The Mulligan

by Terri Tiffany

  Finally, she looks up. Her lips are turned into a line somewhere between “May I help you” and “What’s her name?” “I’m sorry. It seems your friend is no longer a patient here.”

  “What does that mean? No longer a patient? She didn’t go back home. I would have seen her.”

  Again the thin line. But I catch a flash of something in her eyes. Is that sorrow? I lean across the desk. “She’s not here because something happened to her, right?” I’m not sure where my boldness comes from because I don’t sound like me. “Please don’t tell me she died, because I promised her everything would be OK. Please?”

  I’m sorry I put that poor volunteer on the spot. I’m not family. She can’t tell me anything, but Mattie has no family. Just the residents of the park who love her and all of those others she helped. The volunteer finally gets her supervisor, and after some hard convincing, they tell me Mattie had passed away last night.

  I say “Thank you” and drop my arms to my sides.

  She’d passed away alone. Why hadn’t I gone to the hospital to be with her?

  I make it to my car and sit unmoving for a good fifteen minutes trying to remember Mattie’s last words to me. Something about her roses. The pink ones. I hadn’t gone over yet and righted her pots. She’d hate seeing them strewn around like that.

  I put the car in gear and speed home. When I pull in, I notice the park manager coming up Mattie’s walkway.

  “Mr. Gordon, have you heard about Mattie?”

  “I did—such a sad thing. She had my name down as an emergency contact, you know. Several of our folks do here.” Mr. Greer wheezes. His eyes also water, but I’m not sure if that is his normal look or out of sympathy. “Going to get her paperwork and put things in order.”

  By paperwork, I assume Mattie has written a will and Mr. Gordon will take care of it for her. It seems even sadder that your manager has to also be your executor, but by the time someone is Mattie’s age, maybe there aren’t many choices left. I wander behind him, eyeing the flower pots.

  “Do you mind if I straighten these up? I sort of promised her I would look after her plants.”

  My host waves his hand. “Sure. Sure. Probably going to put them in the dump. Take any you want or give them away. I don’t care.” I leave him to his ramblings and turn toward my promise.

  I don’t know anything about flowers. My mother has the dubious title of gardener in our family. Sure, I’ve pulled a few weeds under duress, but have never planted my own garden. But a promise is a promise.

  I start with the smaller pots, packing the dirt back around the roots. I line them up nicely and consider putting a sign out for people to help themselves. I work on the larger plants that have been upheaved during the storm. When I come to a rose, a pink one, I crouch beside it and study the half-emptied planter. What was it about the pink roses that made Mattie remember to tell me about them?

  I pull the plant the rest of the way out of the pot being careful not to prick my fingers. Not only do I not have a green thumb, but I want to keep what I do have intact. That’s when I see the pink envelope with my name on the front.

  To Bobbi, the girl with an “I”—for living.

  I can barely make out the scribble, but it is my name, for sure. In a flower pot. Maybe she was farther gone than I gave her credit for. I slip the envelope under my arm, and hoist the plant back into its container. Later, I will sweep up and water them and maybe put out that sign, but right now, the letter burns to be read. I call good-bye to Mr. Greer and hurry across the way to my place.

  I’ve always loved mysteries. My mother read me all her Nancy Drew books when I was growing up until I found authors I loved on my own. Robert said I could make a mystery out of an anthill if I wanted to badly enough. So what if I didn’t read the Bible like he did? My stories were far more interesting.

  I grab some cookies and sink down on my couch cross-legged. My imagination goes wild. For an older lady, Mattie sure does surprise me. Maybe we had more in common than I realized. Maybe she had been a mystery buff as well and decided to leave clues all over her house for someone like me to find. Maybe, I should go inside, if old Mr. Watery Eyes ever leaves and see if she has left anything else. Within minutes, I decide that perhaps Mattie was an undercover agent working for the government as a spy.

  Or not. Maybe she was just crazy.

  I flip the envelope over and over willing the suspense to last.

