The Mulligan

by Terri Tiffany

  “My father moved back home.”

  “That’s a good sign, right?”

  “If he means it, yes.” I turn toward the entrance. I would rather talk inside. I’ve found that our town is small enough that everyone knows your business if you are dumb enough to share it in public. Our booth will give us more privacy.

  He follows me to where our waitress seats us. I order my usual. Burger and fries. Drew orders the same. As we wait, he crosses his arms on the table. I know what he wants. He wants me to pick up where we left off and spill my guts about my decision.

  “Do you think you’ll qualify?”

  “I have to. Besides, I want to.” I sip from the water the waitress brings us. “What about you, Drew? What are your future plans? How long are you going to teach instead of doing what you really want to do?”

  My question makes him sit back. Folds ripple in his forehead. I’ve hit a nerve. Should I even be asking him about his private life? But he started with me.

  “I enjoy teaching.”

  “Right.”

  “Where else can I get free golf?” A smirk appears on his lips. He knows I won’t stop until I get answers.

  “Life is about free golf,” I say. “Nothing but.”

  “What would you have me doing instead?”

  “Oh, sure, put it on me. You know what you should be doing. You’re the one who should be qualifying at Q-School, getting ready to go back on tour and playing like we both know you can.” How did I get this bold? I want to take back my statement, but it’s too late.

  He’s already reacting. His cheeks color. “That’s not an option.”

  “Like me quitting golf isn’t an option.”

  We sit in our own silences, sipping our water until our meal arrives.

  Drew takes a bite of his burger, swallows, and pushes it aside. “I’ll make you a deal.” His face is tense, his mouth taunt. I put my fry down. Whatever he’s going to say, I’m sure it will be totally out of character for him. Drew has never looked so determined in the months I’ve known him.

  “I’m listening.”

  He exhales a long breath. “You stop qualifying for Q-School, and I’ll go back on tour.”

  22

  Good-byes tear me up. Today is no exception. Mom has decided to drive me to the airport with Robert while Dad stays with Grandpa. First, I say good-bye to my grandfather who is resting in his chair by the window. He’s wearing his comfortable plaid shirt today tucked into a pair of tan pants. I imagine how he must have looked on the golf course years ago. The word debonair pops into my brain. My grandfather still slicks his head of white hair back each morning with tedious care.

  I bend down in front of him. His skin sags around his chin. His attention is focused on me. I believe he is with me 100 percent this morning. “I’m headed back to Florida now, Grandpa. I’ll see you at Christmas.”

  His smile warms me. “Florida? I remember a few good tournaments down that way. Seems like I won a few of them, too.” He winks and catches my hand in his larger fist. “You take care, Bobbi-girl. I want you to come home to us.”

  I want to come home, too. But not yet.

  “I’ll be back before you can blink,” I say, repeating the phrase he always said to me when I was young and not liking the idea of him crisscrossing the country.

  Next, I go up to my father. He’s waiting by the back door holding my suitcase. “So, I’ll see you and Mom in Daytona?”

  “Planning on it. Wouldn’t miss seeing you make the tour.” His smile makes my stomach lurch.

  I take my bag and get into the waiting car.

  Robert is sitting up front so he can stretch his legs.

  I don’t mind. I prefer being alone right now. The bare trees pass by as we roll down the road toward the highway. Winter has never been my favorite season. When I painted, I loved to paint the vivid spring and summer scenes. Maybe I don’t like winter because it was winter the first time my father left us. The day before Christmas. I didn’t know or understand what he was doing then—I only remember opening presents with my mother and brother at Grandpa’s house without him.

  Within an hour, we reach the airport. My good-byes to Robert and my mother take place quickly. I don’t like seeing their tears. I wipe my eyes and hurry to board. Thank goodness no one sits next to me. They wouldn’t have found me to be good company.

  I have three weeks to prepare to compete in the most strenuous contest of my life. Drew’s challenge comes back to me as does Arthur’s about the bookstore. If it wasn’t for the look on my mother’s face yesterday morning, I would jump on either. Now I no longer have a choice. I need to say good-bye to my painting career forever.

  ****

  “Are you kidding me?” My jaw hangs at least five inches.

  “Sorry, kid. But business demands it.”

  The man I’m staring at is my boss—or my former boss—where I work at the theater. He’s dressed in his white shirt and black pants as usual. I spot an oil stain probably dripped there from the popcorn I’ve seen him steal.

  “But I need this job.”

  “Not enough business. Try some of the other stores in the mall. They might be hiring for the season. You can turn in your uniform over there.” He points to the familiar employee lounge and edges away from me. He’s never been that good of a boss, but at least he gave me hours that worked with my schedule.

  What will I do now? I need practice time but also a way to make money to pay my rent and eat. I toss the jacket on the pile of dirty uniforms. Grabbing my purse, I stalk out of the theater vowing to never return.

  Garland and red paper bells decorate the mall. Santa and his female photographer are busy enticing parents and their screaming kids. I shuffle past the food court, unaware of my direction. Why would they fire me over lazy Eddie who eats all the leftover tacos? I stomp the tiles a little harder. The recession has hit Florida hard. Getting another job might be near impossible. I had applied at all the retailers before getting the movie job, so I know my odds at success are low. Or zero.

