Whiskey & Charlie by Annabel Smith Page A

no longer mattered. Whether Charlie danced poorly or perfectly made no difference now. He simply moved in time to the music, and Anneliese followed. He looked at her throat and her shoulders. He could smell her perfume. He tried to memorize its scent. Then the dance was over. Charlie bowed to Anneliese as they had been taught, and as he walked away from the first girl he had fallen in love with, to find the partner who had been his last resort, he wished Whiskey had never been born.

Golf
    Charlie was sixteen when his father, who’d had a bad back for years, finally took the advice of his chiropractor and gave up running in exchange for golf. Bill asked the boys if they were interested in caddying for him.
    â€œGolf’s an old farts’ game,” Whiskey said. “I wouldn’t be seen dead on a golf course.”
    â€œI thought it would be a good way for you to earn some pocket money.”
    â€œPocket money!” Whiskey was disgusted. “How old do you think we are?”
    â€œWell, you’re always complaining that you’re broke.”
    â€œI’d rather stay broke,” Whiskey said.
    â€œI’ll do it,” Charlie said.
    x x x
    Initially it was only the money Charlie was interested in, but as time went on, he found himself getting more and more interested in the game. He saw his father play with golfers good and bad, careful and indifferent, and he studied the shots, listened and remembered when he heard people say, “I should have used my 5-iron on that one.”
    He had been caddying for his dad for a few months when, one Saturday, the fourth member of their group didn’t turn up.
    â€œWe’ll play with three,” one of the men said.
    â€œWe can’t play with three, Greg; you know that,” a man named John said. “We’ll have to drop out.”
    Charlie’s father had played with John before. Charlie remembered that he had been a stickler for the rules.
    â€œWhat about your son, Bill? Why doesn’t he join us?” Greg suggested.
    â€œCharlie? He doesn’t know one end of a golf club from the other.”
    â€œDad!” Charlie protested.
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous,” John said. “He’s not a member. He’s not signed in as a guest. He’s not even appropriately attired.”
    Greg ignored him. “What do you think, Charlie?”
    â€œI’ll give it a go,” Charlie said.
    He found it awkward at first, harder than it looked, but after a few holes, he began to get a feel for it.
    â€œYou’re doing pretty well, Charlie,” Greg said. “Is this really the first time you’ve ever played? You’re a natural.”
    â€œI taught him everything he knows,” Bill joked.
    By the end of the game, even John had come around. “You ought to sign up for a junior membership,” he said enthusiastically, shaking Charlie’s hand as they parted.
    x x x
    Though he lamented the loss of his own personal caddy, Charlie’s dad encouraged his interest, and before long, Charlie was on the driving range or the putting green whenever his dad wasn’t using his clubs. For nine months he caddied for competitions and corporate golf days to save the money for his own clubs, a half set to begin with, secondhand, but good ones and true. Even when he had a full set, Charlie carried on caddying, using the money to pay for lessons.
    Charlie got up early on Sunday mornings to work through math equations, label diagrams of human organs, and write essays on Shakespeare and Joseph Conrad so that Sunday afternoons he could go out and play eighteen holes. A couple afternoons a week, he went straight from school to the golf course, not even bothering to get changed, practicing his putting and driving with his school tie rolled up in his pocket. And on Saturdays, he played in the competition, putting in card after card until his handicap was down to thirteen.
    Whiskey was a surfer. He got up