Six Strokes Under

by Roberta Isleib

I frowned. It had to be obvious by now, even to Odell, who liked to think the best about everyone until absolutely proven wrong, that I had no connection with that girl. She wouldn't take a tip from me about where to buy a good sandwich.

  "I really don't think I can help—"

  "I want you to know, I never touched my baby," said Coach, before I could finish my sentence. His voice broke. "I'm so proud of her." Now he looked at Dave. "You know how it is with a daughter. She's the bright light in your life. You'd do anything for her. You'd never hurt her." He sat down hard, dropped his head in his hands, and let out what sounded to be a strangled sob.

  My mind raced in a million directions. I doubted Dave could relate to anything Coach said. An expression of disgust flooded his face as soon as Coach mentioned "touch" and "baby." I flashed briefly on the memory of my own father. I doubted he could have related to Coach's misery, either—a man who'd left his daughter at a time when she needed him most. I pushed my thoughts away from Dad, and back toward Coach Rupert. I recalled a game we used to play as teenagers: Truth or Dare. Truth: Did you ever fondle your daughter?

  Mom broke the painful silence. "I'm sure everything will work out just fine," she said, patting his knee awkwardly. My mother, master of the meaningless platitude.

  "She needs help," said Coach Rupert. "And not from the likes of that asshole who screwed her up. I would have killed the bastard myself, if someone else hadn't beat me to it. She was fine before that. High-strung, yes. If anything, I should have paid more attention to her, not less."

  "Leave it in God's hands," said Mom, still patting his knee. This was a new one on me. Mom didn't like to leave anything in anybody's hands, God included.

  "That's why I came," said Coach. "Cassandra, I need your help. If only you could try and talk to her." He turned again to Dave. "We all have regrets about how we raised our kids. We should have done this, if only we'd given them that."

  He looked at Dave for confirmation. Dave's face was flat. No regrets there, I guessed. Not an introspective molecule flickered in that guy's body. Not a glimmer of fatherly feelings, either. Dr. Baxter liked to point out how hard I was on him, how hard he tried to fill Dad's shoes right after he walked out on us, but I couldn't see it. Maybe wouldn't see it. I couldn't get past how he bullied Mom. Or how he seemed to like tearing down and stomping on any dream someone had that was bigger than his own shoelace-narrow worldview.

  I stood up. "I'll try, Coach. I can't promise anything." No point in telling him how badly my few conversations with Kaitlin had already gone. Also no point in telling him I didn't know whose story to believe, and didn't even really want to know the truth. Any way it turned out, it seemed like it had to come to an ugly end.

  "'Preciate it," Coach said as he struggled out of the sagging couch cushions. "And good luck in Florida. Just don't try to outhit Kaitlin. She's bigger than life on the tee." He winked, shook hands with me and Dave, kissed Mom on the cheek, and left. Just what I needed, another reminder about Kaitlin's superior length off the tee box.

  "Get me a beer," Dave told Mom. “That guy makes me sick."

  "He said he didn't do anything," said Mom.

  "Just get me the damn beer."

  Before I could escape to my room, the doorbell rang again. "From the halls of Montezuma..." sang the chimes—one of the first changes Dave instituted after he bought out Dad's share of the house and moved in.

  "Show some respect. You owe your freedom to the men of the United States Marine Corps," he liked to tell me whenever we disagreed about anything. As if his years ladling out stew to the recruits at some North Carolina military base had anything to do with earning respect from me.

  Mom ushered Detective Maloney into the living room.

  "If you don't mind," he said, looking at Mom and Dave, "I'd like to speak to Miss Burdette alone." They left the room, Mom moving slowly and watching back over her shoulder, her forehead furrowed with worry.

  "Chief thinks we need you to stay in the area until we get a better handle on the Bencher case," he said. A day that had already been plenty bad enough was now taking a turn for the worse. My lips and tongue felt thick and heavy. For a minute, I had trouble even getting my mouth to form words.

  "Please," I said. "This is my only shot, Detective. Please don't take it away. I promise I'll stay in close touch. It's only six days." He thought for several minutes, then gave a small nod.

