CROOKED CREEK

DAD GIVES ME A CALL. HE says, "Listen, I'm going to be in town. Next week. On Tuesday." He says, "It's the same deal as last year. For that golf deal." There's an annual old farts tournament. He's come down for the last four or five years. "We're out at this new club," he tells me. "Crooked Creek. Know where that is?"

I say, "No."

Then I think again, and I tell him, "Wait. Out east of town, isn't it?"

"Is it? I've got the address written down. Somewhere." Slips of paper are being shuffled. "Yeah, well...somewhere," he promises me.

I'm hoping to hell he's not the one driving.

And as if he's reading my mind, he says, "I'm riding with Bill Wannamaker. You remember Bill." Not particularly.

"Anyway," he says, "Things start at seven. We'll be done one, one-thirty. They're feeding us up at the clubhouse. I guess. If you want, come out for a minute or two. If you're not too busy." How do you explain busy to a retired man? But I tell him, "Maybe." Then I amend myself, adding,

"Probably. Sure." And that's where we leave things.

I've been seeing the same woman for five, six months. And we've reached that point where I'm having trouble seeing the point to things. Where I can pretty well imagine us parting ways. Not that there's anything wrong with Colleen. It's just that we have next to nothing in common. Not age, since she's a good eleven years younger than me. Not hobbies, except that we both like watching old movies. But even then, someone usually has to compromise his or her good tastes. Then there's the fact that Colleen is vegetarian where I'm an omnivore. And worst of all, there's a question about beliefs. I'm a staunch Rationalist, and Darwin is my patron saint. Colleen is a born Catholic who long ago discovered a fascination for the occult. Which isn't that far from being Catholic, if you want the truth. Anyway, that weekend, hunched over a plate of beans and flee, I mention my father and his consuming interest in golf. And the tournament. And my intention to drive out and say, "Hi," to the old bum.

"Can I tag along?" asks Colleen.

I don't say anything.

She reads my aura. My face. Or maybe the silence. Then she shrugs and says, "If you don't want me to go .... "

"It's in the afternoon. Aren't you workings"

Colleen is a barber. Which is a story onto itself, honestly. She doesn't work Sundays and Mondays. I assumed that I'd be safe for Tuesday.

But she says, "I can take a long late lunch."

"Dad has this way," I begin. "Nothing ever happens on schedule." She looks down at her plate, lips pursed.

I read the silence. Or her face. Or her aura, maybe. Then I tell her, "Just so you're warned. Sure, let's go watch some sweaty old men hitting tiny white balls."

And that's where we leave things.

I don't know why golf has to make this sudden comeback. It embodies everything that I truly hate in a quasi-sport. Golf, at its heart, is elitist and proud of it. The courses themselves are monocultures of hybrid grasses maintained with industrial doses of fertilizer and herbicides, the grass groomed until it resembles nothing else found in Nature. And worst of all, I hate the game because I don't play it anymore and because I despised playing it when I was a boy. Dad used to haul me over to a little nine hole course near our house. He gave me next to no instructions, and precious little encouragement. My old man belongs to that generation that learned by doing, whether it was playing golf or fighting fascism to the death. And what made my golfing career even more excruciating: One day, walking into the clubhouse, we happened to bump into one of Dad's buddies, and his buddy's son. As it happened, I halfway knew the kid. He went to my school. He was a year behind me, and tubby, and silly looking with that little sack of clubs hanging on his fat little shoulder.

The men decided that we'd make a foursome, and I thought: Good.

As usual, my opening shot carved up a piece of the green turf, flinging my ball all of fifty feet. But my fat friend would make me look good, I kept thinking. Right up until his swing, which was as smooth and strong as mine felt cranky and sloppy. And with a determined Whoosh, the driver cut through the air, and the ball was launched --a study in efficient ballistics that ended on the green, maybe twenty feet from the mocking flag.

I tell Colleen that story while I'm driving. And she laughs at my misery. She always seems to appreciate my humor. Which is a huge point in her favor, I can tell you.

