The Mulligan

by Terri Tiffany

  The road curves past several newer housing developments and for a second a wave of fear rolls through me that I might be lost. When I’m about to turn around a sign appears. Orlando Golf School 1 mile. A rush of relief leaves my chest.

  Nearing the school, I admit that a part of me looks forward to seeing Drew again, though my heart warns against it. I reach for a still-warm cookie and devour it in two bites. It’s silly to entertain any romantic thoughts about my teacher. I’m not a schoolgirl anymore. I also don’t need complications—especially when I have so much to accomplish. I will stay focused.

  The classroom doorknob doesn’t budge. Great. He’s kept his word. My parents did a similar thing to me the time I stayed out with friends the summer after I graduated. I came home well after one in the morning. A curfew at my age made no sense so I’d stormed around to the barn where a pallet of fresh straw kept me comfortable most the night until a mouse squealed near my head nearly sending me into hysterics. Fuming with anger the next day, I swiped my father’s house key and went to Big Mike’s hardware store in town to make a spare for my purse.

  The door opens as I stand entrenched in my memories of Pennsylvania. Drew speaks first. “Miss Bobbi-with-an-I. I assume you want in?”

  Most people back home think I’m the artsy dreamy type—a girl who would rather paint scenery than attend the Wyoming County Fair and shoot hoops for a stuffed teddy bear. But they are wrong. I won more than Robert last year. I snap back to look up into an expression I would entitle ‘the look of impatience.’

  “You want to come in or daydream in the hall?”

  Drew’s height gives him a distinct advantage over me, not to mention he’s the teacher and I’m the student.

  “There was an accident.” My tone always turns deep and scratchy when confronted by anyone. “A bad one.” I hate that I don’t sound all high-pitched and feminine like other women do when they want to impress someone. “Police and everything.” No, my voice finds the basement of my voice box and etches out sentences like blades on ice.

  Clearing my throat to try again, I stop as he steps aside to hold the door open for me.

  I dip my head and hunker past to the seat in the back, praying it will still be mine to claim on day two. Again, the stares and whispers trail behind me.

  “Please don’t go to Orlando.” My brother’s voice comes to me as I slide into my seat. Our conversation happened two weeks before I left home. “You don’t understand how tough the competition will be,” he said as soon as I entered his room.

  “Then you don’t know me.” I gripped my coffee cup tighter as I settled in the big chair in the front room near him.

  “I know that most people who go to a golf college end up working in the industry—not as golf pros.” Robert tossed me a magazine. “Read the article.”

  I picked up Golf Today. An article about how to gain employment on a golf course caught my eye. I tossed it back on his nightstand. “So what. That doesn’t mean I can’t be the one who makes it. I’m going to get the training and maybe learn something more in the process.”

  I’d found a website the day after the accident and had pored over the details about a golf college. Normally I could convince Robert of anything. Normally.

  He and I share this deep sense of closeness. When one of us hurt, both hurt. As kids, we’d watched out for each other, and that didn’t change during our growing-up years.

  The last time I needed a subject for a portrait, Robert offered to help rather than attend a golf tournament down in the city with some friends. When he needed to snag a date for a last-minute event, I turned down my own date and attended with him. I even bought him a new offset putter for Christmas last year after hearing him talk about it with my father. It had taken a huge chunk out of my savings, but seeing his eyes light on Christmas morning made it worthwhile. But a new club will never make up for this.

  A cough sounds beside me. I try my best to pay attention, but can’t seem to manage it today. With half a night’s sleep, it’s a wonder I’m sitting upright.

  “We’re having a tournament next week for the freshmen. It’ll be down at Reunion right after class lets out on Monday. Bring your best attitude and effort.” Drew passes out information sheets and drones on about what to expect.

  A tournament. I’ve hardly had an opportunity to improve my shots. One quick glance around the room tells me what I need to know. I’ll be living on the course until then.

