My father and Robert loved to turkey hunt, and I’d never been allowed to go with them. This past year, I finally convinced my father I could stand the frigid temperatures and endure using a tree as a potty if needed. I’d wear camouflage and pack their backpacks with better snacks than Mom ever did.
I guess my promises convinced both of them because the following Saturday morning I dressed and rose before the sun so we could get into the woods early. My father carried his rifle over his left shoulder and swaggered ahead of Robert, who occasionally looked back to see if I was following.
Three years earlier I had taken target practice with Kelly, a girl I met at in the cosmetic aisle of the local department store. She suggested it as a way to meet men. I’d been pretty good, if I say so myself, but at the very least I learned how to shoot. So when we finally got into position and I spied my first turkey, I reached for my rifle and took aim.
Too fast.
We heard the squeal seconds before we saw her fall.
I knew Sam since she was a puppy. Ruth, her owner, let me walk her and work at training her to retrieve. Now the next-door neighbor’s dog lay in a pool of blood all because I’d been careless—in a rush. My father took the injured dog to the vet for poor Ms. Ruth while Robert stood with his arm locked around my shoulder so I wouldn’t sink to the ground.
I heaved and heaved and crushed my fists to my eyes, not wanting to be further witness to my careless act. Sam lived but I never forgot that day.
I’d failed at hunting. I would not fail at golf.
It seems I am, though.
At my next lesson, Drew throws down his driver and turns to me with a look I have yet to see. “What on earth it wrong with you? What do you call that last shot?”
Sure, I messed up—hit my ball clear into the water hazard—but so does every other pro now and then.
“It was a bad shot,” I say and reach for another ball from my bag.
Drew steps closer and I almost flinch, but I don’t think he will appreciate me showing fear either. “That’s not good enough. And you know something, Bobbi-with-an-i? You aren’t good enough, either.”
I drop the ball, my fingers freezing at my sides. Not good enough? I’d heard that comment from my father so often that usually it rolls off me. But not today. Not from my coach who always encourages me and tells me how I’m the best golfer on campus.
“Let me take another shot.”
“I’m done for the day.” He packs up his clubs and hauls his bag over his shoulder. “You take the cart in.” He tosses me another look and begins the long walk back to the clubhouse, leaving me standing in the middle of the sixth fairway. I want to be any place but Orlando, Florida. My throat burns and I blink hard. If I don’t play well enough, I should pack it in and go home. I sit hard on the cart seat.
This is the first time my chance for success feels impenetrable. Like the mountain I‘d climbed with Robert when we were sixteen, and some friends dared us to climb above the gorge in New York State. I was sure I would fall to my death. The mountain would win, and we would perish.
I miss my brother so much.
As if on cue, my cell rings. Robert.
Sometimes it’s eerie to be a twin.
“Hello?”
“Bobbi? Just felt like I needed to call. You OK?”
I glance around to be sure no other golfer is coming up behind me. I move the cart to the side. “Peachy. How about you?” My voice squeaks like a five-year-old. Robert will see through me in seconds. Not what I need today. He’ll tell me to come home; as well I know I should. I slouch down and stare across the greens.
“You don’t sound fine. Besides, I had this urge to pray for you today.”
“Pray away. It can’t hurt.” And now for the Bible hour.
Robert doesn’t answer right away. I wonder if he is praying for my lost soul right then while I sit at the scene of my crime wanting to bawl but don’t dare. Sometimes he drives me crazy.
“You’re good, you know. It’s hard for me to say this, but you’re better than I ever was.”
I slide up.
“I want you to know that I was certain you’d fail down there, and part of me…I hate saying this,”—he clears his throat—”wanted you to fail. How could my sister play better than me? But after you told me your scores and that you are the best golfer in your school, I knew it. I knew you were meant to play maybe more than I was. God has a different plan for me, and I haven’t yet found it, but I will. Right now this is His plan for you.”
