Six Strokes Under

by Roberta Isleib

  I'd sunk fifteen short ones in a row and was verging on pretty darn hopeful, when Gary Rupert and his parents approached my bag.

  "Cassie, I think you've met my folks, Peter and Margaret?"

  "Oh, God," I muttered. My putter dropped to the ground with a muffled thunk. "I'm so sorry about Kaitlin. This must be so awful for you." I hugged Gary and touched his mother softly on her hand. Margaret Rupert began to cry—from the condition of her mascara, I could see this was not the first time she'd wept today. Tears crowded my own eyes. I needed to back off emotionally and narrow my perspective from sympathetic acquaintance to skeptical observer. "If there's anything I can do..."

  "Thanks," said Coach Rupert. "Since Kaitlin can't be here, we'd love to see you play well today." He startled me by gathering me into an awkward, one-armed embrace. "I know this is none of my business," he said. "But don't be a stranger to your father. Life is too short." Whatever ugliness had passed between him and Kaitlin, the sharp pain in his voice was real. Though Gary wouldn't be carrying a bag on the golf course today, he had the far more difficult job of tending his family's grief.

  Once they'd left the practice area, I tried to step away from the feelings that had washed over me and review what I thought I'd seen: three family members devastated by the death of someone they loved, the pain made sharper by the rift that had existed between them before she died. Hard to find the face of a murderer there.

  I stopped by the bulletin board to check the pairings. I would be playing with cheery Jessica from Michigan, and a woman I did not know, Maria Renda. My 153 still anchored the rock-bottom position in the field. The powers-that-be had apparently decided not to admit another golfer in Kaitlin's place. So much for that potential suspect.

  "Mike's hanging in there," said Joe when we met up on the path to the first tee. "He and his caddie aren't getting along too well, but it doesn't look like it hurt him to have me out of his way."

  I chuckled. Even though I believed personality clashes and Mike Callahan went together like thunder and lightning, I was relieved to hear that I wasn't the only caddie who'd gotten on his nerves. A little mean, but I couldn't help myself.

  When we reached the tee box, I greeted Jessica and her father. I recognized our third player as the tall woman Kaitlin had infuriated just before the thunderstorm in the first round.

  "Maria Renda," she said, thrusting her hand in my direction, eyebrows raised like black boomerangs. "You haven't played in this kind of tournament before, have you?" I shook my head no. "Good luck, then." The tone of her voice said a lot more than that. Like, Good luck, you poor dumb bastard. And, What are you doing out here anyway? And, Stumble around as much as you like, but stay the hell out of my way.

  "She's got a bug up her butt," said Laura, once Maria had returned to her cart.

  "She lost her card two seasons ago," whispered Jessica.

  "So she was already on the Tour?" I asked.

  Jessica nodded. "She played for two years with the big girls, then her game went South. Just imagine the pressure she feels—reduced to struggling through the Q-school sectionals with us."

  I broke into a commiserative cold sweat just thinking about it. How bad would that be—surviving two levels of Q-school, then flunking out of the real thing and having to come back and do it all again?

  "Time, ladies," called out the starter.

  Flashing a wide smile at her father, Jessica hit her tee shot down the center of the fairway. Maria teed off next, firing a towering hook that cleared the fairway bunkers to the left and died in the deep rough on the side of a mound. She stomped away from the tee, wearing the same fierce look she'd had two days ago in the lightning shelter. Her blond caddie, again dressed in his good-guy cavalry costume, trotted off behind her.

  "Hope she pays that caddie better than you pay yours," said Laura. "Now go get 'em, girl!"

  The sense of well-being I'd experienced earlier this morning had evaporated. My three-wood felt like a baseball bat, my arms like stuffed sausages—all fat and gristle and no muscle, certainly no sign of the muscle memory that should have carried me through this kind of panic. Choking, I believed they called it—no matter what sport you happened to be in the process of screwing up.

  "Let it go," said Laura.

  "Let it flow," urged Joe.

