Free Naked by David Sedaris

was right when he said we wouldn’t be able to stand it. A tight man with
     a dollar, our father had signed us up for our first lessons when we could barely hold a rattle. No, we could not have a nude
     maid, but he was more than happy to give us an expensive set of child-sized clubs, which sat in the dark corners of our bedrooms,
     the canvas bags clawed and tattered by our cat, who was the only one who seemed to enjoy them. He bought green carpet for
     the living room and called us in to observe his stance as he sank balls into a coffee can. The driving range, the putt-putt
     courses — he just didn’t get it. We didn’t want advice on our swing, we wanted only to be left alone to practice witchcraft,
     deface fashion dolls, or sit in the privacy of our rooms fantasizing about anything other than golf. He had hoped that caddying
     might provide us with a better understanding of the game. My sisters and I collapsed beneath the weight of his clubs, barely
     conscious when he called out for a nine iron or a sand wedge. Caddying was a thankless job, especially in North Carolina,
     where by mid-March the humidity is fierce enough to curl paper. Ninety-eight degrees on the second hole and we’d crumple to
     the green, listening as children our own age shouted and splashed in the nearby pool.
    The tournament dragged on, and by the time we reached the fourteenth hole, Lisa had begun to bleed, the rust-colored spot
     visible on her white culottes. She was close to tears, sunburned and frightened when she whispered something into my father’s
     ear.
    “We’ll just get one of the gals,” my father said. “They’ll take care of you.” He turned to a handsome white-haired woman wearing
     a lime green visor and a skirt patterned with grinning pandas. “Hey, sweetheart, I wonder if you could help me out with a
     personal problem.” Like my father, this woman had followed these players from hole to hole, taking note of their every move.
     She had come out that day to bask in the glow of the masters, and now a strange man was asking her to accompany his daughter
     to the clubhouse and out-fit her with a sanitary napkin.
    She didn’t seem to appreciate being called “sweetheart” and bristled when my father, his eyes never leaving the ball, suggested
     that if she shake a leg, she might make it back in time for the next tee off. She looked at my father as if he were something
     she had scraped off the bottom of her shoe. It was a withering gaze that softened once it shifted direction and settled on
     Lisa, who stood shamefully staring at the ground, her hands cupped to hide the stain. The woman nodded her head and, placing
     her hand on my sister’s shoulder, reluctantly led her toward a distant cluster of buildings. I didn’t understand the problem
     but very much wanted to join them, thinking perhaps we might talk this person into giving us a ride home, away from this grinding
     monotony and the cruel, remorseless sun. With Lisa gone, it would become my sole responsibility to fetch the splintered tees
     and pester the contestants for their autographs. “Lou,” I would say, holding out my father’s scorecard. “My name is Lou.”
    The game finally over, we returned to the parking lot to find Lisa stretched out in the backseat of the Porsche, her face
     and lap covered with golf towels.
    “Don’t say it,” she threatened. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.”
    “All I was going to do was ask you to take your lousy feet off the seat of the car,” my father said.
    “Yeah, well, why don’t you go fuck yourself.” The moment she said it, Lisa bolted upright, as if there might still be time
     to catch the word between her teeth before it reached our father’s ears. None of us had ever spoken to him that way, and now
     he would have no choice but to kill her. Some unprecedented threshold had been passed, and even the crickets stopped their
     racket, stunned into silence by the word that hung in the air