"I never played golf again," I boast.

She laughs and looks ahead. Colleen has a pretty profile, her face fine and young and her curly red hair always needing a brush, and I'm wondering for the umpteenth time if there's something seriously wrong with me. One bad marriage and a string of broken relationships. Is it me? Am I just asking too much from the institution of love?

"Is that the place?" she asks.

Corn fields --another ecological abomination --give way to a rolling carpet of unbroken green lawn. Trees are small and scarce. What must be the clubhouse is perched on the crest of the hill. A bright warm day in May, and the parking lot is only half-filled. Things aren't as busy as I'd guessed. But then again, the old farts have probably car-pooled from both ends of the state.

The cars are just what I'd expect. Lincolns and Cadillacs and such. I park between Cadillacs.

There isn't a breath of wind, which is remarkable. I mention it as we're walking toward the clubhouse.

"Springtime on the plains, and not even a breeze," I mutter, glancing at my watch. One-thirty-one. I'm nothing if not punctual.

There's always something intimidating about clubhouses, and particularly this one. It's a massive long building made from dark wood and imported stone. Entering through the front door would feel wrong. So I steer us around the side, climbing onto a raised porch that hugs the building's upper story..And what worries me right off is that the place feels deserted. Is this the right course? The right clubhouse? The right day.?

Through tinted windows, I make out an almost empty bar.

Somewhere ahead of us, balls are getting whacked. I walk to the end of the porch, looking across the driving range. Young men stand in a line, swinging for the next county. And it occurs to me suddenly that the sound of golf has changed in thirty years. That hard sharp whap sound is new. Today's drivers are made from titanium alloys, and the balls have nickel cores. "If we put as much energy and invention into the space program," I tell Colleen, "then we'd have cities on the moon by now. If not Mars."

"And golf courses, too," she says.

Which makes me laugh.

A team roster has been posted on one of the tinted windows. I pause, looking for my father's name. And he appears at the end, on the last team. Which is bad news, if I was hoping to get out of here soon.

"Which one is he?" Colleen asks.

But she's not looking at the names. She's staring out at the course itself. Between our hilltop and the wooded stream bed, I can make out maybe a hundred old guys in hats and colorful clothes. Half of them, easily, could be my father.

"I'm going to ask someone," I tell her.

"I'm going to stand right here," she replies.

The bar isn't quite empty. A pair of golfers are enjoying tall beers, and there's a bright new television turned to the golfing channel, and there's a youngish man talking on a cell phone, looking like the prototypical golf pro. I'm thinking about asking him about the tournament. Then I spot a girl standing behind a tall counter. A college coed already out for the summer, is my guess. Blonde and pretty, and I'm wondering when did twenty-year-old girls become so impossibly pretty. So delicious. I give her a smile, saying, "I'm looking for my father." I tell her, "He's playing in the old-fart tournament." She laughs, sort of.

"They're running late," she admits. "They probably won't be coming in...I don't know...for another fifty minutes or so..."

Why am I not surprised?

I thank her, and I start to turn away.

"Old farts," says one of the golfers. "What's that mean?" He and his buddy are sitting at a little round table. They're captains of industry, probably. But to me they look like puffy-faced men with a history of heart disease.

I say, "Pardon?"

"Careful what you call people," is the golfer's advice. There's a beery offense being taken. "Didn't your folks ever teach you that?"

What can I do? I just shrug and march outside again. Distracted, and a little pissed. I'm thinking about having to wait for another hour. I'm hoping that Colleen has to get back to work, giving me the perfect excuse to leave. Then I'm considering the girl at the counter, remembering her face...and Colleen waits at the porch rail, leaning into it a little bit...and without looking at me, says, "Kiss?" She might be talking to the golf course, saying "Now?"

I come up behind her and put a hand against the small of her narrow back, and she tips her head toward me with her blue eyes closed. Then as soon as I'm done kissing her, she volunteers, "I don't have an appointment until four-fifteen."