  "Let it snow," I said, suddenly hysterical. What the hell? At this point, there was no place to move but up, up, up. I was a double murder suspect, the very worst golfer in the field, and an object of pity to even the second worst. DFL, the caddies on the Tour called it. Dead Fucking Last. Why not swing freely? My drive landed twenty yards behind Jessica's, with a flat lie and a clear shot to the green.

  "That's a beauty," said Joe, beaming with relief.

  "It's a sucker pin," said Laura, "right on top of the trap. Just go for the fat of the green."

  Maria Renda located her ball lying dangerously close to the out-of-bounds line. She took a fast swipe at her second shot.

  "See what I mean," said Laura as the ball dribbled into the bunker in front of the green. "She cut it too close." Maria screamed at her caddie in Spanish.

  "I'd hate to hear the translation of that," said Jessica, covering her ears with her hands. The two of us hit our second shots safely on the green and two-putted for easy pars. Maria Renda left hers in the sand on the first try and carded a double bogey. "I feel bad for her," I said.

  "Won't help her or you one bit," replied Laura. "You can buy her dinner later if you really feel sorry for her. But right now, eye on your own ball, please."

  By the third hole, we began to understand the serious disadvantage of teeing off as the last threesome in the field. With three bogeys on the second hole, we'd set no records for speed. But we still had to wait five minutes before the third green cleared. Jessica knocked her ball just short of the green.

  "Stay below the hole," said Laura. "It looks like murder coming back down." My ball landed just past Jessica's and rolled five feet from the cup.

  "You're the tops," said Joe.

  Maria Renda glared in his direction, then yanked her shot left. It caromed off the stone wall lining the water hazard and plunked into the brackish pond. She let loose a barrage of enraged Spanish and sent her caddie off in search of a rules official. We waited by the green, assuming she wanted a ruling to determine the most advantageous, while still legal, drop. Of course, she had to know the rules of golf like her mother's face—we all did. But calling the official over was conservative play. At this point, nobody wanted to give up the slightest advantage or pull some dumb stunt that would add penalty strokes.

  "Mike's two under after fifteen," said Joe as he returned to our group and slid his cell phone into his pocket. "But his caddie's threatening to quit."

  "Who's feeding you these details?" I asked.

  "One of my buddies is following Mike's threesome. He promised to keep me posted."

  The rules official consulted with Maria, then approached the green and motioned Joe over to the cart.

  "Excuse me, Dr. Lancaster, but Ms. Renda is distracted by your commentary," he said. "While there is no rule against speaking with spectators, we would appreciate it if you would take care not to inconvenience the other golfers."

  "Of course," said Joe. "I'm sorry." He backed away from the green.

  "Joe knows etiquette better than any professional golfer on the Tour," I said to Laura once the official drove off. "Her game would be in the toilet even if Bob Rotella and David Leadbetter were both standing by to patch her up. What a pain in the butt." We marched on in silence: I was just mad enough to birdie three and four, and eke out ugly pars on the next three holes. Jessica played steady, unremarkable golf, and Maria Renda dug her own trench deeper and deeper.

  "Somebody has a sense of humor here," said Laura, pointing to a hand-carved sign in the garden by the eighth tee: "Time to Stop and Smell the Roses." Nice sentiment, but not likely today. Besides, it was hard to smell anything other than the bleach used by workers powerwashing
the windows on the adjacent pink condos.

  After both Jessica and I had planted our drives in the fairway, Maria stepped onto the tee. She pantomimed her swing twice in slow motion. From the particular attention she paid to the position of her elbow, I gathered she was trying to correct her string of snap hooks. After shifting her feet to point slightly right, she blistered her longest drive of the day. Straight down the middle. No duck hook there—not even a gentle draw. However, with the combination of the adjustment in her setup and the fact that the fairway took a dogleg to the left, her ball headed toward a finger of the same pond she'd encountered on the third hole. It skipped through the rough and hopped into the water. Maria stalked off the tee and slammed her driver against the Stop and Smell the Roses sign. The club head flew off the shaft and clocked Laura just above her left ear, knocking her to the ground.