  I hear the voice before I see where it’s coming from. “It’s gorgeous. We have to buy it for the living room.” Shrill mixed with excitement. A woman wearing designer clothes clutches her husband’s sleeve while pointing to the painting propped on the easel. I’m standing in front of the art store.

  “It is pretty amazing, isn’t it?” Her husband doesn’t sound as convinced.

  The amazing picture they drool over is not amazing. A river scene with trees that looks like a four-year-old child has painted them. I edge closer.

  “Look at the price tag. Two hundred dollars.” The woman tips her head toward him. Her lips roll into a pout and she lets loose a long sigh. “I love it.”

  “Let’s see if they’ll go lower.” He tugs her arm, leading her into the store where a perky saleswoman waits behind the counter. I step closer to read the artist’s name. No one I recognize. But then a thought seizes me.

  As the couple exits the store empty handed, I draw close, my mouth shakes but my determination drives me.

  “Excuse me, but I noticed your appreciation for that painting.”

  The woman, who appears to be my mother’s age, stops, glancing again at the work in question. “Yes, but they won’t come down in their price.”

  “I don’t want to seem nosy or anything, but I know an artist who could paint something better than that for much less.”

  The man’s eyebrows rise. He suspects me of conning them. I give them my most trusting smile. “If you’ll give me your email address, I could have her send you sample pictures of her work. I know you’ll be pleased.”

  “She does landscapes? I want one of a river.” The woman digs into her purse for a pen. She pulls out a scrap of paper and scribbles.

  “That’s her specialty.” I think of all the river landscapes I’ve done. I’m sure I can paint from memory. Right now, I need them to agree to at least see my work. If I can sell a painting for 175 dollars, I can pay for a month’s w
orth of groceries.

  Her husband nods as she gives me the information. “I’ll have her send you pictures tonight. Will that work? If you like her paintings, she’ll work one up and I’ll bring it to you here in two weeks.”

  “That would be great. I can’t wait to see what she’s done. Tell her thank you from us.” They smile and move away from me. I stand with the paper in my hand, convinced I did what I had to do. The clerk in the art store glares my way so I move toward the fountain, sitting on the stone wall. My hands shake as I place the number in my purse. Did I really peddle my work in a mall?

  Robert tells me I don’t think through what I do. If he had been with me today, he would have stopped my little transaction, telling me I don’t have time to paint. Actually, I haven’t picked up a brush in months, not since I decided I should be a golfer. But if it brings in money, then my reasons for doing it are good.

  On my way home I stop at an art supply store. I carefully select a canvas and brushes and paints. I spend almost what I will make, but I plan to look at this as a start. When I get home, I print out new business cards from my computer. These I will hand out to anyone I meet. But before I go to bed, I pull up pictures I’ve taken of my best work and email it to the couple—Mr. and Mrs. Shore.

  I can hardly fall asleep. Tomorrow I may have my first commissioned work.

  ****

  I wake early, the morning light filters through my blinds. Getting out of bed has never been my forte but today I look forward to seeing if I have a new job. I turn on my computer and wait for the screen to appear.

  Yes, my answer has arrived.

  Dear Bobbi,

  Please tell your friend that we would love one of her paintings. Keep us informed as when to meet you at the mall. Her work is amazing.

  Amazing. My chest puffs. I sit back in my chair with a smile growing on my face. Soon though, sadness swirls through, replacing my joy. I gave up painting to save my family. What was I thinking? I read the email again. It’s only a means to make money—not a career. Not a passion. A way to keep me golfing.

  I can live with that.

  I have to.

  ****

  After class, instead of practicing, I rush home to set up my newly purchased easel. It isn’t as nice as my old one, but it will have to do. I face the patio where I can watch my new neighbors move into Mattie’s house.

  Her necklace is cool between my breasts. I pull it out and study the string of diamonds set along the shaft. Did Mina ever forgive her mother for her accident? I let the pendant drop against my shirt.

  I think of my grandfather and swallow the lump that rises in my throat. How long before he’s gone? How long before I’m thinking of him in Heaven?

  All these thoughts of Heaven and death are doing me no good. I mix together some colors and stare at my readied canvas. In order to paint a scene from memory, I need to transport myself back—back home to where I’m sitting by the river, watching the water rush over the shiny rocks.

  My time travel doesn’t take long. It never does. Robert says it’s my gift—the ability to put myself in a scene and then to paint it for others to see. I shove his reminder away and focus.

  I’m there, my toes floating in the cool water, the sun warming the back of my neck. Overhead, crows caw to each other while robins flit through the canopy of oak trees. My hand moves. Soft strokes outline the scene I see so clearly before me. Hours pass. I forget I’m hungry until my stomach reminds me.

  I glance at the clock above the TV.

  How long have I been gone? This isn’t the first time I’ve left the present when I paint, but it’s the first time that it’s happened for so long. I set down my brush and blink hard.

  I don’t believe what I see.

  I’ve painted my best work ever.