Tears run down my cheeks. Never before has Robert said this. Oh, he’s supported me with all my other dreams, but not something that should have been his. I need to tell him the truth. “My coach just told me I stink.”
Another long pause. “I hope you don’t believe him.”
My brother knows me too well.
“He’s my coach.”
“I’m your brother. I know your determination. You will do this.”
“Is that straight from God?” Sometimes I take jabs. Today I need to.
Robert ignores me. “I’m praying for you, sis, and that’s all you need to know.”
Failure feels like a ton of bricks piled in my wheelbarrow. The more I fail, the heavier my load. I doubt I have much room left in mine. My father has added his own dozen bricks to it, and now Drew.
“Are you there?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“You know what kind of trouble that gets you into.” He chuckles into the phone. I’m sure he means the pond fiasco.
The time I tried swimming across before I learned how to swim and he had to drag me out of four feet of water. He’d learned to swim in Ruth’s pool the summer before, while I nursed a case of chicken pox. When I felt better I was on to a new adventure. Until the day I thought lessons were only for stupid kids. How hard could swimming be?
“Listen, Robert, I’d better hang up. I need to get this cart back before it rains.” Already the late afternoon sky is troubled with dark clouds. I smell a big storm.
An hour later I’m in my car driving down 50 trying to beat the downpour headed my way. Mom sent a weather radio with me this time, so I turn it on as soon as I come through the door.
I also flip on the TV but soon lose reception, so I revert back to the weather radio as the winds increase. As I watch from the front window, Mattie’s garbage can lid flips off and blows against my car. I hope she’s home, but I can’t be certain as it isn’t dark enough yet for lights. Again the trailer rattles as the winds creep closer to my part of Winter Garden.
Now the announcer starts talking about possible tornadoes. I don’t have a clue where the cities are that are under a warning but figure as bad as it looks outside, it doesn’t hurt to take precautions.
I grab a blanket and pillow and toss them into the bathtub. Thinking better of my plan, I grab the radio and my purse and sit on the toilet seat. I tell myself this precaution is only a just in case. What are the chances of Golden Acres being struck by the tail of a tornado today?
My lights flicker and then shut off, throwing me into semi-darkness. The roar from outside increases as the floor beneath my feet vibrates—sway may be a better word—but I don’t need any further prodding. I dive into the tub head first and slam the pillow over my head as the roar grows louder and the rain pelts the rattling tin surrounding me.
I squeeze my fists and think of my family. Robert would certainly pray in a situation like this and I find myself crying, “Oh, dear Jesus” a few times when I think of my home being rocked off its foundation.
I’ve heard a tornado sounds like a freight train coming at you. Those people who’ve said that don’t lie. I hunker down as deep against the basin of the tub as it will allow and shut my eyes, the train roaring close by. Another prayer shoots across my lips. Save me, O Lord…please save me.
****
When the silence rolls back in, I raise my head, half expecting to see my trailer collapsed around me. The toilet paper remains where
I’d put it this morning—on the back of the toilet. My oversized towel lays crumpled on the floor and all four walls surround me. Maybe what I heard wasn’t a tornado, but it was the loudest storm I’ve ever endured.
My feet cramp from my fetal position. I wriggle my toes to stop the stinging, stretch to stand, and step out of my haven. My bathroom doesn’t have the luxury of a window so I pad down the hallway and peer across the way to Mattie’s.
Her flowers, or what remain of them, are scattered across the patio in piles of upturned dirt and clay pots. Furniture from her porch, and who knows who else’s, dangle from sheds and stairs. I open my door and look upwards. Dark clouds greet me but the rain has stopped.
The part of me that doesn’t always like to comply pushes me forward toward Mattie’s. Her place lacks lights, and if the power is still off, I expect her to be the first resident outside to survey any damage. That’s who she is—always helping someone in time of need. She’s shared enough stories that I also know she once worked for the Red Cross and traveled all over the country whenever a disaster occurred.
