by Terry Fallis
“As a writer?”
“Check that,” I replied. “And one day I’ll be famous.”
“As a writer?”
“Check that. And one day I’ll be impoverished and obscure, but I’ll be happy.”
“As a wri…”
“Yes, as a writer.”
“Me too,” she said, giving my arm a squeeze.
We were headed to a reading by John Irving, one of our favourite writers. We caught the bus to the Davisville subway station and headed down to the platform. We boarded the southbound subway and found two seats together. In the tunnel between Summerhill and Rosedale stations, I reached for her hand.
“Hey!” she snapped, jerking her hand away as if I’d just electrocuted her. I flinched as if she’d just electrocuted me, and banged my elbow on the wall of the subway car. It, or I, made quite a loud noise. I’m not sure which. Only nine other startled passengers looked our way.
“Sorry, I thought…”
“Gotcha,” she said with a look that approached triumph.
She then took my hand and held it tight.
“I’m just trying to keep you on your toes,” she explained.
“Or in the hospital,” I said, patting my heart.
She laughed and rested her head on my shoulder.
“Making me laugh is no small thing, mister,” she said.
I looked down at our interlaced fingers. Both our thumbs and five of our eight fingers were ink-stained.
“Did you like Ms. Davenport?” I asked.
She lifted her head to look at me.
“I really liked her, a lot,” she replied. “The mobile library story was inspiring and I loved how she spoke about writing.”
“I had to meet with her after school for a little phys ed experiment.” I gave her a very condensed account of my after-school session with Ms. Davenport, because after having given my parents the play-by-play, I was already kind of tired of the story. I downplayed my Gunnarsson score, largely because I simply did not believe I would ever be any good at golf. I was okay at sports and was never the last guy selected when teams were being picked. But in general, I’d rather watch sports than play sports. And in general, I’d rather read, cook, write, or fold laundry than watch sports. I figured as soon as I tried to swing a club, Professor Gunnarsson’s vaunted theory would crumble under the weight of my golfing ineptitude.
“Anyway, Ms. Davenport showed me her two Edisons, the Pearl and Pearlette, both in Aztec Flake. She let me write with the Pearlette, and man, was it smooth,” I said.
“I’ve never met a teacher who uses fountain pens,” Alli said. “And I love that Aztec Flake finish.”
The Irving reading was wonderful and exceeded all our expectations. It was quite late by the time I escorted Alli up her front walk towards the door. She stopped us short and pulled me into the shadow cast by the wall of the garage. After careful thought, I decided not to resist. We kissed for what seemed like a very long time, just not nearly long enough. Then, holding me tight, she whispered in my ear.
“That was fantastic.”
“Just to clarify, are you referring to the reading or the making out?” I inquired.
“The reading,” she said. “I was getting to the making out part. It was amazing.”
“As much as I love John Irving, I’d trade his reading for more making out, every time.”
She moved in for one more long kiss.
We finally came up for air a few minutes later, and Alli looked at her phone. “Okay, I’ve got to get inside before my parents start to wonder what all that moaning is outside. And you have to get home to read my new chapter because I want to see yours ASAP.”
“Or as Ms. Davenport says, hot-foot-tattyo,” I replied.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
I walked her to the door, where I deposited a chaste cheek kiss and then headed home.
It was ten-thirty when I made it upstairs to my room. I did some easy history homework, and then pulled out the thick spiral notebook and opened it up to Alli’s latest chapter. She had quite lovely handwriting that was only enhanced by the use of a good everyday-carry pen like her TWSBI Eco and the nice shading of the Kon-Peki ink. My handwriting was not quite as legible. Alli occasionally asked me to confirm that I was in fact writing in English. But for someone who only wrote on his laptop, I thought my penmanship was getting better with practice. Writing in longhand made me a more thoughtful and measured writer. Plus, my mentor—you know, John Irving—wrote by hand, too. So Alli and I decided we’d kick it old school for our joint manuscript and handwrite it in fountain pen.
Our antiphonal novel was about a relationship between a young man and woman. It was set in the early 1960s in the Northern Ontario town of Temagami, about an hour’s drive north of North Bay. The young man works on the family farm, one of the few farms in the area, while she is the daughter of the town doctor. The couple falls in love while in school. The story captured small-town life in a different time. That was the fun part, writing characters who lived in a different place and time—no YouTube, no cellphones, no Xbox or PS4, no Netflix. They dreamed of getting out of the small town and heading to Toronto—“the Big Smoke,” as it was known—to attend the University of Toronto. The boy’s marks were not likely high enough to get into U of T, but he was something of a hockey phenom, patrolling the blue line for the minor-league Temagami Tamaracks.
Neither Alli nor I had any real insight into where the story was going. We were literally taking it page by page, building on what the other had written. I figured there was little sense in thinking too far ahead when someone else was writing the next chapter.
I was more than a little excited when I read Alli’s latest chapter, which featured the couple enjoying a classic—if chaste—romp in the hay in the young man’s barn. How risqué. I can report with some regret that the scene wasn’t explicit. There was no partial disrobing or venturing near “first base.” There was certainly not even the most oblique hint at sex. But the scene was at least on the spectrum.