She says, "As long as you want, I can wait."

She's a funny, funny girl.

According to the way I tell it, I just happened to be shopping for a new barber and Colleen happens to work in a little shop that's walking distance from my house. Coincidence is responsible; no cosmic alignments or any other flavor of bull.

She started me off with a shampoo. Which was fine. But as she worked with my hair, something about her hands changed. The rhythm of them. Their purpose. We had slipped into a slow massage, and eventually, with a quiet, serious voice, she said, "You feel like a vegetarian."

"Why?" I muttered.

"It's your scalp," she said. "It's very healthy, very relaxed." A compliment is a compliment. I gave a shrug, saying, "Thanks." Then because I couldn't let her think that I was, I showed her a tooth-rich smile, confessing, "But I do like my meat. Quite a bit, frankly."

"Then I was wrong," she allowed.

She said it instantly. Not the least bit bothered by her mistake, I noticed. Which surprised me, considering how some of these people can be.

Like with any new hairdresser or dentist, our conversation resembled every first date of my life. Where I grew up. Where I went to school. What I do for a living. And when I mentioned my college, Colleen piped up at once, saying, "Then you must know the ghost of White Hall."

"Old Miss Markel," I said knowingly.

"You've seen her?" she asked. Sounding, if anything, hopeful. I laughed politely, and I said, "Never had the pleasure." Colleen took a long pause. Except to tell me to dip my head forward, please, so that she could rinse out my hair. Which left me in the perfect pose to consider that tall music teacher who died in her office some seventy years ago, and according to legend, still walks the old hallways, pausing from time to time to stroke a few keys on her favorite Aerosonic.

Finally, as a joke, I asked, "Have you met Miss Markel?" That's when Colleen said my name for the first time.

"Johnny?" she said. And I lifted my head, seeing her reflection in the mirror in front of me. Seeing what I can only describe as a strong and even and wise smile. Colleen has a pretty face and fit young body and bright red hair that on almost any other woman comes from a bottle. And with a little wink and a self-deprecating laugh, she asked, "If I told you yes, that I'd seen a ghost...would you think I was crazy...?"

With her, it's easy to tell the truth.

I said, "Oh, probably. Yeah."

"And if you thought I was crazy," she continued, "then I suppose you wouldn't say, `Yes.'"

"To what?" I asked.

"Would you like to go out with me some evening?" she asked. And when I didn't respond in a timely fashion, she added, "You do believe in dates, don't you?" I forgot all about ghosts.

"Sure, I do," I said.

For no reason that I can point to, I told her, "Sure. Let's go out." I DON'T SEE MY FATHER much. My parents split when I was a teenager, and ever since, our relationship has been spotty --one of the back-burner issues in my life. Something to be lived with, like my stiff elbow. I can't say that we have disagreements when we're together, much less genuine fights. Dad's always been an agreeable if somewhat odd soul. But between me and my father lies a distance. With me, it's the emotional garbage of him leaving us. With him, I don't know what it is. He's always been an aloof creature. With me, and with everyone. And over the years, it's grown worse. That or maybe I've gotten better about being offended by his faraway stares and his lingering silences. Waiting on the clubhouse porch, I feel a nagging embarrassment. Every time a golf cart drives up, one or two of the riders looks like my father. The same pale, sun-drowned flesh. The same ugly-ass hats and the bright shirts and the bulky shorts. But these are just the first waves of tournament players, I keep telling myself. Dad's somewhere in the last wave. Coming closer a stroke at a time. I buy us two iced teas --black tea, not the green that Colleen hopes for --and we claim an outside table.

Still, there isn't a breath of wind. Flags hang limp on every pole, and the young trees are as still as photographs. Yet the air is dry and pleasantly cool, and lovely, and I'm not too awfully bored, even after the first twenty minutes. Even when we've started our second glasses of tea. Colleen asks about my father.

And my mother.

And in sneaky ways, she asks about me.

