The Second Coming

to wake you so I’m leaving this note for you, knowing you’re coming here.
    I’ve forgiven you everything. I did not mind your doing your usual number and splitting for parts unknown before the wedding, but I admit it did hurt a little to learn you had spent the past week shacked up in the woods with a little forest sprite not two miles away. But we always can have the forgiveness of sins through the riches of his grace (Eph. 1:7). Anyhow, I acted like a pill myself.
    But everything is different now! My joy is fulfilled (John 3:29).
    Dr. Battle told me of your whereabouts during the past week. He felt consideration for your health outweighed doctor-patient confidence.
    Jack Curl and Jason and I have some wonderful ideas for the love-and-faith community you and Jack are planning. What you and your little sprite do is your business, but before you make any radical decisions, lets sit down with Lewis and Jack and finalize the Marion Peabody Foundation, which was Mother’s dream.
    We’ll be at Jack Curl’s house waiting for you. I laid out some clothes for you. Closed house. Will tell you more. Can’t wait to see ya.
    Devotedly,                    
    Yours in the Lord,        
    Leslie
    Dearest? Ya? Devotedly? What’s cooking here, Leslie? The slanginess was not like her. The friendliness was ominous. The “devotedly” was somewhere north of love and south of sincerely. He liked her old sour self better.
    What was she up to? He felt a faint prickle of interest under the unfamiliar cashmere of the cardigan. Dr. Marcus Welby chuckled and tapped out his empty pipe. Was she afraid he was going to marry Allie and blow the Peabody millions? Then what would happen to hers and Jack Curl’s love-and-faith community? Kelso would say they’re out to screw you. But Kelso was crazy. He shrugged. Did it matter?
    He telephoned Bertie.
    â€œWillie, I’m delighted heh heh,” said Bertie, coming as close as he could to a laugh, a hollow Hampton chortle, a whuffing sound. “Happy birthday.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” he asked quickly. “Oh, yes. I forgot. Thank you.”
    â€œThis is not just your ordinary birthday,” said Bertie. Bertie’s horserace, he knew, would be slanted and keen about the nostrils.
    â€œIt isn’t?”
    â€œDon’t you know what this means, Willie?” Bertie’s voice lowered. He sounded as if he were covering the receiver with both hands like a spy in a phone booth.
    â€œNo, what?”
    â€œAs of yesterday, you are eligible for the Seniors, a young fellow like you! They changed the rules last year.”
    â€œThe Seniors,” he said, musing.
    â€œYes. Your birthday was yesterday, which makes you eligible. First the tournament here this weekend. After that, the tour. We can do Hilton Head and Sea Island before Thanksgiving. Willie, we got them by the short and curlies heh heh hough.”
    â€œWe have?”
    â€œFigure the arithmetic. You’re at least six strokes better than your new handicap of twelve which was posted last week and which was due to your slice which you can correct easily if you put your mind to it—you couldn’t have planned it better, in fact. I’m ten strokes better than my twenty-five—I sneaked out yesterday and carded a ninety-four. We’ll sandbag ever’ sucker between here and Augusta,” said Bertie, trying to talk Southern, but it still came out hollow-throat Hampton. “We’ll clean up on them.”
    He couldn’t think of anything to say.
    â€œWillie—”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCould we at least sign up for the Seniors here?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI’ve been thinking about your slice.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI think I can straighten you out. Okay?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œThat’s my boy. No, seriously. In my opinion, and Lewis agrees, you haven’t begun to realize your potential. If you put your mind to it, you could knock off Snead and Hogan.”
    An eighty-year-old Gene Sarazen. Why not?
    Why not play golf with hale and ruddy Seniors for the next thirty years? He’d be the youngest on the tour, the Golden Bear among the old grizzlies.
    When he drove the Mercedes back to town in the dark, a light flew behind the bushes at the corner of his eye as if a runner with a lantern were keeping pace.