Flatbellies by Alan B. Hollingsworth

Author:Alan B. Hollingsworth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 2013-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Thirty-two

“Overall, a damn shitty round,” Peachy said as he tapped in his putt for a 7 on the final hole. “But no one’s taking away my fuggin’ ace. No one.”

“Congratulations, Peachy. It was ugly for sure, but it counts.”

“Damn straight,” he said as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. “The Peach got himself a hole-in-fuggin’-one.”

Chipper offered him a handshake. Peachy hesitated, as if to remember a wager, then smiled and shook hands.

“Those other shitheads can kiss my ass,” he said.

“Well, it’s awful cold and darn near dark,” reminded Chipper.

“They can still kiss my ass...even Jay. Excuse me, Jacob. He’s not the same any more. Have you noticed? And he’s one whipped sonuva bitch.”

In fact, Chipper had noticed. An unsettling distance had accompanied Jay’s passage to Jacob, and this new chap was with Kelly every free minute that he wasn’t on the course.

“Well, screw ’em all. I got my ace and I’m going home.” With that, Peachy joined the darkness.

When Chipper reached his car, he saw a note under the wiper blade. Good, he thought, assuming a message from Amy. After all, it was her birthday, and he was overdue in delivering her present—a promise ring. Slipping the white card from beneath the wiper, he read:

I’m waiting by the jukebox

Ready to play our song

Our song? “I Loved You a Thousand Times” was Amy’s favorite, “Daydream” was his favorite, but they didn’t have a joint favorite.

He tried to talk himself out of the jitters as he walked up the outside steps to the club dining room. Then, as the door creaked open, he confirmed his fears.

Seated in an overstuffed chair beside the jukebox, both feet on the floor and hands folded in her lap as if attending a junior high etiquette class, was Gail Perdue.

She stood and smiled.

Chipper felt rippling flesh crawl from the back of his neck into his arms and legs. With her snow-white hair pulled into a ponytail, her boyish figure, and low-cut tennis shoes, she looked like she was in the fourth grade again, back when they exchanged vows. She was wearing a white jumper with mod polka dots—black dots it seemed, here in the dreary dance hall.

“Hello, Kyle,” she said.

His vocal cords jammed as he walked toward her.

Finally, “What are you...what’s going on, Gail?”

She didn’t take a single step, frozen, while he drew close to her. Could she be a day over 13, so young and oh-so innocent? Her lips, with a frosty coating of lipstick, parted into a smile. Pinpoint dimples appeared as her beautiful white teeth glowed in the dark.

“Our time is almost here, Kyle, so we need to talk.”

“Our time?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do?”

He stopped a few feet away from her and tried to assume a casual pose. Right hand in pocket. No, both. No, just the left hand. Cock your knee. No, the other knee. Scratch the back of your head. Keep cool, you idiot.

“Yes, you do. All the time I was in California you wrote to me of our destiny together.

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