  "I'm going to give you the phone number for Arthur Pate at the Sarasota County sheriff's office. Call him as soon as you get in. He can make sure we get a hold of you if we need to." I nodded. "My ass is on the line here, Cassandra. It's not protocol to allow anyone connected to a murder case to leave the state in the middle of the investigation."

  "Maybe you don't believe me," I said, "but I didn't do it. I didn't even know the guy." He shrugged. I guessed he'd heard that one before. "Thanks for letting me go."

  The detective grimaced as he stood to leave. "One more thing," he said. He paused, then smiled. "Hit 'em straight. We could use a gal from Myrtle Beach on the Tour. Show 'em we don't just make golf courses, we know how to play 'em, too."

  I thanked him again and showed him to the door. Mom reappeared the minute it slammed shut. From the syrupy sound of her voice, I knew she hadn't wasted any time hitting the gin bottle.

  "What is it, Cassie? What's wrong?"

  "Nothing to worry over, Mom. He just had a couple of questions about the doctor who was killed. He had the office next to Dr. Baxter and they wondered if I'd seen anything funny." Mom didn't like to acknowledge the existence of shrinks, never mind being reminded that her own daughter talked to one.

  "I never should have let you play golf. It's brought nothing but trouble to our lives." This was a discussion that could only lead to an unpleasant dead end, one we'd visited frequently over the last several years.

  "I have to pack now, Mom."

  Her trembly voice followed me down the hall. "By the way, that nice Max Harding called this afternoon. I wrote the message down for you." I came back out of my room and took the scrap of paper she offered. The message was printed in her neat block letters.

  SORRY ABOUT RUNNING OFF LAST NIGHT. CAN WE GET TOGETHER WHEN YOU GET BACK IN TOWN?

  Mom had underlined "sorry" and "get together" with her yellow highlighter.

  "He left numbers for his office and his car phones," said Mom. "He was such a sweet boy. He sounded like he really wanted to see you."

  "He's married, Mother," I said. I wadded the note up and shoved it in my pocket. "I'm going to pack "

  Cashbox the cat was stretched across the end of the bed, obscuring everything but the C and the e in the Cassie that was embroidered in loopy script on the pink gingham bedspread. My collection of stuffed cats lined the shelves above the bed: Mothball, Fuzzy Wuzzy, Wuzzy Fuzzy, Licorice, Tangerine, and Queenie. All of them neatly mended in spite of their dyed rabbit-fur coverings worn shabby and thin with age. My golf trophies were pushed to the back of the shelf, the taller ones poking up like dandelions through the carpet of fake fur.

  Mom preferred to keep this room, like my relationship with her, firmly planted in the era when I was still ten years old. Well before I'd really gotten involved in what she called devil golf, before Charlie had pushed her away, and even before Dad had run off with Maureen. Maureen of the neon spandex and buns so tight she could send Morse code signals just by squeezing the muscles in her ass. I rubbed Cashbox behind the ears until he rumbled with satisfaction.

  I lay down next to the cat and picked up the golf club I kept beside the bed. It was a Ben Hogan blade nine-iron, part of the hand-me-down set my father let me fool around with once I turned eight. I fit my fingers into the training grip I'd glued onto the end of the shaft, and flexed the club. I always thought more clearly with my hands in the proper overlapping position.

  What had life really been like in the Rupert household? According to Kaitlin, Coach's so-called love for her had gone well past acceptable fatherly affection. His story, which c
ouldn't have been more different, seemed a whole lot easier to believe. Was he capable of shooting the man who'd put those ideas in her head? Where was the fine line between loving a child too much and not nearly enough? In my case, Odell insisted that the reason my father stopped calling was because having just a little contact with me hurt more than having none at all. But all I felt was the gaping emptiness of his absence and the rage of my mother's blame. The phone rang downstairs, interrupting my gloomy ruminations.

  "It's for you, dear," Mom called up the stairs. "It's Joe somebody."

  "Hey, Doc," I said, picking up my pink Princess extension. "You won't even believe what's going on here."

  I told him about Dr. Bencher's murder, the scratches on Kaitlin's wrist, the visit from her father, and Detective Maloney's insistence that I keep in contact with the sheriff in Florida.

