The Life and Times of Benny Alvarez Read Online Free Page B

Strands of gray hair fall to his neck, and his arms and legs are spotted with different shades of brown moles, which my father says are the result of years of playing golf and being a mailman.
    â€œHi, Dad,” my father says.
    â€œHi, Grandpa,” Crash and I chime in. My grandfather’s about the only person Crash seems happy around.
    â€œThat woman,” my grandfather says, pointing behind him. His eyes, sky blue, seem agitated.
    â€œThat woman” is Gloria, my grandfather’s second wife. He’s been married to her for about thirty years, and all they do is fight.
    â€œTwo marriages,” he says, “and I couldn’t get it right. Boy, did you luck out with Marjorie.” He has a little trouble standing, so my father helps him.
    â€œIt’s Margaret, Dad.”
    â€œYeah, whatever.”
    After the second stroke, my grandfather dodged paralysis, but he has trouble with names and can’t make sense of words when he tries to read, which ticks him off. But he can still putt a ball around the practice green at Firefly, the par-three course where my father works.
    â€œI’m going to whip you guys today,” he says.
    â€œIf you can stand that long,” Crash says.
    Crash can get away with being a wise guy to my grandfather.
    â€œWhat a mouth on that kid,” my grandfather says, laughing. “A real Alvarez. What’s his name again?” And then the words get jumbled up. “Cramp? Crap?”
    â€œIt’s Crap, Grandpa,” I say, my father scowling at me. And that’s what he calls Crash for the rest of the day, with no one correcting him. Even Crash gives him a pass, knowing my grandfather’s hearing a different word than the one coming out of his mouth.
    â€œWell, let’s get rolling,” he says. “Let’s get the show on the road. Let’s kick some butt.”
    â€œLet’s get you some socks first,” my father says.
    Crash and I look at my grandfather’s feet, and sure enough, they’re sockless. But he’s not embarrassed, because he knows where to put the blame. “That woman,” he says again, pointing toward the house.
    My father ignores him, goes into the house, and returns with a pair of white ankle socks. Gloria’s standing behind him, smiling. It’s almost four thirty, but she’s still in her bathrobe. A black hairnet holds the bulk of her gray hair in place. “Have fun,” she says.
    â€œYeah, right,” my grandfather says.
    â€œYou’re the love of my life,” she croons playfully, which makes us all laugh. Despite what my grandfather says, Gloria’s okay, and she takes good care of him.
    Before long, we’re on the practice green at Firefly.
    â€œOne ball, one club,” my grandfather says, holding up his putter. He brought the long one. The top of the shaft touches his chest, so he doesn’t have to bend over, just sway it back and forth like a pendulum. We actually don’t have a chance against him, because he practices on his living-room rug about two hours a day, putting balls into the mouth of a Dixie cup, which is pretty difficult.
    Even if we could beat him, my father and I would lose on purpose, but not Crash. One day, my father got lucky and was a stroke ahead of my grandfather until he messed up the next two putts on purpose. When I mentioned it to him later, Crash said, “Grandpa wouldn’t want to win that way. He’s no weak Sally.” A weak Sally is what Grandpa calls us when our putts come up short.
    There are five holes on the practice green, and the idea is to play them twice, then add up our strokes. My grandfather decides how far away we should putt from by tossing a quarter behind his back. He gets really serious when he does this, like it’s a ritual handed down from Alvarez to Alvarez since the beginning of Alvarez time.
    Crash, with his little putter, almost beats him today, but his last putt goes