  ****

  When I was twelve, my father built us a tree house in one of the old maples that borders our property. He made certain I could use the narrow steps he’d nailed into the broad trunk before he left me alone to climb up and daydream among the branches.

  I’m sure it was there where my dream to paint landscapes was born. No matter what direction I gazed from my towering perch, the lush scenery jolted my imagination like a glass of lemonade on a hot summer night. I would try in vain to press the scenes into my subconscious so I could take them out later at night and study the finer details when I was alone and when sleep eluded me.

  My young heart almost stopped beating when I caught my first sight of the distant murky waters of the Susquehanna River. Right then and there, I vowed to paint the river as only I saw it.

  Later that day, it took three threats from my mother to get me down from the tree house.

  I think of that tree now as I focus my attention and driver on the flag three hundred yards ahead of me.

  My lessons with Drew have taken place every day of the week, but today is Sunday and I found a cheap tee time at a nearby club. The pro shop guy tried to get me to start with someone, but I was adamant to play a round alone.

  How long has it been? Months? Since last winter before it got too cold to go out anymore. I’d been caddying for spare money on weekends since the gallery didn’t pay that much. We hadn’t played in a while until Robert made me come out with him one crisp morning.

  He drove us to his favorite course. Paradise Hills. And yes, it looked like Paradise there—huge oaks and rolling landscape. My blood pumped at the sight. I knew it would be a good day.

  “I can’t believe you made that shot!” Robert high-fived me after my putt from fifteen feet rattled in the cup.

  I birdied.

  I made par on the next hole and finally an eagle. Robert still won, but I did a pretty impressive job of keeping up. So good that I saved the scorecard in the bottom of my dresser drawer back home. But that was months ago. Today is today, and it’s hotter than a bonfire in the middle of a desert. Today I need to improve my playing.

  “Loosen up on your grip.” A deep voice resonates beside me.

  I look up to see Drew ambling in my direction. I tug on my pulled-back hair. “It’s Sunday. What are you doing here?”

  “Does that mean you can’t learn anything?” A whisper of a smile appears. He wears his golf hat low on his forehead so I can’t see those eyes. “I play here every Sunday. Now take your shot.”

  I take my shot.

  “Not bad. Want to go another nine holes and I’ll show you what to do in a real game? Winner buys soda.” He’d parked his cart nearby and cocks his head toward it.

  This will be the first game we play together. I’m acting as though it’s my first date instead of a golf game. Maybe I should save the tee as a memento.

  “Are you going to beat me?”

  Drew removes his cap so that his blond hair glistens in the sun. He squints. A nice kind of squint that puts my heart into overdrive. “Going to let me?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  And forget my heart pounding from his nearness—it leaps right out of my chest into the water hazard to my right. I remind myself that I’m here to learn to be a great golfer, not connect with a jock who might not understand what loyalty means in a family.

  He waits as I pack my clubs and stow them into the back of his cart. “What about my cart?” I glance where I’d parked it near the tee.

&nbs
p; His even white teeth show. “Already on it.” And when he pulls out his cell and speaks into it, I figure he is. More than I am. By the time we take off to the ninth hole, I don’t care about a little old cart.

  4

  I shut down my computer and lean into my sofa. The last time I remember feeling this lonely was on the camping trip to New York State. Our family’s one and only camping trip.

  My father came home one day and announced his accounting firm could handle the workload so that meant a family vacation. School had been out for a month, and Robert and I were deep into our summer plans.

  “Really?” My mother clapped her hands together and rushed around the house throwing an impromptu menu into an ice chest and extra blankets into our sleeping bags for the colder nights in the mountains.

  Dad had borrowed a four-man tent from a friend and enough supplies to keep us away from home for weeks.

  My brother hoped to play some golf at a nearby resort. I moaned about missing a sleepover at my best friend’s house that Friday night. I’d met Amanda the first day of sixth grade and we’d been inseparable ever since.

