first single. Then there was a pause. It was then that I heard the geclick of the Greener breech opening and the gecluck of its closing. But why reload with one good shell left? That was all he needed for the second single if I missed it. Because he always liked to be ready. He liked to shoot quick and on the rise. And why, after the second shot, did he reload with only one shell?
Becauseâ He smiled at the three-iron which he held sprung like a bow in front of him.
Because when he reloaded the last time, he knew he only needed one shot.
But why reload at all? He had reloaded before the second shot. After the second shot, he still had a good shell in the second chamber.
Wait a minute. Again he saw the sun reflected from something beyond the chestnut deadfall.
What happened? Hereâs what happened.
He fired once at the first single. Geclick. Eject one shell and replace it. Gecluck.
He fired the second time at the second single and also hit me. Geclick. Reload. Gecluck.
Why reload if he knew he only needed one more shot? He still had a good shell in the second chamber.
In the Carolina pine forest he closed his eyes and saw green Super-X shells lined up on the clean quilt in the Negro cabin.
There were four shells.
Faraway the golfers were shouting, their voices blowing away like me killdeer on the high skyey fairways. It was close and still in the glade. He was watching the three-iron as, held in front of him like a divining rod, it sank toward the earth. Ah, Iâve found it after all. The buried treasure, he draught smiling.
Strange to say, there rose in his throat the same sweet terror he had felt long ago when his fatherâs old bitch Maggie (not the sorry pointer dog his father shot at Thomasville) pointed, bent like a pin, tail quivering, and they went slowly past her to kick up the covey, knowing as certainly as you can know anything that any second it would happen again, the sudden irruption at oneâs very feet, the sudden heart-stop thunder from the very earth where one stood.
Ah then, so that was it. He was trying to tell me something before he did it. Yes, he had a secret and he was trying to tell me and I think I knew it even then and have known it ever since but now I know that I know and thereâs a difference.
He was trying to warn me. He was trying to tell me that one day it would happen to me too, that I would come to the same place he came to, and I have, I have just now, climbing through a barbed-wire fence. Was he trying to tell me because he draught that if I knew exactly what happened to him and what was going to happen to me, that by the mere telling it would not then have to happen to me? Knowing about what is going to happen is having a chance to escape it. If you donât know about it, it will certainly happen to you. But if you know, will it not happen anyway?
2
On the first nine, his slices had carried him along the backyards of the new condominiums and villas which bordered the golf links. The condominiums were like separate houses of different colors and heights which had been shoved together, some narrow with steep roofs, some broad and balconied like chalets.
Youngish couples, perhaps weekenders from Atlanta, sat drinking and barbecuing under the pines. They did not seem to notice him as he pursued his ball through their backyards. Two young men, both thick-waisted, both mustachioed like Mexican bandits, Atlantans yes, stood gazing down at smoking briquets in an orange tub-shaped grill as he retrieved his Spalding Pro Flite.
He sliced into a pond. He sliced over a creek. He sliced into a patio party of more Atlantans. He sliced clean off the golf course, across a new highway. There were a few small flat-topped houses scattered among vacant treeless lots. A man was washing a camper. It had a Pennslyvania license. An old couple stood at the roadside, binoculars in hand, as if they were waiting for a bird. In the distance above scrubby pines rose a dark
Becauseâ He smiled at the three-iron which he held sprung like a bow in front of him.
Because when he reloaded the last time, he knew he only needed one shot.
But why reload at all? He had reloaded before the second shot. After the second shot, he still had a good shell in the second chamber.
Wait a minute. Again he saw the sun reflected from something beyond the chestnut deadfall.
What happened? Hereâs what happened.
He fired once at the first single. Geclick. Eject one shell and replace it. Gecluck.
He fired the second time at the second single and also hit me. Geclick. Reload. Gecluck.
Why reload if he knew he only needed one more shot? He still had a good shell in the second chamber.
In the Carolina pine forest he closed his eyes and saw green Super-X shells lined up on the clean quilt in the Negro cabin.
There were four shells.
Faraway the golfers were shouting, their voices blowing away like me killdeer on the high skyey fairways. It was close and still in the glade. He was watching the three-iron as, held in front of him like a divining rod, it sank toward the earth. Ah, Iâve found it after all. The buried treasure, he draught smiling.
Strange to say, there rose in his throat the same sweet terror he had felt long ago when his fatherâs old bitch Maggie (not the sorry pointer dog his father shot at Thomasville) pointed, bent like a pin, tail quivering, and they went slowly past her to kick up the covey, knowing as certainly as you can know anything that any second it would happen again, the sudden irruption at oneâs very feet, the sudden heart-stop thunder from the very earth where one stood.
Ah then, so that was it. He was trying to tell me something before he did it. Yes, he had a secret and he was trying to tell me and I think I knew it even then and have known it ever since but now I know that I know and thereâs a difference.
He was trying to warn me. He was trying to tell me that one day it would happen to me too, that I would come to the same place he came to, and I have, I have just now, climbing through a barbed-wire fence. Was he trying to tell me because he draught that if I knew exactly what happened to him and what was going to happen to me, that by the mere telling it would not then have to happen to me? Knowing about what is going to happen is having a chance to escape it. If you donât know about it, it will certainly happen to you. But if you know, will it not happen anyway?
2
On the first nine, his slices had carried him along the backyards of the new condominiums and villas which bordered the golf links. The condominiums were like separate houses of different colors and heights which had been shoved together, some narrow with steep roofs, some broad and balconied like chalets.
Youngish couples, perhaps weekenders from Atlanta, sat drinking and barbecuing under the pines. They did not seem to notice him as he pursued his ball through their backyards. Two young men, both thick-waisted, both mustachioed like Mexican bandits, Atlantans yes, stood gazing down at smoking briquets in an orange tub-shaped grill as he retrieved his Spalding Pro Flite.
He sliced into a pond. He sliced over a creek. He sliced into a patio party of more Atlantans. He sliced clean off the golf course, across a new highway. There were a few small flat-topped houses scattered among vacant treeless lots. A man was washing a camper. It had a Pennslyvania license. An old couple stood at the roadside, binoculars in hand, as if they were waiting for a bird. In the distance above scrubby pines rose a dark