  "So let me get this right," said Joe. "You think the guy was alive when you came into the office?"

  "I'm no doctor," I said. "But honest to God, it looked like his lips were moving. And the sucking noises ... it was horrible."

  "I can't believe they think you killed him," said Joe. "Maybe they figure you saw something that could help solve the case, coming in so soon after he was shot."

  "Like what? The murderer leaving? That seems too obvious."

  "Were Bencher's lips just twitching or do you think he was trying to tell you something?"

  "If he was, we sure weren't speaking the same language. He was well on his way to another world when I found him."

  "What about the papers you tried to clean up? What was written on them?"

  By now, Joe's questions were reviving the scene in my mind in sickening detail. "I can't think about this anymore. It's making me want to barf. Honestly, I didn't see anything, except a gruesome display that's going to provide the material for a lot of future nightmares."

  "Sorry," said Joe. "We'll drop it. So then Kaitlin cut herself the next morning—that fits perfectly with my borderline diagnosis."

  "The weirdest thing is how easily she seems to be able to shake all that off—one minute she's in the pits of despair, the next she's publicly feeling up this hunk out on the range. Maybe she's got a split personality."

  "Probably not," said Joe. "Just a real good way of shutting off her feelings. You could take a half page from her in that department. Forget all this and focus on your golf."

  "Hah. Easier said than done. I can't wait for you to get to Venice. I need professional help. You, my friend, are just the man for the job."

  "That's why I called," said Joe. I didn't like the note of sheepishness that had crept into his voice. "I'm not going to be able to get there until later in the week. Three guys withdrew from the PGA championship—that puts Mike in. I feel like I really need to be there with him. I'll try to get over to Venice on Thursday, Thursday night at the latest."

  "Shit," I said. "Thursday is likely to be too late. You know the cut's on Wednesday."

  "You know what to do, Cassie," he said. "And Laura will be there with you. I'm thinking it might even work out better if I'm not around—too many cooks spoiling the broth and all that."

  "Fine," I said. "That's just great. Tell Mike to hit 'em straight. I'll see you later."

  "Come on, Cassie ..." I heard the pleading in his voice as I slammed down the phone.

  Chapter 7

  The plane circled over Sarasota and slid to a smooth landing. I collected my duffle bag and golf clubs from the baggage claim area without incident. The Ben Hogan nine-iron I carried with me on board—-everything else could be replaced, but I'd freak if I lost my lucky nine. While I waited in line to register for a Rent-a-Wreck, I dialed into my cell phone to retrieve three new voice mail messages. With any luck, one would be from Jack.

  The first was from Joe, firm but at the same time apologetic. "I know you're disappointed. But you'll understand and forgive me when you think this through," he said. Always the optimist. "This is a big deal for Mike. My being there could really make the difference—" I hit the delete button. He couldn't really believe this wasn't a big deal for me, too.

  The second message was Sheriff Pate. I try not to make a habit of judging people by either their voice or their appearance—what God gave a man shouldn't be held against him. Even so, this guy's gravelly bark rated him one, with Katie Couric at ten, in terms of friendly first impressions.

  "Pate here. I'll look for you at the Plantation this afternoon. Stick around until I find you."

  The third message was Joe again. "I didn't get a chance to tell you that I've put in a couple calls to some friends about Bencher. I'll let you know what I hear. And remember what we've been talking about—don't worry about how you're playing on the practice rounds, you're just getting a mental picture of the layouts—" I punched delete. Son-of-a-rotten-bitch.

  I knew Mike's first appearance in a major championship was a pivotal moment in his career. He could either handle the pressure well and set the table for even better performances in future majors, or choke, and color upcoming events in a negative way that would be difficult to override. You saw it over and over with golfers on the Tour. If they played well in one event, their confidence mounted and they tended to do well again the following year. Same with a big collapse—deep in some primitive part of the brain, the failure got connected with the tournament or golf course where it had occurred, making future wins there a lot less likely.

  I also knew that since last summer, Mike had grown to rely on Joe. He hadn't said much about it, but I'd seen how Joe helped him get a grip on his nerves, and how that translated to his improved putting. If Joe could keep him from blowing up, no contest—anyone would rate that as more important than holding my hand through the Q-school practice rounds.

