The Volkswagen’s Rearview

Two grinning boys dart inside, their parents trailing behind, and the front doorbell jingles—except its familiar sound hardly resonates after last night’s commotion that I cannot dismiss.

“Welcome in—to Pensacola’s best!” Justin greets the young family while scrubbing an orange putter beside the laminate countertop. On the bench between us, my so-called breakfast lies unopened: a box of Mike and Ikes. My stomach groans like a pump gurgling swamp air, but my concern keeps returning to the next-door neighbors. Why the crashing noise at midnight? And then Cole chasing Sandy to the beach this morning?

Repeat customers have learned most of the Golden Oasis Mini Golf knacks over the past three years since reopening. Immediately, the kids had swiped the free quarter leftover atop each arcade machine in the far corner. A treat for the day’s first patrons. No one has smashed either high score yet, my only claim to fame, but the boys take a crack at Pac-Man and Galaga, anyway.

In exchange for two twenty-dollar bills, Justin places four putters on the counter. Lucky for me, he cherishes this modest course as much as I do. He randomly shares fresh stories about my late father—his most recent narrative about recovering from Ivan’s damage in ‘04. Once a week, I ask if he is still okay working for someone half his age. The weathered geezer never says “yes,” but compliments another aspect of the lot renovations instead and re-insists on calling me “Mister Yates.”

“C’mon, boys! Come pick which color ball you want.” The mother motions to her kids. Meanwhile, Justin flexes a neon rainbow of golf balls between each of his fingers—a party trick that has become a mandatory skill requirement for any new employee. As the youthful arcade players bounce over, the husband, in his white T-shirt, navy vest, and Blue Wahoos trucker hat, wraps a hand around his wife’s lower back. An outfit much like one of Cole’s. Minus a large dose of machismo.

Whatever happened during the witching around must have spooked Sandy and led to an early morning for her. In her grace, she had walked away with Cole clutching her shoulder. The couple’s presence had disrupted today’s sunrise viewing from my unit’s second-floor balcony. And three hours later, I have done nothing but dress for work, walk over here, and retrieve a theater box of candy. All the while picturing Sandy in frayed denim shorts and that beige crochet cardigan kimono top of hers.

The golden bell jingles again as the family departs into the mid-morning sun, and Justin resumes his daily custodial duties. Time for me to be useful, too.

“Hey, I’m gonna go check the skimmers.”

“Oh, okey dokey then,” my business partner says. “Wait—ya forgot yer Mike and Ikes.”

He waddles up from his stoop and offers me the kelly-green candy box.

“Nah. Restock those for me—when you get a chance,” I say, patting his upper arm.

“Sure thing, Mister Yates.” His grin holds the joy of every patron who has ever visited this beloved course.

In a few days, the calendar turns to November. The four young Florida maple trees we planted will peak in golden-yellow, reminding me why I sold my Mazda to afford them. Business management had never fit my skill set, but losing Dad three years ago brought plenty of new things. Unimagined chores hit my to-do list: leaving Chattanooga, renting a waterfront residence, purchasing multiple pairs of sunglasses. And now I am crossing a mix of plush turf and pea gravel to reach a maintenance hatch, thinking about filter pads and weir doors.

As I cross Hole Five’s orange footbridge, a minivan pulls through the entry apron. But I am stumped watching the background: a charcoal hatchback speeding towards the condo. Sandy’s Volkswagen? Indeed, the GTI whips right and continues under the entrance barrier arm. What in the world?

The unassuming private tutor offered cordial kindness, chatting with me whenever we intersected, but remained enigmatic, keeping me merely as a neighbor—borderline friend, I guess. She had moved in before the holidays, elated to afford her own place. By this spring, Cole had entered the picture. He and his black Ford F-150, too large to close the two-car garage space underneath our units, started staying the night more and more often. August had marked the first nighttime crashing incident. I had asked Sandy about it when I saw her the following week. She had claimed her new culinary endeavors resulted in a botched lasagna and shattered glassware when she accidentally dropped it. As of today, the willowy woman has either bought half a dozen replacement casserole dishes, or she is actually not cooking at all—bluffing, instead.

