by Jack Waddell
"What are those things," Bridie asked. "They look ancient."
Annie smiled. "I guess they are in a way. But look how they've been kept. They're still shiny. You can smell the oil he must have used to keep them from rusting. And look at the bag! The canvas is in bad shape but look how the leather trim has been kept. It smells like saddle soap or something. Amazing." She pulled one of the irons from the bag. "And he must have done the same thing with the grips. They look brand new!"
"Were these your clubs?"
"Yes. Yes they were," she said putting the club back in the bag and leaning it up against the side table.
"How did he end up with them?"
"Oh, I don't remember. I have no idea, really. It was so long ago. I just know I didn't want to take them back with me to Chicago." Annie was feeling more in control. "Let's look in the bag." She picked up the tan leather satchel and put it on the coffee table and sat back down on the couch. Bridie sat down next to her.
"Looks expensive," Bridie commented.
"It is. Hartmann, I think," Annie said. She unsnapped the two brass latches and pulled the top apart. The contents were wrapped in white tissue paper with crumpled newspaper packed between them. She removed some of the newspaper and took out the first package. It was very light and felt fragile. She set it on the coffee table and carefully unwrapped it.
"What on earth is that?" Bridie asked.
Annie could only stare for a moment at what she saw. "It's a wreath," she said. The eucalyptus had long ago dried out and lost many of its leaves. But it was still recognizable as the crown of her champion golfer.
"A wreath? Isn't it a little small to be a wreath?"
"Well, it was more like a crown."
"Oh, you mean like one of those laurel head things the Greeks and Romans used?"
"Yes." Annie said quietly, lost for a moment in a memory.
Bridie understood her mother wouldn't explain the meaning. "What else is in there?" she asked.
Annie looked back in the bag and took out more of the newspaper. As she did a small square packet of tissue paper fell to the floor. She picked it up and unwrapped it. It was a carefully ironed and folded white handkerchief yellowed slightly with age.
"That had to be yours with that yellow tulip on it," Bridie commented.
"Yes," her mother agreed as she placed it beside the wreath. Then she reached into the bag and took out the rest of the newspaper. There were three packages left. The largest lay on the bottom between the other two.
"Open the big one," Bridie prompted.
Annie lifted it from the bag. It was heavy. Underneath it was an envelope with her name written on it. She put the package on her lap and pulled off the tissue paper. It was a silver trophy, a loving cup. Engraved on it were the words "Biarritz Country Club, 1930 Calcutta Tournament, Champion." Annie held it by its two handles and stared at it. This was a memory she didn't need to revisit. Once again she saw the pretty young woman in the black and white uniform leap into Conor's arms. She closed her eyes against the specter.
"That must have been something he won," Bridie said. "You know, he was a very good golfer. We played with him a few times and you could tell he had been really good. I think he said he was club champion at Biarritz more than once. But why would he give this one trophy to you?"
"I have no idea, dear," Annie said with some honesty. She stood it on the table next to the wreath and then reached in the bag and pulled out another package, this one nearly square. When she unwrapped it she saw it was a small framed oil painting of a little bungalow surrounded by trees with a dirt lane in front of it. She could make out just a dot of yellow low in one of the windows. It was a candle. She couldn't help herself. Tears began to well in her eyes.
Bridie noticed the tears. "Are you all right?" she asked once again. "What's going on?"
Annie sniffled slightly and shook her head to gain some composure. "It's all right, I'm okay. It's just sometimes the silliest thoughts can set you off. Really, I'm okay."
"I don't get it. It's just a house."
"Yes. Well, that's just what it is. It's just a house." Still gazing at the image she propped it up against the trophy. She turned back to the bag and pulled out the last package. It felt like a book. She tore off the tissue paper and saw that it was her book, Tuesday's Caddie. She opened the cover afraid of what she might see. There was a handwritten inscription. It was too late to hide it from Bridie.
"What does it say? Read it to me."
Annie closed the cover. "No, dear, it's private."
"Nonsense. I didn't carry these things clear across the country to hear that. After all, he's dead now anyway. Read it," Bridie demanded. "I think he wanted me to see it too."
Annie had to relent. She opened the cover and read the words aloud. "Would this have been our story. But a daughter for a son and long life for you. Mick." Her voice cracked at the end.
"Who's Mick? What does he mean a daughter for a son?" Bridie said, now become agitated. "Wait a minute. Was he the caddie? He was, wasn't he? So he was your lover! That explains what he did!"
"What do you mean?" Annie asked fully alarmed now.
"Mitch told me Conor caddied for you and his mother that time you came out on the book tour. He disguised himself. Now I know what that was about. He wanted to see you again. Amazing!"
Annie felt herself crumble. He had actually been with her! She couldn't keep up the show against her feelings any longer. She raised her hands to cover her face and began to sob. Bridie instantly regretted her own outburst. She moved closer to her mother and put her arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry, mother. It's all right. You don't have to say anything. I'm sorry. It's okay."
Annie was shaking as the tears flooded out unchecked after a lifetime spent waiting to fall. She leaned her head on Bridie's shoulder. They sat together like that for a time until the tears went dry. Then Annie sat up and tried to wipe them from her face. Bridie left the couch and came back with a box of tissues. Annie dabbed at her face and blew her nose. She sat with her hands in her lap, her head bowed.
Bridie reached into the bag and took out the envelope. "Here," she said handing it to her mother. "This is the last thing."
Annie took the envelope and then looked up at Bridie. "Please, dear, not now. Please let me read this alone. I can't bear to right now. Please."
"All right. I understand. It's okay. Take a minute for yourself. I'll make us a couple more drinks." Bridie got up and went into the kitchen and returned with two glasses and put them on the table and sat down.
