Chapter 18

Saturday morning he was out on the sidewalk, waiting, when his father pulled up. Alone. Yeh.

“Joy had some errands to run. She’ll meet us there,” his father said.

“Dad, what say we play tennis next week? You think Joy’ll let you off the hook for once?”

His father, always a careful driver, kept his eyes on the road.

“I thought you’d enjoyed hitting golf balls, Tim,” his father spoke at last. “It’s not a question of being ‘on the hook,’ as you put it.”

Once again, he’d put his foot in it.

“Sorry, Dad. I only meant I’d like to play tennis with you once in a while. I have a feeling golf isn’t my sport.”

“You haven’t given it a chance, Tim. I know it’s discouraging, but you’ll see that time and practice will improve your game.”

“That’s just it. I’d like to try a game instead of this just hitting the balls. If we played an actual game, I might get with it.”

“You have a point. We’ll play next week. Either at Joy’s club, or we can try the nine-holer here, at the driving range.”

They hung around, waiting for Joy to show. “Len Feeley must be off his feed this morning,” his father said. “He usually comes out to say hello.” They could see him inside his office, pacing, once in a while pressing his nose against the glass to see how things were going.

They waited for quite a while. His father took several practice swings and he did the same. Loosening up the old muscles. All the while, he was conscious of Sophie’s father looking at them through the window.

“Maybe we ought to go ahead without her,” his father said, checking his watch for the umpteenth time. “She must’ve got held up in traffic.…”

“All right.” He was pleased. He and his father could drive balls to their heart’s content without Joy giving them instructions on the right way to do it.

They got a bucket of balls and started in. “The blind leading the blind,” his father joked. “Watch me, Tim.” His father’s feet rooted around in the grass, seeking the perfect stance. Elbows in, keep your eye on the ball. It looked so simple. Still, Tim got off a couple of good swings, and the feel and sound of the club hitting the ball just right was exhilarating. When you got it just so, you knew it.

“Not bad, fellas.” Len Feeley stood behind them and, as they reached the bottom of the bucket, he came forward. “Where’s the lady? You guys on your own today?”

“She’ll be along,” his father said. He knew his father didn’t like Len, could tell by the stiff way his father spoke.

“What say, Tim? You want to buy another bucket? We both seem to be doing pretty well today.”

“Any amount of balls you want, we got ’em. I might even throw in a couple extra, you fellas are such good customers.”

“That isn’t necessary,” his father said. “You’re in this to make money, after all.”

Obviously, Len had something on his mind. He puffed ferociously on a cigarette. “I try to give these things up, they’re killing me, and then I get hit with the latest. My wife says I oughta get outa the business, into something less stressful. I can’t handle these things. What with one thing and another, my nerves are shot.”

“That so?” His father handed him a new tee. “This one’s for luck, Tim.”

“My kid’s getting these sicko letters in the mail,” Len confided. Tim felt himself blush and quickly knelt to tie his sneaker, afraid his face might give him away.

“It’s enough to drive me outa my skull.” Len let another cigarette from the one he held. “I call the police; they give me the nothing-we-can-do routine. The guy’s a crazy is what I say. Lock him up before he kills somebody. Like he’s the kind puts razor blades in kids’ Halloween candy, you know?”

Tim stuck the tee in the ground, and his hands trembled so hard he had difficulty lining up the ball. His father, always a polite man, paused to listen to what Len had to say.

Len dropped the cigarette on the ground and stomped on it, grinding it in with his heel. “See that? That’s what I’d like to do to this pervert.” The three of them stared down at Len’s size-ten-EE suede loafer, complete with fancy brass buckle, as if fascinated by it. Taking out his handkerchief, Len bent and tenderly dusted off the buckle before resuming his complaint.

“What exactly do these letters say?” his father asked. “Are they threatening or what?”

“Threatening? Threatening! The guy’s sick is what they are. The creep’s always talking about souls and death, and mentioning parts of the body and all.” Len’s face flamed with emotion. By an enormous effort, Tim maintained a look of detached interest. His father shook his head slowly, sympathizing with Len’s plight as the father of a girl who inspired such tawdry prurience.

“That’s a shame,” his father said. “I feel for you.”

“My wife says I should cool it, not let it get to me,” Len went on. “She says they’re only cuckoo love letters, the guy means no harm, she says. And I tell her cuckoo love letters are dangerous. What does she know? The guy’s a weirdo and he oughta be pulled off the street and locked up. I say they should book him on charges of harassment, if not downright obscenity.” Len’s little eyes glittered as he hauled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his moist face.

“I ask you, as a father, what would you do?” Len said. And, although the question was directed at his father, Len’s eyes were trained on Tim.

His father said, “I guess just what you’ve done. If the police don’t take the letters seriously, well, I guess you have to warn your daughter about speaking to strangers, taking rides from people she doesn’t know, that sort of thing. How old is she?”

“She’s fifteen, old enough to know better. I asked her did she know anybody might be writing this garbage to her and she says no, she doesn’t know anybody would do that. I tell you, kids these days are no damn good. The lot of ’em. When we were kids, we just did pranks. You know, not bad stuff, just pranks. Like we’d let the air out of tires, steal apples off the neighbor’s trees, pour sugar in somebody’s gas tank if we didn’t like what he said, stuff like that. All good, clean fun. Today, if they’re not in jail by the time they’re fourteen, you figure you got it made. I tell you, the world’s going to hell in a handbasket.”

“Hello, you two!” It was the first, indeed the only time he’d ever been glad to see Joy.

Len wiped his face one last time. “Sorry, folks. Didn’t mean to get going like that. But I’m not myself. I’m so upset by this letter thing. But mark my words.” Len’s eyes were like two raisins in a rice pudding. “This guy’s dangerous. The kind packs a BB gun so’s he can shoot out streetlights, the kind lays in wait to mug old ladies walking on their canes.”

Joy looked from him to his father, then at Len. “What’s all this about?” she asked brightly.

Len was not quite finished. Leaning close, he whispered, “I think the guy obviously has sexual problems.”

It was his father’s turn to take out a handkerchief and wipe his brow. “I certainly hope you’re wrong on that score,” his father said.

A heavy silence fell.

Into it, Joy spoke, “You boys ready to hit a few balls?” she said, jovial as any department-store Santa. “How about you, Tim? You want to start?”

Carefully, painstakingly, he set up his ball, nestling it neatly into the tee. Then he bent his knees, tucked in his elbows, placed his feet just so, kept his eye on the ball, and whiffed.