  "Oh, my God, you've killed her!" I yelled.

  Laura cracked one eye open. "Not dead, just stunned. Give me a minute and I'll be fine." I rushed over to where she lay. A large red welt that reproduced the grooves of Maria's driver had begun to swell along her hairline.

  The rules official who'd scolded Joe on the third hole drove back up to our group. He squatted down next to Laura and peered into her eyes. He asked her name, the date, and her current whereabouts, all of which she answered cheerfully and correctly. Then he turned to Maria.

  "I hope you have a fruitful day. Because you can expect notice of a fine for unprofessional conduct when you return to the clubhouse." She slunk over to retrieve the club head from a rose bush, apologizing a second time to Laura on the way.

  "I know you didn't hit me on purpose," said Laura.

  "I'm going to take you in and have the nurse on duty check out that lump," said Joe. "At the least, you could end up with one hell of a shiner."

  "I don't plan to see anybody except you guys tonight," protested Laura. "I don't want to leave Cassie."

  "I'll be fine until you get back," I said. "You should get some ice on that." They rode off to the clubhouse with the official. On the way to my ball, I walked the length of the hole with Maria's caddie, who appeared to be maintaining a safe distance from his boss.

  "She's a bit of a hothead," I said.

  He grinned. "She is a lot of work, but it makes for an exciting ride. And there are other advantages." The sudden loft in his pale eyebrows suggested involvement in off-course activities, the details of which I preferred not to know. By the time Laura and Joe rejoined us on the tenth tee, I had carded another birdie on eight and was flying high.

  "I just missed the lag putt on nine or we'd be three under," I said. "Let me see the damage." Laura removed the ice pack from her temple to show me the thin slit of her swollen and discolored left eye. "Whoa, baby. That's a doozy."

  The remainder of the round flew by without incident. A simple par on ten, a splendid birdie on eleven involving a seven-wood out of the fairway bunker and a long downhill putt from the back of the green. On the par-three fifteenth, I took a free drop away from mole cricket damage on my short drive and chipped in for bird from the improved lie. Maria's face told it all—a hearty disapproval for my taking full advantage of the local rule. Or was it anger at her own miserable display of putting? Whatever the facts of her inner turmoil, the fight appeared to have drained out of her after her tantrum on the eighth tee.

  A small crowd gathered as we approached the eighteenth green. I remembered the scene I'd pantomimed in the moonlight before the tournament started. I executed a close approximation of the drive and approach shot I'd imagined, and just missed the long birdie putt. The spectators who waited under the shade of the live oak clapped enthusiastically as we walked off the green.

  "A sixty-eight, you animal! You shot a sixty-eight!" yelled Laura. She picked me up and whirled me around until I begged to be released. I couldn't stop smiling. The sixty-eight, which threatened my best score ever in competition, meant an express ride away from the rock-bottom position where I'd started the morning.

  Chapter 22

  A reporter gestured to me as I entered the roped-off scoring area. "Could you stop by the press tent when you're done here? We'd like to talk to you a few minutes about your round."

  "Never thought I'd hear those words," I told Laura.

  "They may get more than they bargained for," said Laura. "You don't have to describe every shot."

  "Lay off, it's my fifteen minutes. Let me bask a little."

  By the time we reached the press area, four reporters were shouting questions at a member of Deikon Manufacturing's brain trust. Which is to say, not Walter Moore.

  "We are well aware that our equipment did not meet USGA specifications regarding the coefficient of restitution," he said. "For the layman, excuse me, layperson, that means the club's face did have a springlike effect due to the construction of its layers. In other words, it will fly one hell of a lot farther than anything else out there on the market."

  He laughed, then cleared his throat solemnly. It appeared that he, too, was enjoying his short burst of fame. "In fact, however, this club had not yet been released, or should I say, unleashed, on the public." Another grin broke through, then he recomposed his serious expression. "We regret that our marketing representative did not follow company policy when he allowed the piece of equipment to be utilized ahead of its scheduled release date. He has been relieved from employment with our company." Poor Walter. The golf gods were really piling it on.