Dad is deep into his seventies. And I warn her the same way that I've warned my other women: He might seem awfully distracted, but she shouldn't take it personally. That's just the way he is. Not the way he started out in life. But it's the way he became.

"Why's that?" she asks. Naturally.

"It was the war," I reply. "Mom knew him before. When they were kids. Dad was this smiling, happy boy when World War II started, and he came back changed. Like a lot of them did, of course."

"Where did he fight?"

"The Pacific."

"What did he do?" she inquires.

"Rode in an airplane," I tell her.

"Oh, yeah?"

"B-29s," I add. "Which were big bombers."

She stares at me. Then with her eyes narrowing, she smirks, reminding me, "I'm not totally ignorant here. Thank you." "Sorry."

She sips her cold tea, saying nothing else.

I look at the deck beneath our feet. This is a brand new facility, yet the cedar planks are riddled with holes. Little holes. It takes me a few moments to realize why. Beefy golfers walking here with their goofy spiked shoes. Glancing down at my watch, I decide that we've been waiting for more than forty minutes. Then with a quiet and serious voice, I tell her, "My father's bomber went down, by the way. It crashed into the ocean."

Colleen looks at me.

"I don't know much more about it," I admit. "It was the biggest rule when I was growing up. I could never ask Dad about the war. Ever."

I'm telling her this, and I'm serving up a warning, too.

"What I know," I continue, "is that everyone else on that bomber died. And he survived after floating in the ocean, alone, for something like two days, and nights .... " She swirls her ice, asking, "Was it shot down?"

"I think so."

"You're not sure?"

I have to shrug my shoulders, saying, "I haven't heard the whole story. Except for some old military files, maybe...only my father knows .... "

A golfer strolls past. A big man smelling of cigarettes. Pausing, he asks me, "Is that where we tee off?" I look up at him.

With my eyes, I tell him to leave us alone. With my voice, I say, "I really don't have the tiniest clue." Disgruntled, he continues along the porch, his fancy, silly, and overpriced shoes punching fresh holes into the cedar. I watch him for a moment, then I watch the latest crop of young men smashing balls out across the driving range. The world is at peace today, and they have time as well as money to waste. Then I happen to glance straight down, looking at a patch of raked gravel where golf carts are being parked in a neat row. A lone man has left his cart, climbing toward the clubhouse with his head down. I can't see anything about him but the top of his floppy lime-green hat and the weak old shoulders and the way that his legs, despite riding around in a motorized cart, are weary, barely able to lift the feet that are wearing beat-up old golf shoes that I don't recognize. I don't know the man or his clothes. He's too small to be my father. Christmas was the last time I saw him face to face. But that can't be Dad, I'm thinking. Old is one thing, but this poor fellow, whoever he is, looks pretty much washed up. I happen to glance at Colleen.

She gives me a peculiar look. And by lifting her pale blue eyes and one corner of her mouth, she asks, "Is that him?"

How could she know my father? Before me?

But I look again, and that's when the fossil lifts his head, showing me his face. I'm looking straight at him, knowing him. And I lean out over the railing now, showing him my own face. But Dad doesn't seem to notice me.

Looking straight at me, he stops to breathe a few good breaths. Then down goes his head, and he continues to plug his way toward the clubhouse, and us.

"It's him," I grumble.

Then I look at Colleen.

She gives her ice and her tea a little swirl, then sets down her glass again. But she nearly misses our table, leaving the glass teetering over the edge far enough that gravity and the slick condensation let it tip and fall with a sloppy crash.

And still, she watches my father.

Blue eyes like saucers.

Watching.

ON OUR SECOND or third date, we went to a coffee house in one of the old warehouses next to downtown, and Colleen motioned and asked if I could see him. "Who?" I asked, following her gaze. Then I told her, "I don't see anyone," because there was nothing to see except an empty table tucked in the back of the room. Obviously.

Then came an afternoon when we went walking in a wooded park. It was late winter, but not too cold. And I caught her staring at a big hackberry tree. Watching something. So I had to ask, "What are you watching?"

I asked, "Is there a coyote? A deer? What?"