My palms freeze against the wrought-iron handrail, overlooking the sand dunes between Golden Oasis’s asphalt parking lot and the adjacent sky-blue condominium. I return to this morning’s scene from my balcony. After Cole’s ferocity at the beach, how much misery can Sandy tolerate when they are behind closed doors? Her fortitude remains admirable, but across-the-line stubborn. I know what I saw. And it is time someone treats her better. Before I take off toward home, I withdraw my phone and text Justin.

10:07 AM Justin Hamilton

Need a break. Will text when I’m back.

My first hope: Sandy is okay. My second: Cole is away. As I jog across the lot, my feet drub the ground like bricks. Grainy ocean air splits my face, reminding me how much I have still yet to readapt to the environment here. Dad’s escalating alcoholism had driven Mom and me to Tennessee, and eventually put him in the grave. Had we not fled, my mother might have fallen victim first. Lately, too many Wild Turkey bottles appear in the dumpster every week for me to ignore Mister Invincible’s pattern. He will reach—if not already—a dark place, and Sandy’s destiny belongs elsewhere.

The grass swaths brush my jeans as I trudge to the wooden latch gate and slip to the residence side. Neighbor’s carport: open. No truck. Just her hatchback. Now sheltered from the beachfront winds, my breath stabilizes. A proper breakfast would have done wonders for me, in hindsight. From above, someone in a mint-green top reaches the condo’s second-floor landing.

“Sandy?”

The figure stops and peers over the railing at my position.

“Oh, Everett? Hi.”

“Hey, wait up.”

Each dim step blurs under me, ascending the covered stairway. I have yet to complete this fragile conversation in my head. Can I even admit to her as a witness? Will she confess about Cole? Am I capable enough? Does this define a domestic hero? Their latest confrontation replays in my mind, and I brace myself for the excuses as my sneakers scuff the finished concrete walkway.

“What’re you doing here? Isn’t mini golf open today” Sandy asks, holding her key ring in one hand, her other tucked in her cutoffs’ back pocket.

“Yeah, yeah. Just opened up. But not too busy yet.” My words escape through shallow breaths. Optimistic my neighbor can understand me, barely hearing myself, I press past her deflection.

“Listen, is everything okay—with you?”

Her toes fidget between her shabby light-tan sandals.

“Me? Better now after getting coffee. Have you tried vanilla hazelnut before?”

With a subtle smile, she crinkles her nose. More deflection.

“Oh sure—it’s fantastic,” I say. “But hey, why the rush to get back? I was outside at the course, and saw your car, urr, zooming by.”

“Oops. I swear I don’t drive that fast, you know, normally. But, uhh, I wanted to get ahead of my schedule—blocking for next week, and stuff.”

Scheduling? Sandy’s face does not match her story. Today’s pain paints her hazel-green eyes.

“Sandy, I gotta ask…” My scruffy chin burns as I rub some courage out of my skin. “You and Cole were at the beach this morning, right? I mean, I was up for the sunrise, and—I wasn’t spying or anything. But I saw…what happened.”

Her head drops measuredly before tilting toward the sound’s shoreline. A chilly breeze whips past us along the walkway. I wait, curious to hear if she will weave her amateur cooking skills or some other justification into this reality. She huffs, raising and dropping her shoulders, but remains downcast.

“He’s still…my future…isn’t he?”

Her soft pronouncement creeps to me like a dispirited putt from a few feet away.

“Well, no—Sandy.” Paralyzed by her absurd irrationality, I rapidly blink, returning me to the moment. “Hey—woah.”

I lunge forward and grab her left arm as she slumps to her knees, her other arm wrapping around one of the rusty walkway spindles. With her face screened by her layered hair, a whimper emerges.

“It’s okay. I’m here.” My consolation evolves pathetically as I rub her loose shirt sleeve, the soft fabric sticking to my rough fingers.

She drops her keys and retreats her tanned hands to cover her eyes.

“Aww, Sandy. No, no, no.”

While my defeated neighbor sniffles, I reposition to one knee. Nobody is around. My second hope had proven true, at least, with Cole absent from the scene.

“I’m really sorry…We’ll get help, you know?” Cops? Counseling? The idea sounds far-fetched, even to me, but I would champion any option that might restore Sandy’s peace of mind. To save her from the demise that once threatened my parents. I catch her drooping hands in my palms, begging she will soon forgive me for breaching our neighborly relationship.