  I was less than thrilled with our rustic accommodations. Outhouses that stank and smoky campfires to cook hotdogs. And it rained. Mud-sopping rain.

  I’d finally gotten so bored I slipped away from my father, who had stuffed his nose in a book all day, and my mother, who was crocheting yet another baby blanket for some stranger, and took off on my own hike. Robert had been spending his time hitting golf balls into the lake even though he’d been yelled at twice by the management.

  Yeah, I didn’t know how lonely my life could get until I’d gotten myself totally turned around on that mountain and my parents couldn’t find me for twelve whole hours. By then, I’d huddled tight against a tall pine and took to praying that God would let someone find me and take me home to my own warm bed. God and I got a little closer that day.

  This morning, alone in my trailer, I pad over to the screen door to take a look around the neighborhood. Another long Sunday. A metal awning covers my driveway. The only furniture on my patio are the plastic beach chairs I’d bought on a whim for five dollars each at a discount store. I’ve never yet sat on them. Determined not to pine away my whole day, I slip my toes into my sandals and step outside. Fresh air fills my lungs. Hot fresh air, but I’ve gotten used to the heat after being here almost two months.

  “Morning, neighbor.” Mattie must have been watching out her small kitchen window because she comes right out of her trailer and picks her way across the narrow strip of St Augustine grass that connects us. Today she wears her Sunday attire—a combination of a sundress and stretchy pants. “Are you up for some coffee yet?”

  I let out a rumpled sigh. At least she isn’t bringing more cookies or cakes like she usually does on her frequent visits. Even though I have started to enjoy our short conversations, I don’t need anything more to stop me from getting into shape.

  “I just drank mine. How are you doing today?” I motion for her to sit. I don’t have to ask twice. “Getting ready for church?”

  Mattie’s chin wriggles reminding me of one of the chickens Robert tried to raise when he was thirteen. When our father chopped the head off one for dinner, that was the end. Robert gave the remainder to a neighbor and swore he’d eat beef the rest of his life. Of course, he didn’t, but he held out for a long time.

  “We have a luncheon afterward. You should come. No use eating alone all the time. Going to be fresh corn and some good salads.”

  Somehow, I seem to attract the kind of Christians who feel it’s their duty to get me back into church. First, Robert sent an email asking if I’d found something yet, with a few links to local churches, and now Mattie. I stretch my tanned legs out in front of me.

  “I’m OK. Still getting used to the area. I might take a run over to the range today and hit a few balls.”

  “You sure practice all the time. Planning on being the next Arnold Palmer?”

  I laugh. At least she knows a golfer. “Hardly, but if I want to be any good, I need to practice. Besides, I hope to qualify for Q-School this fall so I’ve got to work at it.”

  Mattie narrows her eyes. “What’s a girl like you want to play on tour for? They travel all over the country. You can barely get married and raise your kids.”

  As though marriage is on my radar. I roll my shoulders and trace the outline of a palm tree with my gaze. A trick I’d learned to help focus while waiting my turn at golf. It actually worked last week. If only it would work now.

  “I don’t plan on getting married anytime soon, so I don’t think I have to worry about that.”

  Mattie isn’t easily put off. She swirls the gold band on her finger. “Just don’t wait forever. I married my man late in life. Only wish he was still here with me. It gets lonely, you know, living by yourself and trying to make a life as a single. I never knew how bad it would get until the day after the funeral when everyone went home.”

  “I’m sorry.” An uncomfortable sweat breaks out on my upper lip. I don’t like talking about death. Even more since the accident and seeing Robert lying in Intensive Care for days. No, I’d much rather shove those thoughts out of my head and focus on what I need to do to make things right. Like becoming the best female golfer ever and giving the family something to be excited about again.

  They’d all had such hopes for Robert. He’d been ready to go to Q-School. Even had his money raised—something I still need to do. People who supported him had helped with spaghetti fundraisers and warm wishes. When he’d almost died, it wasn’t only my family who grieved. The entire community rallied around us, bringing in meals and offering to drive him to appointments. Everyone loves my brother.