  And of course, my phone rings. Normally I would have ignored the caller, but it is my mother. I have yet to tell her about the storm and Mattie and now this letter. Maybe I will keep the letter out of my story and savor it for myself until I know more.

  “Hey, Mom. Did you hear about the tornado that hit Clermont?”

  “No, I didn’t. Is that near you?” Her voice rises. It doesn’t take much to make her worry.

  “Close, but we only got some damaging winds. Blew everyone’s patio stuff all over creation. I think I have an awning lying across my back yard.”

  “I hope you used your weather radio.”

  “First thing I did, Mom. I took cover in the tub. Just in case.”

  “Well, you never know. I was calling to tell you that I saw in the paper where Dan’s mother died. Have you spoken to him?”

  I take a sharp breath. She died? Poor Dan. I’d read somewhere that death came in threes. Now I’m worried. “I didn’t know. He’s probably not down here yet if she was that bad. Are you going to the viewing?”

  “Thinking about it. At the very least I’ll make a casserole and drop it off.” A pause. My mother is good at pausing before a particularly delicate topic.

  I brace myself. I’m beginning to doubt I can take any more bad news. I have that tournament tomorrow, and all this stuff isn’t going to help my psyche.

  “Robert walked today without his walker.”

  My air comes out in a rush. “Now that’s great news! Tell him way to go!”

  “I will. He can’t go far, as his legs are a bit shaky still, but it’s so nice to see him moving on his own. He’s trying to get Grandpa to adopt that walker.”

  “Good luck. You have a stubborn father.”

  My mother chuckles. I love hearing her do it. Everything is right with the world when she laughs. I start to ask about Dad but decide she’d tell me if anything has changed there.

  “I’ve got an important tournament tomorrow, Mom. I’m hoping maybe I can get a sponsor to help pay for Q-School.”

  I know how my mother feels about my decision to come to Orlando. She doesn’t like it at all, but being my mom, she supports me. She doesn’t have the funds I’ll need along the way, though. I’ve managed to scrape together enough from my savings to pay for round one tournaments and maybe, if I make the cut, for round two. A sponsor will make the difference, but it’s not like they show up waiting to find the next great golfer. Honestly, I’m not all that sure how it does happen, but I hope if word gets around that I’m good, someone will want to attach their name to me.

  “You’re good, Bobbi. You know we’re praying for you here. Grandpa asked about you today at lunchtime.”

  I decide not to tell her about Mattie. My mother doesn’t need to hear about her dying with Grandpa and all he is going through. She’s in denial anyway, thinking her father isn’t losing his mind and that she’ll be able to continue to take care of him at home. Especially without Dad’s help or income.

  “Tell him I’ll call soon, OK?” The unopened envelope in my lap calls me, so I cut the conversation short.

  My mother never seems to notice—there’s a lot she doesn’t notice these days, and the guilt that I’m not around to help her sometimes swallows me whole. In the long run, though, what I’m doing here in Florida will help more than me being there taking care of Robert and helping Grandpa get dressed in the morning. I’m so sure of it I’ve given up what I love most to do it.

  The last time I opened anything that was a true surprise was a gift for my sixteenth birthday. No one can keep anythi
ng secret from me, but that year Robert totally surprised me when he showed me a huge box. Where he’d hidden it, I still don’t know. I’d checked the closets and underneath all the beds and found out that Mom and Dad were giving me the outfit I wanted from the mall.

  “Try guessing first,” he’d said with a smirk across his face.

  Yes, I love being surprised. Really surprised, and that’s why I was often disappointed when no one ever did manage to do it to me. But this time, Robert outdid himself.

  I tore open the box and stood back, my jaw turning to mush. The most beautiful oak chest stood before me. Robert had engraved my name on the lid with the date. I rubbed my hand over the smooth lid. “How? When?”

  Let me say this. Robert is not a handy guy. That’s what made this gift even more special. It seems he spent all his free periods in school in the shop department learning how to use tools without cutting his hands off just so he could surprise me.

  I hugged his neck tightly, trying not to cry.