But she just shook her head and made a point of smiling at me, saying with a careful little voice, "It's nothing. Never mind."

Sometime later, I remembered the story. How several years back, a young man dumped by his girlfriend had gone to that park and thrown an electrical cord over a branch and hanged himself to death. And Colleen probably knew the story, and the power of suggestion did the rest. I told myself. Explaining it to my own self.

Then there was an evening, not long ago, when I finally asked her, "Why did you leave the Catholic faith?

"Not that you shouldn't have," I added.

She sat up in bed, showing me her pale and narrow back. And throwing a good stare over her shoulder, she said, "When I was a girl, twelve or so, I realized that the church didn't really know very much about souls, and death...and just like that, I realized that I wasn't a believer, and I'd never been one, either. You know?"

Spike-pocked cedar stairs lead up to the porch. I'm waiting at the top of the stairs, watching him climb. His head is down. His head lifts up, gauging distances. Then the old man starts to drop his eyes again

--watery and distracted brown eyes --before he blinks and looks up at me, and the puffy face goes into a smile. And he says, "There you are!" and laughs in a big way. I tell him, "Hi, Dad."

Then Colleen is next to me, grabbing hold of my hand with both of hers. Which is different. And she sounds remarkably nervous, her voice breaking when she introduces herself, concluding by saying, "It's really a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Harris."

"On, no! The pleasure's all mine," my father counters. And he gives a wink, conquering the last of the stairs with a little burst of speed.

I'm nervous too, I realize.

But not my father. He says, "Yeah, the boys got a late start this morning." Meaning the old men, of course. He says, "Sorry for the wait," with the same easy, well-practiced manner that he's used to gloss over everything for the last forty years. Then he asks, "How's the food in this place? I haven't eaten a bite since four this morning."

"You must be famished," says Colleen.

I can't decide if Dad heard her. One of his long stares comes over him, and he takes a big breath. Then his expression changes. "We're supposed to get a lunch eventually," he says. "But I'll tell you, I'd rather eat something right now. In the bar, maybe. What do you think? My treat ?" I start to say, "Okay."

But Colleen interrupts, telling him, "No, it's my treat, Mr. Hams --"

"Harvey," he corrects her.

"Harvey," she repeats.

Dad winks again. Nice and easy. He's always been nothing but pleasant with my new women. Goodness knows, he's had enough practice.

With Colleen holding the door, we slip inside.

It's the blonde coed who takes our orders. The old farts that I offended have disappeared. Thankfully. Golf is still playing on the big television. And I'm trying hard not to stare at the coed, which is why I find myself watching highlights from last weekend's professional tournament. In a casual way, I ask, "How did it go today? Your game, I mean." A pause.

Then Dad blinks and looks in my general direction, and he says, "Good. Real good! Until we got to the back nine."

"How's this new course?" I ask.

"Fine," he tells me. "Until that back nine."

We all have a little laugh about that.

Then Dad gestures at the television, saying "Let me tell you about that kid. See him there? Missing that putt?" He shakes his head, saying, "Past the hype, he's nothing special. Not yet, and probably won't ever be." Dad pulls his hand across his mouth like he has a million times in my life. Then he says, "What the best ones do, day in and day out...it takes something more important than talent, I can tell you."

"Like what?" Colleen prompts.

"Arrogance," he says. "That's what you need. All those people watching you, and all that money riding on your next long putt, and if you pay attention to anything that isn't your ball and the green, and the way the green lays, and your putter, and your hands, and shoulders, and how your legs are positioned...well, if there's any world outside your game, then you're not arrogant enough. There's no damn way that you can sink that putt. Not with talent, you can't. Luck, maybe. But luck gives you two strokes, or three. At the most."

I've been here before. I know this speech halfway by heart.

But the words seem to mean everything to Colleen. She leans over the little table, egging Dad on with her questions. Who are the best players now? And before? When did he start to play? What's his handicap?

Is that the right word? Handicap? Then she looks around the room, asking what, if he doesn't mind telling, was his best game ever?

