Chapter 9

Monday, May 21

Kacie whipped up a salad and I threw some marinated chicken breasts on our George Foreman grill to get a head start on dinner. I make no claim to knowing how to cook — I would never be mistaken for Maurice Levalle — but I could avoid starving to death. Coldcut sandwiches were more my style, or a bowl of cold cereal in the morning. Kacie was more adept. She could even make French toast and only need to wash one dish when she was done.

Mom came in about 6, checked what we’d done, put some mixed vegetables in the microwave and pulled out a loaf of garlic bread to toast.

“Thanks, kids,” she said, giving me a hug and Kacie a kiss on the cheek. “This is what it’s going to take when I start working every day.”

“I thought we were going to eat more meals at the club,” I said. “Maybe Chef Maurice can give me some tips on how not to burn water.”

Dad walked in a few minutes later, sniffing the kitchen aromas.

“Smells great, hon,” he said. “I don’t know how you do it all.”

Kacie and I just kept quiet and let Mom bask in the adulation. She still had her car keys in her purse, after all.

“The yard looks good, Gary,” Dad said. “That’d be about $200 for the HOA crew to do. Plus tips.”

Over dinner, Mom reiterated her plans for me for later in the week and gave us a few more details for the Memorial Day weekend events. The pool hours would be 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. every day with the occasional booking for private parties. An outdoor movie night was planned for Saturday at the pool (I remember watching “Jaws” one summer in junior high while floating in an inner tube). There would be several activities for younger kids both Saturday and Sunday. Kacie and I would both be expected to help wrangle the rugrats (getting them to the potty in time, making sure no one puked in the pool, etc.) for a few hours one afternoon, but were assured we could have the other free.

Monday would be the big day — golf scramble at 9 a.m., picnic service (a buffet line on the pool deck) starting at noon and going until 8 p.m. with a community band serenading the crowd with suitably patriotic music the whole time, fireworks as soon as it got dark enough, along with a host of other events. The unofficial (and highly illegal) gin rummy tournament in the men’s lounge could be pretty high-stakes with thousands changing hands on a single deal. I always wondered if the bridge and canasta games in the ladies lounge were just as cutthroat.

And it all had to be cleaned up and put away so the club could resume normal operations Tuesday morning.

“What about the cabanas?” Kacie asked.

That should have set off all kinds of red flags and alarm bells for me, but as my loving sister so often reminded me, I am a boy and I am clueless. Had I known what that simple question would portend for me, I would have objected vociferously. Or run for the hills.

The pool at the club was ringed by a number of little shacks that people could rent for a few hours, a day, week or even the whole season (Memorial Day weekend through Labor Day). There were two rows of five down each side and another four at the far end away from the poolhouse. The side rows were offset so the ones in back had a clear path to the pool. The end cabanas backed up to the 10th fairway and helped keep any number of errant tee shots from straying into the pool area.

The shacks technically were not cabanas in the strictest sense of the word, being that they weren’t at a beach club and didn’t have an open side. These cabanas were elevated on stilts about three feet off the ground (to allow air to circulate better, the story went) and were basically three walls with a little porch in front and an awning that could extend a few feet out from there. What would have been the open side at the front was instead a sliding-glass patio door the width of the structure with a curtain inside that could be pulled across to provide privacy.

Inside, the cabanas were appointed with the same kind of patio furniture found on the pool deck. Each had a little couch, coffee table and two patio chairs in the front area. At the rear was a kitchenette/wet bar that could be used to store various refreshments and a three-quarter bath with toilet and shower. Folks who signed up for the whole season were allowed to fit out the interior as they pleased, kind of like a luxury suite at an NFL stadium, with several adding window unit air conditioners. Some wealthier club families held on to the same cabana year after year.

The cabanas also came with a certain notoriety. They got tagged with the nickname “shagging shacks” several years back after a former tennis pro was caught fooling around with several married women club members, and more than one teen romance was said to have been consummated in them. There were also tales of late-night swinging parties in the little structures, which were designed to hold about six adults, “12 if you’re really friendly,” as Dad liked to say.

“There are several that haven’t been assigned for the summer,” Mom said, “but only a few are going to be open for the holiday weekends. Fourth of July is already sold out. Labor Day has the most openings because so many people will be going to football games.

“I can get you one for Saturday if you’ll be willing to help with the kids camps on Sunday.”

“Deal,” Kacie said. “Morgan and I want to have the other girls over, but I don’t know exactly how many. Keri’s supposed to have a club softball tournament, but there could be someone else who wants to come. We may have to have Gary sign for somebody as his guest.”

Club policy was that children of full members could have two guests if everybody was in the same age range. No having your 8-year-old brother sign for the college coed you were hoping to nail if you’d already signed for two of your frat brothers. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d signed for one of Kacie’s gang. Even just the core group would have one left over if they all showed up.

Dad had to get in his two cents’ worth.

“So, can I invite Ruby’s granddaughter?”

Ruby was dad’s 60-something office manager. Her granddaughter was a college cheerleader who could have easily been a centerfold in a men’s magazine. It was hard to believe she was only three years older than me. We could have taken an elective together my freshman year.

“Just as soon as I invite some college stud,” Mom deadpanned.

Kacie and I drove over to get Morgan about 7 p.m. and both went to the door, lest the Ensberrys think I was trying to sneak in an unauthorized date. It was almost like the girls had coordinated their outfits of fashion T-shirts and jeans. I noted that Morgan had ditched the contacts for her glasses.

The girls buckled themselves in to their usual seats and I proceeded to exit the subdivision, but turned left away from the nearest Dairy Queen just a few blocks down.

“Where are we going?” Kacie asked. “Mom’s going to expect to see a Dairy Queen cup or napkin.”

“And she will,” I said, “just not from that Dairy Queen. I want to get far enough away that we aren’t likely to run into someone we know.”

About 20 minutes later and two suburbs away, I pulled into the place I was thinking of. It was one of the newest DQs in the state and included a massive play area for kids, two levels of seating inside and several picnic tables outside. I once again ushered the girls inside and up to the counter.

“Get whatever you want,” I said.

We each ordered our preferred concoction, then I directed the girls to a booth in a back corner away from the main dining area.