The rest of the chapter had them stressing about whether they’d be together in Toronto in the fall. It was well written and reflected her spare and clean prose. Our different handwriting styles aside, anyone reading this novel would easily realize that there were two authors. I’m not so adept at the spare and clean prose thing. Nor did I really want to be. I love the English language too much to want to pare it down too much.
I closed our notebook as my wheels spun, unable to find traction on what would happen next in the story. I wanted them to be together in Toronto, but I also knew they needed to confront some hardship along the way. A car accident? A competing suitor? One gets into U of T but not the other? I was just lying in my bed wrestling with these ideas when I heard my mother’s footsteps outside my door. She knocked. Both Mom and Dad were very good about respecting their seventeen-year-old son’s privacy. They always knocked and waited for the all-clear before entering. That was a good thing.
“Come in, Mom.”
“How was the reading?”
“Better than I dreamed,” I replied. “It was a great night.”
“I’m glad. And you and Allison are, you know, doing well?”
“Smooth sailing so far, Mom. I really like her. When she laughs at something I’ve said, I’m not going to lie, it feels almost magical.”
“That’s great, Adam. I’m really happy for you. I like her a lot, too. I think you’re great together,” she said. “By the way, while you were out, we had a call from your Ms. Davenport.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. We talked for about ten minutes,” Mom explained. “She seems very cool and no-nonsense. I quite liked her and the way she spoke.”
“She’s new to the school. But I like her, too,” I replied. “She’s also a fountain pen aficionado. What’s not to like?”
“We didn’t talk about fountain pens.”
“No, I guess you probably wouldn’t. What did you talk about?�
�
“She was just calling to ask permission to take you to a driving range after school on Thursday for a little experiment.”
“Did she brief you on the whole Gunnarsson theory?”
“She filled in some of the gaps in that condensed version you gave us earlier. Fascinating. It makes me wonder in what sport I could have dominated. Skeet shooting? Sailing? Table tennis? Maybe I should try golf.”
“It’s just a wild and unproven theory, Mom,” I said. “So what did you tell her?”
“I just said you’re old enough to make your own decisions and that we’ll support whatever you decide.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll think about it and let her know.”
“Aren’t you just the least bit curious?”
“I guess, but it all seems so far-fetched. I don’t even know how to hold a golf club. I think there’s some special grip that’s important. I don’t think Professor Gunnarsson’s theory is fully baked.”
“You know, Adam, every theory that now holds true and that we now see as self-evident passed through that stage when it was seen as half-baked. That’s the nature of progress and discovery.”
“Thanks for the teachable moment, Mom,” I said. “And I’m with you on that, but we’re not talking about Einstein’s theory of relativity here. This is about knocking a little white ball into a hole. It’s not going to save the world. Even if the theory is right, it just means we might end up with a few more overpaid professional athletes. I’m not sure that’s what society really needs.”
“Sometimes—most of the time—you don’t sound much like a seventeen-year-old,” she said. “You might be right. But this family could certainly use a new car, preferably a Tesla Model S, just in case the next overpaid athlete turns out to be you.”
I laughed and then she laughed. My mom liked cars, and if they did their part to solve global warming, all the better.
“Good night, son.”
“Good night, Mom.”
She closed the door behind her. I lay there in the dark trying to corral the stray thoughts in my head and conjure up others that should have been there. I had no bright ideas about where to take our antiphonal novel next—and I was feeling the pressure to deliver my chapter. I didn’t even know how to hold a golf club, let alone successfully swing it with enough competence to play the game. Oh, and I knew none of golf’s rules and etiquette. At that precise moment—and I actually remember this quite vividly—I was focused on three other things that weren’t golf-related in the least. I wanted a vintage 1950 Conway Stewart model 60 fountain pen in the grey-hatched colour with a fourteen-karat-gold medium nib. I wanted to write like John Irving. And I wanted Alli Clarkson. Not necessarily in that order.
Chapter 3
SEPTEMBER 2013
“SHOULDN‘T IT BE called the Women’s Golf Club of Toronto, not the Ladies’ Golf Club of Toronto?” I asked as we turned into the course off Yonge Street, just north of the city. “My mom is not a fan of the term ladies.”
“I’m with your mom on that one, Mr. Coryell. But tradition is a powerful thing,” Ms. Davenport replied. “The club was founded in 1924 with that name. It was a different time.”
She drove along the winding driveway, past first the beautiful old clubhouse and then what Ms. D. called the pro shop, before parking. I’d never been on a golf course. It was lovely, lush and green. I could see some older women playing on the course. Some were walking and pushing their clubs on wheeled carts. Others were riding in motorized golf carts. Now, that looked like fun—I mean driving the golf cart, not madly swinging at the ball.
Ms. Davenport led me back to the smaller building that housed the pro shop and we stepped inside. Several women and a few older men warmly greeted Ms. Davenport as Bobbie, and as if she were a big deal around the club. It turned out there was a simple explanation for this. Apparently Ms. Davenport was a big deal around the club. As we walked down the corridor, I looked at the photographs lining the walls. I stopped. Ms. Davenport did not.
