality. He'd made a career out of charm, check-grabbing, casual sex with nameless women. Incapable of cruelty, he inspired the affection normally reserved for small mischievous boys. In spite of his long-distance indifference, Jane adored him. Loving him brought with it the melancholy of perfect misunderstanding.
 

Jane toyed with the ice in her glass, and Jim shoved over her fresh round. Three drinks were waiting, quiet soldiers of forgetfulness.
 

“It's sort of nice sitting here having a drink and chat with you,” Jim said. “When I woke up this morning and checked the greens, I thought of a great many things, but it never crossed my mind that I'd be seeing you.”
 

“How were the greens?”
 

“Fast. Just the way I like them. You can't play like a coward or else you're leaving three-footers.”