  23

  I don’t have long. Q-School is in five days. Since I returned from Thanksgiving, I’ve managed to sell two paintings, a record for me in such a short period of time. The couple who bought my first painting loved it so much they asked if the artist would paint one for the woman’s parents for Christmas.

  “I’m sure that can be done.” I also fessed up and gave them my business card, admitting I was the artist. They didn’t seem to mind.

  Actually, they laughed about it and then quizzed me on why I didn’t tell them right from the beginning.

  “I wanted you to see my work first,” I told them. Their check burned in my pocket. I can’t believe they gave me three hundred dollars for the painting, declaring it was far better than the original one they fell in love with at the store.

  We had met by the fountain, and as I unwrapped my work, my tongue refused to form words. I had never before experienced such pain about selling a particular painting, but this one…well, it felt special to me. Maybe it’s because I miss my home so much. I’m not sure. I’d even added a rocky path that led to the tree house. Even though I saw my scenes, I usually added something to them. This time, I added the tree house even though it belonged on the other side of the river in our yard. I wanted this couple to experience what I do whenever I return home—to feel the way the river pulls at my soul and the way the trees beckon me to join them in nature.

  “It’s beautiful.” The woman had stared hard at my work, her gaze not moving from the scene.

  It’s the reaction I had hoped for.

  “It’s as though I’m there. I can even imagine how the river might cool my bare toes.”

  My heart skipped and I let my smile come.

  It went too easy.

  If only my golf was as good as my paintings.

  Drew pulls me aside after class. “You haven’t been practicing as much. Have you thought about what I suggested?”

  My shoulders hunch around my books. “I’m ready for Daytona. And no, I haven’t thought about your offer. I’m going to see this through, and I’d appreciate your support when I do.”

  “I’ll be there. I told you I would.” His eyes give him away. He doesn’t like that I’m killing myself like I am. I’m glad I don’t tell him about my painting. He’d use it to pound in his theory to me that I’m not meant to be a golfer.

  “I’m heading to the range. Want to tag along and give me pointers?”

  “Can’t. I have something to do.” He glances down the hallway.

  “OK, well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  Drew’s attention is focused elsewhere. He nods and heads down the hallway toward the school administrator’s office. I watch as he stops before the door, checks his watch, and then enters.

  “Hey, want to hit some?” The guy who sits behind me comes up in front of me. It’s the first time Jake has asked me to play.

  I pull my thoughts from Drew. “Sure. I was headed to the driving range but wouldn’t mind going nine rounds.”

  We walk to the course with our bags and tee off. Jake drives his over 280 yards.

  “You’re good, Jake. I should have been watching you at the tournaments.”

  He steps back so I can take my swing. I don’t get nervous anymore when I play with my classmates like I once did. I’ve beaten most of them already, and even though Jake is good, I know I’m better. I position my feet and loosen my shoulders. The day is warm, not at all like Novembers back home. Overhead, a few clouds fill the otherwise blue sky. I focus on a spot two hundred and fifty yards ahead of me. I swing.

  “Sorry, Bobbi. Not sure I’d even want to count that one.”

  I can’t believe my shot. I shade my eyes. My ball has gone left about a hundred yards into a bunker. A tremor shoots through my stomach. This can’t be. I couldn’t have hit the ball so badly.

  “Want to take another shot?”

  “No. We’ll count it.” I step back from the tee, my legs shaking from disappointment. Have I lost my edge? Q-School is only days away. A rookie player could hit better than I just did.

  I climb into the cart next to Jake, shielding my face from his stare. Everyone in my class knows I’m trying out for the tour. His han
d covers mine. “I won’t say anything. You had a bad shot. Happens to all the pros.”

  Sympathy doesn’t help. Instead, I want to bawl. What kind of pro lets one shot throw her? Me. I do. I stink as a golfer and I should know it.

  Jake takes off in the cart and we find my ball first. I’m usually never in a sand bunker so hitting a ball out of one will be a challenge.

  “I’ve got this one. Give me one shot and I’ll be back in the play,” I say as I climb out and grab my wedge. Two shots. Two shots it takes to get out and even close to the green. Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed up so late last night finishing the painting. Maybe I should have practiced every day instead of trying to make rent money. But what choice do I have? I can’t ask my father for money so soon after he’s come back home. What a way to look like a failure. I can’t even earn enough money to keep myself going? And my student loan doesn’t come in until January with the next semester.

  I improve as our game progresses but nowhere near the standards I should be.

  Jake waves good-bye as I pack my clubs into the trunk of my car.

  The school parking lot is nearly empty except for Drew’s vehicle. What’s he doing here so late?

  I lock my car and go into the empty building. My shoes echo in the hallway as I make my way to his office. “Drew? Are you here?” I poke my head around the door frame. His office light is on, but he’s nowhere in sight. “Drew?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  His voice startles me from behind. I spin around and see him holding two empty boxes in his hands.

  “I noticed your car. What are you doing here?”

  He edges around me and sets the boxes on his desk. “What’s it look like? Packing.”

  “Packing?”

  “Starting to. By the end of the semester, I’ll be history.” One side of his lip rises, and then his full mouth opens into a grin. “Thanks to you.”