Annie had not moved. "Thank you," she said finally as she picked up a glass and took a sip. "I think you can tell this was all a bit much for me."
"Yes, I know. I see that. And I think I understand. He was your lover back then, wasn't he? And you lost touch with him all these years, right?"
"Yes."
"But there's still something I don't get. You have to help me. Why would he leave all his money to the children and me? What was it about him that would make him do such a thing? Why didn't he just leave it to you?"
Annie's hand flew to her mouth. She nearly choked. It was time for the truth. But it was nearly impossible to utter. "Oh my God," she coughed. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I'm so very, very sorry." She shook her head unable to go on.
"Mother! It's okay. Just tell me."
The words tumbled out in sobs. "I just couldn't… you must understand the time was… it was… so awful… I didn't know what… oh my God I am so sorry…"
Bridie put her arm around her mother again. "Come on, come on, it's okay. Just say it."
"He must have known. He must have. The truth is," she turned to look at her daughter, "the truth is… he was... he was your father."
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Epilogue
Forest Lawn
Sunday, April 8, 2012
She sat in the back of the limousine recounting the story to herself as she had done every Christmas and every Easter for decades now. In all that time she had missed the days
but a handful of times. The trip had become a pilgrimage of sorts, a way to somehow connect with a past she never had. It hadn't been until years after her mother passed away that she'd gotten up the courage to read the letter and come to fully understand the story. Since then she never tired of imagining all that happened. It had answered so many questions about their lives, about her life.
As the car turned in to the cemetery she leaned forward and spoke to the driver. "You remember the way, don't you Lester?"
Lester had heard the question twice a year for many years now. His answer was always the same. "Yes, ma'am, I surely do. Don't you worry yourself. We'll be there soon."
She looked out the window and watched Forest Lawn inch by. There was always a lot of traffic on the holidays and she was content to be patient until they could wend their way to the gravesite.
The letter had said a lot. It had all been a terrible, tragic mistake compounded by the horror her mother was going through in her last days in California. She understood the terrible irony that had shaped the rest of their lives. He became rich to be worthy of her, to give her the life he knew her to want. In the meantime she had given up that life understanding what she had wanted was nothing but an empty shell without love, the kind of love she had with him but never found again. And they had loved one another. Even more deeply than their few days together could have ever told. It had been a love they held in their hearts to the end of their days.
They finally reached a parking spot near the gravesite. Bridie looked out the window and saw a man with his daughter putting flowers on a grave. Such scenes always brought back to her all the bitterness she'd felt when she'd learned whom her father was and how she had been cheated of his love for so many years. She eventually got over the anger at her mother. But it wasn't until she had read the letter she was able to forgive her completely and come to some peace with the story. After her mother passed away, Bridie learned in the will she wanted to be buried next to her father. She had been thrilled at the request. It was only right.
She picked up the spray of eucalyptus and yellow tulips from the seat next to her with one hand and took hold of her cane with the other. Lester got out and came around the car and opened the door for her. "Can I help you over there, Ms. Bridie?" he asked.
"No, thank you Lester. I can make it on my own. Just like always."
Lester watched as she performed her ritual. When she reached the gravesite she pulled away the now dried arrangement that had lain at the foot of the gravestone since Christmas and replaced it with the fresh one. Then she knelt and prayed. Then she stood and read the inscription on the gravestones for the hundredth time.
Bridie had worked hard on the inscriptions. She wanted them brief, but meaningful. She had selected snippets of translations from poems by Pablo Neruda. She loved to read them aloud and hear the words:
Conor John O'Reilly
1903 – 1969
Faithful Husband
Beloved Father
Tuesday's Caddie
Love is so short. Forgetting is so long.
Anna Charlene Harper
1904 – 1988
Loving Mother
Devoted Wife
Ghostwriter
It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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Acknowledgments
This book was years in the making simply because I wouldn't start it. Then I met someone who turned out to be my muse and then, more importantly, my wife. A true artist of talent far beyond mine, she understood what it meant to launch into an all-consuming project and the sacrifices that would ensue. She not only got me started, she kept me going. This book would not exist without Jean Cormier who forced me to tell her a story as we laughed and joked on her couch late one night. That silly little story somehow evolved into this book. Along the way I had help from Khloe, her cat, who always managed to pick the perfect time to distract me and jump on the keyboard to offer her own editorial comments like "gffffffffffffffffff." Finally, if you find this book entertaining in the least it's due to the perspicacity, tenacity and sagacity of one of my most enduring friends, Dara Price, who was the perfect critic and editor for a work she had asked of me years ago. I must also acknowledge my good friend Ken Birnbaum who got me to Florida where many good things happened, as well as Mary Welch who made important corrections, and Alva, Alma and Terese who read the early versions and helped me get to a final. Special thanks, too, to Tatiana Vila of Vila Designs (www.viladesigns.net) who is responsible for the new, revised and wholly awesome cover.
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About the Author
Tuesday’s Caddie is author Jack Waddell’s first foray into fiction after a career spent writing what other people wanted. Following brief stints in newspapers and public relations, he became a freelance writer successful enough that there was no time for fiction. Or so he thought. He is a life-long golfer who for many years wrote about the sport for television and instructional videos. An erstwhile caddie both for money and as penance for being a friend, he bears the emotional scars that come from watching too many awful swings and searching for too many lost balls, his own among them. He spent his youth in Southern California and Illinois, his adult life in the wilderness of New Jersey. He currently is happily at large in Central Florida while his second book, Road to Rouen, awaits publication and his third emerges from the firmament.
The author welcomes your comments and queries. His website includes notes on developing the book and its inspiration: www.jackwaddell.net. He can be reached by email at: [email protected]
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