I'm listening to the two of them, and I'm not.

If there's anything more boring than golf, it's talking about golf. That's what I'm thinking when our lunches come, and that's what I'm still thinking when we're finished eating. I had a so-so burger. Colleen had a grilled cheese sandwich. And my starving father ate most of a little salad and drank maybe half of his iced tea.

I'm worried about the old man.

That's what I'm thinking about, halfway listening while he tells us how most of the professionals are big smokers. Not on camera, but everywhere else. They use the nicotine to keep their nerves steady. Which is something that I'd never heard. And frankly, it's knowledge that leaves me feeling even more superior than before.

On that note, I stand and announce, "I'11 be right back." Three iced teas is my limit.

The big dining room at the far end of the clubhouse is filled with old men. A raspy voice is reading off names. The morning's winners, apparently. I listen for my father's name, but it isn't mentioned. Too bad. Then I find my way back to the bar and with a glance, I know that something here has changed. Colleen is speaking to my father now.

And from his expression, I can tell that Dad's actually listening to her. With huge eyes, he stares at the area under the television, nodding in a careful way. A funny half-smile tries to emerge on his face. Then, he glances at my girlfriend. Then he straightens his back, something about his posture and his attitude implying some great embarrassment. Or is it relief? Maybe it's both things, I'm thinking. As I'm walking up on them. Feeling like the intruder here.

"The tall, handsome one," I hear her saying. "Which one is he?" Dad answers in a mutter, then looks at my direction and shuts his mouth instantly. Nothing showing now but embarrassment.

"He was our pilot," I heard him say. Confess. Whatever.

"That's what I imagined," Colleen remarks, patting Dad fondly on the knee as she turns to look at the same empty space. "That's what makes perfect sense."

My father shuts his eyes and tilts his head --an ignore-the-world gesture older than me --and after a few moments, when his eyes open again, he discovers to his complete and utter horror that his son now stands in front of him.

For a slippery instant, it looks as if fifty years of determined self-control might evaporate. Dad takes a deep wet breath. Then, a second breath. I watch the eyes brighten as the face tries to smile, and fails. Then his expression tumbles into a look of profound embarrassment and disgust and worry. I can see my father asking himself what I heard, if anything. And what I think about it. And he has to wonder what I'll say next, which makes two of us. I don't know what I'm thinking, much less how to respond. I'm feeling puzzled. Lost, even. Baffled, and in strange ways, sad. Then because I can't think of anything better, I look at Colleen, hoping for a few salient words of advice. Our silence is shattered by a new voice.

"Harvey! Is this where you're hiding out?"

Dad blinks. Smiles again. And says, "Bill," with the grateful tone of a man who was praying for any interruption. "You remember my son, Johnny...?"

Bill Wannamaker is a big ruddy-faced man. I don't remember him. Not even a little bit. But he says, "Ah, sure," as if we're old buddies, and he gives me a bone-crushing handshake. Then he turns back to Dad, saying, "Look, Harv! Look what you won in the drawing!" From one of the pockets of his ugly-ass golfing trousers, Bill pulls out a long box of new white golf bails. "Almost makes up for those you lost in that damned creek. Doesn't it?"

Dad's embarrassment is small and pleasant. Everyone enjoys a good friendly laugh at his expense. Then Bill announces, "Our guys are starting to pull out. How about you, Harv? You about ready here?" There's a brief pause.

"We could drive you home, Harvey," says Colleen, patting my father on the knee again. "I'll make a quick call and cancel my afternoon appointments. That'll be okay with them. Is it okay with you, Johnny?" I hear myself saying, "Sure. Why not?"

Bill is staring hard at Colleen's hand and Dad's lucky knee. Envy makes the ruddy face grow even redder now.

"My clubs," Dad chirps. "They're out in Bill's trunk." Colleen gives me a little look.

"I'll get them for you," I promise.