At the time of the telling, I’d been reluctant to hear all the gory details. Why hadn’t I listened better? From the looks of Golden Acres, we have our own little disaster right now.
I step over someone’s garbage can and work my way around Mattie’s upended pots. Shards of glass broken from several birdfeeders greet my feet.
“Mattie?” I call her name twice more and try her door. It’s unlocked. Why does that surprise me? I’ve only been inside three times since moving across the way, and that had been for an impromptu piece of apple pie and cards. We’d sat at her table built for two and shared a cup of tea like I do with my mother.
“Mattie?” Still no response. I peer behind me. Her car is parked in the driveway, but often her friends will pick her up to drive her to her missions. The screen door slams into my back. I take a few tentative steps into her living room. Everywhere I look she’s placed some kind of knick-knack or memento of her life.
I swear I’ll never keep that much stuff hanging around when I get old. The strong odor of moth balls tickles my nose. Put that on my list, too. Never buy those darned things.
I creep down the narrow hall, sidestepping a chair that has seen better days and try the light switch. Nothing. Three more doors and the bathroom to search. I start toward the bathroom.
It doesn’t take a medic to know something serious has happened to my neighbor. Mattie lays face down next to her tub, and by the way she is positioned I know it isn’t because of the storm. I kneel beside her and turn her over—relief flooding me when I hear a soft groan come from her.
“Mattie, what happened? Are you OK?”
She clutches at her chest and moans. I reach for my cell phone and dial 911. She will not die on me. I will not have that on my conscience, as well.
The nice lady on the phone tells me what to do and then asks if I need her to stay on the phone until the EMTs arrive.
“You’d better believe it.” I put my phone on speaker, rush to find a pillow, place it under Mattie’s head, and cover her cold skin with a blanket off the back of her couch.
Mattie’s eyes flutter open. I swear she knows who I am. Even in the midst of her emergency, I see a glimmer of the Mattie who bakes me fresh cookies every week.
“Hey, there. Hold on, OK? The ambulance is on its way.” I lean closer and whisper, “You’re going to be fine.”
She blinks, trying hard to focus on my face. I’m sure it takes all her effort to do so. I stroke her hair back on her damp forehead.
“Check my roses…”
“Don’t try to talk, Mattie. Just hang on until we get you help.”
I pat her hands that clutch the buttons on her shirt. What else can I do? I try to remember my CPR from when I worked a summer at the hospital as a candy striper. Her breathing sounds labored to me, but what do I know? I strain to hear the sirens and curse them for taking so long.
“She’s breathing hard,” I report to 911.
“The EMTs are two minutes out.”
Two minutes pass like five hours.
“Check my pink roses…for you.”
I look back down at Mattie. “Don’t worry about your plants. You’ll be better in no time to care for them.” My words must give her comfort because she closes her eyes and her breathing evens out.
I rise from my knees and wait at the front door as the ambulance works its way into the battered driveway. The EMTs rush pass me and carry Mattie out on a stretcher as I stand out of the way in her living room, trying hard not to cry.
It seems like only seconds, but I’m sure it’s longer before I hear the siren leaving the community with Mattie on board. By then, a few other residents have ventured outside to take a survey of the storm damage.
“Is Mattie all right?” one woman asks me.
“She fell hard. I should get to the hospital to be with her.” My feet won’t move.
The woman touches my arm. “You’re shaking, sweetie. Let’s get you inside before we have to call an ambulance for you.”
“But Mattie…” I can’t let Mattie wait out the night alone in a hospital.
The woman takes my arm and leads me toward my trailer. “George will go and check on her.” She turns to an older man whom I hadn’t even noticed come up beside us. “I’m Alice. You let me get you inside and get you warm.”
“George—does he know what hospital?” My question is waved off as George produces a set of keys while this woman guides me into my living room. I can’t believe how I’m still shaking.