  My lower lip trembles. I will not cry today.

  “No need to be sorry for me,” Mattie continues with her story. “The Lord has given me some wonderful people to bless. See those pots of geraniums over there?” She points to where two neat rows of tan crocks sit with red geraniums spilling out of each one. I nod.

  “I take them around to other lonely folks in this development and to the senior high-rises. They love to see me coming. It brightens their day as much as it does mine.” A smile shows her missing teeth, but this time the sight cheers me instead of making me remember the old pumpkins. Maybe Mattie isn’t such bad company after all.

  “Well.” She thrusts her hands on her knees. “I need to get going. Church will be over before I arrive.”

  “Thanks for coming over. I enjoy talking with you.”

  A gnarled finger falls on my shoulder. “You know where I live. Don’t be a stranger.”

  She works her way back across the divide to her home, coming back out a few minutes later with a Bible tucked under one arm. After a quick wave, she pulls out of the driveway in her mint green sedan.

  Not one for sitting around all day, I change into a polo shirt and shorts. In the past, when bored, I’d pick up a brush and paint for hours, letting my imagination soar. Sometimes I can finish a painting in one day. All I have now is golf. Unless I want to count playing Scrabble online or calling my friends back home.

  At least Amanda has been supportive. Spotting my phone on the counter, I place a call to her house. She’d married the star football player two years ago and hinted to me last week that she might be ready to take the plunge into motherhood.

  When she’d said that, my heart shrank a bit. I’m not certain I will ever be able to entertain those thoughts. Not if I am going to golf for a living.

  But she will make the perfect mother. Her home will be filled with children, all with her same upbeat personality.

  “Hey there, long-lost friend.” Amanda’s voice sounds as breathless as my mother’s. I listen to my own steady breathing. Maybe I have nothing to be excited about.

  “Hi. What have you got planned for today?” I ask, knowing full well she’ll be heading out to church where she teaches five-year-old children about Noah and the ark and the flood and all those stories I o
nce learned.

  When I was fifteen, I remember meeting one of Robert’s friends—the son of missionaries. At the time, I thought the guy was cute and flirted with him, but he had different ideas. He wanted to know where I was in my walk with God. (That’s what he called it.) “Do you really believe the stories in the Bible?” I asked him, wanting him to squirm, or maybe I wanted him to convince me that the flood did happen.

  “Of course I do. Don’t you? It takes faith.”

  I remember giving him my best smirk. Somewhere I’d become a skeptic. “I believe in God, but the stories…really?” He had the nicest hair, dark and wavy.

  “Let me talk with you more. Will you let me, Bobbi?”

  He smelled good, too. But he never got the chance to talk more with me as his folks moved on to their next mission. He sent me a sweet note I’ve still kept.

  “Bobbi? Are you daydreaming again?” Amanda’s voice breaks into my memories. “I’m feeling nauseous so I’m laying low today. How’s the heat down there? Are you ready to come home yet?”

  I roll a piece of cinnamon gum into my mouth and settle back on my couch, feet propped on the arm. I love our talks and hope today will be a good one, especially with the mood I’m in. “Can you talk or should I expect a few holds while you run to the toilet?’

  A giggle comes through to my ear. “It isn’t like that. I was going to call you myself today to tell you. Are you sitting down?”

  “Lying down. Tell me.”

  “I think I’m pregnant!”

  My feet drop to the floor. “Pregnant? Really?”

  “Now, I haven’t had time to buy the test yet, but I plan to as soon as I can get to town. It’s like this feeling hit me last month, and I knew. I’ve had these wild dreams, too, where I’m rocking this baby girl and she looks up at me with these huge blue eyes and I think, ‘Oh my, she’s my baby,’ and then I wake up. Am I nuts?”