  Why I thought of this particular gift right now as I sit with Mattie’s letter in my lap I don’t know. Maybe because she’d been a special part of my life the way Robert has been. Is still. Maybe Mattie needed me to remember her, and this is a way that I would.

  I flip the envelope over and unglue the flap.

  I’m not sure what I expect, but as I reach inside and feel the cool metal between my fingers, delight fills my thoughts. Mattie has given me a jewel. Actually, as I turn it over and over in my palm and take in each delicate detail of the necklace, I know she couldn’t have left me a more marvelous gift.

  A thin gold chain. A pendant covered in tiny diamonds and could it be? I bring the gift closer to my face. The design is shaped like a golf club. A tiny sparkling golf club. The initials M.M. (for Mattie Montrose, I guess) are engraved on the back.

  Where did Mattie get a golf-club-shaped necklace and why?

  My shoulders sink against my battered chair as I try to recall any bit of information from our conversations that told me she might have golfed.

  Nothing. Or had I not been listening? Sometimes my neighbor went on and on. The most important tidbit I remember her saying is that she had a nephew named Bobby who’d been killed in a car accident. That’s it. Nothing more comes to me.

  I look down at the piece of jewelry in my hand and slip the chain over my head. The pendant falls to my chest. It’s then that I realize I haven’t looked inside the envelope to see if she’s left me an explanation. I tear the envelope open and find what I need. Mattie has written me a short few words on a sticky note. A sticky note with flowers bordering it.

  I’ve seen that pad on her kitchen table. I’d borrowed a sheet to write down one of her recipes that I’d loved. Now a page holds a few short words to me.

  Bobbi,

  Superman is a myth.

  Mattie

  Superman? So she’s left me more advice. Advice I don’t get. I smile knowing this note is so much like Mattie. But still, I’m not sure how she’s connected to the necklace. A golf club, after all, isn’t the first choice a woman makes when selecting something to decorate herself.

  I go to bed that night with the necklace dangling from my bedside lamp. First thing in the morning, I dress in my favorite yellow polo shirt. I slip the chain over my head and tuck it inside my collar. I’ll wear it for this tournament and think of Mattie.

  13

  Someone wants to sponsor me. A friend of the man who owns Bud’s Sports has been watching the tournament and sees me place second with a whopping score of 66. My shots are some of the best I’ve ever made. I’m not sure if my good fortune has anything to do with Mattie’s necklace nestled against my chest, but I do find that if I hold it between my fingers and concentrate, I hit better.

  I might not be a Bible thumper like my twin, but I know enough not to believe in luck. God ordains every step we take: that much I believe, but I still can’t help but think maybe Mattie’s gift has given me the confidence I lacked.

  The next day I get the call from the CEO at Bud’s, a large sporting chain here in Florida. Would I be interested in wearing their logo in exchange for money? They’d heard from one of my teachers that my goal was to play professionally. They’d like to market their name via me.

  It isn’t a big brand name. But at least it’s a way to earn money, and their logo doesn’t totally rot. I can walk around the course with a brown bear on my hat and on the back of my shirt if it means moving toward my future.

  After class the next day, I wait to talk with Drew. He was friendly enough at the tournament, but not like he used to be. He stands at the board writing out assignments for the next class.

  “Do you mind if I talk with you a minute?”

  He turns around and sets his marker to the side. His face shows no animosity, so I take a deep breath and nod to the chair next to his desk. “Mind if I sit?”

  I don’t get this man. I was sure when I started last summer there was an attraction between us, but something happened. Maybe for the best, but it has left me unsettled. I take the seat and he sits across from me.

  “What’s on your mind?” His blue eyes soften.

  Oh. dear. I put my hands beneath my armpits and clear my thoughts. “I wondered if you are behind this offer I got from Bud’s. If you are, I want to thank you.”

  His shoulders rise. “You deserve it. Only wish it had come from a bigger company.”

  “That’s not how you felt the last time we played. What was that about?”

  He turns away from me for an instant as though what he would say next is written on the backside of the classroom door. Drew isn’t an easy man to get to know.