Sandy emits a muted gasp.

“It’ll be okay, Sandy. Please…understand.”

Her gaze rises, eyes squinted behind a sheeny shield of hair. The sincerity weakens me. My jaw quivers. For months, the trap had been swelling around her—inside her own unit—with Cole.

“What should…I do?” She finally speaks, her typical lilting voice currently choked.

An angel, asking me for advice? As I struggle to believe the gravity, Sandy squeezes my fingertips in hers, the clamminess nipping me like a baby jellyfish. The year’s worth of admiration I had offered her from afar collapses into the lull between us. For the first time, Sandy’s delicate diamond ring draws my attention. Son of a bitch. An explicit promise?

“I…” A gulp narrowly relieves my constricted throat.

Beyond the walkway, Golden Oasis stands as proud as ever across the street. The Florida maple trees sway, anchoring the course’s outskirts. Two more vehicles enter the parking lot, and my view brightens. Must be Justin’s signature grin from inside the shop. Without a doubt, he would be delighted to check the pond skimmers I had neglected.

“This will be over soon, Sandy…You're worth more than anything…Can I ask you to trust me…please?”

With one arm still hugging the metal spindle, she flips her ruffled hair behind her and wipes below her eyes. Her blushed cheeks lift with a forced smile. Hopeful to amend her misguided commitment, I match her innocence as best I can. In between sniffles, Sandy nods—excuseless, raw, graceful.

*** Two months later ***

The faded green Alabama State Line sign disappears before the oncoming bridge above a deserted rail yard. Still over five hours to go, but a single state away now. With the Florida sunrise glinting goodbye in the Volkswagen's rearview, I lower my right hand and spin the temperature dial plus one. Half-asleep, Sandy remains bundled up in the passenger seat, her long, wavy hair blanketing her head. I have yet to ask if her parents named her unrelated to her natural colors: spot-on sandy blonde.

We pass a steepled chapel beside the downtown Flomaton intersection. I think back to my second semester of college, when I had overslept for Sunday church once. I had feared demons and a dire curse the entire week until I attended the next service. Except nothing happened. Nobody even noticed. That was fourteen years ago. I honor Sandy’s take on religion: “I can help others just fine with or without celestial approval.”

For Sandy, leaving Pensacola meant bidding farewell to her most cherished clients. A shoebox full of parting letters from her grade school students, thanking their brilliant tutor, sits somewhere in the crammed backseat. But with some of my recent cash influx, Sandy Shaw’s Remote Learning website will be live in just two days for New Year’s. The Scenic City kids should quickly saturate her in-person schedule, too.

“Mmm.” A coo emerges above the engine’s hum. “Why am I so sleepy?”

“Don’t worry,” I say, as Sandy stretches her arms forward, and I lay my palm up over the center console. After a moment, she places her hand in mine. The warmth of her peachy fingers, all ringless, embraces me. “We can stop for coffee, maybe?”

“I’d like that.” And my passenger leans gently to my near shoulder like the end book on a shelf. “Why’d you turn off the music, by the way?”

“Oh, I’m no DJ. Just wanted to think for a bit.”

We turn right, and a seemingly endless straight stretch of highway looms ahead. US-31.

“And what came to mind?” she asks.

“Little bit of everything. My favorite mini golf hole with the mechanical turtle. The Blue Angels’ routine. How much I hate the concept of church.”

“Mmm,” Sandy murmurs, withdrawing from my body. “And you’re certain the course will do okay without you?”

She kept asking daily about Golden Oasis. In her defense, my life had revolved around that half-acre lot and its one-mile radius for the past three years. Few conversations dissolved without putt-putt surfacing.

“It will. Justin promised to text me a picture of the maple trees every November first. Might be the only time of the year I hear from him. Either that or if he beats my Galaga high score…and I won’t mind.”

We exchange soft chuckles and equally whimsical grins. Sandy extends her right hand to the center stack and spins the audio dial a few notches.

“Thanks for doing all of this, Everett.”

Hands together between the GTI’s front seats, we drive on, away from Cole and whatever demons lingered in the City of Five Flags. Chattanooga-bound.