  The bare-bones facts about Q-school were brutal. Hardly any of the girls who tried made it through to the LPGA Tour on their first attempt. From what I'd heard, you were supposed to learn a lot your first time out, maybe realize that with a little more work you belonged in this elite company. Then you'd come back the next year, maybe with a better putting stroke or nerves of titanium rather than linguini.

  But there would be no second chances for me. I'd allowed myself one shot. The stakes were too damn high. No way would I accept handouts from Odell and my other backers for a second chance at humiliation. Besides which, the girls who returned over and over didn't have Mom and Dave nagging in the background about how it was time to just grow up and get a real job. I needed every advantage I could muster to give this try all I had. So with Joe bailing out, I felt as low as I could remember feeling since Mike told me he'd found another caddie and I wasn't welcome back. I tended to take rejection hard, another of Dr. Baxter's favorite refrains.

  "Outside your conscious awareness," he'd told me more than once, "when someone important to you leaves, your mind will make the automatic connection to your father. You may feel more distressed than the current situation really warrants. You'll need to work hard to separate out the two circumstances."

  So, Baxter would have had me say, Joe wasn't abandoning me, merely arriving a day or two late. It felt a damn lot worse than that. I wished Laura could have come down earlier. I knew I should be grateful she was coming at all—lots of the girls competing wouldn't have a caddie. And unless I managed the unlikely coup of finishing in what little prize money the LPGA offered, Laura's compensation for the week would be zero. Ten percent of nothing was still nothing, no matter what accounting procedures you used. She was already paying her own expenses to Q-school—-I could hardly ask her to give up the proceeds from a weekend of lucrative golf lessons in August, the Connecticut high season, as well.

  I pulled my rented Pontiac out onto Interstate 75. Even if I'd been set down blindfolded, I would have known instantly I was in South Florida. No mistaking the flat, flat landscape and shimmering heat. Not to mention my brand of haute cuisine at every rest stop—Waffle House and Cracker Barrel—homestyle Southern cooking that the rest of the country was just beginning to disc
over. I loved it here. After four years of college at UF, I called this crazy, mixed-up state loaded with retirees, itinerant wanderers, and rabid environmentalists my second home.

  Forty-five minutes down the road, I arrived in Venice and at the Starlight Motel, recommended by the volunteers running Q-school and insisted on by Odell. "The week will be hard enough without spending the nights in some fleabag," he told me. "You pick some nice place and send the bill to me."

  The lobby was big on "faux"—faux green marble floor, faux Impressionist paintings behind the desk, and a big island of faux palms decorated with cafe lights in the middle of the space. Even the desk clerk, with false eyelashes and Mary Kay foundation applied by trowel, seemed a little unreal. A young woman carrying her clubs arrived in the lobby just after I approached the counter. She and her mother were dressed in matching Liz Claiborne golf outfits. I watched them as the clerk processed my reservation.

  "Look, Becky, they have a stamp machine right there," her mother said, The older woman pointed to a dispenser near the breakfast nook in the corner. "You can get that postcard to Daddy into the mail today." Why the hell would she be sending postcards from Q-school?

  "Dear Daddy, Having a great time, wish you were here. Love, Becky"? Too weird.

  I knew from the pit in my stomach that I felt bad about the mother thing too. Not that I'd want my own mother here this week. What a disaster that would be. But I wished I had the kind of mother I could have traveled with. Without Joe or Laura, I felt really alone. And seeing this girl's mother had only served to grind that in.

  I checked into my room: two queen beds, a kitchenette, a fold-out couch—more than enough room for me, and Laura, when she arrived. I stashed my duffle in the closet and the nine-iron under the bed and went downstairs to investigate the other features of the motel. The charms of the swimming pool were limited—it wasn't much bigger than a one-car garage and fronted directly on the Interstate off-ramp. I used my room key to get into the exercise area—not much happening there, either. Three aerobics machines lined the far wall: a wobbly stationary bike, a stairstepper powered by genuine Atlas shocks, and a treadmill with a prominent "out of order" sign. The rest of the room contained one Nautilus knock-off and a hodgepodge of free weights. Jogging it would be.