“Hey, you were club champion in 1989,” I said, pointing to the framed photo on the wall.
“Yes, I was,” she replied.
I started walking again but kept my eyes on the photos.
“And again in ‘91. And ‘94, ‘95, ‘96, ‘98, and ‘99. And again in 2002, 2003, and 2004!”
When I looked down the hall again, she had already disappeared through the door to the pro shop. I looked back at the many different photos of “Bobbie Davenport, Club Champion.” She looked pretty much the same, perhaps a tad slimmer but not much. A woman walked towards me. She saw me staring at the action shot of Ms. Davenport commemorating the 2004 club championship and stopped next to me.
“Lovely woman, and such an amazing golfer,” she said, looking at the photo. “We thought she was going to dominate the LPGA. Too bad.”
I just stood there, too surprised to say anything. The woman then carried on down the hall and out the door towards the parking lot. Dominate the LPGA?
I found Ms. Davenport in the pro shop. We were the only customers.
“So what happened after 2004?”
She sighed and looked out the window to the first tee. “My back happened,” she finally said. “My particular swing over time seemed to have some rather painful consequences for my lower back. It had been a problem for years, but I just played through it. But eventually, I was left with two choices. Reinvent my swing, or play a lot less golf.”
Just then, a man emerged from a doorway behind the counter.
“Hello, Duke,” Ms. Davenport said.
“Bobbie, so great to see you!” he said, beaming. “Do you want to squeeze in nine? I can get you out right away.”
“Not today, Duke, but thanks. We’re on a different mission. This is Mr. Coryell, one of my students. Mr. Coryell, meet Duke Worthy, who always lives up to his name. He runs the show around here.”
We smiled and nodded at one another.
“We’re going to hit a bucket on the range,” Ms. Davenport continued. “And if you don’t mind, Duke, I’d like to borrow a men’s right-handed nine-iron and a five from the best rental set you have sequestered back there.”
Duke disappeared into the back room and came back a moment later with two clubs in his hand. He passed them over the counter to her. “Callaway Diablo forged irons. Big sweet spot. Very forgiving.”
“Just the ticket. Thank you, Duke.”
“No worries, Bobbie. I’d love to see you back out on the course a little more often. We miss you around here.”
“Well, I might just take you up on that. I’m feeling okay these days and I do love playing this time of year. The light is wonderful.”
“That it is. Just let me know when you want to come out and I’ll make it happen.”
“Thanks, Duke,” she said before turning to me. “Well, we’d better get out there, Mr. Coryell.”
Duke pointed out the window towards a row of golf carts.
“Take any one in the front row. Keys are in them. And the ball bin is full at the range.”
The carts were lined up on an angle to the asphalt path, not unlike the start of the 24 Hours of Le Mans. I liked auto racing. She pointed to the first one and I got in on the passenger side.
“Wrong seat,” she said. “You drive.”
“Really? Awesome, thanks,” I replied and slid over behind the wheel.
“But keep it on the path. I don’t want you to flip the cart and break your leg before we get a chance to test Professor Gunnarsson’s theory.”
“Of course. I’ll leave the rollover until we’re done and on the way back.”
I was very happy about the long drive to the range at the other end of the course. I had just recently earned my licence but didn’t get much opportunity to drive. The cart was electric, very quiet, and it cornered like it was on rails. And man, did it have great acceleration. I loved it. If golf included driving these carts, I was in.
“Mr. Coryell, it is not necessary to fully depress the accel
erator pedal or to take each corner on two wheels. This is not the Monaco Grand Prix.”
“Sorry, just getting used to it,” I said, easing back on our speed and sticking for the most part to the path. “So what did you choose?”
“You have to give me a bit more context if you want me to answer that rather broad and open question,” she replied.
“I mean, did you reinvent your swing or play a lot less golf?”
“Oh, right. Well, I tried both. I worked hard at altering my swing so that it placed less strain on my vertebral column. And it worked. I could finally play golf without back pain. But unfortunately, I just wasn’t nearly as good with my new swing. My handicap increased, my scores increased, my tournament losses increased. The only thing that decreased was my interest in the game. Seems winning was my weakness.”
“So, and…?”
“So I reverted to my original swing. My game, my scores, and my back pain all returned to their previous levels. So it meant I just played a lot less golf.”
“So it was more satisfying for you to shoot a good score and win, but play less.”
“Precisely, Mr. Coryell. Precisely. I’m not always proud of my desire to win, but we all have our crosses to bear.”
“Just how good were you?” I asked. “I mean, was it ever going to be more than just a fun thing to do on weekends?”
She was silent for long enough that I briefly took my eyes off the path to glance her way. She was looking off into the distance, at least until our front wheel slipped from the path onto the gravel shoulder and violently shunted us both sideways along the bench seat. That seemed to bring her back.
“Sorry,” I said as I quickly regained control and returned the cart to the path where it belonged. “And we’re back!”
“Mr. Coryell, I certainly hope you’re able to keep your eye on the ball more assiduously than you keep your eye on the road.”
Ten minutes later we finally arrived at the practice range. We got some balls and made our way over to the practice tee. We were the only ones there.
“All right, Mr. Coryell, if you’re game, let’s get started.”