  Mark has pretty much implied that. I pressed for more information, but Mark turned the conversation to himself and expertly put Drew off the table. The brothers came from the same area as I did, but Drew never wants to talk about himself or his past. Someone hinted that teaching was not what he wants to do. Play golf on tour had been his plan, but for some reason he didn’t make it. I am hoping he will help me make it instead.

  He runs his fingers through his thick hair and then sighs. “Listen, Bobbi. When you showed up in my classroom, I couldn’t understand why on earth you would want to come here. It’s not like we have a million females come through our doors—especially ones who golf as well as you. This school teaches you how to work in the golf industry. You should be playing every day, not hanging out in the classroom. When I first started to teach you, I saw what you have—it’s something I never had no matter how much I practiced. And when I watched you throw away good shots, it made me mad.”

  He pauses, giving me a moment to take in what he’s saying. What would he think if he knew why I’m so obsessed with being good? My cheeks burn.

  “You’re going to make the pros and you’re going to be a name to be reckoned with. But you can’t let your guard down for a minute. And that means no social life at all.”

  Is that a frown?

  “What social life? I work out and practice. That’s my life besides my part time job at the theater.”

  He nods. “Good. If you can knock off the job, even better, but I know how tight funds can be when you’re starting out. Can anyone in your family help?”

  “No,” I say quickly.

  “Sorry to hear that. You’ll need all the support you can get.”

  I look down at my shoes. They need a good polish. “My brother supports me.”

  “He golfs, doesn’t he?”

  I lift my eyes. “He used to. He was pretty good until his…accident.” I hate that word but that’s the term my family uses. It wasn’t an accident. It was my fault.

  Drew leans closer to his desk. I smell his aftershave. “Sorry to hear that. So you come from a family of golfers. That’s good. They’ll be behind you.”

  “Sure. That kind of support goes much farther than money.” I chew on my lip. I hate lying.

  But Drew has learned to keep quiet about his past and so can I.

  �
��So are you going to take the deal with Bud’s?”

  “Why not? It might make the difference between affording Q-School or not.”

  My mention of Q-School snaps his gaze to mine. “Are you ready? The competition will be stiff. There are only so many openings to go on tour.”

  “I’ve done my homework. And speaking of homework, I’d better go.”

  Drew follows me to the door. He bends down close to my face. I hold my stance as he speaks. “I’m sorry, Bobbi. You really can do this.”

  If I could have danced down the hallway to my car, I would have. It means so much to know that Drew is behind me. Maybe someday…but I can’t think like that now. I have a tournament to win. I reach for the pendant dangling down my chest.

  Mattie. Who were you?

  ****

  The jeweler I stop at on my way home hands me back the diamond-studded golf club. “It’s a beauty. I would stick that in a vault somewhere.”

  The necklace glitters in my palm. “A vault?

  “A vault. Unless you want to take a chance of it being swiped from your neck.”

  My head still can’t make sense of the figure he quoted me for the value of Mattie’s gift. If she had only cashed it in, she wouldn’t have had to live in Golden Acres.

  “Thanks again for the advice and appraisal,” I say and slip the necklace over my head where it belongs now. Mattie didn’t leave it to me to stuff in some safety deposit box. She gave it to me to wear, and that’s what I’ll do.

  On my drive home, I pass several other courses. A part of me wants to stop and see if they are offering any deals, but my stomach protests. Besides, it’s hot out today. The heat inside of my trailer hits me with the force of a furnace since I’ve forgotten to turn down the air. Even though fall has arrived, the temperatures still haven’t dropped. I reach for a carton of cottage cheese and smell it. Ugh. Time to hit the grocery store.

  My supper will be a TV dinner I bought for two dollars. Not bad when the stuffing tastes as good as my mother’s. While it heats up in the oven (I hate to nuke it), I change into my shorts. Another Friday. I look across to Mattie’s place. The plants need watering and I have yet to make a sign as promised. I’ll do it after I eat. But first I want to check something online.