“Thank the good Lord that Mattie wasn’t killed,” she says as she covers me with a light blanket she finds on my bed. “That none of us were killed.”
I pretend to yawn, and Alice finally leaves me alone after making me promise to come see them if I get scared.
I’m not ready to praise God yet, not like she did. Not when He allowed Mattie to suffer alone over there.
12
The storms didn’t damage the golf school by any measure. The next day I sit in computer class wondering how Mattie fared the night at the hospital. The EMTs told me which hospital they were taking her to before they drove away, and I looked it up last night. I intend to visit as soon as I get done practicing today after classes.
Drew passes me in the hallway this morning with a look I can’t read, but I am over him. So what if he has the hottest blue eyes and my heart ripples like an accordion whenever I look at him? I have no time for crushes, especially on a jock who thinks he needs to ruin my plans.
If I want abuse, I can call my father.
I try hard to pay attention, but Mr. Barret has the most boring voice of any teacher I’ve ever sat before. Boring with a capital B. I glance around me and find several students looking at their phones or listening with their earplugs discreetly plugged in. I stretch my feet and count the days left to attend.
A big tournament is scheduled for tomorrow at Orange Lake. We’ve been told that several companies that make golf equipment will be there, and maybe, just maybe, some lucky golfer might pick up a sponsor.
I need it to be me, and that means I need a few teachers to put in a good word for me. Plus I have to break my own score tomorrow.
When class ends, I rush to my car and grab my clubs. I’ll practice at the school range for an hour before finding the hospital where Mattie is recuperating. I smell the thick humidity as I walk up the hill to the range. The heavy air clings to my clothes.
In Pennsylvania, the trees would be turning if it is an early fall. I miss the smell of leaves in a pile and apples being boiled into applesauce on the kitchen stove. Maybe Mark is right. How am I going to travel and be a golf pro if it means staying in cities most of the time?
In all truth, that life isn’t the life I’d planned for myself. I’d have been happy buying one of the old cabins along the river and decorating it with my art. I would sit on the porch and watch the fishermen glide down the river. Might even get a dog to lie at
my feet and keep me company when I decide to paint. A beagle. A friendly beagle that doesn’t bark.
I don’t know why I think about painting. This homesickness I carry around with me is making me think about all sorts of things when I should be concentrating on my swing.
I set my ball and pull out my driver.
My fingers find their place and I grip the club the way I’ve been taught. I try to clear my thoughts. Once, and then twice. My head is too jumbled, and that makes me angrier. The guy next to me swings. His ball flies over 250 yards.
“Nice one,” I say, but I don’t think he hears me. He’s already swinging at the next ball.
Again I try to clear my head, and this time I swing. I slice it to the left. I bite down on a word that aches to leave my mouth. I wriggle my shoulders, loosening stiff muscles. Maybe I am not warmed up.
The player next to me hits another one—farther than before. He holds his hand up and tips his cap when the ball lands. Yeah. Cheer now, I want to say. You might be someone’s gift to golf today, but wait until tomorrow when your body refuses to cooperate.
The sun bears down on the back of my neck, stroking it, burning it. I’d forgotten sunscreen and will pay later. Again, I set a ball and take my stance. I swing.
“Nice shot,” the guy on my left offers.
Nice shot is right. But will I be able to do it tomorrow?
****
The hospital looks like it needs to be torn down. This is Florida, right? New construction happens every day, so why doesn’t anyone care about a falling down hospital? I find the front desk and give the lady in the red apron Mattie’s full name.
The volunteer looks through a list and consults a computer screen. I hate hospitals. They smell like antiseptic and this one is no exception. My stint as a candy striper convinced me that the people who work in hospitals become immune to the smells and therefore think everyone else should as well. I didn’t. Today proves that my theory still holds.
I tap my fingers on the desk. Lightly. Ever so gently. I don’t want to push this woman into working—just give me Mattie’s room number.
The Mulligan Page 8