  "Are you aware that the club was used to murder a golfer yesterday?"

  Definitely a marketing nightmare.

  The Deikon representative frowned. "We deeply regret Ms. Rupert's death and extend our sincere sympathy to her family. Otherwise, I have no further comment." He ducked under the ropes and stalked away from the press tent. The reporters turned to me.

  "How was it out there today?" asked the reporter from the Herald-Tribune. Kind of a dumb question, but almost an obligatory opening for most golf interviews, and one I was delighted to answer.

  "After the first few holes, I started to have fun, even though I left a few birdie opportunities on the course. But overall, my swing felt good, like I was hitting the sweet spot. Wow, what a time for that to happen!" Who was this talking? The reporters laughed with me.

  "Maria Renda had a rough day. How did that affect your round?" asked the reporter.

  "Yeah, she struggled." I searched for something non-confrontational to say. Truth was, on top of nearly sending my best friend to the great golf course in the sky with her temper tantrum, she'd been a royal pain in the ass. And here was my chance to let her have it. On the other hand, the women's golf world was a small community, and I did not need to juice up the intensity of her bitterness. "I've been there. I tried not to think too much about her. Just play my game while I had it rolling."

  "Any thoughts about how you'll handle tomorrow's round?"

  "Fairways and greens, then roll in some putts," I said. "Is that a brilliant plan or what?" The men laughed again. I was beginning to like this public relations business.

  Just then Laura approached and tapped me on the shoulder. "The memorial service has started. I hate to interrupt your chance to wax on about the high points of your round, but..."

  I thanked the reporters for taking the time to talk to me and we jogged back toward the clubhouse. There, the reality of the upcoming service was enough to subdue my euphoria.

  "Keep your eyes open," I said to Laura. "In all the murder mystery movies, the killers always show up at the funeral. Maybe they have some twisted need to check out the results of their handiwork. I'm certain Joe could explain it."

  A somber crowd had gathered near the putting green, where Kaitlin's makeshift memorial service was in progress. A sprinkling of the players had already begun to weep, their brightly colored golf clothes contrasting with their tears. TV personnel from Sarasota Channel 10 News murmured into their microphones, no doubt describing the scene to their viewers. The conspicuous presence of ten or so sheriff's deputi
es around the perimeter of the small assembly reminded all of us that Kaitlin's death was both unnatural and unresolved.

  "Today, we celebrate the life of Kaitlin Rupert," said a minister in black cloak and clerical collar who stood next to Gary and his parents. Mrs. Rupert sagged into the consoling arms of her son and husband. The grim set of Gary's mouth reflected the sadness of the moment, sadness that would linger in the weeks, months, and years to come.

  "A beautiful young life was taken from us yesterday, prompting us to remember that we do not always understand the mysterious ways of God. Jesus was no stranger to grief. He told us: 'In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.' " An edgy, lonely feeling filtered through me as I listened to the preacher's words.

  "I'm going to look around a bit," I whispered to Laura. "I see Jeanine on the other side—I want to say hello. I'll meet you later at the car."

  I needed to move around, and not just to scan the crowd for murder suspects or chat with Jeanine. A lapsed Presbyterian, I was just no good with death. I wished I had the unquestioning beliefs of my Catholic friends from childhood: go to church, take Communion, confess your sins, and presto, you had a place reserved in heaven. That kind of blueprint could take the sting out of dying. But much as I wanted to believe it, I didn't. I couldn't get the picture of Kaitlin lying cold and lifeless on the ground out of my mind. Or worse yet, incinerated to a handful of ashes and stashed in some hideous, but pricey piece of pottery. Maybe you'd expect it when someone old died— that was the natural order of things. But with a person like Kaitlin, so young and full of expectations for her life ... well, even if she'd been annoying as hell while still alive, her death cast a shadow that blurred all the edges of what I could understand.

  A representative from the administrative office of the Futures Tour introduced herself to the crowd. "We did not have Kaitlin with us long," she said. "Yet she left behind many strong memories of her short career."