Bill leads me to the parking lot, saying nothing for most of the trip. Then as he opens the cavernous trunk of his big Lincoln, he has to ask, "Is that redheaded girl...is she here with you?"

"Nope," I tell him.

"I never saw her before in my life," I tell him.

That stops our conversation dead.

I wrestle with Dad's old bag and clubs, fitting the worn leather strap over my shoulder. Then I head for my car, thinking about everything. Feeling certain about nothing. Pulling up short, I take a deep breath, and I turn and walk back up to the clubhouse with the bag and clubs growing heavier by the minute. I find my girl and my father out on the porch. They're talking to each other. Dad asks something, and Colleen answers him. Then Colleen tells him something else. Something that needs a quiet voice and a hand touching him on the shoulder. And the old man nods and wipes at his mouth and looks down the longgreen hillside, neither of them saying anything now.

I set the bag down with a rattling pop, and to my father, I say, "We've got time. What if we buy ourselves a bucket of balls?"

I DON'T MENTION GHOSTS. Standing beside Colleen, I watch my father as he concentrates on the ball and himself. Years of determined practice are visible in the twist of his hips and the grip of his two hands and the changing angle of the driver. The sharp solid whap of the ball is impressive in its own right. For a moment, I lose the ball in the fierce glare of the sun. Then it drops to the driving range, and bounces, and rolls, and vanishes again.

"Very good!" Colleen declares, giving a little applause. The ball does seem as if it went a long, long way. And maybe that's why Dad decides to stop here. He turns and hands me his driver, saying, "You give it a whack."

"I'm not very good," I warn.

"Oh, I remember," he responds.

And I prove my incompetence with half a dozen graceless hacks. If I picked up the balls and threw them overhand, I'd do better. My last shot never gets more than a quarter inch off the ground, and all I can do after that abomination is hand back the driver, laughing along with the rest of our little threesome.

"Now you," says Dad. Handing it over to Colleen.

Her whacks are crisp but determined, all of her balls traveling farther than mine. Which is fine, I discover.

Is perfect, even.

Dad finishes the bucket for us. And when Colleen and I are standing behind him, at a respectful distance, I finally ask, "What do you see right now?"

She turns her head and says, "You."

"You know what I mean."

She looks back at him and says, "Nothing. When he concentrates, like he's doing right now, the ghosts fade away."

"How many are there," I ask.

"Four. Five. Maybe six." She squints, telling me, "But only three of them are clear, consistent presences."

"I don't believe in ghosts," I remind her.

"Fine."

"But assuming there's something there, I mean. Why pick on him?"

"Your father has a rare gift, or a curse. Either way, it lets him see the dead." She shrugs and gives me a patient look. "It started when he was a boy, I guess. But it was just an occasional talent. Then there was a fuel leak and his plane caught fire, and he managed to parachute free. Only him. The rest of his crew died. His best friends in the world, and they died together, and after all these years, they're still pissed that their lives are finished, and your father still feels guilty that he's still among the living." I don't know what to say.

What to think.

"The pilot?" I mutter.

"Is their ringleader." She points. "A self-possessed little spirit, frankly." I stare at the empty air. At nothing. And for lack of better, I ask, "How can anyone live that way?

Followed everywhere by angry ghosts?" "I don't know how," she admits. Dad sets down the last ball and swings, and the whap is different. Is loud and crisp, and perfect. The ball flies across the blue May sky, instantly tiny, and it ends up in the trees all the way down by Crooked Creek. Colleen and I clap our hands.

Then she turns to me, and with a voice quiet and firm says, "The thing about ghosts, Johnny. They're extremely simple. Whatever they are. They come out of something angry or lost inside a person, and I've always felt sorry for the poor things."

She says, "I'm just warning you, Johnny."

"Why warn me?" I have to ask.

"Because, darling, if you're not careful," she tells me, "you're going to end up trapped like them." She points at the bright empty air.

And my father picks up the empty bucket and his driver, then starts to walk with a tired steady gait, shoving his way through all those angry ghosts, doing a hero's walk in order to get to us.